The Tragic Liberation — Orestes of the Flies

Abstract

“This emptiness, the shimmering air, that fierce sun overhead” — the great noon, the confluent climax of Promethean fires. Is it an end, a closure in the noon of death, this “sultry, windless noon, in which nothing stirs, nothing changes, nothing lives?” The stillness of choice becomes a time to end, to end a road, a vision, a faith; but not to end time. The night will fold down again, the night of despair, of fear, of violence. And after that, a new dawn will rise from twilight, the twilight — perhaps — for the gods, the dawn — perhaps — for new tragic striving.