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Emily Stets
Great Con 218: Dissenters and Defenders
20 May 2013
Suicide and Its Discontents
In literature, suicide highlights the tragedy, courage, or cowardice of a character
so effectively that authors use it as a literary device to further the narrative. Gradually,
readers become dulled to the horrifying act that, when presented in literature, reflects the
current tenor of mankind’s existence. Yet suicide often exhibits comorbidity with other
devastating mental illnesses. Within the spheres of mental health, suicide represents a
disconnect within a being: a schism. Carl Jung, the famous psychotherapist and protégée
of Sigmund Freud, focused his philosophy on the nature of this schism. He saw this lack
of wholeness as the contention between two inner forces – the collective unconscious and
the conscious – and sought to integrate these opposites while maintaining their autonomy.
Modern medicine pathologizes such disorders, understandably responding to their terrible
consequences: loss of identity, depression, and suicide. However, Jung viewed mental
health disorders as a physical manifestation of tension between these opposing forces,
and emphasized the individual’s struggle without generalizing all mental illnesses. Jung
sought to understand these illnesses, not simply diagnose them, which provides a
fascinating lens to examine suicide in literature. Analyzing literature reveals the
brokenness, separation, and failure to integrate the opposites in all categories of written
works. Using a Jungian lens to analyze literary suicide reveals a studied, unconscious
ignorance of the integration of opposites and the ominous consequences of rejecting this
integration.
A source of grief often presents itself in the form of a person, such as Aeneas in
Virgil’s Aeneid. The Queen of Carthage, Dido, overcorrects in response to overwhelming
grief and anguish when Aeneas prepares to leave her. His departure drives her to believe
death inevitably looms (Virgil 4.704), and all meaning in Dido’s life dissipates. Virgil
describes Dido’s inner turmoil as a tension between her obsessive love and her anxiety
when confronting a life without him (4.619-620). She refuses to “entertain … [her]
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former suitors” (4.623), beg for marriage elsewhere, or join the Trojans. Indeed, she
could have borne her enemies’ hatred and the loss of her city with Aeneas at her side, but
his absence costs Dido more than her dignity. Her volatile temper, witnessed when she
verbally attacks Aeneas for leaving in secrecy (4.343-377), predisposes Dido to
emotional instability. Aeneas betrays his confusion at the depth of her attachment,
reminding Dido that “[he] never proposed marriage … or entered into any nuptial
agreement” (4.386-387). As the impact of his words settles, Dido’s impulsive mindset
incites her desire for a “quick escape from the hated light” (4.735), which she believes
she deserves (4.640). Dido fashions her own demise when she places faith in a contrived
relationship. This senseless act of suicide characterizes one of the most common
reactions to such overwhelming misery.
Regardless of circumstance, age, or gender, many individuals consider suicide a
valid escape from pain. While one can justify these emotions, the tendency towards
extreme measures betrays a devastating lack of awareness of the human spirit. In Jungian
terms, one would not characterize Dido’s personality itself as destructive. A medical
model might engage this narrow idea, but Jung looked to the individual’s personal
reaction and tailored his diagnoses holistically, keeping many factors in mind. The
tension in Dido’s life crucified her between queenly duty to her country and forbidden
love for Aeneas. Dido’s inner conflict overcame her. She moved to end the tension by
ending her life, literally erasing her inner turmoil by killing herself. This succumbing to
suicide continues across literature, as the “easy escape route” proves too tantalizing.
Centuries later, Hamlet’s flirtation with suicide links Shakespeare’s Hamlet to
Virgil’s Aeneid. In his famous monologue “To be or not to be,” Hamlet weighs the cost
of life against death. He questions whether a noble person would “suffer the slings and
arrows of life’s misfortunes” or “end the heartache” of life. In concluding that people live
through suffering for fear of death’s unknown (Shakespeare III.i.53), Hamlet bitterly
declares that “conscience does make cowards of us all” (III.i.54). Dido and Hamlet’s
stories converge as each reflects whether committing suicide both encompasses their pain
and provides a suitable solution for the depth of their suffering. However, each considers
suicide with a very different mindset. Though Hamlet does not commit the act, he
arguably drives Ophelia to commit suicide. Hamlet proves himself very logical and
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cognizant during his “To be or not to be” speech, deconstructing the fear of death and its
consequences with unsettling precision. His decision to act insane to divert suspicion
(I.v.28) startles those around him and terrifies Ophelia. Hamlet’s schism manifests itself
visually: he acts insane, chattering nonstop to the Players (II.ii.45) and responding to
questions with “buzz, buzz” (II.ii.44), but his plans for revenge betray themselves in his
moments of lucidity, such as during his “To be or not to be” soliloquy (III.i.54). While
this juxtaposition creates an unnerving portrait of Hamlet’s inner tension, Ophelia
believes Hamlet’s insanity truly reflects his state of mind. The absent Laertes, Hamlet’s
madness, and the death of Polonius isolate Ophelia, creating a world in which she feels
betrayed, lost, and abandoned. Frailty and confusion lead to Ophelia’s death as a casualty
of Hamlet’s mental assault on her mind. Ophelia drowns in her desolation (IV.vii.100) –
a fitting parallel to her literal death by drowning – completing the cycle that Hamlet
began.
While tension overwhelmed Dido and Ophelia and dictated their impulsive
responses, Hamlet does not fulfill this irrational stereotype. He maintains his rational
judgment, choosing to live to avenge his father’s death (I.v.23-24) and for fear of the
unknown after death. Some skeptics may question how one can rationalize something as
irrational as an emotion, but Jungian philosophy does not deconstruct emotions in order
to justify them. Instead, it advocates an awareness of one’s emotions and their indication
of a character’s mental and emotional status. Hamlet’s cognizance of his inner turmoil –
as illustrated in his famous monologue – reflects the crucial foundation of Jungian
philosophy in an individual: Hamlet faces his own tension in the form of avenging his
father or submitting to the injustice of King Hamlet’s murder. Hamlet cannot leave his
father unavenged and conceives a strategy for retribution. Conversely, Dido possesses
neither insight nor a plan of action. She reacts to her inner tension, whereas Hamlet uses
his conflict as a rudder to shape his life.
Though he decides to live, Hamlet actively participates in Ophelia’s demise.
Hamlet’s expression of his tension – his madness – confuses Ophelia, who deteriorates
within her own schism. Ophelia desires only to please others. She treasures Laertes’s
advice regarding Hamlet, saying, “I shall the effect of this good lesson keep / As
watchman to my heart” (I.iii.16), and obeys her father’s advice concerning Hamlet’s
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madness (II.ii.32). Ophelia’s tension lies between her innate desire to please others and
the terrible suffering she feels upon the combined death of her father, absence of her
brother, and madness of Hamlet. Ophelia’s mental deterioration visually manifests itself
when she sings of a lover “dead and gone” (IV.v.87) and of promises made and broken
(IV.v.88), seemingly unaware of anyone around her. Hamlet’s apparent madness triggers
Ophelia’s unconscious fears of abandonment and isolation. Ophelia reacts as Dido did,
overcome by a grief and sorrow made visible only under circumstances Hamlet created.
Though Hamlet’s suicidal thoughts offer insight into his logical mind, such
thoughts may also topple the greatest intellectuals. In Crime and Punishment, Dostoevsky
explores the intersection of detached, rational conclusions with passionate emotions in
the character Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov. He appears as an eerily calm, manipulative,
philosophizing man upon introduction. Svidrigailov speaks callously of Marfa Petrovna’s
death (Dostoevsky 282) and ignores Raskolnikov’s rudeness (288), even appreciates his
candor. Remarkably, Raskolnikov’s failure to abide by common courtesy fails to trouble
Svidrigailov; he ignores pleasantries employed by civilized society in his single-minded
determination to attain his desires. By some means, Svidrigailov places Raskolnikov and
himself in a category separate from society based on their common understanding of the
extraordinary man. Raskolnikov attempts to follow Svidrigailov’s web-like thoughts
through Svidrigailov’s self-professed life as a “depraved and idle person” (291) and his
theory of a grim afterlife in a small room filled with spiders (289).
Despite his theories and calculated manipulation of others, Svidrigailov echoes
Hamlet in recognizing the fear of death. He calls it his “unfortunate weakness,” yet
readily admits his fear and sidesteps conversation surrounding it (471). Acknowledging
fear can indicate that this fear will not overcome him, yet traces of Svidrigailov’s tension
surface during his first conversation with Raskolnikov. Previously, Svidrigailov’s
demeanor did not suggest any dissatisfaction with life save his boredom. Within his
twisted mind, he enjoys meddling in others’ lives, even “inclining [them] toward death”
through a “system of constant punishments and persecutions” (299). Such things occupy
him. Svidrigailov seems immune to the suicidal flashes that crossed lower men’s minds,
preferring to orchestrate their deaths instead. Hamlet and Dido felt the same
obliviousness to suicide – it never entered their minds until a precise time. This
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ambivalence toward death sharply juxtaposes Svidrigailov’s suicide, which arises after a
crucial turning point: Dunya’s final rejection. Only in this moment does Svidrigailov
realize his pitiful insignificance. Though he feels humiliated that he, a rational
intellectual, might fall victim to Dunya’s influence in his life like any other mortal man –
“these thoughts again! It all has to be dropped, dropped …” (505) – he cannot
comprehend a life without even the possibility of Dunya’s affection. Without Dunya’s
love, Svidrigailov’s face twists in a strange “smile of despair” that coincides with a
glance at Dunya’s revolver (495), planting seeds of the same “escape route” Dido and
Hamlet considered. This sudden insight leads to Svidrigailov’s instantaneous decision to
end his life, rooting him on an irreversible path of raw, primal emotion, where intellect
cannot save him. In spite of his intelligence, suicide claims another victim from the
pinnacle of masterminds and philosophers.
Despite his boredom, Svidrigailov certainly had the capacity to live without
Dunya. His money could have financed more perverted plans, but his instinctual human
attachment prodded him to the natural response to rejection: grief and utter confusion. In
the face of adversity, Svidrigailov acted on the extreme end of the spectrum. He did so
despite his fear of death, despite his ponderings that eternity might only hold a tiny room
full of spiders. This act indicates the force of a compulsion rooted in something deeper
than one’s own rational intellect. As Ophelia and Hamlet before him, Svidrigailov’s
sudden regression from logic to irrationality mirrors humankind’s consistent reaction to
inner tension, as well as the consequences of intolerance to such tension. Caught between
his conscious zenith of intelligence and the unconscious discomfort of primitive passions,
Svidrigailov embodies the perfect literary device that relishes the drama of suicide.
Yet readers continue to view suicide as an isolated event in literature, framing the
individual’s plight rather than the cancer of the society. Using suicide as a literary device
reinforces this view of an individual as isolated from a larger system. Furthermore,
authors often halt at the climax of suicide: they delight in the wretched conflict before
death, but retreat after the climax. In this context, one might question the prevalence and
attitude towards suicide in society, which literature mirrors. While authors merely use
suicide as a channel to prove an individual point, the consequences of suicide reveal a
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visceral reality rather than some glorious literary conclusion. One author explores this
aftermath in a horrifying context.
In The Inferno, Dante constructs a life after death, journeying through Hell to
learn from the unfortunate sinners. He creates a special place in Hell for the suicides in
the seventh circle, which houses the Violent Against Self. At first, Dante does not
understand the Wood of the Suicides, filled with those “unjust to [themselves]” (Dante
8.72). Choked with compassion (8.84), he asks Virgil, his guide in the Underworld, to
discover the fate of an unfortunate man on the seventh shelf. The man explains how the
violent souls fall into Hell and sprout as thorny trees. Harpies feed on the trees, “giv[ing]
… pain and pain’s outlet simultaneously” (8.101-102). Here, threads from Jungian
philosophy persist in the physical manifestation of man’s inexpressible pain. Suicide
seems the only readily available answer, yet these men condemn themselves in the
process. On Judgment Day, God will not resurrect the suicides, and instead dooms them
to hang in their “mournful glade … to the end of time” (8.106-107). In this miserable
tale, Dante paints life after suicide as gruesome and excruciatingly painful. He creates an
end beyond the act of suicide – which echoes such finality to the living – and its effects in
the afterlife.
Dante assumes an afterlife does exist, a fair assumption for many people.
Svidrigailov toys with the idea of eternity as well, exclaiming:
“We keep imagining eternity as an idea that cannot be grasped, something vast,
vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, imagine suddenly that there will
be one little room there … covered in soot, with spiders in all the corners, and
that’s the whole of eternity. I sometimes fancy something like that.”
Pained at this perspective, Raskolnikov insists that a more just and comforting life must
exist after death (289). His weak reply echoes the hope many cling to when facing life’s
realities, but its significance deepens in light of Svidrigailov’s death. It echoes across
time and literary genre, exclaiming that while men and women can resort to primitive
passions, they also possess an innate desire to live. Yet again, the fervor and passion for
life violently contrasts the impulsivity with which even wise men dismiss existence. Both
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Hamlet and Svidrigailov touch briefly on the healthy emotion that, in its extreme, leads to
these devastating consequences: fear. Hamlet claims all men fear and dread something
after death (Shakespeare III.i.25), and Svidrigailov verbally acknowledges his fear to
Raskolnikov (Dostoevsky 471). For each, however, simply acknowledging fear solves
nothing. They fail to act on it, instead succumbing to it. Inner tension proves greater than
fear of death, and thus even wise men fall.
While ideas concerning the specifics of this afterlife may vary, literature reveals
that humanity repeatedly ponders life and death in great detail. Dante’s creation of the
Wood of the Suicides emphasizes the gravity of this obstacle to humankind. Though this
placement may initially have stemmed from a theological perspective – those who speed
their departure remain damned in Hell – reality constantly reminds humankind of the
prevalence of such discontent and misery that drive some to contemplate or commit
suicide. The unfortunate suicide Dante met in the Wood explained that “it is not just that
a man be given what he throws away” (8.104-105). His words echo a grief and shame
that lie untouched when authors use suicide as a means to further their story. It detracts
from the vice-like grip suicide holds over society.
The prevalence of suicide in literature remains a strong indicator of the state of
human nature and the relationship between man and nature. Suicide contradicts the
rationalism that sought to analyze and deconstruct human emotion into smaller,
understandable units that form the whole. Suicide has become common in literature and
life, capitalizing a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Some Jungian
psychoanalysts view those who commit suicide as literalizing their pain, “killing” the part
of themselves they wish to excise. This schism between unconscious desires for freedom
and unity as well as logic and rationality constitute a lack of wholeness of being. The
depth of this pervasive element remains knotted in ways that should prevent others from
compartmentalizing suicide or using it to prove a literary point. Mankind struggles with
the fact that this “temporary problem” manifests itself in many different ways. The fact
that many great authors (who publish works about such inner conflicts) have committed
suicide again confirms the universality of the factors that prompt suicide and its
precursory companions. Jung’s philosophies surrounding inner tension suggest that
humankind cannot evolve unless it understands the proper direction to take, which will
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occur with the identification of the problem. Nor will humankind see the problem until
perceptions of suicide shift to include a holistic viewpoint of this ubiquitous conflict.
Works Cited
Alighieri, Dante. The Inferno. Trans. John Ciardi. New York: Signet Classic, 1954, 1982.
Print.
"Carl Jung." 2013. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Jung>.
Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. Trans. Richard Pevear, Larissa
Volokhonsky. New York: Random House, Inc., 1993. Print.
Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1992. Print.
Virgil. Aeneid. Trans. Stanley Lombardo. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company,
Inc., 2005. Print.