A review by meghaha
Herakles by Euripides

4.0

"What groaning,
what lament,
what song of death,
what dance of Hades
shall I do?"

Now, this is tragedy. Sweet carthasis, emotions lived through characters and expunged. A condensed punch in the gut delivered through 1,400 lines. Euripides' tragedies get to me every single time. He’s the greatest playwright. Anne Carson's translation (found in Grief Lessons) does him justice.

The play starts with an absent Herakles in the underworld, while his children, wife, and father are about to executed by Lykos, the despot. Herakles reappears at the last minute.

"Who else should I defend if not wife,
sons, father? Farewell my labors!
That was all pointless.
I should have been here.
How is it heroic
to fight hydras and lions for Eurystheus,
while my children face death alone?
I shall never be called "Herakles the victor" again."

He's in time to save the day, murder Lykos before he can murder Herakles’ family. What a relief! Cue ceremonial trumpets, audience applause, sigh of relief. The hero is here, to make everything right. He’s finished his twelve tasks, he’s triumphant, he’s saved his family. But wait, this is a tragedy...

Madness strikes, personified as a goddess beholden to Hera, a manifestation over his house that sinks downward and inflicts. Herakles kills his wife and children, not knowing what he’s doing. He awakens to the horror he’s wrought. True despair, unrivaled pain.

"What are you saying? What have I done? Father!”

and:

"AIAI [cry]
My world goes dark."

His family's fallen bodies are a mockery, an antidote to his entire myth, a shadow over every good or noble deed he’s ever done. Who can call him a hero, after this atrocity? Just as importantly, how can he see himself as a hero, knowing what he’s done?

"Here is my life — not worth living
now or ever.
First, I came into being from this sort of man:
he killed my mother’s father
then married her to deflect the guilt.
When the family foundations are poor
of course the descendants turn out a disaster.
And Zeus—whoever Zeus is!— begot me
(don’t be offended, old man. I consider you
my father now, not Zeus)
as an enemy for Hera.
While I was still an infant
she put snakes in my cradle, that wife of Zeus,
to annihilate me.
And when I grew up — all these labors,
what can I say? Those lions.
Those typhons.
Those giants.
Those centaurs.
Those wars.
Then the hydra with her hundred heads snapping.
And down to hell to get the threeheaded dog.
And now, absolutely last labor.
I kill my children.
I finish my house in evil."

I loved this turning part of the play because it destroyed not just him as a person, his entire sense of self, but also his entire myth. And it bifurcates him. Herakles becomes a walking contradiction: the heights of heroism and the depths of depravity in one person.

It makes you question the nature of a hero such as he, so eminently violent. Killing monsters or tyrants, we can cheer him on, but the fact remains he brings death and calamity where he goes, he ends things. The only difference this time is that it was his family who became the recipient.

"O bitter last kiss.
Oh bitter weapons. My partners.
Should I take you with me or leave you behind?
Knocking against my ribs you will always be saying,
"This is how you slew your wife and sons,
we are your childkillers."
Can I bear that?
Can I answer?
But without them
won’t I die in shame at my enemies’ hands—
naked, nobody?
I cannot leave them.
However grotesque it is.
I must keep my weapons."

But even as he brings death, he brings life. Another contradiction here: that he's just finished retrieving Theseus back from the Underworld. It's Theseus' friendship that allows a way forward for this un-hero.

Herakles: "I fear to stain your clothes with blood."
Theseus: "Stain them. I don’t care."