On Tragedy in Literature

     A great many people--including my esteemed husband--view the genre of tragedy as entertainment.  They like how it provokes deep feelings they would not normally feel, prompts profound thoughts, and provides a catharsis for their own troubles.
     My own perspective differs.  Tragedy does not entertain me, and it turns me into a person I don't like.  I get so wrapped up in the characters that the sad and awful elements crush my spirit, leaving me grieving, restless, frustrated, angry, and ill-tempered in reality.  The thought of seeking out and enjoying tragedy, to me, seems as offensive and barbaric as the ancient Romans reveling in gladiator fights and Christian killings in the arena.  It is not something to revel in or to relax with.
     At this time, I must make a distinction: the death of a character does not always turn a story into tragedy.  Many of my adventure stories have characters who die in ways that leave a sad or sour taste in my mouth (e.g. the Ranger's Apprentice, Gregor, Tortall, and Bayern series), but by the time I reach the end of the story, enough triumphant Good has happened that my heart is no longer in turmoil.  Real tragedy--a story that builds up to an unjust or unexpected death in particular--is another matter.
     I vividly recall reading Bridge to Terabithia as a young elementary schooler, delving into it as I did any other book.  I had never encountered tragedy in my stories, and so the unexpected death of one of the main characters, whom the author had made me like quite a bit, came like a slap in the face followed by a deluge of icy water.  I read a little more, expecting the girl to appear and say, "Oh, I was just in a coma--I'm fine now!"  But she didn't.  She was really dead.  The unfairness so shocked and repulsed me that I don't think I was able to finish the book.  I knew real life is full of tragedy, but until that story, I had viewed books as a sanctuary from evil; good typically wins in children's stories, and only the evil witches die.  I felt as though the author had betrayed me.  Perhaps had I expected the character's death, I would have been able to read it more calmly, but that's not how it happened, and for better or worse, that unexpected encounter helped shape and solidify my expectations and preferences in entertainment.
      This said, I can recognize the art and skill in a great piece of real tragedy, and I may willingly read or watch them--with some enjoyment or acknowledgement perhaps, but never with the delight or approbation I am aware others feel for them; I have never found a tragic story I would re-read or re-watch, and I can never think of them as fondly as I do non-tragic tales.  Some such that I have willingly seen include Shakespeare (a requirement for any English major).  Thankfully, his tragic plays--though less entertaining than his comedies--at least do not so deeply and adversely effect my emotions since the archaic language and relatively undeveloped tragic characters provide distance.  I also surprised myself by feeling quite impressed by Will Smith's film Legend, and felt sorrowfully elevated by The Notebook and the manga tragedy Mucha Kucha Daisuki, the latter of which has an especially profound beauty to it, rather like a Japanese version of A Walk to Remember.  Even these, however, I have no desire to see again.
      Other, less-beautiful stories, especially ones in which injustice abounds, leave me rattled, though I acknowledge their skilled execution, such as stories like The Hunger Games, the first book of which I read in one sitting yesterday--it was that engrossing--and felt so irritable and restless afterward that I had to play the piano for over an hour before my mind quieted enough to let me sleep.  Similarly, I consented to see Gladiator and The Great Gatsby because of their cultural significance and hope never to see them again.

     Turning this contemplation to spiritual matters, the Bible is full of tragedy.  Most of the tragic details, though, read like an objective summary or report (consider the wars and murders during King David's time, or Job's sufferings), and thus don't hurt the reader so badly; we, at least, can maintain an emotional distance.  The New Testament adopts a slightly more personal tone, and of course Christ's unjust sufferings and death--and our sinfulness that requires it to happen--are tragic in nature, but again the wording lends some small emotional distance.  Still, the events are ultimately triumphant: that's not the end; Jesus resurrects and ascends to heaven, and we know that we need not ". . . grieve [for those who have fallen asleep] as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep." (1 Thessalonians 4.13-14 ESV).  In this light, a human death will naturally provoke sad feelings for ourselves and other survivors, but should not seem tragic and provoke grief on behalf of the dead person or the grief of permanent separation unless the person was not a Believer.  Most tragic stories don't emphasize the hope or joy of life after death, which is perhaps why, unconsciously, such deaths strike so much pain into my heart, viewing them as I do from the author's point of view.  --That and the element of unfairness in their cause of downfall or death.


      Considering this topic from another angle, I would warn against any extreme view of tragedy: I do not feel we should be ignorant that real tragedy exists nor seek out so much tragedy in reality and fiction that the proliferation of it numbs our ability to sympathize with it or recognize it as something to be combated.  For instance, we should not turn our eyes away from real-life tragedies, whether historical (which we can learn from) or modern (which we may work to prevent or lend aid)--such as the child-soldiers in Sudan or forced abortions in China or the drug war in Mexico or natural disasters in El Salvador or the persecution of Christians in Muslim countries, or even the neglected elderly person down the street from us.  To see it and ignore it--or to refuse to see it--strikes me as immorally self-serving.  Sure, knowing about these tragedies frustrates us since we feel helpless to correct the underlying injustices or to defeat nature, and if we focus on the evil in mankind too much, we can certainly become bitter, cynical people.  But Man-made tragedy points to our need for Salvation--ours, personally, and ours as the human race--and neither the tragedy nor our need for God's grace should be ignored.
      I'm not sure I've mastered this desirable balance of awareness and compassion--which sits somewhere between an ostrich-like head-burial (willful ignorance) and a pre-visited Scrooge (misanthropy).  Nor can I confidently recommend the ideal balance to others, except to state that we need it.  However, to protect my heart from the bitterness that evinces itself after I've witnessing a tragedy, I choose to avoid the genre of tragic fiction.