Antigone Vocabulary

CHORUS:8 Glory!—great beam of the sun, brightest of all that ever rose on the seven gates of Thebes, you burn through night at last!

If she is to bury the body (and she speaks of "lifting" it), Antigone obviously needs Ismene's help; without it all she can do is perform a symbolic ritual—sprinkling the corpse with dust and pouring libations.

If she is to bury the body (and she speaks of "lifting" it), Antigone obviously needs Ismene's help; without it all she can do is perform a symbolic ritual—sprinkling the corpse with dust and pouring libations.

SENTRY: My lord, I can't say I'm winded from running, or set out with any spring in my legs either—no sir, 250 I was lost in thought, and it made me stop, often, dead in my tracks, wheeling, turning back, 10 and all the time a voice inside me muttering, "Idiot, why? You're going straight to your death."

CREON: We'll soon know, better than seers could tell us.

No, he must be left unburied, his corpse carrion for the birds and dogs to tear, 230 an obscenity for the citizens to behold!

CHORUS: Not crowned with glory28 or with a dirge, you leave for the deep pit of the dead.

Not from those offerings ... over the embers slid a heavy ooze from the long thighbones, 1115 smoking, sputtering out, and the bladder puffed and burst—spraying gall into the air— and the fat wrapping the bones slithered off and left them glistening white.

Just think, 1015 my reverence only brands me for irreverence!

Lucky tyrants—the perquisites of power!

155 Seven captains marshaled at seven gates seven against their equals, gave their brazen trophies up to Zeus, god of the breaking rout of battle, all but two: those blood brothers, 160 one father, one mother—matched in rage, spears matched for the twin conquest--, clashed and won the common prize of death.

Never without resources never an impasse as he marches on the future— only Death, from Death alone he will find no rescue but from desperate plagues he has plotted his escapes.

CREON: I will take her down some wild, desolate path 870 never trod by men, and wall her up alive in a rocky vault, and set out short rations, 32 just the measure piety demands24 to keep the entire city free of defilement.

Here imprisonment, the connection with Antigone, is overshadowed by the ominous resemblances to Creon: he is the one who uses force against a woman, against the gods of the underworld; his is the angry, taunting voice, the frenzied rage.

The hero who came to burn their temples ringed with pillars, their golden treasures—scorch their hallowed earth and fling their laws to the winds.

You, you're senile, must you be insane?

And so, mulling it over, on I trudged, dragging my feet, you can make a short road take forever ... but at last, look, common sense won out, 260 I'm here, and I'm all yours, and even though I come empty-handed I'll tell my story just the same, because I've come with a good grip on one hope, what will come will come, whatever fate—- 265 CREON: Come to the point!

CREON: Yes you did— what's more, you squandered your life for silver!

Tiresias turns to the other method of divination, but the fire will not blaze up; it is quenched by the 40 As I sat on the ancient seat of augury, in the sanctuary where every bird I know will hover at my hands—suddenly I heard it, 1105 a strange voice in the wingbeats, unintelligible, barbaric, a mad scream!

385 And the blithe, lightheaded race of birds he snares, the tribes of savage beasts, the life that swarms the depths— with one fling of his nets woven and coiled tight, he takes them all, man the skilled, the brilliant!

Oh god, the misery, anguish— I, I'm churning with it, going under.

Why, you degenerate — bandying accusations, threatening me with justice, your own father!

Hasn't Creon graced one with all the rites, disgraced the other?

575 CREON: Then how can you render his enemy such honors, such impieties in his eyes?

He hovered above our roofs, his vast maw gaping closing down around our seven gates, his spears thirsting for the kill but now he's gone, look, 135 before he could glut his jaws with Theban blood or the god of fire put our crown of towers to the torch.

The same when a man is sailing: 800 haul your sheets too taut, never give an inch, you'll capsize, and go the rest of the voyage keel up and the rowing-benches under.

Sister's child or closer in blood than all my family clustered at my altar worshiping Guardian Zeus —she'll never escape, 545 she and her blood sister, the most barbaric death.

Tiresias turns to the other method of divination, but the fire will not blaze up; it is quenched by the 40 As I sat on the ancient seat of augury, in the sanctuary where every bird I know will hover at my hands—suddenly I heard it, 1105 a strange voice in the wingbeats, unintelligible, barbaric, a mad scream!

He hovered above our roofs, his vast maw gaping closing down around our seven gates, his spears thirsting for the kill but now he's gone, look, 135 before he could glut his jaws with Theban blood or the god of fire put our crown of towers to the torch.

Great hatred rises against you— cities in tumult,40 all whose mutilated sons the dogs have graced with burial, or the wild beasts or a wheeling crow that wings the ungodly stench of carrion back to each city, each warrior's hearth and home.

You—we have seen you through the flaring smoky fires, your torches blazing over the twin peaks 1250 where nymphs of the hallowed cave climb onward fired with you. your sacred rage— we have seen you at Castalia's running spring and down from the heights of Nysa crowned with ivy the greening shore rioting vines and grapes 1255 down you come in your storm of wild women ecstatic, mystic cries— Dionysus— down to watch and ward the roads of Thebes!

I will lie with the one I love and loved by him— an outrage sacred to the gods!6

320 Tell me, was it for meritorious service

But the body of Polynices, who died miserably— why, a city-wide proclamation, rumor has it, forbids anyone to bury him, even mourn him.

1050 The yoke tamed him too young Lycurgus flaming in anger king of Edonia, all for his mad taunts Dionysus clamped him down, encased in the chain -mail of rock 1055 and there his rage his terrible flowering rage burst — sobbing, dying away ... at last that madman came to know his god — the power he mocked, the power 1060 he taunted in all his frenzy trying to stamp out the women strong with the god — the torch, the raving sacred cries — enraging the Muses who adore the flute.

CREON: And still you had the gall to break this law?

5 ISMENE: Oh Antigone, you're so rash—I'm so afraid for you!

Ruthless power to do and say whatever pleases them.

ANTIGONE: You're right— 620 if I mock you, I get no pleasure from it, only pain.

Nothing worse 335 in our lives, so current, rampant, so corrupting.

Great eye of the golden day, 120 mounting the Dirce's banks you throw him back— the enemy out of Argos, the white shield, the man of bronze— he's flying headlong now the bridle of fate stampeding him with pain!

The hopes expressed in the song are quickly belied by the tragic events announced by the messenger; a similar ironic sequence is to be found in Oedipus the King (1195- 1310).

I and my better judgment have come round to this—I shackled her, 1235 I'll set her free myself.

I, the last of them all, the most reviled by far, go down before my destined time's run out.

33 The Greek word translated "stranger's rights," metoikias, had a precise technical sense in Athens; it described the status of a resident alien who was not a full citizen.

You've seen trees by a raging winter torrent, how many sway with the flood and salvage every twig, but not the stubborn—they're ripped out, roots and all.

You— I swear to Zeus as I still believe in Zeus, 345 if you don't find the man who buried that corpse, the very man, and produce him before my eyes, simple death won't be enough for you, not till we string you up alive and wring the immorality out of you.

110 But leave me to my own absurdity, leave me to suffer this—dreadful thing.

No limit, you make them adept at every kind of outrage, 340 every godless crime—money!

1065 And far north where the Black Rocks cut the sea in half and murderous straits split the coast of Thrace a forbidding city stands 1070 where once, hard by the walls the savage Ares thrilled to watch a king's new queen, a Fury rearing in rage against his two royal sons — her bloody hands, her dagger -shuttle 1075 stabbing out their eyes —cursed, blinding wounds — their eyes blind sockets screaming for revenge!

...mounting tide driven on by savage northern gales, surging over the dead black depths roiling up from the bottom dark heaves of sand and the headlands, taking the storm's onslaught full-force, 665 roar, and the low moaning echoes on and on and now as in ancient times I see the sorrows of the house, the living heirs of the...

Not from those offerings ... over the embers slid a heavy ooze from the long thighbones, 1115 smoking, sputtering out, and the bladder puffed and burst—spraying gall into the air— and the fat wrapping the bones slithered off and left them glistening white.

CREON: You— in my own house, you viper, slinking undetected, sucking my life-blood!

Great hatred rises against you— cities in tumult,40 all whose mutilated sons the dogs have graced with burial, or the wild beasts or a wheeling crow that wings the ungodly stench of carrion back to each city, each warrior's hearth and home.

...one of us heard a voice, a long wail rising, echoing 1330 out of that unhallowed wedding-chamber, he ran to alert the master and Creon pressed on, closer—the strange, inscrutable cry came sharper, throbbing around him now, and he let loose a cry of his own, enough to wrench the heart, 1335 "Oh god, am I the prophet now?...

We know of no parallels to Creon's sentence, except the similar punishment inflicted in Rome on Vestal Virgins who broke their vows of chastity.

He watched them coming on in a rising flood, the pride of their golden armor ringing shrill— and brandishing his lightning blasted the fighter just at the goal, 145 rushing to shout his triumph from our walls.

But the body of Polynices, who died miserably— why, a city-wide proclamation, rumor has it, forbids anyone to bury him, even mourn him.

Wretched, child of a wretched father, 420 Oedipus.

And he had driven against our borders, 125 launched by the warring claims of Polynices— like an eagle screaming, winging havoc over the land, wings of armor shielded white as snow, a huge army massing, 130 crested helmets bristling for assault.

Love!— you wrench the minds of the righteous into outrage, swerve them to their ruin—you have ignited this, this kindred strife,26 father and son at war and Love alone the victor— 890 warm glance of the bride triumphant, burning with desire!

A born nuisance— SENTRY: Maybe so, but I never did this thing, so help me!

ISMENE: Oh my sister, think— 60 think how our own father died, hated, his reputation in ruins, driven on by the crimes he brought to light himself to gouge out his eyes with his own hands— then mother ... his mother and wife, both in one, 65 mutilating her life in the twisted noose— and last, our two brothers dead in a single day, both shedding their own blood, poor suffering boys, battling out their common destiny hand-to-hand.

270 CREON: You're playing it safe, soldier, barricading yourself from any trouble.

You'll never escape their burning, searing force.

Just so, when she sees the corpse bare she bursts into a long, shattering wail 475 and calls down withering curses on the heads of all who did the work.

Such, I hear, is the martial law our good Creon

He hovered above our roofs, his vast maw gaping closing down around our seven gates, his spears thirsting for the kill but now he's gone, look, 135 before he could glut his jaws with Theban blood or the god of fire put our crown of towers to the torch.

The hero who came to burn their temples ringed with pillars, their golden treasures—scorch their hallowed earth and fling their laws to the winds.

Glorious in the morning, joy in her eyes to meet our joy 165 she is winging down to Thebes, our fleets of chariots wheeling in her wake— Now let us win oblivion from the wars, thronging the temples of the gods in singing, dancing choirs through the night!

Anarchy— show me a greater crime in all the earth!

Why, you degenerate — bandying accusations, threatening me with justice, your own father!

Just at sunup 285 the first watch of the day points it out— it was a wonder!

No birds cry out an omen clear and true— they're gorged with the murdered victim's blood and fat.

He watched them coming on in a rising flood, the pride of their golden armor ringing shrill— and brandishing his lightning blasted the fighter just at the goal, 145 rushing to shout his triumph from our walls.

CHORUS:25 Love, never conquered in battle Love the plunderer laying waste the rich!

And a moment ago, blazing torch in hand— mad for attack, ecstatic he breathed his rage, the storm 150 of his fury hurling at our heads!

No birds cry out an omen clear and true— they're gorged with the murdered victim's blood and fat.

The man in the street, you know, dreads your glance, he'd never say anything displeasing to your face.

1210 So he can vent his rage on younger men, and learn to keep a gentler tongue in his head and better sense than what he carries now.

...foundations the ruin will never cease, cresting on and on from one generation on throughout the race— 660 like a great mounting tide driven on by savage northern gales, surging over the dead black depths roiling up from the bottom dark heaves of sand and the headlands, taking the storm's onslaught full-force, 665 roar, and the low moaning echoes...

Glorious in the morning, joy in her eyes to meet our joy 165 she is winging down to Thebes, our fleets of chariots wheeling in her wake— Now let us win oblivion from the wars, thronging the temples of the gods in singing, dancing choirs through the night!

ANTIGONE: Look at me, men of my fatherland, 900 setting out on the last road looking into the last light of day the last I will ever see ... the god of death who puts us all to bed takes me down to the banks of Acheron alive— 905 denied my part in the wedding-songs, no wedding-song in the dusk has crowned my marriage— I go to wed the lord of the dark waters.

1320 And saying a prayer to Hecate of the Crossroads,42 Pluto too, to hold their anger and be kind, we washed the dead in a bath of holy water and plucking some fresh branches, gathering . . . what was left of him, we burned them all together 1325 and raised a high mound of native earth, and then We turned and made for that rocky vault of hers, the hollow, empty bed of the bride of Death.

Believe me, the stiffest stubborn wills fall the hardest; the toughest iron, tempered strong in the white -hot fire, 530 you'll see it crack and shatter first of all.

1425 MESSENGER: She stabbed herself at the altar, then her eyes went dark, after she'd raised a cry for the noble fate of Megareus, the hero killed in the first assault, then for Haemon, then with her dying breath she called down 1430 torments on your head—you killed her sons.

500 Nor did that justice, dwelling with the gods beneath the earth, ordain such laws for men.

He saved the realm from enemies, 1280 taking power, he alone, the lord of the fatherland, he set us true on course—he flourished like a tree with the noble line of sons he bred and reared ... and now it's lost, all gone.

And you, you springs of the Dirce, 935 holy grove of Thebes where the chariots gather, you at least, you'll bear me witness, look, unmourned by friends and forced by such crude laws I go to my rockbound prison, strange new tomb— always a stranger, O dear god, 940 I have no home on earth and none below, not with the living, not with the breathless dead.

Creon shows the world that of all the ills afflicting men the worst is lack of judgment.

So far, clearly, they have been meditating on the fate of Antigone, but their reflections proceed along a line which does not seem relevant to her case.

We know of no parallels to Creon's sentence, except the similar punishment inflicted in Rome on Vestal Virgins who broke their vows of chastity.

And now he leads me off, a captive in his hands, with no part in the bridal-song, the bridal-bed, denied all joy of marriage, raising children— 1010 deserted so by loved ones, struck by fate, I descend alive to the caverns of the dead.

Trouble, clearly ... you sound so dark, so grim.

Remember we are women, we're not born to contend with men.

Sophocles does not tell us how or when this happened, but we probably are meant to imagine that 48 strangled in her veils—and the boy, his arms flung around her waist, clinging to her, wailing for his bride, 1350 dead and down below, for his father's crimes and the bed of his marriage blighted by misfortune.

The chariot of the sun will not race through so many circuits more, before you have surrendered one born of your own loins, your own flesh and blood, a corpse for corpses given in return, since you have thrust 1185 to the world below a child sprung for the world above, ruthlessly lodged a living soul within the grave— then you've robbed the gods below the earth, keeping a dead body here in the bright air, unburied, unsung, unhallowed by the rites.

360 SENTRY: The culprit grates on your feelings, I just annoy your ears.

But it's for me to catch the murmurs in the dark, 775 the way the city mourns for this young girl.

You—we have seen you through the flaring smoky fires, your torches blazing over the twin peaks 1250 where nymphs of the hallowed cave climb onward fired with you. your sacred rage— we have seen you at Castalia's running spring and down from the heights of Nysa crowned with ivy the greening shore rioting vines and grapes 1255 down you come in your storm of wild women ecstatic, mystic cries— Dionysus— down to watch and ward the roads of Thebes!