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(All parts in English)

For those who know enough Greek to manage with a text, I recommended a juxtalinear translation, but it is unavailable. Take the translation from GARNIER, which is well done. I refer you to the following verses: lines 4-7, 323-325, 332-333, 360-375, 450-470, 559-560, 581-584, 611-614, 620-625, 649-650, 780-805, 839-841, 852-862, 875, 916-924, 1259-1260.

Lines 559-560 are significant in revealing ANTIGONE’s position regarding life.

“Take courage, live! As for me, my soul has long departed and serves only the dead.”
[θάρσει·σὺμὲνζῇς, ἡδ᾽ἐμὴψυχὴπάλαιτέθνηκεν, ὥστετοῖςθανοῦσινὠϕελεῖν.559-560]

She explicitly states that her soul has long been dead, destined to assist the ὠϕελεῖν [ophélein]—this is the same ὠϕελεῖν we discussed in relation to OPHÉLIA [cf. seminar 1958-59: The Desire…]—to assist the dead.

Lines 611-614 and 620-625 concern what the CHORUS says regarding the boundary around which, in essence, what ANTIGONE desires is at play.

“You reign eternally in the splendor of blazing Olympus, never growing old!
A law will always prevail, as it has always prevailed among men.”
[τότ᾽ἔπειτακαὶτὸμέλλονκαὶτὸπρὶνἐπαρκέσει
νόμοςὅδ᾽, οὐδὲνἕρπειθνατῶνβιότῳπάμπολύγ᾽ἐκτὸςἄτας.611-614]

“Deceptive hope is useful to mortals, but it thwarts the desires of many.
It leads them to evil, unknowingly, before they set foot on the blazing fire.”
[τὸκακὸνδοκεῖνποτ᾽ἐσθλὸντῷδ᾽ἔμμενὅτῳφρένας
θεὸςἄγειπρὸςἄταν·πράσσειδ᾽ὀλίγιστονχρόνονἐκτὸςἄτας.620-625]

It is around this boundary of ἄτῃ [Até] that ANTIGONE’s fate is decided. And the term that concludes each of these two passages, ἐκτὸςἄτας [ektos atas], as I highlighted last time, is of particular importance. ἐκτὸς signifies “outside” or “beyond,” something that happens once the boundary of ἄτῃ [Até] has been crossed. Somewhere— for instance, the messenger, the guard who recounts the event violating CRÉON’s authority—mentions at the end that he is ἐκτὸςἐλπίδος [330], “beyond all hope”: he no longer expected to be saved.

This ἐκτὸςἄτας [ektos atas] undeniably carries, in the clearest terms within the text, the sense of crossing a boundary. This is precisely what the CHORUS’s song at that moment revolves around. It also describes moving πρὸςἄταν [pros atan], that is, towards ἄτῃ [Até].

Here we encounter a clash with the directions indicated. The entire prepositional system of the Greeks is so vivid and evocative in this regard. It is said that man mistakes evil for good, and this, too, must be incorporated into our understanding: something beyond the boundaries of ἄτῃ [Até] has become ANTIGONE’s own good, which is distinct from the good of everyone else, prompting her to move πρὸςἄταν [pros atan].

To reframe the issue in a way that allows us to integrate our observations, we must once again return to a notion, a clear, purified, and unencumbered view of the hero of tragedy—not just any hero, but the one before us: ANTIGONE. This is something that has struck certain commentators on SOPHOCLES, singularly so, as I discovered with some surprise in the writings of a recent author on SOPHOCLES, Karl REINHARDT. He is the only one, it seems, who has noticed something quite significant, though I believe he does not entirely grasp the matter at hand.

Karl REINHARDT emphasizes the unique solitude of the Sophoclean hero. Μονούμενοι, he highlights, is a particularly beautiful term found in SOPHOCLES’ work: ϕρενόςοἰοδῶται, the one who leads his thoughts to graze in solitude. It is certain, however, that this is not the issue, for the tragic hero always partakes in this isolation. They are always beyond the limits, always an arrow pointing forward, and as such, they are, in some way, torn from the structure.

It’s strange that something so clear and evident isn’t noticed. The list of 7 plays by SOPHOCLES, out of the approximately 120 that are said to have been produced during his 90 years of life, and the 60 years he devoted to tragedy, is as follows: Ajax, Antigone, Electra, Oedipus Rex, The Trachiniae, Philoctetes, and Oedipus at Colonus.

Some of these plays likely resonate in your mind. However, perhaps you don’t realize that Ajax is quite a peculiar piece. Ajax begins with a sort of massacre of the Greek herds by AJAX who, due to ATHENA’s disfavor, acts as though he is mad. He believes he is slaughtering the entire Greek army, but instead, he slaughters the herds. He awakens afterward, sinks into shame, and goes off to kill himself in despair in some corner. There is absolutely nothing else in the play. As I mentioned the other day, it is quite strange; there isn’t the faintest hint of a twist. Everything is laid out at the beginning, and the curves can only crash against each other as best they can.

Antigone is what we are discussing, so we’ll set that aside.

Electra is also quite curious in SOPHOCLES. In AESCHYLUS, it leads to all sorts of things—The Libation Bearers and The Eumenides. After the murder of AGAMEMNON is avenged, ORESTES must reconcile with the avenging deities who protect maternal blood. Nothing of the sort happens in SOPHOCLES. ELECTRA is a character who is, strictly speaking—and I won’t elaborate much on this now, though I will delve into it later—a true counterpart to ANTIGONE in the sense that, in the text, she is dead in life: “I am already dead to everything.” Furthermore, at the crucial moment, when ORESTES dispatches AEGISTHUS, he says to her, “Do you realize that you are speaking to people who are like the dead? You are not speaking to the living.” It’s an exceptionally peculiar note. The play ends abruptly, with no trace of anything lingering or superfluous. It concludes in the driest manner. The end of Electra is, in the proper sense of the term, an execution.

As for Oedipus Rex, we will set it aside for now from the perspective I wish to address here. Besides, we won’t claim to make a general rule. We remain ignorant of most of what SOPHOCLES produced. I am speaking of the proportions of certain formulas that I aim to identify in what remains of SOPHOCLES.

The Trachiniae is about the end of HERACLES. HERACLES is truly at the end of his labors. He knows it, too. He is told he will rest, that he is finished. Unfortunately, in his last labor, he dangerously intertwined the issue of his desire for a captive woman, and his wife, out of love for him, sends him that delightful robe she has kept all this time for such a need. She is sure it is a weapon to be kept for the right moment. And it is indeed the right moment. She sends it to him, and you know what happens: the entire conclusion of the play is occupied solely by the groans and roars of HERACLES as he is consumed by this flaming fabric.

Then there is Philoctetes. PHILOCTETES is a character who has been abandoned. Here, isolation is evidently manifest. He has been left alone to rot on an island for ten years, and even then, he is asked to render a service to the community. Various events unfold in Philoctetes, and the entire pathos of the drama lies in the moral struggle faced by the young NEOPTOLEMUS, who is tasked with serving as bait to deceive him.

Finally, there is Oedipus at Colonus. Don’t you notice this? If there is a distinctive feature of what we call SOPHOCLES—aside from Oedipus Rex—it is the “at the end of the road” position of all the heroes. They are carried to an extreme, situated in a relationship to solitude that, when defined concerning others, is far from exhaustive. Something else is at play here. In short, these characters are, from the outset, placed in a liminal zone—a zone between life and death, strictly speaking. The theme of being “between life and death” is articulated in the text as such, but it is glaringly obvious in the situations.

I would say that Oedipus Rex could also be incorporated into this general framework, insofar as it is, in a singular, unique, paradoxical way compared to the others. As the poet shows us at the beginning of this drama, OEDIPUS is at the height of happiness. It is from this pinnacle of happiness that what we see in SOPHOCLES emerges: a character relentlessly pursuing his own destruction through his obsession with solving an enigma, with seeking the truth. Everyone tries to stop him, particularly JOCASTA. She repeatedly tells him, “That’s enough; we know enough.” But he insists on knowing. And eventually, he learns the truth. I agree that Oedipus Rex does not fit the general formula of the Sophoclean character, who is otherwise exceptionally marked by what I designate, in this initial approximation, as the “end of the road.”

Now let us return to ANTIGONE, who is, in the clearest and most admitted sense, at the “end of the road.” One day, I showed you here an anamorphosis, the finest I could find for your use. It was truly exemplary, “beyond all hope.” You may recall that kind of cylinder around which a strange phenomenon occurs: strictly speaking, optically, there isn’t an image—I won’t delve into the optical definition—but it is because along each generator of the cylinder, an infinitesimal fragment of the image is produced. What we see emerge here, then there, is a superimposition of a series of patterns, of images.

Thus, you observed a very striking image of Passion emerging from beyond the mirror, while something rather dissolved and repugnant spread around, in the form of what ultimately created this marvelous illusion.

This is somewhat related to what we are discussing. It is about understanding, if you will, what this surface is that allows this image of ANTIGONE as the image of a passion to arise. I mentioned the other day, in connection with her, the phrase, “Father, why have you forsaken me?” It is literally stated in a verse. And tragedy is something that spreads forward to create this image.

What we are doing by analyzing it is the reverse process. It involves examining how this image had to be constructed to produce this effect. Let’s begin. And first, let me highlight again what I’ve already pointed out: the relentless, fearless, and pitiless nature that manifests so strikingly in ANTIGONE at every moment.

Somewhere, and certainly with lamentation, the CHORUS refers to her—this must correspond to verse 875—as αὐτόγνωτος. And this must resonate against the backdrop of the γνῶθι σεαυτόν (“Know thyself”) from the DELPHIC ORACLE. This kind of total self-knowledge is something whose meaning we cannot ignore. From the very beginning, when she reveals her plan to ISMÈNE, I have already pointed out her tone of extreme hardness.

“Do you realize what’s happening?”

He has just proclaimed what is called the κήρυγμα, a term that holds significant importance in modern Protestant theology within the dimension of religious proclamation. The style is as follows:

“In essence, this is what he has decreed for you and me.”

Moreover, she adds, in this vivid tone—I say: for me—and she declares:

“I will bury my brother.”

What does this mean, and why? We will see. Events, in fact, unfold very quickly. Then, as you’ve seen, the guard arrives to announce that the brother has been buried. At this point, I want to pause for a moment to focus on something I believe is essential and provides the key significance of SOPHOCLES’ work for us. It is this:

Some have said it—I believe it is even part of the title of one of the numerous works I’ve consulted, more or less systematically, to grasp what has been said over the ages about our SOPHOCLES—it is evidently this: “SOPHOCLES is humanism.”

He is often regarded as more humane, offering the idea of a kind of truly human balance, positioned between some archaic ideals represented by AESCHYLUS and whatever leans toward pathos, sentimentality, criticism, or sophistry, as ARISTOTLE already reproaches EURIPIDES.

There is something striking about this to me. I can accept that SOPHOCLES occupies this sort of median position, but as for seeing in him some relative of humanism, I can accept that too—but only if we agree that it gives a new meaning to the word humanism. For I would say:

• If we feel ourselves, so to speak, at the end of this vein of the humanist theme;
• If humanity, for us, is in a state of decomposition, it is as if through the effect of a spectral analysis, of which what I present here is an example;
• If we are progressing within this joint, expressed across various registers, it is the same point between the Imaginary and the Symbolic where we continue to pursue the relationship of man to the signifier and the splitting it generates within him.

It is precisely the same inquiry that a Claude LÉVI-STRAUSS seeks in his effort to formalize the passage from nature to culture, or more specifically, the fissure between nature and culture.

It is quite curious to see that at the dawn of humanism, it is also within this kind of analysis, this gap in analysis, at the edge of this “end of the road” space, that the image—or undoubtedly the images—that have been the most fascinating for the entire period of history we can group under the humanist banner emerge. [cf. the reference to Sophocles in Heidegger: Letter on Humanism].

For example, I find it striking to focus on that moment—lines 360-375—where the CHORUS bursts out, just after the departure of the messenger. I have already described the messenger’s comical twists and turns as he comes to announce news that could cost him dearly. There, in lines 323-325, we find:

[ϕεῦ·ἦδεινὸνᾧδοκῇγεκαὶψευδῆδοκεῖν.323]

I mentioned this the other day, explaining that it is genuinely horrifying to see someone persist in believing. Believing what? Something no one at that moment has the right to imagine—the game of δοκῇδοκεῖν. This is what I wanted to highlight in that line. The other character [Creon] replies:

“You’re showing off with stories about δόξα.”
[κόμψευένυντὴνδόξαν. 324]

An evident allusion to the philosophical debates surrounding this theme at the time. Immediately after this scene—which is rather insignificant since, after all, we are not particularly invested in whether the guard might be disemboweled for the bad news he carries (he manages to get away, fortunately, with a clever dodge)—immediately afterward comes that CHORAL ode, which I called the other day the Praise of Man. It begins with something like this:

πολλὰτὰδεινὰκοὐδὲνἀνθρώπουδεινότερονπέλει. [332-333]

This literally translates as:

“There are many remarkable things in the world, but nothing is more remarkable than man.”

What follows is a long passage that, in some respects, struck Claude LÉVI-STRAUSS for this reason: what the CHORUS says about man is essentially a definition of what constitutes culture as opposed to nature:

• Man cultivates speech and sublime sciences,
• He knows how to protect his home from the frosts of history and the bolts of storms,
• He knows how to stay dry.

Here, however, there is a kind of shift—some hint of irony that I find entirely undeniable in what follows, particularly the famous παντοπόρος, ἄπορος, which has fueled debate regarding punctuation. This punctuation is generally accepted:

Παντοπόρος, ἄποροςἐπ᾽οὐδὲνἔρχεταιτὸμέλλον. [358-359]

Let’s try to grasp what is being said here. Obviously, on stage, it goes by very quickly.

• Παντοπόρος means “resourceful” or “ingenious”: man knows many tricks.
• ἄπορος is the opposite; it refers to being without resources or means in the face of something—aporia, a term likely familiar to you. ἄπορος thus refers to being baffled or stuck.

As the Vaudois proverb puts it: “Nothing is impossible for man; what he cannot do, he leaves undone.” That’s the style.

Then we have: ἐπ᾽οὐδὲνἔρχεταιτὸμέλλον:

• ἔρχεται means “he walks” or “he goes.”
• ἐπ᾽οὐδὲν means “he is heading toward nothing.”
• τὸμέλλον can be translated quite innocently as “the future,” but it also means “what is to come.” In other contexts, it signifies μέλλειν, to delay. These are common meanings. Thus, semantically, τὸμέλλον opens a field not easily pinned down to a strict equivalent in French or English.

Typically, one resolves this by saying:

“Since he is full of resources, he will not be without resources for anything that may come.”

This is a rather mundane aphorism that strikes me as slightly banal. Given the textured quality of this text, it is far from certain that the poet intended such a platitude in this context.

We find something further down: ὑψίπολιςἄπολις, which means one who is above life or the city and who is also outside the city. I will explain why this character, typically identified in the CHORUS’s discourse, is defined in such terms as a kind of beginning of CREON’s derailment.

In any case, this παντοπόρος,ἄπορος seems difficult to separate where they are juxtaposed: at the head of the phrase. Moreover, I am not certain that:

“…ἄποροςἐπ᾽οὐδὲνἔρχεται”

can be translated into French as:

“because he is never without resources before anything,”

is entirely consistent with the meaning the Greek language implies here.

It is not that “he is never without resources before anything.” This ἔρχεται requires that it carries something—that ἐπ᾽οὐδὲν—along with it. The ἐπ᾽ attaches firmly to the ἔρχεται, not to the ἄπορος. It is we who interpret this as some kind of jack-of-all-trades. The phrase literally means he heads towards nothing that may come. He goes no differently than how he is—that is, παντοπόρος, crafty, and always duped. He never misses a chance for things to fall on his head. It suggests he always manages to have troubles find him.

I believe this moment should be felt in the style of PREVERT, in a turning point kind of sense. Let me give you an example, a confirmation that seems apt:

“Ἅιδαμόνονϕεῦξινοὐκἐπάξεται·361-62”

This means that there is only one thing he cannot escape from: the matter of HADES. When it comes to not dying, he has not managed to overcome it. This is self-evident, but what follows is crucial:

“νόσωνδ᾽ἀμηχάνωνφυγὰς363”

After saying that there is something he has not managed to overcome—death—it says: he has devised, invented something absolutely extraordinary, which is—what? Something that is nonetheless deeply intriguing to us:

“νόσωνδ᾽ἀμηχάνωνφυγὰς363”

This literally means: flight from impossible diseases.

Try to make sense of it. By saying what? He cannot give this any other meaning than the one I am offering. Translations often try to suggest that he somehow deals with diseases, but that is not the case at all.

He hasn’t conquered death, but as for creating extraordinary tricks, diseases beyond anyone’s reach, he is the one who devised them, fabricated them. It is remarkable, in 441 BCE, to see the human being depicted as creating—not fleeing from diseases, which would make no sense in this context—but inventing diseases that are ἀμηχάνων, an incredible feat. Figure it out: this is what he has invented. Moreover, the text reiterates that he hasn’t overcome HADES, and immediately after, we enter the domain of the μηχανόεν, properly speaking—into what is the μηχανον. There is something σοϕόν.

This σοϕόν at this level is not so simple. Recall the text I translated myself for the first issue of La Psychanalyse. The meaning of σοϕόν in HERACLITUS is “it is wise,” and ομολογείν means the same thing. This σοϕόν retains its primitive vigor here.

There is something σοϕόν in this mechanism of the μηχανόεν. It contains something that:

ὑπὲρἐλπίδ᾽ἔχων, “goes beyond all hope,” and ἕρπει, ἕρπει (it crawls, it moves).

It is this that guides him, directing him sometimes toward evil, sometimes toward good. That is to say, this power, this sort of—let me translate σοϕόν as “mandate” in the article I mentioned—this mandate conferred upon him by this good is something eminently ambiguous.

Immediately afterward, we encounter the passage:

νόμουςπαρείρων…[…χθονὸςθεῶντ᾽ἔνορκονδίκαν368]

which essentially revolves around the central theme of the play. For παρείρων undoubtedly means “twisting together improperly.”

χθονὸς refers to the earth. θεῶντ᾽ἔνορκονδίκαν—δίκη[diké] is what is formulated or expressed in law. This is the “Say” we refer to in the silence of analysis. We do not say “Speak,” we do not say “Articulate or narrate,” we say “Say.” That is precisely what must not be done. This δίκη[diké] is essential and has a properly declarative dimension: ἔνορκονδίκαν, justice sworn by the gods.

Here we find two very distinct dimensions that are clearly differentiated:

• There are the laws of the earth,
• And then there are the commands of the gods.

…but they can be intermingled. It is, of course, not the same order of things, and to confuse them sets the stage for disaster. Things go so badly that, already, the CHORUS, though hesitant as it may be, still has its little guiding line, and it declares:

“In no case would I associate myself with him.”
[μήτ᾽ ἐμοὶ παρέστιοςγένοιτο μήτ᾽ ἴσον φρονῶν ὃς τάδ᾽ ἔρδει.374-375]

For advancing in this direction is, in the strictest sense, τὸμὴκαλὸν [370], “that which is not beautiful”—not “that which is not good,” as it is often translated, because of the audacity it entails. And the CHORUS does not wish to have this character as παρέστιος, a companion or neighbor at the hearth. It does not wish to share the same central point we are discussing. With such a person, it prefers not to have any neighborly relations, nor even ἴσονϕρονῶν [375], to share the same desire. This is the desire of the other from which it separates its own desire. I do not think I am stretching matters by finding here the echo of certain formulations I have previously offered you.

But the question then becomes significant: Who is it that confuses the νόμουςχθονὸς—the laws of the earth—with the δίκη of the gods? Naturally, the classical interpretation is very clear: it is CREON, who supposedly represents the laws of the land and identifies them with the decrees of the gods.

At first glance, this seems to be the case. However, it is not so certain, because one cannot entirely deny that the νόμουςχθονὸς—the chthonic laws, the laws of the earth’s domain—are indeed what ANTIGONE is concerned with.

It is her brother—let me emphasize this constantly—who has passed into the underworld. It is in the name of the most profoundly chthonic ties of blood that she opposes the κήρυγμα, the commandment of CREON. In essence, she places herself in a position to align herself with the δίκη of the gods. The ambiguity, in any case, is clearly discernible here. This, I believe, will now become even more apparent.

I have already pointed out how, in the style of the CHORUS, after ANTIGONE’s condemnation, something erupts that places all the emphasis on the fact that she sought her Ἄτη [Atè].

Similarly, when ELECTRA says:

“Why do you stir up, why do you constantly throw yourself into the Ἄτη of your house?
Why do you persist in continuously awakening, before AEGISTHUS and your mother, the fatal murder?
Isn’t it you who brings all the resulting misfortunes upon your own head?”

To which the other responds:

“I quite agree, but I can’t do otherwise.”

Here, it is precisely because she moves toward this Ἄτη, and because it involves even going ἐκτòς ἄτας [ektos atas]—crossing the boundary of Ἄτη—that ANTIGONE captures the interest of the CHORUS. The CHORUS comments that she is one who, through her desire, violates the limits of Ἄτη. This is precisely what the lines I referred to earlier [614, 625] relate to, especially those ending with the phrase ἐκτòς ἄτας [ektos atas]: crossing the boundary of Ἄτη.

Ἄτη is not ἁμαρτία—not fault, not error, not a mistake. The distinction is very clear.

At the end, when CREON returns holding something in his arms—which, the CHORUS tells us, seems to be nothing other than the body of his son who has committed suicide—the CHORUS declares:

“If it is permissible to say so, his son was lost not to a misfortune foreign to him, but to his own error.”
[καὶ μὴν ὅδ᾽ἄναξ αὐτὸς ἐϕήκειμνῆμ᾽ἐπίσημον διὰ χειρὸς ἔχων,εἰ θέμις εἰπεῖν, οὐκ ἀλλοτρίανἄτην, ἀλλ᾽ αὐτὸς ἁμαρτών.1259-1260]

He has brought this upon himself; he made a mistake. Other elements in the text allow us, quite literally, to attribute this meaning to ἁμαρτία: error, blunder. This is the sense ARISTOTLE emphasizes. In my view, he is mistaken in considering it characteristic of what leads the tragic hero to their downfall. This is only true for what I might call the anti-hero or secondary hero, such as CREON. It is true that he is ἁμαρτών.

At the moment EURYDICE is about to commit suicide, the CHORUS uses a word also related to ἁμαρτάνειν. It hopes—so we are told—that she will not do something foolish. Naturally, they brace themselves because they hear no sound. The CHORUS says:

“I hear nothing—it’s a bad sign.”
[οὐκ οἶδ᾽· ἐμοὶ δ᾽ οὖν ἥ τ᾽ἄγαν σιγὴ βαρὺδοκεῖ προσεῖναι χἠ μάτην πολλὴ βοή.1251-52]

The term used here is ἁμαρτών, as in hoping he will not make a mistake. The fatal outcome of CRÉON’s obstinacy and senseless decrees is this dead son still in his arms. He was ἁμαρτών. He made a mistake. This is not a case of ἀλλοτρίανἄτην, misfortune foreign to him. Why bring this up if it has no meaning?

Ἄτη, as it pertains to something belonging to the Other, to the field of the Other, is emphasized here. It is not something belonging to CRÉON; rather, it precisely defines the realm where ANTIGONE is situated.

So, we must turn fully to ANTIGONE. What is she?

• Is she, according to the classical interpretation, the servant of a sacred order or a respect for the living substance?
• Is she the representative, the embodiment of charity itself?

Perhaps, but that would require giving the term charity a raw dimension and acknowledging that the path from ANTIGONE’s passion to her fulfillment is nonetheless a long one.

The way ANTIGONE reveals herself to us, presents herself to us… I mean when she explains her actions to the one she opposes—namely, CRÉON—is, strictly speaking, a statement of: “It is this way because it is this way.”

ANTIGONE manifests herself as the embodiment of what might be called absolute individuality. In the name of what? More precisely, on what foundation? This is where I must quote the text. She states very clearly:

“You made these laws.”

And again, the meaning is often evaded. For what does she say? Translating word for word:

“For it was not Zeus who proclaimed these things to me.”
[οὐγάρτίμοιΖεὺςἦνὁκηρύξαςτάδε, 450]

Naturally, it is understood—or misunderstood, as I’ve often said, understanding too quickly is a hindrance to true understanding—that she means, “It is not Zeus who grants you the right to say this.” But that is not what she says. She rejects the notion that it was Zeus who commanded her to act this way, nor does she claim allegiance to the δίκη [diké], the companion and collaborator of the gods of the underworld.

This is significant because it is not the gods of the underworld in question here. It is the δίκη of the gods of the underworld.

“I am not here for the δίκη either.”

In fact, she distances herself from the δίκη.

“You involve yourself in this arbitrarily. It is even possible that your way of avoiding this δίκη, of mixing everything together, is wrong. But as for me—she separates herself from it—I do not involve myself with all these gods of the underworld who have set these laws among men.”

ὥρισεν [452], derived from ὥριξω, ὅρος, evokes the image of a horizon, a boundary. What is at issue is precisely the positioning of a boundary upon which she stands, where she feels unassailable, and where no mortal can ὑπερβαίνειν [449], transcend the νόμιμα.

This is no longer about the laws (νόμους), but a specific legality that arises from those laws, the ἄγραπτα [454], often translated as “unwritten laws.” It indeed means just that: laws of the gods. What is invoked here belongs to the realm of law but is not articulated in any signifying chain or anything tangible.

It concerns this boundary, this horizon, as determined by a structural relationship: It exists solely because of the language of words, yet it reveals an insurmountable consequence. From the moment words, language, and signifiers come into play, something can be said—and it is said like this:

“My brother, no matter what you claim, is everything you say: the criminal, the one who sought to burn and ruin the walls of our homeland, to enslave his compatriots, who brought the enemy to the borders of the city. But he is what he is, and what matters is that he is to be given funeral honors. Certainly, he does not have the same right as the other. You may say whatever you want: one is the hero and friend, and the other is the enemy. But I answer you this…”

For she answers him, saying:

“This is not at all the same value down below. Things are judged differently below. And in any case, for me—for me, to whom you dare give this order—this order means nothing to me. For me, my brother is my brother, and his value lies there.”
[511-525]

This is the paradox at which GOETHE’s thought stumbles and falters. His argumentation (lines 904 and following) is precisely this, exactly what I underline for you:

“My brother is what he is, and it is because he is what he is, and because only he can be that, that I move toward this fatal boundary. If it were anyone else with whom I could have a human relationship—be it my husband or my children—they are replaceable. These are relationships. But this brother, the one who is ἀδελϕὸς, who shares with me the unique fact of being born from the same womb—

ἀδελϕὸς—very precisely, the word in its structure, its etymology, refers to the womb [912]—

and who is born of the same father—namely, this criminal father who is evoked throughout the play by the CHORUS. It is nothing other than the consequences of this crime that ANTIGONE is now bearing—

this brother, precisely because he is what he is, is something unique. It is this alone that motivates my opposition to your decrees.”

Nowhere else lies ANTIGONE’s stance. She evokes no other right than this, which emerges in the language as the indelible character of what is, from the moment the signifier emerges, allowing it to be fixed as a stable entity amidst the flux of possible transformations.

What is, is, and it is around this that ANTIGONE’s unbreakable, insurmountable position solidifies. She repels everything else. I believe that here, the “end of the road” is illustrated nowhere more clearly, and that all that is placed around it is merely an effort to obscure or evade the absolutely radical nature of how the problem is posed in the text.

This foundation is what supports what we might broadly call the human characteristic, discreetly evoked in passing, which is that humanity invented burial rites.

It is not about disposing of a person as one would a dog. It is not about discarding their remains in some arbitrary form that erases the being of someone who could once be named, who is preserved through the act of funerals. Certainly, many additional elements accumulate around this. All the clouds of the imaginary and the influences of ghosts that gather around death come into play.

But the core becomes evident precisely because funerals are denied to POLYNICES. It is precisely because POLYNICES is left to the dogs and the birds, to end his time on earth in the impurity of a kind of scattering of his limbs that offends both earth and sky. It is precisely because this happens that it becomes clear that what ANTIGONE represents through her stance is this utterly radical boundary. Beyond all the contents—so to speak, beyond everything POLYNICES may have done, good or bad, or all that may be inflicted on him—her position maintains the unique value of his being.

This value is essentially linguistic. Outside of language, it could not even be conceived. The being of one who has lived cannot be detached from all that they have carried, whether good or bad, destiny, consequences for others, or their own feelings. This purity, this separation of being from all the characteristics of the historical drama they have traversed, is precisely the boundary—this ex nihilo—around which ANTIGONE stands. It is nothing other than the same rupture that the presence of language itself establishes in human life. This rupture is evident at every moment because language punctuates and divides everything that happens within the flow of life.

αὐτόνομος—this is how the CHORUS defines and situates ANTIGONE. It tells her:

“You are going to death, knowing only your own law.”
[ἀλλ᾽ αὐτόνομος ζῶσα μόνη δὴ θνητῶν Ἅιδην καταβήσει.822-23]

At this point, events have advanced far enough for ANTIGONE to have crossed the threshold of condemnation. She knows what she is condemned to: to play a game, if one might say, where the result is predetermined, but which CREON indeed sets as a game. She is condemned to the closed chamber of the tomb, where the trial is to unfold—to see whether the gods of the underworld will be of any help to her there. CREON’s condemnation is framed as an ordeal. He tells her:

“We will see whether your fidelity to the gods of the underworld will serve you. You will have some nourishment—the offerings always placed with the dead—we’ll see how long you survive with that.”

It is from this moment that the true shift in the tragedy’s light occurs. This is what some commentators have curiously and significantly been scandalized by: the κομμός, the lamentation, the mourning cry of ANTIGONE.

From this moment—having crossed into what, for her, embodies entry into the symmetrical zone beyond, between death and life, between physical death and the erasure of being—she, while not yet dead, is already erased from the ranks of the living. I mean that what she has long claimed about herself now takes form externally. She has already told us, long before, that for her, she has been in the realm of the dead for some time.

But this time, the fact is consecrated. Her torment consists of being enclosed, suspended in this zone between life and death, and it is from this point that her lamentation develops—the lamentation of life itself.

At length, ANTIGONE complains of her fate, saying she departs ἄγαμος (unwed) [869], destined to be locked in a tomb, homeless, mourned by no friend (ἄκλαυτος, ἄϕιλος, ἀνυμέναιος [882]). Her separation is then experienced as regret, a lamentation over all that life has denied her. From this moment on, she even mentions that she will not have the marital bed, she will not experience the bond of marriage, she will not have children. This lamentation stretches extensively through the play [891–928].

The very idea of an author questioning the legitimacy of this aspect of the tragedy in the name of some so-called unity of character—of the inflexible ANTIGONE, the cold ANTIGONE—overlooks critical nuances. Let us not forget that the term ψυχρὸν [650], denoting coldness and frigidity, also refers to a cold object of caresses. This is how CREON describes her in his dialogue with his son, attempting to console him by saying he loses nothing.

All this—ANTIGONE’s character—is presented to us as though to challenge the plausibility of what would otherwise be an incursion into the tragedy, one that some critics seek to absolve the poet of responsibility for. This is an absurd misinterpretation because, for ANTIGONE, life is only conceivable, only livable, from this boundary where she has already lost it, where she is already beyond it. Yet, from there, she can see life. From there, if one can say so, she can live it as what is already lost.

It is also from this vantage point that ANTIGONE’s image appears to us in the aspect that the CHORUS literally tells us causes it to lose its mind. It renders the just unjust, it drives the CHORUS itself to transgress all boundaries, to throw aside any respect it might hold for the city’s edicts.

Nothing from then on is more moving than this ἵμεροςἐναργὴς, this visible desire that emanates, as the CHORUS says, from the eyes of the admirable young woman [795 and following]. This intense illumination, this flash of beauty, coincides precisely with this moment of crossing, this moment of passage, and the realization of ANTIGONE’s Ἄτη. This is the aspect I have strongly emphasized, as you know.

It is the aspect that introduced us to the problem of ANTIGONE itself and its exemplary function for determining certain effects of a relationship that exists beyond the central field. This function also includes what blinds us to its true nature—what, in a way, dazzles us and separates us from its real role. It is this touching aspect of beauty, around which everything falters, all critical judgment halts, and analysis is arrested, plunging everything into a kind of confusion—almost an essential blindness.

This cannot be approached without asking: in relation to what? The effect of beauty is an effect of blindness. Something occurs beyond this. If this is indeed a kind of manifestation of the death drive—if this is what ANTIGONE has declared of herself all along: “I am dead, and I desire death”—you will see its articulation in the text.

If here she depicts herself as identifying with this inanimate state in which FREUD teaches us to recognize the manifestation of the death drive, as she identifies with this NIOBE who petrifies herself, then it is at this moment that the CHORUS delivers its praise:

“You are a demi-goddess.” [834–838]

And it is also at this moment that ANTIGONE’s response erupts, showing that she is not at all a demi-goddess. She says:

“This is mockery. You are mocking me.”
[οἴμοι γελῶμαι. τί με, πρὸς θεῶν πατρῴων.839]

The term for outrage—whose essential correlation I previously highlighted at this moment—is employed in its proper form, mirroring the same notion of crossing or passage. Outrage means going beyond something, overstepping the bounds of what is permissible, of what can be dismissed in the face of such immense misfortune. ὑβρίζεις—this is what ANTIGONE accuses the CHORUS of, saying:

“Here you no longer know what you are saying. You are insulting me.”
[οὐκ οἰχομέναν ὑβρίζεις, ἀλλ᾽ ἐπίφαντον840].

Her stature is far from diminished by this, as everything that constitutes the lament, the κομμός, the long lament of ANTIGONE that follows immediately, is accompanied by the CHORUS’s enigmatic reference to three singular episodes from mythological history, which, in their disparity, include:

• DANAË, who was also confined in a chamber of bronze,
• LYCURGUS, son of DRYAS, king of the Edonians, who went mad for opposing and even persecuting the servants of DIONYSOS, frightening and pursuing the women, even violently attacking them, and throwing the god DIONYSOS into the sea. This is the first mention we have of something Dionysian. In Book II of the Iliad, DIONYSOS is seen as dead. Later, he avenges himself by driving LYCURGUS mad. According to various versions of the myth, LYCURGUS was either confined or suffered another fate—driven by madness, he killed his own son, mistaking him for vine branches, blinded by the insanity inflicted by DIONYSOS, and even mutilated himself. The details vary, but the core idea remains the god’s vengeance.
• PHINEUS, a still more obscure example, centers on a hero embroiled in a swarm of contradictory and irreconcilable legends. PHINEUS appears, bizarrely, in a depiction of conflict between the HARPIES that torment him and the BOREADS, the two sons of the north wind BOREAS, who protect him. The backdrop to this scene is, curiously, the procession celebrating the wedding of DIONYSOS and ARIADNE.

Certainly, much work remains to be done in decoding these myths, if it is even possible. Their disparity—and one might say their apparent irrelevance to the central theme—is one of the many burdens tragic texts place upon their commentators. I make no claim to resolve them. It was precisely to draw the attention of my friend Claude LÉVI-STRAUSS to the unique challenges of this passage that I recently encouraged him to delve into ANTIGONE.

Nonetheless, something can still be highlighted and emphasized in the conclusion of Antigone: this eruption of tragedies in the vulgarized sense of the term—tragic episodes evoked by the CHORUS when ANTIGONE stands on the threshold of life and death—all concern the relationship between mortals and the gods:

• DANAË, entombed because of a god’s love,
• LYCURGUS, punished for attempting violence against a god,
• CLEOPATRA, the repudiated wife of PHINEUS, is included through her divine lineage, as a BOREAD. She is called ἀμιππος, swift as horses, and is said to glide ἀμιππος, faster than all steeds, across ice impervious to footsteps—a skater.

What stands out, and what I will return to in greater depth next time, is that ANTIGONE suffers a fate equal to all those ensnared in the cruel games of the gods. She appears, even from an external perspective, as a victim at the center of the anamorphic cylinder of the tragedy. Yet she is there as a victim and a sacrifice entirely despite herself.

ANTIGONE presents herself as αὐτόνομος, the pure and simple relationship of the human being to that ineffable something they miraculously carry: the signifying rupture, the insurmountable power of being in defiance of everything else they are. Everything around her can be invoked, as the CHORUS does in the fifth act, invoking the savior god.

This god is DIONYSOS—otherwise, his presence here would make no sense. Nothing could be less Dionysian than ANTIGONE’s act or figure. DIONYSOS appears because ANTIGONE carries to the extreme the fulfillment of what might be called pure desire—the pure and simple desire for death as such—and embodies it.

Think carefully: if her desire must align with the desire of the Other and connect to the mother’s desire—explicitly alluded to in the text—this maternal desire is the origin of everything. It is a desire that uniquely serves as the foundation for the structure that brought forth these singular siblings: ETEOCLES, POLYNICES, ANTIGONE, and ISMENE. Yet it is also a criminal desire. At the root of the tragedy and humanism lies an impasse—one more radical and yet strikingly similar to that of HAMLET.

No mediation is possible for this desire, except its radically destructive nature. The offspring of this incestuous union split into two brothers: one representing power, the other representing crime.

No one assumes the crime or its validity except ANTIGONE. ANTIGONE chooses, between the two, to be purely and simply the guardian of the criminal’s being as such. Undoubtedly, matters might have ended differently if the social body had agreed to forgive, forget, and honor all equally with the same funeral rites.

Because the community refuses this, ANTIGONE sacrifices her being to preserve the essential being of the family’s Ἄτη. This Ἄτη is the true motive, the central axis around which the entire tragedy of ANTIGONE revolves. She perpetuates, eternalizes, and immortalizes this Ἄτη.