“challenge to the utilitarian mindset so prevalent today.” By this, he means that in
many facets of modern life, from our military interventions to our economic system,
we tend to treat people in a utilitarian fashion, assuming that they exist as objects to
serve our societal ends, and this can have arguably tragic consequences. Despite our
“moral imperative” to view everyone as equally worthy of life, many are still sacri-
ficed—in what Brooks calls “tragic trade offs”—to supply the “greatest good for the
greatest number” of people or to develop the most sophisticated weapons of war. Ex-
ploitation offers a similar lens through which we, like Brooks, might read Le Guin’s
story, particularly when we consider how many U.S. companies outsource labor to
countries with less rigorous labor laws. Readers on the West Coast or in the South
might even reference the current agricultural scene, in which thousands of migrants,
including young children, labor for long hours with little pay and poor living condi-
tions during the harvest and planting seasons—all to maintain consumers’ preferred
In “The Error of Trying to Measure Good and Bad,” academic John Ehrenfeld
critiques David Brooks’s assumption that utilitarianism can be at all rationalized in our
understanding of and perhaps identification with the citizens of Le Guin’s “Omelas.”
Ehrenfeld argues that those who remain in Omelas are indeed “bad,” because they
have traded off these moral categories. Accepting and rationalizing the system does not
then make the system OK. In response to Brooks, Ehrenfeld embraces Kant’s argu-
ment that we should under no circumstances treat human beings as means—only as
ends. He connects this to a duty-based ethics, such as Judaism’s commitment to lov-
ing-kindness.
However, such an approach is a bit complicated when one considers that “ration-
ality” is not universally shared, and its definition not universally agreed upon. If our
conceptions of what the categorical imperative looks like are derived from our own
culture, our experiences, our education, and so on, it is not unthinkable that people in
other parts of the world might have different ways of treating others. Ehrenfeld ignores
the potential complications of assuming a universal ethics, complications with which
those in animal rights and environmental activism, for example, are very familiar.
Ehrenfeld further argues that Brooks has missed the main point of Le Guin’s sto-
ry, which is that people must choose between different categories of ethics. This, he
explains, is not unlike the situation the U.S. finds itself in today; the founding fathers’
attention to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness reflects just such a juxtaposition
of ethical categories, one that we tend to ignore. In making “bad” another value to be
A DOOR TO FREEDOM: CULTURAL CONTEXTS FOR A PLAY (p. 751)
HENRIK IBSEN
A Doll House (p. 752)
It’s been said that when Nora Helmer first slammed the door on her marriage in the
final scene of Henrik Ibsen’s 1879 play A Doll House, the windows shook in houses all
over Europe. Ibsen’s first audiences were shocked that Nora chooses to leave a loving,
indulgent husband for what they saw as a difficult and shameful future. The husband’s
language and behavior, which seem so patronizing and demeaning to current readers,
were seen as appropriate and even admirable, and Nora’s desertion of her children
seemed the most unnatural action a woman could take. In some countries, the ending
was changed: Nora turns back and stays for the sake of the children. We need to ex-
plain to our students or have them do research on divorce in the nineteenth century so
that they will realize that Torvald Helmer has complete power over the lives and wel-
fare of the children, just as he legally has control over Nora herself. Nora has only the
maternal rights he allows her. The first thought of present-day readers, that she should
take the children with her to ensure that they will not repeat the mistakes of their par-
ents’ faulty relationship, is anachronistic. This is not a choice that Nora can make.
What happens to Nora after the door closes behind her often dominates class
discussions. Does she change her mind and return as soon as she realizes how hard
life will be for her? Is Torvald capable of changing, as his words at the end of the play
seem to indicate? What does happen to those children? The question of what happens
after the door slams is so common in literature classes that the British comedy series
cannot emphasize strongly enough that Torvald Helmer lives exactly as his culture
told him he should. Students may know men today who live by a rigid code of honor
and who control their families like tyrants, and they may in fact recognize their fathers
in Torvald. Objections that the childish, manipulative woman stereotype is specific to
the Victorian era can be forestalled by juxtaposing almost any 1950s episode of I Love
Lucy with the scenes of Nora hiding macaroons and elaborately manipulating to hide
her financial misdeeds. Lucy Ricardo is cute and dumb, always hiding things and
disobeying her husband’s rules; Ricky is indulgent and controlling, easily angered,
concerned about what others might think. Nor should we assume that the childish
role of the wife has disappeared. This writer knows of two young working mothers who
have agreed to retrieve mail for each other so that their husbands do not see the credit-
AUGUST STRINDBERG
Woman in a Doll’s House (p. 806)
August Strindberg’s “Woman in a Doll’s House” is representative of some critical re-
sponses to Henrik Ibsen’s play, in that he finds Nora’s character something less than
ideal. It’s been argued that Strindberg was a bit misogynistic in his treatment of wom-
en, and some of that tendency comes out in this critique. He notes early on, for exam-
ple, that Nora has been taken up as a role model by all “depraved cultured women.”
Although it’s not a stretch to see Nora as multifaceted—she is not necessarily an obvi-
ous heroine—Strindberg begins his reaction to the play by framing anyone who disa-
grees with him (namely, women) as “depraved.” He later remarks that Torvald trusted
Nora “as a man should trust his wife.” Contemporary readers of the play, however,
At the same time, Strindberg seems unable to recognize the social and economic
structures alluded to in Ibsen’s memorandum that might have set the conditions for
Nora’s desperate act of forgery. Rather, he zeroes in on the scene where she flirts with
the Doctor as evidence of her pernicious character, and in a moment of sarcasm, calls
this scene “idealistic and charming.” For the play’s audience, the interaction between
Nora and the Doctor is no compliment to Nora. Although she wisely does not exploit
his confessed love for her, she comes across as inconstant, at the very least. We might
nevertheless see this exchange as evidence of her limited options. As Nora explains to
her friend early on, she has worked for some time to pay off her debt by taking in
needlework, copying, etc. Though hardly level-headed, she is no stranger to hard
work.
EMMA GOLDMAN
Review of A Doll’s House (p. 810)
Emma Goldman, a radical activist from the early twentieth century, reviewed Henrik
Ibsen’s A Doll’s House in 1914 and found Nora a fascinating and complex character.
She seems most impressed by Nora’s love for her husband, Torvald, and the steps she’s
willing to take to “fight for life.” Goldman paints the play as a narrative of overcoming,
and readers of Goldman’s review might be left with the impression that Torvald truly
did not deserve so steadfast a woman. Indeed, she frames Krogstad, the man who had
intended to blackmail Nora, even more sympathetically than Torvald. Whereas Tor-
vald is seen as a fairly one-dimensional “moralist” and more concerned with what
people think of him than with justice, Krogstad comes across as a fighter similar in
character to Nora. Goldman notes that he seeks to rise above people’s opinions of him
and make a good life for himself and his children. Krogstad even experiences personal
growth over the course of the play, much like Nora, whereas Torvald becomes “a
JOAN TEMPLETON
From The Doll House Backlash: Criticism, Feminism, and
Ibsen (p. 813)
In this except from her article “The Doll House Backlash: Criticism, Feminism, and
Ibsen,” literary scholar Joan Templeton argues that much of the criticism around
Henrik Ibsen’s play functions to make it “a safe classic.” It does so by rendering Nora,
easily the more controversial character, as irrational, immoral, unwomanly, merely
comic, and so on, and thus “inconsequential.” Weigand’s extended quote provides a
key example of this position, for he remarks that Nora’s characterization in the play
gives her a “fundamentally comic appeal.” Although there is a certain silliness to her,
however, it may be difficult for other readers to see Nora’s blackmail and subsequent
revelations about herself and her marriage as merely humorous. As Ibsen’s memoran-
dum notes, women’s roles in society are severely constrained by their position relative
SUSANNA RUSTIN
Why A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen Is More Relevant than
Ever (p. 817)
In her more recent article on Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, critic Susanna Rustin
comments on the three UK productions in theaters and argues that the play is more
relevant now than ever. One of its most radical features, she asserts, is that it “presents
a woman’s dilemma as a human dilemma.” Nora’s quest for self-fulfillment in the
midst of a host of other commitments is relevant to people of both sexes and even
across time. The role of “Nora” is, for some actresses, a career-maker. Ruskin suggests
that the ability to make supposedly female concerns of interest to everyone is no small
feat; we are often drawn to male protagonists, with women typically playing supporting
roles. This doesn’t mean that there are no leading ladies, of course—only that Ibsen’s
play seems to speak to a wide variety of people in ways that not every play can. Ruskin
cites the 80/20 rule as evidence that men often make up a larger part of a cast than
CONFINING SURVEILLANCE: ESSAYS (p. 822)
MICHEL FOUCAULT
Panopticon (p. 822)
The panopticon, originally designed by Jeremy Bentham, is a plan for a prison orga-
nized around a central tower from which all (“pan”) can be seen (“optic” refers to
eyes). In this excerpt from Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, Foucault theo-
rizes the panopticon as a representation of the automatic functioning of power. In
such a system, the prison’s design makes it so that prisoners can be, but aren’t neces-
sarily, watched at all times. The architecture itself demands obedience and a self-
policing, as the prisoners must always assume they are under surveillance. The prison-
ers themselves become the bearers of power because there is no external force. Fou-
cault expands this idea to discuss the manifestation of panoptic surveillance in schools,
JEFFREY TOOBIN
Edward Snowden’s Real Impact (p. 825)
In this 2013 article in The New Yorker, Jeffrey Toobin argues that Edward Snowden’s
whistle-blowing tactics likely did more harm than good. He cites the monetary costs of
revamping the National Security Agency’s surveillance program, the potential security
risks of sharing information with China and Russia, and the possibility that Snowden
has blown the problem out of proportion. In defense of his decision to break the law,
Snowden has argued that we have higher-order obligations above those at the national
level. This suggests that Snowden views the legality of his actions as beside the point
and well worth the cost. Readers might guess that he would likely be unpersuaded by
Toobin’s criticisms. We might ask, however, as Toobin does, whether such higher
order concerns should include protecting the lives of Russian and Chinese political
prisoners. What ends justify what means? To what extent should we sacrifice our liber-
ties for our or others’ safety? Larger issues, then, might include government transpar-
ency, citizens’ privacy, international relations, and our increasing reliance on com-
munication technologies.
PETER LUDLOW
The Banality of Systemic Evil (p. 827)
Peter Ludlow’s “The Banality of Systemic Evil” celebrates whistleblowers like Chelsea
Manning and Edward Snowden, particularly their willingness to question the system
of which they were a part. Ludlow argues that, although people who break laws to re-
veal confidential information may be considered amoral by some critics, their decision
to reject the “system” suggests instead that they are able to recognize the corruption or
immorality the system is designed to hide. Using Hannah Arendt’s notion of the “ba-
SURRENDERING FREEDOM ON PRINCIPLE: ACROSS GENRES (p. 832)
SOPHOCLES
Antigone (p. 832)
In other places in our anthology, students have been exposed to the concept of perso-
na in poetry, used to describe the speaker of a poem who is obviously not the poet.
The term originally referred to the masks worn by the exclusively male actors in Greek
drama to indicate to the audience who they were supposed to be. When a man acted
the part of Antigone, Ismene, or Eurydice, therefore, gesture and voice were all that
were available to him as he sought to suspend the disbelief of his audience. The audi-
ence was called on to imagine it, to be an active participant in reading the human
emotion portrayed. The more we allow ourselves to become involved emotionally in
the drama, the more likely we are to experience catharsis, the “cleansing” that comes
as we work out feelings of pity and fear as we share in the conflicts of the characters in
the play. Catharsis may also involve the intellectual satisfaction we derive from think-
ing critically about the issues raised as the plot comes to its climax and resolution. Is-
sues of cause and effect arise as the characters are thrown into conflicts by the deci-
sions they make in the face of destiny. In Antigone, the moral family obligation to bury
the dead and to cry out in mourning is one of the few public roles allowed to women,
one the Athenian establishment in Sophocles’ home city historically sought to control
and limit. The tension of the play exists between the human laws of government—an
arena of exclusive male dominance—and the emotional imperative of honoring the
death of a loved family member, thus preserving traditions of family and religion—
activities important to women. This reality of Greek life underlies the conflict between
Antigone and her uncle, Creon, who has become king of Thebes on the death of her
Oedipus at Colonus on the Internet and read this as well.
The trilogy is best read in chronological order according to the events that take
place. Oedipus the King presents the plot that sets the later events in motion and
provides an introduction to all of the aspects of Greek tragedy in the classic form that
Aristotle advocated. Oedipus at Colonus develops the story a bit further, taking
Oedipus to Athens, where we see the loving care that his daughters, Antigone and
Ismene, give to the blind, elderly exile. This middle play also introduces the conflict
between the two sons of Oedipus, explaining that Polynices has cemented an alliance
with Argos and that they are going to the seven gates of Thebes to reclaim the city
from Eteocles, the brother who has driven Polynices out. Creon, the brother of
Oedipus’s mother and wife, Jocasta, is still very much in the picture as Eteocles’s
mentor, and he seeks to bring Oedipus back to Thebes so that he can die there.
Polynices also wants the banished Oedipus back. This desire is explained by an oracle
predicting that the results of a battle will be affected by proximity to the tomb of
Oedipus. The old man thwarts this with the help of the gods, entering the underworld
at a secret place revealed only to Theseus, the king of Athens, who must tell only his
successor.
These plays, though each can stand alone as a complete action, provide a rich
context for understanding the characters of Antigone. When Antigone is described
hanging in the tomb in which Creon has buried her alive, with her beloved, Creon’s
son Haemon, clinging to her after stabbing himself, readers cannot help but recall
descriptions of the dead Jocasta, who hanged herself after learning of her incest with
her son Oedipus, and of Oedipus blinding himself by stabbing his eyes with Jocasta’s
brooches. Readers of the earlier plays will recall throughout Antigone the primal sin
that Oedipus has inadvertently committed, bringing additional curses to his progeny,
who are both his children and his siblings. We will remember that Oedipus has cursed
his sons explicitly for their perceived failure to help and honor him. While at
Colonus, he has emphasized that his daughters have thus been forced to care for him
as sons should have done, going out into the world while the young men have stayed
at home. This sets the stage for Antigone’s actions in the play named for her.
religion and tradition.
There may be personal grounds for Antigone’s obsession as well. It is a woman’s
duty to care for family members in death as in infancy. Creon’s action further denies
to her the only public voice and participation in ritual a woman is allowed in ancient
Greece. Women are not citizens, but Creon devalues women even beyond this, telling
his son Haemon that “there are other furrows to plow.” Women are interchangeable,
he implies, and Antigone, Haemon’s betrothed, is less than nothing, even though she
is a king’s daughter. Creon accuses her of hubris, the overreaching pride that brings
the anger of the gods, because she challenges male authority. He sees her as irrational
and insane. But he, too, is arrogant and habitually acts in rash anger rather than taking
the time to reason out his actions.
Scholars debate how Antigone fits the traditional elements of tragedy. How can
Antigone be a tragic hero, because she is a woman? Would the audience have been
moved to pity by her desire to bury her brother, or would they have seen her as a
hateful feminist dangerously out of control? Interested students can look up
descriptions of Greek tragedy and debate the issue of tragic flaws and other qualities of
the hero to determine if Creon fits the role. Some argue for Haemon, who plays a
small but important role, dying for the love of a woman and the shame of his father’s
actions. Students will be reminded of Romeo and Juliet on a grander, more intense
scale.
Haemon’s conflict with his father is warranted by his belief in reason as opposed to
rigidity and unbridled emotion, his respect for the gods, and the importance of
considering the will of the people. He therefore stands between the obsessions of
Antigone and Creon. Like Antigone, he disobeys the ruling authority. Like Oedipus, he
comes close to committing patricide. If Haemon is the hero of the drama, perhaps this
Antigone’s sister, Ismene, comes across to modern audiences as lacking in
courage, though she tries to stand with Antigone by sharing the blame for something
she didn’t do. She comes in for some harsh judgment from her sister, but she is
following the rules and traditions set out for women to follow. She is also aware of the
tragedies the family has already endured, and she shies away from yet another public
shame. Ismene is a good girl. The first audience for this play might have seen her as
more normal than the manic Antigone.
The chorus is the unified voice of the elder statesmen of the city, and its wisdom
varies. When Creon announces that he will not allow Polynices to be buried, the
chorus agrees, going against its better judgment in the face of his power and
determination. This shows the chorus’s imperfection, as does its handling of Eurydice
at the play’s end. The chorus hopes that she will retire to her quarters to work out her
feelings in private, and it watches her go, even though it partially suspects that she will
harm herself. Often, however, it interprets events for the audience, mixing its reading
of the current situation with philosophy. It tells us about the nature of mankind, the
gods, and fate. It recalls historical events and genealogy. Students who have read
William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” (p. 526) may see in the first-person-plural
perspective echoes of the Greek chorus, interpreting events surrounding Miss Emily as
normal citizens would have explained those surrounding the royal personages of
Greek tragedy. We might also remember that Faulkner’s story involved an unburied
body, with the heroine taking a stand quite different from Antigone’s.
Most viewers of Sophocles’ tragedy prefer the Greek tradition of keeping the actual
violence offstage. Creon entering with his son in his arms is a moving scene, evoking our
pity more strongly because we only hear the telling of the events that lead up to it. We
do not need to see the struggle between father and son to feel the agony of a man whose
father has killed the woman he loves, nor do we need to see Eurydice slashing herself in
grief to recognize the suffering of a mother who has lost a son. Students may disagree,
having observed realistic violence in films, on television, and in video games. The Greek
audience had probably seen more death than most modern Westerners do. But we have
The responses of modern audiences to Antigone will also differ, depending on
their personal contexts. A mayor of a city, like Creon, would have to weigh the
consequences of backing down once a stand has been taken. Creon does not want to
appear to be a weak leader, so he stays firm. Although the reaction of the populace to
his treatment of Antigone indicates that he may have been applauded if he had given
his nephew Polynices a proper burial, their reaction had they not been struck by her
pathos might have been critical. The crowd is often fickle. For Creon to admit that he
has been wrong to leave the body of his nephew on the battlefield would be to expose
himself as fallible and would allow people to question his authority. When he is finally
convinced by Tiresias to do the right thing, it is too late, an experience many
analytical people know well. A mayor might relate to Creon’s dilemma, realizing that
it is important to show leadership and stand by decisions. But a martyr would also
death and precludes any chance she has of marrying Haemon and having children,
she does effect change, because the people of the city see her actions to be right and
Creon’s treatment of her to be unjust.
By allowing her this victory, Sophocles shows Antigone to be a rebel fighting
against injustice. No middle ground seems available to her because of Creon’s rigidity.
Yet her sister Ismene contends that Antigone is a firebrand even before she goes head
to head with Creon, and she seems to seek a confrontation with her uncle even as
Ismene counsels moderation.
Although Ismene is willing to die with her sister when her crime is revealed,
Antigone will not allow her to share responsibility for her actions in giving their
brother a proper burial. Ismene wishes to share blame, but Antigone interprets the
situation as one of triumph and will not share it. Feminists often disagree on how
militant their actions should be and on how much moderation can be used before
falling into submission and settling for second-class citizenship. Rebels might applaud
T. CORAGHESSAN BOYLE
Balto (p. 865)
In T. Coraghessan Boyle’s “Balto,” named for the story of the fearless Siberian husky
who battled terrible conditions to save numerous lives, we meet thirteen-year-old
Angelle, who is being prepped as a witness for her father’s trial, and her father, who
While we learn quite a bit about Angelle’s perspective, her father, Alan, also
receives a fair amount of Boyle’s attention. Readers might or might not find him a
sympathetic character; he seems in many ways like a formerly good father who has
since gone astray. But his decisions are clearly bad ones, and it wouldn’t be
challenging to come up with a range of alternatives beyond driving while intoxicated
than asking his thirteen-year-old to take over behind the wheel. He might, for
example, have phoned a friend or neighbor to pick up the girls.
The story’s title is an interesting choice for a number of reasons. Angelle
associates Balto with fond memories of her father reading to her and clearly admires
the brave sled dog. Her testimony is, in many ways, an act of bravery. While Balto was
the lead sled dog, keeping his team on track in treacherous conditions, Angelle too
embraces the responsibility of having been the doomed vehicle’s operator, the person
carrying the responsibility. While she does not seem explicitly motivated by a sense of
right and wrong, her choice nevertheless bespeaks a sense of self-responsibility here
that her father arguably lacks.
Indeed, Angelle’s motivation for telling the truth is complex, particularly given
her dislike for her father (and the woman with whom he is having a relationship).
Angelle quite rightly perceives her father’s attorney as talking down to her, and readers
will likely recognize these growing pains as part of her figuring out what it means to
begin transitioning out of childhood. Her father risks losing custody of Angelle and her
sister when the truth comes out, but she is honest nonetheless. Readers might see this
as her embracing responsibility. At the same time, it could be read as a selfish move to
punish her father. Or perhaps it is a bit of both? Given the first line of the final