The Hog's Head » Voldemort

Immortality: On the Way?

revgeorge — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 01:48:11 +0000

Saw an interesting article from The Telegraph in the UK the other day wherein a scientist postulates that in about twenty years human beings could become immortal. This would come about through accelerating technology such as nanotechnology and a better understanding of how the human body works.

What do you think? In Harry Potter we discuss the desire of Voldemort to overcome and conquer death while the true master of death, Harry, realizes that death can’t be avoided. We’ve been discussing vampires this week on the site, and there is certainly undertones of human mortality and immortality going on in the vampire mythos.

Mull over the article and feel free to share your thoughts on the subject.

Is Voldemort Undead? or How to Lick a Lich

korg20000bc — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 12:51:00 +0000

After some recent discussion I thought that I’d post about something that I’ve been thinking about since the end of Chamber of Secrets i.e. that Voldemort is a Lich- a powerful wizard or magician who keeps themselves from destruction by hiding their soul in powerful magic items- though they must die to achieve this.

The word lich (lych) is Old English for corpse and is a good visual description of the Lich. It also points to the undead nature of the creature.

I first encountered liches in the Dungeons and Dragons game but, upon reflection, I realised that it is quite common in many fantasy milieu. Tolkien certainly uses the idea in numerous ways. Sauron embeds much of his power and essence into the ruling Ring and he cannot be destroyed while the Ring remains. Similarly, the Nazgul cannot be destroyed while the Ring exists. Their physical forms could be destroyed, as they were at the ford at Rivendell, but their quaking ghosts returned to their master to gain new forms. Also, Bombadil tells Frodo that the magic that sustains a barrow wight could only be destroyed if the the barrow was broken and the treasure therein dispersed among anyone who wanted it.

H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith and Robert E Howard (all friends and correspondents)all use the idea at times. Howard’s Thulsa Doom is an immortal/undead sorcorer with a skull head, different from the Conan the Barbarian movie villian. The movie Thulsa is apparently immortal, has a similar penchant for snakes that Voldemort has, but is ultimately slain by Conan. The book/comic Thulsa Doom pops up numerous times even after having been, apparently, slain. Lovecraft’s – The Thing on the Doorstep explores the idea of powerful wizard remaining deathless through the use of arcane magics, as do some of Smith’s stories. Lovecraft also uses this idea to a degree in The Whisperer in Darkness where a man’s soul/mind is kept alive in a steel cannister; somehow removed from his dismembered body by alien arts, to voyage to other worlds.

The idea of a lich is present in Russian folklore in the form Koschei the Deathless- a powerful evil wizard who, according to the wiki entry:

cannot be killed by conventional means targeting his body. His soul is hidden separate from his body inside a needle, which is in an egg, which is in a duck, which is in a hare, which is in an iron chest(sometimes the chest is crystal and/or gold), which is buried under a green oak tree, which is on the island of Buyan, in the ocean. As long as his soul is safe, he cannot die. If the chest is dug up and opened, the hare will bolt away. If it is killed, the duck will emerge and try to fly off. Anyone possessing the egg has Koschei in their power. He begins to weaken, becomes sick and immediately loses the use of his magic. If the egg is tossed about, he likewise is flung around against his will. If the egg is broken (in some tales this must be done by specifically breaking it against Koschei’s forehead), Koschei will die.

The story of Koschei and how he has hidden his soul is full of alchemical imagry. Just consider the elements and symbols represented by the egg, hare, duck, iron chest, oak tree, under the earth, island and ocean/water.

In Fantasy literature the item in which a lich hides his soul is called a phylactery. This is completely analogous to the term Horcrux and fulfills the same purpose. It may be an echo of the ancient Egyptian use of canopic jars to hold the viscera of their mummified owner for the afterlife.

I’ve been looking at my Advanced Dungeons & Dragons 2nd Ed. Monstrous Manual (1993) and noting many similarities Rowling’s Voldemort has with a lich. The entry on Lich defines the creature as undead (is Voldmort undead?), of supra-genius intelligence and can only be damaged by magic or magical weapons.

The lich is, perhaps, the most powerful form of undead known to exist. They seek to further their own power at all costs…

They were originally powerful wizards.

A lich is able to employ spells just as it did in life. It still requires the use of its spell books, magical componants and similar objects. It is important to note that liches have had a great deal of time to research and create new magical spells and objects. Thus, adventurers should be prepared to face magic the likes of which they have never seen before when stalking a lich.

Defeating a lich in combat is difficult indeed, but actually managing to destroy the creature is harder still. In all cases, a lich will protect itself from annihilation with the creation of a phylactory in which to store its life force. In order to ensure the final destruction of a lich, its body must be wholly annihilated and its phylactory must be sought out and destroyed in some manner. Since the lich will always take great care to see to it that its phylactory is well hidden and protected this can be an undertaking fully as daunting as the defeat of the lich in its physical form (think Dumbledore’s and Harry’s horcrux hunt and destruction).

A lich will make its home in some ominous fortified area, often a strong keep or vast subterranean crypt (big tick on Voldemort’s desire for Hogwarts).

…a lich will depend on its magical powers to accomplish its goals. If this is not sufficient, however, the lich is quite capable of animating a force of undead troops to act on its behalf (inferi!).

The creature has no interest in good and evil… the creature will do whatever it must to further its own causes.

A lich can exist for centuries without change. Its will drives it onwards to master new magics and harness mystical powers not available to it in its previous life. Few liches call themselves by their old names when the years have drained the last vestiges of their humanity from them. Instead they often adopt pseudonyms like “the Black Hand” or “the Forgotten King.” (I Am Lord Voldemort) Learning the true name of a lich is rumored to confer power over the creature.

In order to become a lich, the wizard must prepare its phylactory. The phylactory, which can almost be any manner of object, must be of the finest craftsmanship and materials… Once this object is created, the would be lich must craft a potion of extreme toxicity… the potion is imbibed. Rather than death, the potion causes the wizard to undergo a transformation into its new state. (Horcrux creation requires a murder, in this case its self-murder)

There you go. If you ever run up against one make sure he reveals the whereabouts of his phylactory just before he delivers you a coup de grace. Then get yourself rescued or have the lich distracted before the blow lands. Telling one that their cod piece is untied always works. Then get medieval on his rump.

I hope you might have been at least mildly interested in the above. It was to me and I always enjoy leafing through my Monstrous Manual. Beauty really is in the eye of a Beholder!

Chapter One: The Dark Lord Ascending

Travis Prinzi — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 22:00:04 +0000

The first thing that struck me that I hadn’t noticed before was Voldemort’s response to Snape’s information about Harry’s departure from Privet Drive:

“Saturday … at nightfall,” repeated Voldemort. His red eyes fastened upon Snape’s black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape, however, looked calmly back into Voldemort’s face and, after a moment or two, Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into something like a smile.

The eyes fastening, the others looking away, and Snape’s calm response all suggest that Voldemort is in the habit of regularly performing Legilimency on every one of his Death Eaters, every time they bring him information. This says a few things to me: (1) Snape was a tremendous Occlumens; (2) Snape was in incredible danger every moment he returned to Voldemort; (3) Dumbledore was right not to divulge his entire plan to Severus.

The last of those three claims will be the most controversial, but the first two are important, however obvious. We’ve discussed a bit how much Snape’s identity – double agent, needing to fool a very skilled Legilimens – affects his need to maintain a harsh and cruel demeanor. This verifies that Snape was in danger, every moment he reported to Voldemort, of being “found out.” Snape, his most trusted Death Eater, was still examined every single time.

The second issue of importance in this chapter is the Malfoy foreshadowing. The Malfoys have been thoroughly rattled, and are not the arrogant practitioners of the Dark Arts that we met in earlier books. Allegiance to Voldemort did not work out so well for them. I’ve written elsewhere of Dumbledore’s strategy, rooted in his belief in the power of love, to “save the Malfoys” and in turn, save the world. The shaken Malfoys in this scene will become instrumental to Harry’s survival and victory at book’s end.

Finally, we have the death of Charity Burbage. I recall on first reading this that learning the prisoner’s identity was a bit anti-climactic, given the build-up of the mystery earlier in the chapter. But symbolically, it all works very well. Voldemort spews his racist message, and then, quite literally, kills “Love.” The cries for help from Snape are a foreshadowing of the exchange we’ll later learn he had with Dumbledore just a few weeks prior – that he’s only watched the deaths of those he could not save.

The White Tomb

Dave the Longwinded — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:30:43 +0000

Half-Blood Prince’s final chapter opens with a favorite device of Ernest Hemingway, the simple declarative sentence:

“All lessons were suspended, all examinations postponed.”

It really is one of Rowling’s finer moments as a writer, poignant and rich with subtlety. In this one statement, she wipes away all the carefree wonderment of childhood with pointed irony. Hogwarts shifts in symbolism from a place of comfort and safety where the worst worry was two parchments on werewolves for horrible Professor Snape, to a place in which parents are spiriting their children away as fast as possible because Snape has murdered the headmaster.

We see the Centaurs and Merfolk gather and pay their respects in ways I believe would have left Dumbledore deeply honored. His entombment is rich with symbolism, as Harry thinks “for one heart-stopping moment, that he [sees] a phoenix fly joyfully ino the blue.” Yet, the “next second the fire had vanished,” and a brilliant “white marble tomb” sits in its place.

In Dumbledore’s death, Voldemort has seemingly gained a devastating victory. Harry and Hogwarts no longer have their protector. The last bastion of paradise is now vulnerable — very vulnerable. Hogwarts has become, in one sense, a graveyard.

A palpable threat glares at us from the edges of this chapter, never clear and explicit, but there nonetheless. It peers at us from the Riddle mansion. The effect is amplified in the explicit declarations that our enchanting rhythm of nearly six long books has been broken. We’re no longer tied to time as it is dictated in school. Instead, everyone’s concerns take on much more urgent tones, emanating from a great emergency — war and death. Like the disjointed feeling new-minted graduates experience upon leaving school for “the real world,” so, too, with the Wizarding World as we’ve known it. Rowling is playing with an emotional realism like never before. Even as the Trio debate whether or not Hogwarts will be open in the next year, Harry makes it clear to readers that it doesn’t matter: “I’m not coming back even if it does reopen.” The chapter’s overriding emotion is not only sadness, but anxiety.

Harry understands his childhood is over. Yet, Rowling isn’t ready to declare him “ready.” To lift a line from another heroic opus, Harry must complete his training. In Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi, Yoda’s warning to Luke refers to a need to complete both a physical and mental training that prepares him to confront ultimate evil in the form of his father. The trope is a common one, and often serves as a way to remove our Hero’s wise mentor out from under him. In Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore is taken from Harry so that Harry has to complete his heroic quest on his own.

I’ve always argued that HBP’s central plot thread is Dumbledore’s intense efforts to educate Harry in a more hazardous, yet consequential, way of engaging Voldemort — the fine art of speculation and inferrential reasoning. The Pensieve lessons are always about piecing together incomplete pieces of Voldemort’s past so as to anticipate his plans.

Yet, there are sharp indications that Harry still has much to learn now that he has been thrust prematurely into his adulthood. Trying to decipher who might be R.A.B, his feelings betray him:

He did not fell the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery, he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth about the real Horcruxes had to be completed before he could move a little farther along the dark and winding path stretching ahdead of him, the path he and Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now knew he would have to journey alone. There might still be as many as four Horcruxes out there somewhere. … He kept reciting their names to himself, as though by listing them he could bring them within reach.

This picture starkly contrasts what we’ve seen from Harry before. Whenever confronted with a problem, excitement and curiosity have coursed through him, often uncontrollably. Philosopher’s Stone describes his first use of the Invisibility Cloak in terms of pure adrenaline: “The whole of Hogwarts was open to him…” Yet, in two years Harry has watched both Sirius and Dumbledore die as his intelligence and heroism failed him. His rash dash into the Ministry’s aptly named Department of Mysteries ends in tragedy. One year later, he can do nothing whatsoever to fight off Dumbeldore’s killers. In two crucial moments, Harry believes that his greatest attributes have betray him completely.

Now, harry must rely on the kind of reasoning (incomplete as its bases may sometimes be) in order to think through the journey in front of him. And we see examples of incomplete thoughts seeping forth from Harry:

Neville and Luna alone of the D.A. had responded to Hermione’s summons the night that Dumbledore had died, and Harry knew why: They were the ones how had missed the D.A. the most… probably the ones who had checked their coins regularly in the hope that there would be another meeting.

The ellipsis points the reader to something omitted here. Harry attaches a kind of childish need-to-belong to their loyalty. Yet, I don’t think it’s a stretch at all to add that Neville and Luna missed the D.A. the most because they believed in its cause. It was surely one of the first places either had experienced social acceptance, but they also chose what was right over what was easy. And Neville will prove it in grim and terrifying fashion at the end of DH.

Harry’s breakup with Ginny is another pointer that Harry hasn’t quite thought his plan through. As Harry laments what might have been, Ginny’s response is both knife-edged and sympathetic: “‘But you’ve been too busy saving the Wizarding World,’ siad Ginny, half laughing. ‘Well…I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew you wouldn’t be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that’s why I like you so much.’” Without question she resents his choice here, but accepts it without too much protest. There’s a sense in which she seems to say to him, “Do you really think my safety is what matters now? Don’t you see my importance to you in all of this?” Harry hasn’t quite recognized in his friends and true love what we as readers see in John Granger’s eloquently explicated alchemical narrative. All of them are absolutely important for Harry’s efforts to overcome Voldemort’s plan.

In addition, we witness the Trio speculate on Snape’s motives by looking at the past hinted at in Harry’s illicit Potions book. Snape’s lineage leads Harry to conclude quite simply that Snape is “just like Voldemort.” As determined as Harry needs to be, this reads alongside what we learn in Deathly Hallows, as a warning against thinking dismissively. Admittedly, Harry is thinking emotionally. But, if we learned anything from Dumbledore in the last three chapters, it’s that facing a crisis with a calm mind and steady courage is absolutely important. Harry has to relearn this now that his challenges have grown more sinister.

Other moments Harry takes notice of are just as compelling in light of Deathly Hallows. The appearance of an anonymous Elphias Doge foreshadows his role in DH. Harry dismisses the man’s eulogy because “It did not mean very much. It had little to do with Dumbledore as Harry had known him.” Immediately, Harry flashes to his first vision of Dumbledore and his wonderfully odd welcome to Hogwarts: “Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak!” What Draco and the other Malfoys want to construe as Dumbledore’s senility, Harry recognizes as Dumbledore’s playfulness. In light of Doge’s highly romanticized view of Dumbledore in DH, the one Harry so desperately wants to cling to, his entire performance here reads as a bright warning to Harry not to read too much into Doge’s sentiments.

Harry declares he is “Dumbledore’s man through and through,” but this final chapter is full of flashing warnings of Harry’s biggest fight to come. He’s faced down Voldemort multiple times on pure instinct, and he’s felt the warmth of victory and chill of defeat. He’s even forced Voldemort from his mind and body. Along with that metaphor in Order of the Phoenix, “The White Tomb” shows us that one of Harry’s greatest foes yet to come is his own self. Dumbledore has armed for this battle more than perhaps any other.

Lord Voldemort’s Request

Dave the Longwinded — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 15:21:13 +0000

Travis asked some of us to fill in on the HBP read-thr0ugh, since he’s busy, you know, editing a book!

It would be easy to skip through Chapter 20 thinking that the most important thing we learn is how Voldemort/Riddle came into possession of Hufflepuff’s Cup and Slytherin’s Locket. We know that both end up becoming Horcruxes at some point later. In addition, the connection between these devices, Hogwarts, and Horcruxes is foreshadowed both here and in the earlier Pensieve lesson. Slughorn’s distorted memory points to a conversation about such things with young Riddle, but it’s clear that he’s gone to great pains to hide important elements of that conversation — the wizard’s version of “trying to forget.”

It’s striking to look back on these Pensieve lessons after Deathly Hallows and realize just how much of the last book’s plot is set up within these chapters.

But, some interesting character details emerge from them, as well. Dumbledore emphasizes this observation of Riddle’s actions:

“Now,” said Dumbledore, “if you don’t mind, Harry, I want to pausce once more to draw your attention to certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed another murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just he had stolen his Uncle Morfin’s ring, so he ran of now with Hepzibah’s cup and locket.” (439-40, American edition; my emphasis)

I’m always struck by this observation. It’s obvious now that Dumbledore was pointing Harry not only to what would become Horcruxes, but also how and where Voldemort might hide some of them: Hogwarts. Dumbeldore is drawing a connection between a childhood behavior (packrat-like theft and hiding) and what would become Voldemort’s trademark.

I have ideas why the connection matters, especially given that Voldemort (or some symbol of him) appears as a whimpering infant in the King’s Cross chapter of DH. The “child” metaphor is carried through by Voldemort’s desire to return to Hogwarts. Dumbledore emphasizes the practical reasons, but do you think this reveals something of Voldemort’s psychology?

A Sluggish Memory

Travis Prinzi — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 01:12:59 +0000

The first few pages of chapter 17 of Half-Blood Prince belong to after-break catching-up. Hermione gets filled in on the Snape/Draco conversation, and Ron begins to show more signs of discontent in his relationship with Lavender.

Fawkes and Loyalty to Dumbledore

The action begins once again in Dumbledore’s office, where one of my favorite Dumbledore/Harry moments takes place: when Harry tells Dumbledore the story of affirming to Scrimgeour that he was “Dumbledore’s man, through and through.” Dumbledore goes speechless and teary, and Fawkes lets out “a low, soft, musical cry.” Fawkes’s song symbolizes loyalty to Dumbledore, which is loyalty to the good.

It’s an interesting moment to observe after our discussion about Lupin’s loyalty to Dumbledore in the last chapter. Whatever else you think about Dumbledore’s actions, this moment does not strike me as manipulative. Dumbledore isn’t working up a tear to take advantage of Harry’s declaration of loyalty. And Fawkes, quite obviously a symbol of goodness in the series, affirms Harry’s loyalty.

Morphin’s Memory

After a tense discussion about Snape and Dumbledore’s recounting of Riddle’s history until the age of 16, being sure to note the key themes of his life – isolation, talent, charm, deception – Harry and the headmaster dive into the Pensieve for the tale of Riddle’s visit to the House of Gaunt. It’s quite fascinating to get the other side of the story that Harry picked up in a dream at the beginning of Goblet of Fire.

Interesting – and right – that Dumbledore tried to secure Morphin’s release when he discovered the truth.

We’ve talked about this before, but the application of the Restriction on underage wizardry is an awful law that cannot possibly be enforced well. It will most often result in disadvantage to Muggle-borns (how many Wizarding parents really do keep their kids from practicing magic over the summer?), and in a Wizarding household, it was used by Riddle to cover up a murder.

Slughorn’s Memory

Next, we dive into the “Sluggish” memory. Note Dumbledore’s words about Slughorn’s tampering: “It is … very crudely done … it shows that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations.” When I posited earlier that memories can be better altered than Slughorn’s fog-and-shouting, it appears I was correct. However, I’m not sure it can be done magically. It seems to me it has to be done psychologically. “Crudely done” is connected with the fact that the real memory is still there. I think a much more flawless memory could be created if someone actually convinces him- or herself of the lie. Like I said, psychological, not magical.

Fawkes and Loyalty to Harry

An interesting item I had not picked up before. Dumbledore gives Harry his assignment: get the memory. After Harry leaves the room, Phineas Nigellus protests, “I can’t see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore’s reply, “I wouldn’t expect you to, Phineas,” is met with another low, musical cry from Fawkes. If I’m correct in my position that this is a sign of approval from Fawkes, and it’s about loyalty, then Fawkes here has sung about Dumbledore’s loyalty to – or faith in – Harry. As such, these two notes by Fawkes are something of a foreshadowing of the “You are with me” / “I am with you” reversal of roles between Dumbledore and Harry.

Voldemort is a Failed Character (Part II)

Dave the Longwinded — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 13:06:49 +0000

by Dave

Part I of this series: Why Joker Succeeds and Voldemort Fails

“Behind the scenes” is a trope of long standing tradition in many forms of literature. In a recent essay on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Terry W. Thompson argues that the violent deaths occur off the page as a direct result of Shelley’s love of classical Greek drama in which decorum often dictated a strict sense of what drama could portray and what it couldn’t:

Over two millenia ago, when the plays of [Euripides, Aeschylus, and Sophocles] were performed live for theater patrons in Athens, Corinth, Epidaurus, the many acts of murder and mayhem so integral to Greek tragedy were never carried out on the state proper. Only the gruesome aftermath could — within the bounds of good taste — be presented to the audience. Blood could be shown; indeed, it frequently was to the delight of many theatergoers; but the actual spilling of it was strictly forbidden. Thus, all the stabbing and slashing, hacking and hewing was done well out of sight — behind closed doors or drawn curtains. (58)

But, this convention is not purely a matter of decorum. It also hints back to one preoccupation of Greek drama, tragedy particularly: what matters are the consequences and their causes. One primary distinction between tragedy and comedy to the classical mind is that tragedy must have a discernible cause/effect relationship between plot elements, while comedy could rely on conveniences due to its more lighthearted nature. Aristotle states that “The most important” element (of the six he delineates) “is the structure of events, because tragedy is a representation not of people as such but of actions and life” (Halliwell trans. 37). Consequently, tragedy was taken more seriously by Aristotle and his peers — a theory that has drifted through the history of literary criticism, and still stands within the postmodern academy (though it is admittedly much more weak-kneed).

Thus, the gory details of death, the simple salaciousness of murder, is left only to the imagination due partly to the need to emphasize the cause of the murder and its after effects. The author did not want the audience distracted by the spectacle. At some level, artistic and moral unity were one and the same, and that perspective largely prevailed throughout all forms of Western art until the 19th century. It is true what needs to be depicted within a given story has evolved. By the time Hamlet is first staged, Shakespeare had already made a living staging some of the most brutal deathscenes ever devised.

The archetypes we’ve taken as a starting point for much of our discussion about Voldemort are tied to obscuring the obvious, as well. For a literature so entrenched in causal action (at least for its more serious matters), leaving what modern audiences would define as a pivotal plot moment “off screen” bespeaks a mindset that also develops characterization through associations among multiple characters, often archetypal ones. One must reveal the pertinent personality ticks of a character by pasting them into a canvas of connections with other characters — not by simply dumping them into the audience’s lap explicitly.

Of course, this is one reason why we read (or watch) the things we do. The dominant thought is that that some form of Aristotle’s catharsis persists within figurative expression. We want to experience the emotions the same way the characters supposedly do.

Thus, the relationships created between Harry and his narrative peers is of paramount importance, particularly the antagonal relationships. The Snape dilemma(s) posed after Half-Blood Prince highlighted this importance, and Deathly Hallows, in an odd twist, doesn’t seem to help matters. Without question, Snape is the most compelling of Harry’s antagonists, yet he is never given the primary position within Harry’s crosshairs. That role is always given to Voldemort, who is inexplicably reduced to a caricature by the time the final battle arrives. After Deathly Hallows, what are we to make of Voldemort? The book presents a major problem for us as readers interrogating the texts, positing the existence of real evil with real consequences, yet depositing its prime representation into a character that Rowling reduces to a very uni-dimensional entity. He comes across as an egotistical buffoon who succeeds more out of his enemies’ fear than his real skill — and Voldemort’s enemies include a whole host of characters we’re to regard as heroic and noble in their own right. My general problem can be summed up this way: Because of Voldemort’s deflation, the story seems to move inexorably toward an already determined ending. Voldemort will not repent and he will be defeated in some manner by Harry. And we end up with a character that deconstructs himself, and thus deconstructs something of the power of his relationship with Harry. The trick is that Voldemort’s power depends on his narrative interconnectedness with other characters, like Snape, who are shunted to the background. Voldemort depends on these other characters; once he is brought to the fore by Rowling, he starts to fall apart as a malevolent presence, and I do not think this was Rowling’s intention.

Consider something from the opening chapter of Deathly Hallows, “The Dark Lord Ascending”. After Snape delivers intelligence concerning how the Order will move Harry from the Dursley home, Voldemort is described in truly frightening terms:

His red eyes fastened upon Snape’s black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape, however, looked calmly back into Voldemort’s face and, after a moment or two, Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into something of a smile. (3-4)

It’s part of a horrifying scene as Voldemort holds court with the Death Eaters, Charity Burbage suspended above the table (yet to meet her rather gruesome end) and the moans of Ollivander locked away in the dungeon of the Malfoys’ manor. Opening the seventh volume in this way reaffirms Voldemort as the primary villain against which Harry is set, and establishes an astonishing degree of malevolence like nothing else in the series to this point. Burbage’s murder and disposal is savage. We’re meant to see here the depths of evil Voldemort represents, the very nature of the literal conflict Harry faces.

Voldemort should in some way come to represent the internal crisis that Harry faces throughout much of Deathly Hallows, then. Half-Blood Prince starts us down this road with the Pensieve lessons in Dumbledore’s office. Questioning whether or not Harry sympathizes with young Tom isn’t necessarily designed to humanize Riddle/Voldemort, but externalize Harry’s own feelings of loneliness and sometimes-self-imposed isolation. It’s this flaw that is Harry’s greatest, and is the one he tends to revert to at the end of Half-Blood Prince and that the camping scenes from Deathly Hallows are designed to force him to overcome. Burying Dobby and choosing the Horcrux Hunt over the Hallows Quest solidifies Harry’s recognition of this point and cloaks that recognition in the alchemical imagery John Granger has so thoroughly detailed.

Yet, there isn’t really a crisis depicted for Voldemort. He always assigns his defeats to the hands of “luck and chance, those wreckers of the best-laid plans” (7). At one level, I think this is supposed to be some foreshadowing of Voldemort’s downfall, pointing a to his arrogance and inability to accept his own faults. Except for one problem: Rowling’s reliance on deus ex machina plot details means he’s at least partially right (Goblet of Fire, anyone?).

And within this same idea, Voldemort’s narrative relationship with Harry pivots upon Snape:

“Yes, Dumbledore’s dead,” said Harry calmly, “but you didn’t have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant.”

“What childish dream is this?” said Voldemort, but still he did not strike, and his red eyes did not waver from Harry’s.

“Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” said Harry. “Snape was Dumbledore’s, Dombledore’s from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can’t understand.” (740)

This is the “Flaw in the Plan”, tying Snape into their relationship, and accounting for some of the power of Snape’s emergence from the HP story. Yet, Snape disappears into the background of Deathly Hallows, placed firmly behind the ascending Dark Lord. Rowling’s choice to force Snape into the background hurts both characters by also reducing how the reader understands the flaw, and thus reducing the catharsis of the final confrontation. Voldemort’s lack of dimension in Deathly Hallows makes him dependent on these other characters — they’re absence breaks his characterization, and leaves the last confrontation deflated — the end never in doubt.

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Why Joker Succeeds and Voldemort Fails (Part I)

Dave the Longwinded — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 15:06:51 +0000

by Dave

Since Deathly Hallows release last year, I’ve been perpetually puzzled by Voldemort’s characterization in the last two novels. Half Blood Prince humanizes Voldemort in a way that lends HBP a sophistication most of the earlier novels lack — Voldemort’s backstory both enlightens and befuddles the reader, at once shedding light on his origins and potential reasons for Voldemort’s tenor, yet never oversimplifying and reducing Voldemort to simply a pathology. The book sometimes drifts toward the possibility that Voldemort is unaware of and incapable of changing his decisions. Yet, HBP pulls back from that precipice and instead offers only Voldemort’s refusal to care about such a possibility.

Deathly Hallows, on the other hand, turns Voldemort into a cartoon character — more malevolent due to the incompetence of the supposed authorities (the Ministry of Magic) than any great skill of Voldemort’s or his minions. Within two books, Rowling constructs him as a marriage of complex humanity and psychology, only to immediately open the door to reveal nothing more than a tormented psyche shacking up with a massive egotism.

This all begs a question to me: Is Voldemort a flawed character? I’m not asking if he is a flawed character in the sense that Rowling simply made him a bit inconsistent. Deathly Hallows reconcentrates the reader’s attention on the conflict between Harry and Voldemort, whereas previous books had built Snape as the more compelling of Harry’s antagonists. Yet, in DH Voldemort and Snape essentially switch narrative positions. Snape’s everpresent station in Harry’s life is removed. He fades into the shadowy murk occupied by Voldemort for six books, while Voldemort emerges into the consciousness of both the reader and the characters. Essentially, Rowling had built Voldemort’s great power upon a scaffold of shadows and deception. Once she brings him fully into the light, we’re struck with his arrogance and stupidity — the Death Eaters begin to look more like the Keystone Cops.

Interrogating Voldemort’s character, especially in light of some other well known literary antagonists, shows Voldemort to be not just a flawed character, but that his development deconstructs him as a compelling villain, essentially reducing him into nothing more than a mesh of types. He is, in effect, a failed character. Bringing him more fully into view in Deathly Hallows forces the narrative to establish elements of him that are more than Shadow — once this is done, characters must be more than archetypes, yet Rowling does not successfully develop him. Half-Blood Prince constructs Voldemort’s vulnerability only so that Deathly Hallows can tell us that it ultimately does not matter.

The Funhouse Mirror
Given all the broo-hah surrounding The Dark Knight and Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker, it seems a natural comparison to examine Voldemort’s character alongside Batman’s archnemesis. The narrative relationship binds Batman and Joker together in a kind of ontological dualism — one cannot exist without the other. Joker has evolved into a much more layered character in stories from the late 1980s onward, what one reviwer for The Dark Knight defines as “a mystifying squall of hatred and chaos”. Frank Miller’s two seminal graphic novels, The Dark Knight Returns (1986) and Batman Year One (1987), and Alan Moore’s The Killing Joke (1988) are largely responsible for establishing the tone and tenor of this portion of the DC Universe we’re all familiar with now — one that isn’t always well accepted by critics:

Miller’s legacy for comics has been ambivalent at best. Reflect on the fact that his rise coincides with the almost total failure of superhero comics to produce any new characters with mythic resonance.[2] The ‘maturity’ for which Miller has been celebrated corresponds with comics’ depressive and introspective adolescence, and for him, as for all adolescents, the worst sin is exuberance. Hence his trademark style is deflationary, taciturn: consider all those portentous pages stripped of dialogue in which barely anything happens and contrast them with the crazed effervescence of the typical Marvel page in the 60s. Miller’s pages have all the brooding silence of a moody fifteen-year old boy. We are left in no doubt: the silence signifies. (Fisher para 2)

This seems a reductionist reading of Miller’s ouevre, one predicated on some notion of Batman in these books as purely sadistic with no sense of self-reflexivity. For Fisher, it’s apparent that Batman never questions his motives or actions, despite the preponderance of textual evidence, especially in Year One. Bruce Wayne (before he concocts the Batman persona) takes a “twenty block walk to the enemy camp”, instigates a fight with a pimp even though he knows he “really shouldn’t”, and quickly realizes the error in his youthful hubris:

Idiot — never should have done this — have to get out of here before I draw attention — [...] Mess — made a mess of it — no excuse — didn’t control myself (Miller and Mazzucchelli 10-13)

Very quickly, in his fight against crime, Wayne realizes he has to negotiate a pretty vague distinction between Justice and Revenge, ethical twins whose differences aren’t always apparent. Batman Begins (2005) predicates the protagonist’s origin upon this very dilemma, embodied in figures of Bruce’s natural father, Thomas Wayne, and R’as al Ghul, a kind of father surrogate. The former is established in the film as the embodiment of patience, fortitude, and charity, building a railway system for all of Gotham, and constantly intoning an appropriate mantra: “Why do we fall? So we can get back up.” R’as al Ghul, on the otherhand, manifests as a demon in disguise, just as his name suggests. Think of al Ghul as a character akin to Grindelwald — seeking to remake the world in an image he sees as appropriate, developing a form of justice that is absolute and unwavering.

As Harry Potter readers, we’re used to seeing characters developed in these kinds of dualisms played out in juxtaposed characters. Harry’s consciousness is often a battlefield for difficult-to-rectify ethical systems and worldviews, some he recognizes as obviously flawed and others he desperately wants to be true. Bruce/Batman suffers the same psychological battle, one best mirrored in his most potent foe, Joker.

No matter which evolution of Joker one might consider (comics present a distinct problem with respect to establishing a canon), the character’s layering has taken on more and more sophistication in the last twenty years. Alan Moore stated in 2001 that “psychologically Batman and the joker are mirror images of each other” (para 12). Unpacking their relationship in light of this observation can lend some understanding to Joker as a villain — and more importantly, as a successful (broadly speaking) antagonist.

Joker’s psychology is debatable given the differing narratives established throughout the history of the series. In The Killing Joke, he’s the victim of circumstances stemming from a moribund middle-class life. Dissatisfied with his life, he quits a chemical engineering job, fails at stand-up comedy, and makes the desperate choice to help in the robbery of a chemical company out of the need to care for his family. The situation goes awry, and he ends up taking a spill into a chemical vat, leaving him physically scarred. This, combined with the murder of his wife, leaves him psychologically destroyed, choosing an alter ego within which he can submerge these problems. But this is only one version of the backstory — Moore’s book and Nolan’s new movie both reference the fact that Joker has told multiple versions of his origin story with no one version offered as definitive.

Whatever Joker’s pathology, it is initially easy to dismiss him as a raving lunatic. But doing so removes from him agency, and thus responsibility. The Dark Knight Returns toys with the idea that the Joker is perfectly aware of his actions and their consequences, and he’s willing to manipulate circumstances for his own advantage. Miller’s plot begins with Joker locked away in Arkham Asylum under the psychiatric care of Dr. Bartholomew Wolper. Wolper paints Joker’s pathology as a sympathetic one through a distorted psychiatric jingoism to turn the responsibility for Joker’s crimes toward Batman, simultaneously painting Joker as a victim created by Bats for the purpose of satisfying his own ego and painting Batman as an “aberrant psychotic force — morally bankrupt, politically hazardous, reactionary paranoid” (Miller et. al. 41). Wolper offers up his theory concerning why Batman is responsible for the actions of his nemeses:

Batman’s psychotic sublimative/psycho-etoric behavior pattern is like a net. Weak-egoed neurotics, like Harvey [aka Two-Face, another Batman villain], are drawn into corresponding intersticing patterns. You might say Batman commits the crimes…using his so-called villains as narcissistic proxies… (47)

Though directly addressing the pathology of Two-Face, Wolper’s analysis applies to Joker, as well. Wolper pursues his line of thinking to near polemical levels, laying the atrocities of an ultraviolent street gang called The Mutants at Batman’s feet, too: “Batman should be considered personally responsible for every human being murdered by this gang” (113). The irony is, of course, that Joker describes his relationship with Batman in exactly the same fashion, only from an inverse perspective. Joker derives meaning from his existence by locking himself into a struggle with Batman. Nolan toys with this them in The Dark Knight film — Joker states “You complete me” after informing Batman he has no desire to kill “The Batman”.

Wolper dies at Joker’s hands while Wolper is parading him before the audience of a late night talk show — a parody of David Letterman, no less. The whole audience dies, as well. Within the scene, David Endochrine (the talk show host) seems to represent the general social attitude toward Joker and his crimes and, by extension, indicating the cynicism with which Gotham City’s residents approach the decay and chaos of their urban universe. David teases Joker’s appearance by calling him “a man who’s brought a lot of smiles to the world” (117). The glib joke both alludes to Joker’s preferred method of killing (leaving his victims with smiles on their faces) and foreshadows the mass murder he’s engineered for his appearance on the show.

Joker’s self-positioning seems to indicate something of a rigorous personal philosophy, both emotive and cosmologically significant. Batman himself affirms the relationship, ironically using some of Wolper’s language to do so. After a downtown explosion masterminded by Joker destroys a major building, Batman’s internal monologue is indicative of this conceit:

I’ll help the emergency teams as best I can. I’ll count the dead one by one. I’ll add them to the list, Joker. To the list of all the people I’ve murdered — by letting you live. (117)

Miller extends the philosophical question here by hammering away at a larger discourse running throughout The Dark Knight Returns — a public debate arguing the benefits and consequences of Batman’s character for Gotham City. A television program, Issues Within Issues, is the stage for this debate, reducing a legitimate discussion of Batman’s utility and ethical position into the brand of culture war rhetoric we’ve discussed here at The Hog’s Head from time to time. Complicating the problem is that the street gang, The Mutants, defects to what they consider to be Batman’s sense of justice once he defeats their leader in a bloody confrontation at a landfill. Their constant refrain that “Gotham City belongs to the Batman” (113) indicates a larger need for for a personality around which to rally, echoed in their new name, “Sons of Batman”. The fascist reverberations are apparent, especially in a splinter faction of the gang that openly adopts Nazi symbolism for themselves.

When combined with the narcissism and cynicism presented in many everyday Gotham residents, the cityscape manifests itself as a representation of Batman’s internal struggle — the need to act versus the need to delineate between Justice and Revenge. Batman Begins establishes this through Thomas Wayne and R’as al Ghul, as the latter provokes pre-Batman Bruce by telling him that his parents’ murders were Thomas Wayne’s fault — the result of Wayne’s “failure to act”. Virtually every Batman origin story emphasizes this event as pivotal in Bruce’s psychological and moral development. Tim Burton’s 1989 film adaptation even went so far as to posit that Joker was the Waynes’ murderer, before he adopted his criminal alter ego.

Joker’s position in all this, at least in these contexts, is as an antagonist that forces Batman to persistently re-examine both his ethics and methodology. Within the superhero-versus-vigilante debate, Joker continuously tweaks circumstances to confront Bruce with this question. So far, this seems pretty well in keeping with the relationship between Harry and Voldemort. Deathly Hallows does explore this kind of territory. We’ve persistently debated the way Harry and others use the Forbidden Curses. I’ve come to agree with some of the criticism that the impact of the events is removed because there is virtually no reflection on them, at all. Combined with the fact that Voldemort essentially ends up killing himself — that Harry doesn’t resort to such violence to kill his main antagonist — whatever Rowling was after in these plot details seems lost.

However, Batman has to deal with the consequences, at least in Miller’s versions. Gotham City’s take on The Dark Knight is always left in doubt, only sometimes praising him as necessary for the sake of city (this praise is the attitude producers of Batman: the Animated Series chose to emphasize in the classic early 90s cartoon). This sense of consequence is apparent in the final confrontation between Batman and Joker at the end of The Dark Knight Returns:

We kill…too often…because we’ve made it easy…too easy…sparing ourselves…the mess…and the work… (149)

This internal monologue parallels the media report of “sheer pandemonium” given to the reader, that “sixteen cub scouts [are] found dead” (150). The confrontation isn’t just a physical battleground, but also a symbolic climax for Bruce/Batman’s internal question of his ethics. If he’d killed Joker years ago, all the death and mayhem could have been avoided, yet he would have violated a cardinal rule central to the Batman mythos — he must not kill his adversaries. The new DVD Batman Gotham Knight intones this same principle. In one of the shorts, Batman states “I’m willing to put my life on the line to do what I have to. But it has to be mine — no one else’s”.

Figure 1. Extended Trailer for Batman Gotham Knight (2008)

Joker chides this principle in the end of The Dark Knight Returns as they fight within a tunnel of love in an amusement park. Batman has the opportunity to kill his nemesis by breaking Joker’s neck. Instead, Bats opts to simply paralyze him, a seemingly “good” alternative. Yet, Joker is “disappointed”:

I’m really…very disappointed with you, my sweet…the moment was…perfect…and you…didn’t have the nerve… Paralysis…really… Just an ounce or two more…of pressure…and…do I hear sirens…?…yes…coming close…you won’t get far… But then…it doesn’t matter…if you do…they’ll kill you for this… And they’ll never know…that you didn’t have the nerve… (150-51)

Joker then completes the job, forcing his neck to the full breaking point so that “whatever’s in him rustles as it leaves” (151). At this point, Batman’s place as out-of-control vigilante is cemented, especially after the reporting of the media. He has to fight his way out of the aftermath, killing members of the police department’s SWAT team in the process, blatantly flaunting a rule he just held in place for his worst villain. Joker serves to highlight this ethical problem maybe more than any other antagonist Batman faces in the DC Universe. One grand irony is that Joker persistently points toward the masculine egotism driving Bruce Wayne/Batman’s purpose. Joker doesn’t seek to kill Batman, only to set him into a framework wherein the police see Joker as the victim and Batman as the criminal — effectively placing Batman’s work under erasure.

By splitting himself into dual personalities — ones that compete for the true nature of Bruce Wayne himself — the Batman/Bruce Wayne personae help hide the true person to begin with, aiding in Joker’s endgame. In virtually all incarnations of the Batman mythos, the audience is left unsure of which persona more accurately reflects the true character. The Batman persona is an attempted march toward an ideal that must lead through the darkest territory of humanity. Batman as a character is a walking personification of a hero’s journey that the hero may actually be unable to complete. While much of his motivation is personal, drawing from the exigence of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s murder, the pursuit is very much a public exercise, creating a tension between personal hope and public necessity. Bruce tells Alfred in Batman Begins that he wants to strike fear into his “enemies” with “something elemental”. The bat metaphor’s darkness and persistent link in cultures around the world to all things evil serves the purpose, but the guise is a personification of evil without logic. That this strikes fear into Gotham’s criminal underbelly serves to underscore the bad guys’ humanity and simultaneously point toward the flaws in Batman’s ethical code — a version of imposed order.

Joker becomes a laughing hyperbole always exposing the fact that Batman’s choices may actually be arbitrary, though Bats feels as though he can only make the choices he does. Batman’s sacrifice for Gotham is his own psyche, even at the expense that his narrative, the legend that writes his history, will record him as a villain like those he opposes. Joker knows this, and uses it for his own whims. The villain’s purpose isn’t purely about social disintegration, but a personal stake in a nihilistic epiphany for Bruce Wayne/Batman. The “something elemental” chosen by Bruce is also personified in Joker. He is a “squall of chaos” wrapped in the distorted imagery of innocense and happiness that at one level hides Joker’s physical and psychological scars; yet, that imagery also pushes to such an extreme symbolism that those scars are very much exposed. It’s a mirror image of the bat costume that both hides the identity of its wearer and serves as an outward manifestation of Bruce’s internal crises. Joker becomes compelling, not so much because of his own characterization, but because he remains a symbol, even for his most intimate “companion”. The result is that Joker’s personality is a hyperbolic mirror of Batman’s. He’s a symbol of evil because he’s a cipher for human flaws exagerated to expose their simplicity.

Next week, I’ll post a closer look at Harry’s antagonists and argue more closely why Voldemort is a failed character in my view — one that threatens the integrity of the whole HP narrative.

Until then, hope you enjoy The Dark Knight this weekend. I know I will!

Primary References
Batman Begins Warner Bros. 2005.
Batman Gotham Knight Warner Bros. 2008.
The Dark Knight Warner Bros. 2008.
Miller et. al. Batman Year One. 1987.
—. The Dark Knight Returns. 1986.
Moore, Alan et. al. The Killing Joke. 1988.
Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. 2007.
—. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. 2005.

For Secondary References, follow the persistent links to the original sources.

Family and Some Other Things…

Dave the Longwinded — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 22:16:35 +0000

by Dave

Last Wednesday, I found out my paternal grandfather passed away at the age of 88 at 7:30 that morning. My memories of him are sparse and fuzzy — tied to some history before my parents split. I have an odd affliction with memory; nothing serious mind you, just a strange dividing line between what I recall quite clearly after the age of 12 and what seems a starkly vague early childhood. I don’t know if there is a true condition for such a thing, but there it is. At this point, I’m not sure how I feel about my grandfather’s death. My family is not especially close, neither on my mother’s side nor my father’s side. I have aunts and uncles, from both parents, I’ve met only once — most of them, in fact. My mother’s parents passed long before I was born. And I was 11 or so the last time I was around my father’s parents. I’m 29 now.

Perhaps saying something about my character, I couldn’t make it to the funeral. I only had a very short notice and I couldn’t arrange for coverage of my classes or make it to Northern Indiana in time. I did send flowers to my grandmother, and my father thanked me for always “coming through” in times of need — what’s harder for me to swallow was his sincerity.

I’m asking myself what all this has to do with Harry, but these ruminations do lead to one of the things that always struck me about Harry’s character, something I’m fascinated with but can’t always identify with: his intense devotion, loyalty, and love for a family that he never really “knew” except in fragments of memories that are often presented more as nightmares. While I don’t have nightmares about my grandparents, I feel a sense of attachment that has not been nurtured since I was very young, either by me or anyone else involved. Why? Believe me, I’m not turning to Harry for answers. Perhaps, again, my nature says something about me as a person that is distasteful, but my inclination is to turn at least some of this question outward into what I read and observe.

The theme of love in HP is almost a substance in and of itself. It’s independent of the person — how often does Harry try and fail to distance himself from his feelings for Ginny? — yet, it is also tied quite intimately to certain characters. Take for instance this quote:

[Harry] simply acts on his instincts, knowing that Voldemort has killed his parents and is therefore also his enemy. Harry is determined to face danger, and possibly even death, to prevent Voldemort from coming back and causing injury, pain and death to many innocent people.

In acting on this instinct, Harry is showing his innate capacity for love. He is willing to risk his life so that his friends, their families, and the wizarding world in general may have a future. [...] That this child is capable of any kind of love or trust seems miraculous. J.K.Rowling has said that she believes children are naturally, innately good, and that this is one of the things she wanted to show in her portrayal of Harry and his friends. (Mary para. 5-6)

With all the privations inflicted at the hands of the Dursleys, Harry could be the posterboy for the disaffected Gen-X wizard — imagine Harry at college, played by Ethan Hawke in every movie he’s ever made. The closest version of this meme we get is a disaffected-but-brilliant goth kid with the bad attitude to match: Snape. As Mary’s quote above points out, though, Harry is born into love, protected by love, and often lashed to his emotions, at least early on. His memories are often frightening. But Harry gets another source from those who knew his family and pass on a “magic” tradition to him. Emotion and memory are, without question, physical entities in Harry’s world. They can be manipulated and understood from limited third-person perspectives in the Pensieve (I often wonder if they don’t represent at least subconsciously something about Rowling’s writing process).

“Maturity” in Rowling’s world reflects a very real concern: emotional control, in both an abstract and physical sense. Nearly every sage piece of wisdom Dumbledore offers to Harry is of this nature (and hints at why we generally dislike Gambon’s portrayal). It’s ultimate expression? Willingly facing death — maybe the ultimate brand of physical control of one’s emotions. Lily does it. James does it. Snape does it. Dumbledore does it. Dobby does it. Of course, Harry does, too. This notion of sacrificial love is not just an abstraction about the greatest good a person can do. It is the ultimate expression of connection to and control of one’s place and purpose in the world.

Thus, it is an ultimate irony, as well. There’s a something absurdly humorous from the scene in which Hagrid is forced to carry Harry’s “dead” body back to the Hogwarts threshold. Voldemort thinks the ultimate expression of maturity — “superiority” is a better term — is one of power. What more power can one wield than the power of life and death? In pretending to such grandeur, pronouncing his power, will, and mercy to the Hogwarts survivors, he misses the obvious; his decloaking is complete. How can he wield power over someone who loves life but chooses death? It’s the final nail stemming from Dumbledore’s assertion to a very young Harry, that death is just the next adventure. The absurdity of Voldemort’s impotence is so open in the final combat that Harry’s statement of pity for Voldemort is nearly condescending.

Q&A: Voldemort’s Afterlife

Dave the Longwinded — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 20:28:33 +0000

by Dave

Travis’s earlier post concerning what we’ve been reading made me think about some purely hypothetical questions. My philosophy major side is creeping out a bit here. I’m not sure of the greater merit of such a question, but I started wondering how an archvillain like Voldemort might find his end in some other literature. I’ve been teaching The Inferno for the last couple of days to my World Cultures freshmen. Oddly enough, they are rather enjoying lurid descriptions of torment and suffering endured by those Dante condemned to his version of Hell. He had a rather creative knack for developing and arranging punishments that seemed to poetically reflect the crimes committed by the damned. Before that, they were reading the “swashbuckling” adventures of Beowulf, and enjoying the blood and carnage of medieval combat.

Kids these days…(..and the adults…)!

Dante doesn’t seem to posit The Inferno as a literal idea of what Hell is like. Instead, he wrote it (at least partially) as a metaphor from which to satirize and prod the social, religious, and political issues of his day. So, condemning historical figures to various levels of his fictional version of Hell reflects political and moral convictions that Dante carried with him through much of his life. My hope/point is to get a handle on just how cosmically egregious Voldemort’s crimes might be. But, as our recent discussion of Dumbledore exposed, we do stratify both good and evil based on the qualities/intentions of certain actions, whether we want to or not, whether doing so is right or not.

It’s easy to call a guy evil. And it might be ideal to say “all evils are equal”, but this isn’t precisely true, even in Harry’s world. He does stuff all the time that is clearly “evil”, but we’re willing to excuse it because Harry is primarily “good”, and (I think) his “evil” actions clearly don’t measure up to Voldemort’s (one interesting side question: is anyone shown in the books to be clearly “better” than Harry as a person?). But what nature does that evil assume? How might Voldemort’s actions, wishes, desires, fears come back to haunt him in a Dantean style?

I’m not sure what this might generate, but I’m eager to see how vicious and damnable we think Voldemort’s crimes might be — or those of some of the other less savory characters in Harry Potter — at least in Dante’s terms. Here is a link to the Wikipedia entry on The Divine Comedy that provides a brief synopsis of Dante’s architecture for Hell.

Even though there isn’t much suggestion of any kind of hell in what theology Rowling hints at in the books, how Voldemort might meet some divine justice intrigues me. The question is hypothetical in one sense, but answering that question might also give us a more interesting place from which to look at Voldemort’s character as a depiction of evil. Or, better still, which characteristics are defined as evil in our own modern archetypes versus those of earlier eras/periods. How are they similar or different?

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