Narrative Archetypes
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The Theory
In the world of story, from Hollywood to the most elite academic presses, Joseph Campbell is more than a giant—nearly a god. His version of mythic theory, a fascinating conglomeration of reverse engineered world mythology and theology, Carl Jung’s archetypal theories of the collective aspect of humanity, and analysis of canonical English narratives, has become a kind of artistic “unified theory”; where Einstein failed in physics, Campbell supposedly succeeded in creating a narrative theory of everything. Campbell’s “monomyth” (a term taken from James Joyce) is currently offered as the mechanism behind the success of texts as varied as the famously enigmatic Finnegan’s Wake to the populist phenomenon of Star Wars.
That narrative archetypes exhibit themselves across cultures and time is little debated anymore, and those debates that continue will not be addressed here. My focus is attributing the potency behind these archetypes. I do not view this as a mere academic or intellectual pursuit; after all, if archetypes are as omnipresent in story as is readily apparent, and it is true that “communication begins by constructing narrative” (Frye 698), then utilizing archetypes, even unconsciously, is an inescapable element of human existence. Better understanding Campbell’s monomyth offers the ever-seductive possibility of self and species understanding.
Why, then, if the monomyth offers a formula for human meaning, do so many stories that follow it ring hollow? How can situations and personalities (plots and characters) crafted using archetypal principles, such as the latest Star Wars movies, so drastically provoke responses so different from those desired?
This leads to an even greater question: Why do archetypes exist at all? What about archetypes in story is so universally relevant to humans—or, more directly, what collective aspect of being human allows for archetypes of near universal meaning? The hit and miss nature of texts composed according to archetypal theory, and there are many given Campbell’s widespread application, suggests that this essence, the true potency of archetypes, has yet to be satisfactorily understood.
“Collective” Humanness
Northrope Frye hypothesizes on this elusive essence of archetype: “The continuity of the human mind and its response to the universe provide a basis for the appearance of archetypal patterns in dream and folk-lore” (qtd. in Helterman Para 6). However, he does not go so far as to assert the nature of the mind’s continuity or of this response to the universe. In a way he is ascribing the human mind a function out of exasperation of any other option. Even Jung admitted that his theory of the “collective unconscious” was a hypothesis that could not be substantiated and was simply his proposal for the necessary “collective factor” of self that he could not explain (556). If omnicultural archetypes do exist, then these must be predicated upon some aspect of commonality between humanity that intrudes upon the individual construction of self. But what?
The answer lies, not in Frye’s “continuity of the human mind,” but in the commonality of the human emotional pallet. This assertion is far from a purely personal thesis; such has been hinted at by a variety of theorists over the centuries, including Jung himself. While Jung never went far enough in attributing the “collective self” as an emotional collective, he did make moves in this direction: “Emotion… is not an activity of the individual but something that happens to him” (556). This premise that emotion has the individual not as subject but object makes emotion contingent upon the other, upon sensation and exterior catalysts. Such classification places emotion in what Jung termed the “outer world” (554). This theory is directly contradicted by other well-respected theorists. Both David Hume and Descartes defined emotion as “a species of idea or impression, like a sensation but whose source is, as they say, ‘internal rather than external and through the senses’” (qtd. in Soloman 42). Jung insists upon emotion’s dependence upon the outer world, upon the senses, while Hume and Descartes attribute it solely to the internal world, a sensation independent of the physiological senses.
So who is right? To believe both is impossible, as it leads one into a dichotomy of negation. Each theory apparently excludes the other. When approached logically, however, it becomes clear that neither theory alone can hope to explain the most basic observations of emotion. Human will and physiological activity clearly affect emotion; why else would physical exertion lessen anxiety and anger, or assuming a cheery attitude genuinely improve one’s mood? Also, it is clearly possible to feel something without apparent reason. Very few, if any, of us have never been angry, frustrated, or happy without conscious cause. This makes it difficult to argue against emotion originating at least partially from the internal world. But provocation, exterior catalysts, and recent behavior theory make clear that emotion is also a province of the exterior world (Soloman). If, as analysis of Jung and other theorists and philosophers suggests, emotion displays characteristics of both the inner and outer worlds, then what better word have we for it than “collective”, something that is at once both personal and universal to the species? Jung even invites such a claim by ascribing emotion to his outer world, thus lending it characteristics of his “omnipresent, unchangeable, and everywhere identical quality….” (556).
The Nature of Emotion
That emotion is the “collective” component of self from which archetypes draw their power does not surprise me; frankly, it has always seemed obvious. What is emotion, after all, but the mechanism for ascribing relevance? That which inspires no emotion in us at all, in a sense, does not exist—or perhaps its existence simply does not matter, which amounts in practical terms to the same thing. David Hume is rare among philosophers in his admission of this emotive orientation of humanity: “[R]eason is and ought to be the slave of the passions….” (qtd. in Soloman 41). Robert Soloman goes even further, professing emotion “the very heart of… human nature” (41). For narrative archetypes to exhibit such universal power upon humanity, it is reasonable to assume that whatever relevance the archetypes have derives from something very central to what it is to be human.
Soloman attributes emotion to the core of what it is to be human in his definition of emotion as the very thing by which we determine relevance. According to him, “[E]motions are interpretive judgments… marked by their importance to us, by the fact that our self-esteem is at stake in them” (46-47). I go a step further, positing that our very understanding of self is at stake in emotion. This is exactly the import Joseph Campbell places upon myth’s “fourth function… the one that I think everyone must try today to relate to—and that is the pedagogical function, of how to live a human life under any circumstance. Myths can teach you that” (“Power” 31). If this is the power and purpose of myth, then this begets a potent revelation when conjoined with a theory from Northrope Frye: “The myth is the central informing power that gives archetypal significance to the ritual and archetypal narrative to the oracle. Hence the myth is the archetype…” (698). If the archetype is the myth, and the myth is what teaches us how to live, and living rather than just existing is a series of interpretive judgments, then archetype literally is emotion.
The (Secretly) Emotive Purpose of Narrative
With this realization that archetype is neither symbolic nor derivative of some ambiguous human “collective” psyche trait but a universal emotional chord to which all people are to some degree in tune, literature is suddenly not function but method. It, like all art, becomes a delivery system. Jean-Paul Sartre once said emotions are “magical transformations of the world” (qtd. in Soloman 46). To what else is this fanciful definition better suited than a story? But why are such transmutations necessary? Why, if emotion is a human commonality, must it be processed and reconfigured in order to be communicated effectively, as the prevalence of narrative in human history suggests? One possibility is offered by Wayne C. Booth: “Many of us find it embarrassing to talk of emotions based on moral judgment at all, particularly when the emotions have any kind of affirmative cast” (998). In a society as politically correct as ours, one might as easily say we find it embarrassing to talk of emotions based on any judgment, which encompasses all emotion. And we are certainly not unique in declining to communicate aspects of our emotional selves via polite, formal discourse channels. If history has proven anything it is that the things which are left unsaid, either because they are uncomfortable or too bold, are the inevitable stuff of narrative.
Supposing an emotive essence of archetypes provides a powerful theory for the universality of art: it is an avenue for emotional communication made acceptable by the very fact that the emotion is concealed, veiled beneath layers of language, or color, or tone, or space, and that this special communication is unavailable any other way. The usual tropes that are offered for the potency of archetypes, aspects of plot and characterization, are really just the gauzy screen that softens the truth enough for us to see it. Art provides plausible deniability of its emotional nature, allowing individuals to engage each other through the emotive “collective” aspect they share without discomfort. That there is discomfort about an emotional predication of human life and perception is difficult to debate. Philosophy has long documented the antagonism between reason and emotion, and we pride ourselves upon our modern societies of logic. That we view the societies of our progenitors as valuing reason less is pure arrogance; “That men nowadays are different from men of former ages should certainly not be the commonplace that it is” (Brown 467). If we are honest we must admit that humans now are much as humans have been for millennia, and that all of us like to view ourselves as rational beings, whether the description is deserved or not. To characterize humans as defined by emotion, and thus beings of chaos and unpredictability, has always been anathema to our logical, rational aspects. Thus the vital place narrative plays in the living of a human life: the disguised nature of emotion in narrative allows us to engage others through our emotive sameness while pretending it is subordinated so as to not distress the rational mind.
Consequence and Evidence
If emotion is archetype, not metaphorically or via any form of proxy but literally, then many consequences ensue; perhaps the most intriguing critically is the potential universality of archetypes in texts beyond even common consideration. A demonstration of this can be seen in the analysis of two very different narratives: one, the original Star Wars movie trilogy, has become the iconic representation of mythic composition, a standing testament to the potential power of the Hero’s Journey; the other, Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice, is frequently considered deviant from many aspects of the monomyth. Few would consider these texts parallel compositions; however, the archetypal (emotional) similarity between the two stories is easily uncovered through analysis of three archetypal tropes identified by Joseph Campbell in his landmark book The Hero with a Thousand Faces: death and resurrection (The Belly of the Whale), personal history and relationships enduring change of the individual (Rescue from Without), and unification of two selfs/aspects (The Master of Two Worlds).
The Belly of the Whale
Death and resurrection are major, literally repeated elements in the Star Wars trilogy: Obi-Wan Kenobi’s death at the hands of Darth Vader only to return as spiritual mentor to Luke, a pattern more insignificantly followed by Yoda; and, of course, the death, resurrection, and eventual redemption of Darth Vader himself. In contrast, there are no actual deaths in Pride and Prejudice; not a single character is ever in a situation of genuine bodily peril. Such a story seemingly does not rely on this particular archetype. When the death and resurrection motifs are distilled to their emotional essence, however, this changes. The principal emotions associated with death are fear, uncertainty, and loss; fear is predominant in situations of death of the self, while loss is chief in death of the other, and uncertainty is potent in both. Resurrection’s emotions are antithetical to the emotive nature of death: hope for the future in fear denied or defied; confidence through the restoration of resources and power; and gain through the realization of the true worth of something thought lost.
When the Belly of the Whale archetype is seen according to its emotional essence, a clear utilization is found in Pride and Prejudice: the metaphorical death and resurrection of Darcy in Elizabeth’s life. After Elizabeth’s revelation of her sister Lydia’s elopement with Wickham, a distant and apparently supercilious Darcy begs leave of her, prompting the assessment that the relationship has been subject to “termination” (Austin 206). For all intents and purposes, Darcy “dies” for Elizabeth. This moment is a profound expression of loss, uncertainty, and fear: Elizabeth’s hopes for a future marriage to Darcy, barely realized on her part, and her self-esteem at being wanted by such a man of prominence are lost; her own financial future and that of Lydia (as well as Jane, though this is unknown at this point) are now desperately uncertain, and this uncertainty generates fear for herself, her sisters, and for repercussions upon her entire family arising from the elopement. Darcy’s reappearance in Elizabeth’s life amounts to an emotional resurrection: restored hope in the alleviation of Wickham’s debts, Bingley’s returning attentions to Jane, and Darcy’s own transformation into “the object of [Elizabeth’s] choice” (Austin 283); monetary certainty as well as self-esteem enough to defy Lady Catherine de Bourgh; and gain of two fortunes and wonderful husbands for both herself and Jane. Emotionally, Mr. Darcy’s “death and resurrection” are every bit as powerful as the instances used more obviously in Star Wars.
Rescue from Without
In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke disobeys a warning from Yoda—his mentor in the supernatural realm—and nearly dies for it. Only Leia, Chewbacca, and Lando’s intervention save his life. This is a clear example of relationships from his past, people from a realm removed from his current experience, coming from without to rescue him. The emotive nature of such rescues is clear: an appeasement between the old and new, balance and acceptance of change, the negotiation of potentially disparate elements and agents of value, such as people from the past (Leia and Chewbacca) remaining invested in the hero despite Luke’s degree of removal from them into the supernatural.
The same dynamic exists in Pride and Prejudice in the trip Elizabeth takes with her Aunt Gardiner to Derbyshire. The aunt, supposedly positioned to draw Elizabeth back from Darcy’s supernatural world of wealth, instead rescues her from the loss of opportunity by insisting upon seeing Pemberly. This unexpectedly keeps Elizabeth in Darcy’s life and provides a chance to negotiate differences between the two for the first time, bridging Elizabeth’s past with her eventual future. Two antagonistic worlds, the natural world of Elizabeth’s family and Darcy’s supernatural world of wealth, find a place of appeasement in Elizabeth’s aunt, a place of peace and comfort for Elizabeth. Two aspects of Elizabeth’s changing life that have heretofore been dissonant suddenly become resonant, a momentous emotive shift for the better.
This example requires a qualifying note: the Rescue from Without is generally enacted when an agent from the natural world helps the hero return from the supernatural. In Pride and Prejudice the trope is reversed: an agent from the natural world assists Elizabeth’s return to the supernatural, which eventually melds with her natural world. This should not be taken as a discrepancy in the archetype; it is an example of the archetypal power to communicate emotion through standard orientation of trope as well as the reverse—or even through antithesis.
The Shadow and Reversal of the Archetype
Contrast and opposition have always been potent methods of communicating meaning. This truism applies to archetypes as well, and even people. Jung characterized this dualistic nature of the individual as the shadow aspect of self, of which he says, “Closer examination of the dark characteristics—that is, the inferiorities constituting the shadow—reveals that they have an emotional nature, a kind of autonomy, and accordingly an obsessive or, better, possessive quality” (556). (Note the admission of emotional predication.) Jung espouses respect for and realization of the shadow for psychological health. Thomas Moore proscribes such realization as well: “[A]ll emotions tinted with shadow… can be a blessing in disguise, a poison that heals” (101). Thus archetypes fulfill their pedagogical purpose of emotive education from multiple orientations, including inversion: sorrow teaches us the value of joy, rage the liberation of forgiveness, and so on. This elastic nature of archetype is also displayed in the Master of Two Worlds trope in Pride and Prejudice.
The Master of Two Worlds
Again, Star Wars offers an unambiguous example of this archetype. At the end of the Return of the Jedi, while the rest of the galaxy celebrates in union, Luke is only partially engaged. He spends his time in two worlds, that of the living and that of the dead—Obi-Wan, Yoda, and his newly redeemed father, Anakin. In the final scene Luke is seen actually moving between these worlds, going from the firelight into the presence of his departed mentors and then drawn back by Leia. The emotional soul of this archetype is the nature of home, and all that comes with it. For the hero who is Master of Two Worlds, both worlds conjoined are home, where safety and comfort reside; living in either world alone is no longer fulfilling, or even possible. This makes this archetype similar to the Rescue from Without in that it is an emotional coping strategy for change.
This motif is again subtler in Pride and Prejudice, but not drastically so. Elizabeth’s engagement to Darcy has opened the world of the social elite to her, but we know that her character is too self-possessed to sacrifice her old attachments and values simply to avoid friction with her new world. She will associate both with Caroline Bingley and Charlotte Collins, with Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her unmarried sisters, Kittie and Mary. She will live in both worlds, as much a master of them as anyone is likely to get, and dependent upon the acceptance and validation of self that can only come from both worlds in unison.
The previous examples show how two vastly different works embrace well established archetypes, not on the level of plot or character, but on the “collective” plane of human emotion. The disparity between the narratives chosen shows just how flexible and common these archetypes are. It begs the question, where do the edges of myth really lie? If emotions dictate relevance, and archetype is emotion, then perhaps every aspect of life is in a sense one great unified myth. If so then art, and literature in its own distinctive way, has the unique function of not only contributing to the myth, but of using the collective emotional nexus of humanity to bridge the unknown, mystical stuff that makes each of us unique.
Works Cited
Austin, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. Bantam Classic Ed. New York: Bantam Books, 1981.
Booth, Wayne C. “Control of Distance in Jane Austin’s Emma.” The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. 3rd ed. Ed. David H. Richter. New York: Bedford/St.Martin’s, 2007. 989-1000.
Brown, Daniel Russell. “A Look at Archetypal Criticism.” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism. 28:4 (Summer 1970), 465-472. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College, Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, %2928%3A4%3C465%3AALAAC%3E2.0.CO%3B2-N>.
Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. 2nd ed. Princeton; Princeton University Press, 1973.
Campbell, Joseph with Bill Moyers. The Power of Myth. New York; Doubleday, 1988.
Frye, Northrop. “The Archetypes of Literature.” The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. 3rd ed. Ed. David H. Richter. New York: Bedford/St.Martin’s, 2007. 693-701.
Helterman, Jeffrey. “Beowulf: The Archetype Enters History.” ELH. 26:1 (Mar 1968), 1-20. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College, Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, org/sici?sici=0013-8304%28196803%2935%3A1%3C1%3ABTAEH%3E2.0.CO%3B2-R>.
Jung, Carl Gustav. “The Principle Archetypes.” The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and
Contemporary Trends. 3rd ed. Ed. David H. Richter. New York: Bedford/St.Martin’s, 2007. 554-564.
Moore, Thomas. Care of the Soul: A Guide for Cultivating Depth and Sacredness in
Everyday Life. New York; HarperCollins Publishers, Inc, 1992.
Soloman, Robert C. “The Logic of Emotion.” Nous. 11:1 (Mar 1977), 41-49. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College, Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, =0029-4624%28197703%2911%3A1%3C41%3ATLOE%3E2.0.CO%3B2-E>.
Works Referenced
Barr, Tina. “Divine Politics: Virginia Woolf’s Journey toward Eleusis in To the Lighthouse.” Boundary 2. 20:1 (Spring 1993), 125-145. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College,
Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, %2920%3A1%3C125%3ADPVWJT%3E2.0.CO%3B2-V>.
Heehs, Peter. “Myth, History, and Theory.” History and Theory. 33:1 (Feb 1994), 1-19. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College, Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, org /sici?sici=0018-2656%28199402%2933%3A1%3C1%3AMHAT%3E2.0.CO%3B2-S>.
Hyman, Stanley Edgar. “The Ritual View of Myth and the Mythic.” The Journal of American Folklore. 68:270 (Oct 1955), 462-472. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College, Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, 0%2F12%2968%3A270%3C462%3ATRVOMA%3E2.0.CO%3B2-7>.
Kubitschek, Missy Dehn. “Paule Marshall’s Women on Quest.” Black American Literature
Forum. 21:1/2 (Spring 1987), 43-60. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College, Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, < http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0148-6179%28198721%2F2
2%2921%3A1%2F2%3C43%3APMWOQ%3E2.0.CO%3B2-0>.
Puhvel, Martin. “The Deicidal Otherworld Weapon in Celtic and Germanic Mythic Tradition.” Folklore. 83:3 (Autumn 1972), 210-219. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College,
Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, 2983%3A3%3C210%3ATDOWIC%3E2.0.CO%3B2-E>.
Shore, Bradd. “Emotion: Culture, Psychology, Biology.” Ethos. 21:3 (Sep 1993), 357-363. JSTOR. Salt Lake Community College, Taylorsville. 12 Nov 2007, < http://links.jstor.org/sici?
sici=0091-2131%28199309%2921%3A3%3C357%3AECPB%3E2.0.CO%3B2-6>.
In the world of story, from Hollywood to the most elite academic presses, Joseph Campbell is more than a giant—nearly a god. His version of mythic theory, a fascinating conglomeration of reverse engineered world mythology and theology, Carl Jung’s archetypal theories of the collective aspect of humanity, and analysis of canonical English narratives, has become a kind of artistic “unified theory”; where Einstein failed in physics, Campbell supposedly succeeded in creating a narrative theory of everything. Campbell’s “monomyth” (a term taken from James Joyce) is currently offered as the mechanism behind the success of texts as varied as the famously enigmatic Finnegan’s Wake to the populist phenomenon of Star Wars.
That narrative archetypes exhibit themselves across cultures and time is little debated anymore, and those debates that continue will not be addressed here. My focus is attributing the potency behind these archetypes. I do not view this as a mere academic or intellectual pursuit; after all, if archetypes are as omnipresent in story as is readily apparent, and it is true that “communication begins by constructing narrative” (Frye 698), then utilizing archetypes, even unconsciously, is an inescapable element of human existence. Better understanding Campbell’s monomyth offers the ever-seductive possibility of self and species understanding.
Why, then, if the monomyth offers a formula for human meaning, do so many stories that follow it ring hollow? How can situations and personalities (plots and characters) crafted using archetypal principles, such as the latest Star Wars movies, so drastically provoke responses so different from those desired?
This leads to an even greater question: Why do archetypes exist at all? What about archetypes in story is so universally relevant to humans—or, more directly, what collective aspect of being human allows for archetypes of near universal meaning? The hit and miss nature of texts composed according to archetypal theory, and there are many given Campbell’s widespread application, suggests that this essence, the true potency of archetypes, has yet to be satisfactorily understood.
“Collective” Humanness
Northrope Frye hypothesizes on this elusive essence of archetype: “The continuity of the human mind and its response to the universe provide a basis for the appearance of archetypal patterns in dream and folk-lore” (qtd. in Helterman Para 6). However, he does not go so far as to assert the nature of the mind’s continuity or of this response to the universe. In a way he is ascribing the human mind a function out of exasperation of any other option. Even Jung admitted that his theory of the “collective unconscious” was a hypothesis that could not be substantiated and was simply his proposal for the necessary “collective factor” of self that he could not explain (556). If omnicultural archetypes do exist, then these must be predicated upon some aspect of commonality between humanity that intrudes upon the individual construction of self. But what?
The answer lies, not in Frye’s “continuity of the human mind,” but in the commonality of the human emotional pallet. This assertion is far from a purely personal thesis; such has been hinted at by a variety of theorists over the centuries, including Jung himself. While Jung never went far enough in attributing the “collective self” as an emotional collective, he did make moves in this direction: “Emotion… is not an activity of the individual but something that happens to him” (556). This premise that emotion has the individual not as subject but object makes emotion contingent upon the other, upon sensation and exterior catalysts. Such classification places emotion in what Jung termed the “outer world” (554). This theory is directly contradicted by other well-respected theorists. Both David Hume and Descartes defined emotion as “a species of idea or impression, like a sensation but whose source is, as they say, ‘internal rather than external and through the senses’” (qtd. in Soloman 42). Jung insists upon emotion’s dependence upon the outer world, upon the senses, while Hume and Descartes attribute it solely to the internal world, a sensation independent of the physiological senses.
So who is right? To believe both is impossible, as it leads one into a dichotomy of negation. Each theory apparently excludes the other. When approached logically, however, it becomes clear that neither theory alone can hope to explain the most basic observations of emotion. Human will and physiological activity clearly affect emotion; why else would physical exertion lessen anxiety and anger, or assuming a cheery attitude genuinely improve one’s mood? Also, it is clearly possible to feel something without apparent reason. Very few, if any, of us have never been angry, frustrated, or happy without conscious cause. This makes it difficult to argue against emotion originating at least partially from the internal world. But provocation, exterior catalysts, and recent behavior theory make clear that emotion is also a province of the exterior world (Soloman). If, as analysis of Jung and other theorists and philosophers suggests, emotion displays characteristics of both the inner and outer worlds, then what better word have we for it than “collective”, something that is at once both personal and universal to the species? Jung even invites such a claim by ascribing emotion to his outer world, thus lending it characteristics of his “omnipresent, unchangeable, and everywhere identical quality….” (556).
The Nature of Emotion
That emotion is the “collective” component of self from which archetypes draw their power does not surprise me; frankly, it has always seemed obvious. What is emotion, after all, but the mechanism for ascribing relevance? That which inspires no emotion in us at all, in a sense, does not exist—or perhaps its existence simply does not matter, which amounts in practical terms to the same thing. David Hume is rare among philosophers in his admission of this emotive orientation of humanity: “[R]eason is and ought to be the slave of the passions….” (qtd. in Soloman 41). Robert Soloman goes even further, professing emotion “the very heart of… human nature” (41). For narrative archetypes to exhibit such universal power upon humanity, it is reasonable to assume that whatever relevance the archetypes have derives from something very central to what it is to be human.
Soloman attributes emotion to the core of what it is to be human in his definition of emotion as the very thing by which we determine relevance. According to him, “[E]motions are interpretive judgments… marked by their importance to us, by the fact that our self-esteem is at stake in them” (46-47). I go a step further, positing that our very understanding of self is at stake in emotion. This is exactly the import Joseph Campbell places upon myth’s “fourth function… the one that I think everyone must try today to relate to—and that is the pedagogical function, of how to live a human life under any circumstance. Myths can teach you that” (“Power” 31). If this is the power and purpose of myth, then this begets a potent revelation when conjoined with a theory from Northrope Frye: “The myth is the central informing power that gives archetypal significance to the ritual and archetypal narrative to the oracle. Hence the myth is the archetype…” (698). If the archetype is the myth, and the myth is what teaches us how to live, and living rather than just existing is a series of interpretive judgments, then archetype literally is emotion.
The (Secretly) Emotive Purpose of Narrative
With this realization that archetype is neither symbolic nor derivative of some ambiguous human “collective” psyche trait but a universal emotional chord to which all people are to some degree in tune, literature is suddenly not function but method. It, like all art, becomes a delivery system. Jean-Paul Sartre once said emotions are “magical transformations of the world” (qtd. in Soloman 46). To what else is this fanciful definition better suited than a story? But why are such transmutations necessary? Why, if emotion is a human commonality, must it be processed and reconfigured in order to be communicated effectively, as the prevalence of narrative in human history suggests? One possibility is offered by Wayne C. Booth: “Many of us find it embarrassing to talk of emotions based on moral judgment at all, particularly when the emotions have any kind of affirmative cast” (998). In a society as politically correct as ours, one might as easily say we find it embarrassing to talk of emotions based on any judgment, which encompasses all emotion. And we are certainly not unique in declining to communicate aspects of our emotional selves via polite, formal discourse channels. If history has proven anything it is that the things which are left unsaid, either because they are uncomfortable or too bold, are the inevitable stuff of narrative.
Supposing an emotive essence of archetypes provides a powerful theory for the universality of art: it is an avenue for emotional communication made acceptable by the very fact that the emotion is concealed, veiled beneath layers of language, or color, or tone, or space, and that this special communication is unavailable any other way. The usual tropes that are offered for the potency of archetypes, aspects of plot and characterization, are really just the gauzy screen that softens the truth enough for us to see it. Art provides plausible deniability of its emotional nature, allowing individuals to engage each other through the emotive “collective” aspect they share without discomfort. That there is discomfort about an emotional predication of human life and perception is difficult to debate. Philosophy has long documented the antagonism between reason and emotion, and we pride ourselves upon our modern societies of logic. That we view the societies of our progenitors as valuing reason less is pure arrogance; “That men nowadays are different from men of former ages should certainly not be the commonplace that it is” (Brown 467). If we are honest we must admit that humans now are much as humans have been for millennia, and that all of us like to view ourselves as rational beings, whether the description is deserved or not. To characterize humans as defined by emotion, and thus beings of chaos and unpredictability, has always been anathema to our logical, rational aspects. Thus the vital place narrative plays in the living of a human life: the disguised nature of emotion in narrative allows us to engage others through our emotive sameness while pretending it is subordinated so as to not distress the rational mind.
Consequence and Evidence
If emotion is archetype, not metaphorically or via any form of proxy but literally, then many consequences ensue; perhaps the most intriguing critically is the potential universality of archetypes in texts beyond even common consideration. A demonstration of this can be seen in the analysis of two very different narratives: one, the original Star Wars movie trilogy, has become the iconic representation of mythic composition, a standing testament to the potential power of the Hero’s Journey; the other, Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice, is frequently considered deviant from many aspects of the monomyth. Few would consider these texts parallel compositions; however, the archetypal (emotional) similarity between the two stories is easily uncovered through analysis of three archetypal tropes identified by Joseph Campbell in his landmark book The Hero with a Thousand Faces: death and resurrection (The Belly of the Whale), personal history and relationships enduring change of the individual (Rescue from Without), and unification of two selfs/aspects (The Master of Two Worlds).
The Belly of the Whale
Death and resurrection are major, literally repeated elements in the Star Wars trilogy: Obi-Wan Kenobi’s death at the hands of Darth Vader only to return as spiritual mentor to Luke, a pattern more insignificantly followed by Yoda; and, of course, the death, resurrection, and eventual redemption of Darth Vader himself. In contrast, there are no actual deaths in Pride and Prejudice; not a single character is ever in a situation of genuine bodily peril. Such a story seemingly does not rely on this particular archetype. When the death and resurrection motifs are distilled to their emotional essence, however, this changes. The principal emotions associated with death are fear, uncertainty, and loss; fear is predominant in situations of death of the self, while loss is chief in death of the other, and uncertainty is potent in both. Resurrection’s emotions are antithetical to the emotive nature of death: hope for the future in fear denied or defied; confidence through the restoration of resources and power; and gain through the realization of the true worth of something thought lost.
When the Belly of the Whale archetype is seen according to its emotional essence, a clear utilization is found in Pride and Prejudice: the metaphorical death and resurrection of Darcy in Elizabeth’s life. After Elizabeth’s revelation of her sister Lydia’s elopement with Wickham, a distant and apparently supercilious Darcy begs leave of her, prompting the assessment that the relationship has been subject to “termination” (Austin 206). For all intents and purposes, Darcy “dies” for Elizabeth. This moment is a profound expression of loss, uncertainty, and fear: Elizabeth’s hopes for a future marriage to Darcy, barely realized on her part, and her self-esteem at being wanted by such a man of prominence are lost; her own financial future and that of Lydia (as well as Jane, though this is unknown at this point) are now desperately uncertain, and this uncertainty generates fear for herself, her sisters, and for repercussions upon her entire family arising from the elopement. Darcy’s reappearance in Elizabeth’s life amounts to an emotional resurrection: restored hope in the alleviation of Wickham’s debts, Bingley’s returning attentions to Jane, and Darcy’s own transformation into “the object of [Elizabeth’s] choice” (Austin 283); monetary certainty as well as self-esteem enough to defy Lady Catherine de Bourgh; and gain of two fortunes and wonderful husbands for both herself and Jane. Emotionally, Mr. Darcy’s “death and resurrection” are every bit as powerful as the instances used more obviously in Star Wars.
Rescue from Without
In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke disobeys a warning from Yoda—his mentor in the supernatural realm—and nearly dies for it. Only Leia, Chewbacca, and Lando’s intervention save his life. This is a clear example of relationships from his past, people from a realm removed from his current experience, coming from without to rescue him. The emotive nature of such rescues is clear: an appeasement between the old and new, balance and acceptance of change, the negotiation of potentially disparate elements and agents of value, such as people from the past (Leia and Chewbacca) remaining invested in the hero despite Luke’s degree of removal from them into the supernatural.
The same dynamic exists in Pride and Prejudice in the trip Elizabeth takes with her Aunt Gardiner to Derbyshire. The aunt, supposedly positioned to draw Elizabeth back from Darcy’s supernatural world of wealth, instead rescues her from the loss of opportunity by insisting upon seeing Pemberly. This unexpectedly keeps Elizabeth in Darcy’s life and provides a chance to negotiate differences between the two for the first time, bridging Elizabeth’s past with her eventual future. Two antagonistic worlds, the natural world of Elizabeth’s family and Darcy’s supernatural world of wealth, find a place of appeasement in Elizabeth’s aunt, a place of peace and comfort for Elizabeth. Two aspects of Elizabeth’s changing life that have heretofore been dissonant suddenly become resonant, a momentous emotive shift for the better.
This example requires a qualifying note: the Rescue from Without is generally enacted when an agent from the natural world helps the hero return from the supernatural. In Pride and Prejudice the trope is reversed: an agent from the natural world assists Elizabeth’s return to the supernatural, which eventually melds with her natural world. This should not be taken as a discrepancy in the archetype; it is an example of the archetypal power to communicate emotion through standard orientation of trope as well as the reverse—or even through antithesis.
The Shadow and Reversal of the Archetype
Contrast and opposition have always been potent methods of communicating meaning. This truism applies to archetypes as well, and even people. Jung characterized this dualistic nature of the individual as the shadow aspect of self, of which he says, “Closer examination of the dark characteristics—that is, the inferiorities constituting the shadow—reveals that they have an emotional nature, a kind of autonomy, and accordingly an obsessive or, better, possessive quality” (556). (Note the admission of emotional predication.) Jung espouses respect for and realization of the shadow for psychological health. Thomas Moore proscribes such realization as well: “[A]ll emotions tinted with shadow… can be a blessing in disguise, a poison that heals” (101). Thus archetypes fulfill their pedagogical purpose of emotive education from multiple orientations, including inversion: sorrow teaches us the value of joy, rage the liberation of forgiveness, and so on. This elastic nature of archetype is also displayed in the Master of Two Worlds trope in Pride and Prejudice.
The Master of Two Worlds
Again, Star Wars offers an unambiguous example of this archetype. At the end of the Return of the Jedi, while the rest of the galaxy celebrates in union, Luke is only partially engaged. He spends his time in two worlds, that of the living and that of the dead—Obi-Wan, Yoda, and his newly redeemed father, Anakin. In the final scene Luke is seen actually moving between these worlds, going from the firelight into the presence of his departed mentors and then drawn back by Leia. The emotional soul of this archetype is the nature of home, and all that comes with it. For the hero who is Master of Two Worlds, both worlds conjoined are home, where safety and comfort reside; living in either world alone is no longer fulfilling, or even possible. This makes this archetype similar to the Rescue from Without in that it is an emotional coping strategy for change.
This motif is again subtler in Pride and Prejudice, but not drastically so. Elizabeth’s engagement to Darcy has opened the world of the social elite to her, but we know that her character is too self-possessed to sacrifice her old attachments and values simply to avoid friction with her new world. She will associate both with Caroline Bingley and Charlotte Collins, with Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her unmarried sisters, Kittie and Mary. She will live in both worlds, as much a master of them as anyone is likely to get, and dependent upon the acceptance and validation of self that can only come from both worlds in unison.
The previous examples show how two vastly different works embrace well established archetypes, not on the level of plot or character, but on the “collective” plane of human emotion. The disparity between the narratives chosen shows just how flexible and common these archetypes are. It begs the question, where do the edges of myth really lie? If emotions dictate relevance, and archetype is emotion, then perhaps every aspect of life is in a sense one great unified myth. If so then art, and literature in its own distinctive way, has the unique function of not only contributing to the myth, but of using the collective emotional nexus of humanity to bridge the unknown, mystical stuff that makes each of us unique.
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