In discussing Derrida's view of Western literature, Geoffrey Hartman writes that "Western tradition has been marked . . . by a metaphysics of light, by the violence of light itself, from Apollonian cults to Cartesian philosophies."

In discussing Derrida's view of Western literature, Geoffrey Hartman writes that "Western tradition has been marked . . . by a metaphysics of light, by the violence of light itself, from Apollonian cults to Cartesian philosophies. In the light of this emphatic light everything else appears obscure; especially the Hebraic development of aniconic writing and self-effacing commentary of textuality" (xix). This point is well illustrated by the nature of Prospero's power in The Tempest for his control of natural and supernatural forces is achieved through book-learning the bringing to life of Logos. That which Prospero does not control completely is the vilified character of Caliban. The denigrated and unwilling servant seems to represent Prospero's shadow, and in light of the above statement, perhaps Caliban represents the shadow of our light-infused Greco-Roman style of domination of the material world. The text tells us that when Prospero first arrives on the island Caliban willingly reveals its secrets to him. Only when Caliban threatens the chastity of Prospero's daughter, Miranda, does the relationship turn into one of master and slave. Prospero thus draws the line between the shadow realm and purity. His action suggests that sexuality, too, must be kept in a role of servitude if one is to retain control of one's kingdom. In affirming this schism, Prospero simply enforces the dualistic nature of the Western tradition. In heaping scorn upon Caliban, Prospero embodies the West's extreme dualistic nature vis-a-vis its perceived schisms existent between light and dark, mortal and immortal, good and evil.

Caliban's transgression is thus never effaced and brings the diametrically opposed forces of the light of consciousness and darkness of the shadow into sharp dramatic relief. Although the text suggests that Prospero is aware of what he needs to integrate when he states "That this thing of darkness is mine," it is simply an implied movement towards assuming responsibility for all he has done to cause his shadow to fester a true integration does not occur (V, i, 275-76). Certainly the thrust of the Prospero/Caliban relationship connotes that the Greek "metaphysics of light" can succeed only by dominating darkness; it does not successfully integrate it. Perhaps Hartman's comments regarding the healing power of the word may shed some light on the West's apparent incapacity to integrate the shadow. It may also provide a clue as to how a healing relationship with the word can be achieved by transcending the dualism inherent to our Western culture.

Hartman points out the fact "that words can wound is a much clearer fact than their healing virtue" (122). His perspective lends itself nicely to the medium of theater where the text's words are spoken aloud and thus may affect the member of an audience to a greater degree than the same words would affect a reader of the text. Lending credibility to this argument, Hartman describes the word and the organ which perceives it:

Let me suppose, then, that words are always armed and capable of wounding; either because, expecting so much of them, looking to them as potentially definitive or clarifying, we are hurt by their equivocal nature; or because the ear, as a psychic organ, is at least as vulnerable as the eye. (123)

Hartman's argument is strengthened by the medium of theater to the extent that it offers the word the opportunity to act as a vehicle of resurrection for that which Derrida calls the gap existent between speech and phenomenality. Derrida states that writing undoes the location of meaning. Hartman counters with the notion that words may redress the wounds they inflict.

A member of the audience of The Tempest cannot help but notice the gap inherent in Prospero's verbal treatment of Caliban in the face of the knowledge that they were once allies:

Abhorr'd slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other. When thou didst not, savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes
With words that made them known, But thy vile race
Though thou didst learn had that in't which good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confined into this rock,
Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
(I, v, 352-62)

Here, Prospero links his teaching of Caliban to speak with the projected vehemence reserved for addressing one's shadow. One cannot but wonder if Caliban would be better off without the ability to understand these words designed to wound him to the core. Caliban replies with:

You taught me language, and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!
(I, v, 363-65)

Language, then, assumes its full vitriolic nature in this exchange between Prospero and Caliban. The Tempest also contains many instances where words are uttered from an individual source such as Prospero or Ariel, with the explicit intention of coaxing the natural order into performing specific tasks for the furthering of their own intentions. Language is used manipulatively:

And when I have required
Some heavenly music which even now I do
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book
(V, 1, 51-57)

Here, Prospero seems to fulfill a previously unspoken bargain with the very forces of nature he has learned to manipulate to his own ends. Implicit in his promise to relinquish his staff—his Logos-based magical control over nature—is the unspoken understanding that such verbal employment of the Logos is by necessity a temporary arrangement. Perhaps Prospero's aggressiveness towards the shipwrecked company, Ariel, Ferdinand, Miranda and especially Caliban, is his way of showing the extent to which he has personally entered the wound of the word as a result of using it to manipulate nature. As Hartman says, ". . . we have to recognize that hearing a receptive, as overhearing, involuntary act is already within the sphere of hurt. We are in bondage to our ears as to our eyes" (128). Perhaps Prospero's admission during the play's epilogue that "Now my charms are all o'erthrown, /And what strength I have's mine own / Which is most faint" reminds the reader that a certain strength exists in relinquishing control over others with words which wound (Epilogue). Ironically, Prospero's last line likens his freedom with a pardon yet another spoken word!

As you from crimes would pardoned be,
Let your indulgence set me free.
(Epilogue)

Copyright 1996 Mark Greene. All rights reserved.

Works Cited

Hartman, Geoffrey H. Saving the Text: Literature/Derrida/Philosophy. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1981.

Shakespeare, William. The Tempest. Ed. Rex Gibson. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1995.

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