On Irony

Unlike the term “satire” discussed in a previous post, the term “irony” seems more often used and even less correctly understood.  Its use (or misuse) is not limited to academic circles or literature classes; whether a statement or situation is or is not ironic has been a frequent matter of debate in online comments and in verbal conversation.  Even I have to pause and evaluate whether the declared “ironic” situation is truly an example of irony.  Part of the difficulty lies in that not everyone agrees on its definition—or, one might say, certain kinds of irony depend on one’s perception.  The following, therefore, merely sets forth my own understanding of the term.

People commonly say such things as “How ironic that it would rain just when I’m ready to walk the dog.”  However, that’s not irony; that’s an annoying coincidence.  

“It’s ironic that this politician embezzled.”  Um... sorry.  Still “no”—unless some unstated aspect of the context makes it so, such as his previously speaking against embezzlement, and even then it's questionable—I mean, we're talking about a politician.

“A car crashing into a ‘drive safely’ sign—now, that’s ironic!”  Finally, yes!  In this case, we see situational irony between an expected outcome (that people would drive more safely because of the sign) and the real outcome (a car crash despite—and more ironically, into—the sign).  In a similar way, Shelly’s poem “Ozymandias” demonstrates situational irony with the visual juxtaposition in its final lines:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings."

Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!

No thing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

The following images likewise show the same kind of irony:

http://izismile.com/2012/05/10/irony_alert_part_2_18_pics.html

http://izismile.com/2012/05/10/irony_alert_part_2_18_pics.html

Aside from situational irony, other forms include dramatic, verbal, and Socratic.  Dramatic irony appears solely in fiction (plays, films, literature), for its irony is understood by an audience but not by the characters, such as in Romeo and Juliet when most characters believe and behave as though Juliet has died while the audience knows otherwise.  Verbal irony is mild sarcasm in which the words express the opposite of their literal meaning, such as “What lovely weather” said in regard to a hailstorm.  Finally, in Socratic irony, a questioner pretends ignorance to expose his interlocutor's folly, such as used by... well, you can guess.  

In general terms, then, irony is “a reversal of expectations” (Matthew Inman, theoatmeal.com).  Of course, this definition of irony causes some debate, for someone might say, "I expected Jim to lose that race, but he won it instead—is that ironic?"  Not quite.  The speaker's guess was merely incorrect—or one might say Jim exceeded expectations rather that reversing them.  Furthermore, it fails to be ironic because the juxtaposition between the two—expectation and reality—is neither striking nor proximate.  Finally, for some morbid reason, negative reversals seem more ironic than positive ones: simply consider the relative perception of irony in "We'll be fine" spoken just before a tragedy and "We're gonna die!" shouted just before a rescue.
            The line between error and irony is extra fuzzy since one person’s expectations—or strength of said expectations—may differ from another’s.  Thus, I prefer the definition that irony is any contradiction between an action or statement, and its context.  (I just recalled—C.S. Lewis wrote in The Screwtape Letters that the Joke Proper "turns on sudden perception of incongruity."  Rather similar to irony, eh?)  Even then, however, one may argue that a contradiction between assumption and reality exists in un-ironic circumstances, such as coincidences, unfortunate scenarios, and human errors.  Alas!
            Well, even if the term's still unclearly defined, at least you now have a couple working definitions you can use to defend your position in a dispute over the presence of irony.

To view Inman’s humorous (but unfortunately crass) explanation of irony, click the following link: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/irony.

On Satire

           I worked with a student yesterday whose paper dealt with a certain author’s various literary devices, one of which was satire.  As I read the paragraphs dealing with that “technique,” the words didn’t quite ring true, but I found myself unable to articulate what satire is or how she could improve her use of the term.  I looked up satire in the dictionary and even called over my coworker, but we were equally at a loss.  As a literature major, I felt chagrined.  At length, I agreed with my co-worker that the paragraph seemed well-written, supported by quotes from the book and paraphrases from sources.  The student’s use of the term “satire” still seemed off, but I feebly suggested she add what foible each example was a satire of, and we moved on.

            A niggling discontent with my ignorance prompted me (after completing other necessary chores at work) to research satire.  Up, Wikipedia!  Down, ignorance!  And now, dear readers, you shall benefit from my lesson:

            First, satire is not a technique; rather, it is a genre along with comedy, tragedy, romance and the rest.  As such, it has its own particular style and purpose: namely, satire employs such techniques as irony, sarcasm, parody, exaggeration, caricature, juxtaposition, mockery, double meanings, and so on to critique an aspect of society--politics, religion, human rights, manners, traditions, and so on.  The author seeks to expose human folly and to shame individuals and society into improvement, so in essence, satire uses wit as social criticism.  Thus can one easily distinguish satire from its techniques or from non satirical teasing, dark humor, and other forms of mockery and juxtaposition, for satire always addresses core issues related to the subject’s ideas, morals, conduct, traditions, or social position--and most notably, its address judges the subject and draws toward it not sympathy, but criticism (and, one hopes, beneficial change).

Literary satires include well-known titles such as Candide, Animal Farm, and The Screwtape Letters.  Many film spoofs are also a form of satire, as are the articles and videos from the “news” website The Onion.  Even funnies like Doonesbury and Beetle Bailey, and certain story arcs in Terry Pratchet’s Discworld series count as satires.  Satirical works such as these range from the mild and humorous (e.g. The Rape of the Lock) to the intensely serious (e.g. Lord of the Flies) to even the grotesque, tragic, or offensive (e.g. Gargantua and Pantagruel).

Though satirists hope to motivate social improvement--and some like Charles Dickens do--in some cases, their works prompt primarily negative reactions because they can, understandably, come across as unpleasantly critical and even insulting.  Occasionally, satirists make purposefully inflammatory works.  For instance, the savage verses of an ancient Greek poet named Hipponax allegedly caused one of his opponents to hang himself [“Hipponax,” Wikipedia].  However, even with milder satire, readers may take offense easily if they have a personal connection to the subject the work addresses: Consider when, in 2005, satirical Muhammad cartoons printed in the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten sparked violent worldwide protests.  Problems may also occur if readers take a sarcastic work literally.  For example, A Modest Proposal is indeed offensive if one thinks Jonathan Swift earnestly supports cannibalism as a means to reduce poverty.

Due to satire’s potential to inflame readers, most totalitarian countries prohibit it (along with less-divisive forms of free speech), and even some organizations in “free speech” countries like the U.S. have banned particular works from their libraries, schools, and so forth (such as the book The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn).  However, we cannot discount their potential for good: Dickens’ social satires were widely enjoyed and likely paved the way for various social reforms during and after his time.  More recently, Doonesbury satirized a county law in Florida “requiring minorities to have a passcard in the area; the law was soon repealed with an act nicknamed the Doonesbury Act” (“Satire: Contemporary Satire,” Wikipedia).  

            As Wikipedia observes, satires can relieve or even resolve social tension, and they “provide the keenest insights into a group's collective psyche, reveal its deepest values and tastes, and the society's structures of power.”  With such a testimony to the genre's lofty role in society, I'm sure I shall never again mistake satire for a mere technique.

 

On Tornados

When I was seven, I slept through a tornado.  

That’s not as unusual as it sounds; my room was already in the basement, and the tornado didn’t come near our house, so my parents saw no reason to wake me.  Furthermore, the neighborhood’s tornado siren always sounds faint inside the house, and the storm itself didn’t make any more noise than a usual storm.  When I was told about the tornado the next morning, in my child-like way, I felt impressed by my “feat”--it seemed like a bragging point.  It doesn’t now, of course; sleeping during a tornado due to ignorance is not particularly laudable or even strange.  However, it’s an indication of my upbringing, which has led me to perceive tornados as an interesting natural phenomenon to be cautious of but not to fear.  

I’m well aware that many out-of-staters and Kansans alike find tornados terribly frightening.  I presumably acquired my ambivalence by observing and imitating the calm, prudent attitudes of my parents and teachers, who I’m sure first exposed me to tornados through tornado drills during preschool and elementary school.  Mom has also reported that I watched The Wizard of Oz repeatedly as a five-year-old.  Naturally, I now have no memory of doing so and no notion of what I thought of Hollywood’s tornado, nor its relation to me or my state.  Still,  these unremembered events surely affected the way I perceived that tornado in second grade.

    Tornado and fire drills were both mandatory at Pleasant Hill Elementary, and in later grades, I vaguely remember the space we used for the former--a long, featureless concrete room embedded in the hill for which our school was named.  We accessed it through the kindergarten or one of the first grade classrooms, which took up the outer part of the walk-out basement.  There we were made to sit in rows.  To the teachers standing over us as monitors, we must have looked like a bunch of funny turtles, bent over our crossed legs and covering our necks with our hands.

    The next tornado I recall struck while I was in summer daycare at Temple Beth Shalom (in cooperation with Topeka’s YWCA).  I might have been eight or nine.  We were herded toward the basement, and rumor quickly spread through the ranks that this was a real tornado rather than a drill.  The steps we descended paused at a landing before turning and continuing down, and I was one of several kids who paused to gape out the rain-speckled window there, hoping to see the tornado.  Our caretakers scolded us and made us continue downstairs.  I remember feeling irritated with them, certain that our watching wasn’t nearly as dangerous as they supposed.

In sixth grade, our class toured Washburn University.  The only part of that excursion I remember, however, was the room with aftermath photos of the devastating 1960s tornado that tore through Washburn U. and other parts of Topeka.  I remember feeling amazed by the amount of destruction, and I remember--piecemeal--our teacher’s recollection of hiding below their stairs during that event and how she felt when she and her family emerged.

That was also the year we frequently went outside to work on a compost project for our science lessons.  I recall sitting on the hill while this student or that dug through the compost and made observations.  One of those days, some of us were distracted, studying some thick clouds amassing, which we speculated were thunderheads.  Before we’d finished our work with the compost, we heard the tornado sirens begin, though the sun still shone in part of the sky.  We returned inside with a mixture of reluctance and excitement.  

The movie Twister came out in 1996, and my family watched it some time after it came out on video.  Unlike the main characters, I was a cautious child and fond of my comforts, not inclined to put myself in danger or get wet however interesting it might be to study something like a tornado, but I did once run into a downpour with wild delight to investigate a new stream that had appeared in our yard parallel to the creek a dozen yards away.  My dad was furious when I didn’t come back immediately when he called.  Even though there wasn’t a tornado, lightning was another very real danger which may have passed through the water to me or may have struck one of the giant cottonwoods by our creek and sheared off a huge branch above my head, which it has done in the past (sheared off a branch, that is--not over my head).

When the tornado sirens sound now when I’m at home, I unplug my laptop in case of a lightning strike and spend a few moments examining the sky from the screen door.  Although our basement is a creepy, spider-filled place where I don’t like to linger doing laundry too long, eventually, I’ll grab the flashlight and a book, and go sit on the basement steps (it’s not possible to sit under them, and there’s no way I’m venturing into the poorly-lit, unclean other half of the basement where I might hide in what was to be a closet before mold made the basement uninhabitable).  When multiple people are present, we may sit on top of the dryer or on a folding chair brought down from the kitchen.  I may go up now and then to watch the rain or hail and to check for twisting clouds.  When Joel’s present, he watches the radar for us; when he’s not, I simply take my ease as best I can and wait for the sirens to stop, indicating it’s safe to ascend to ground level.
I wouldn’t say I have a cavalier attitude about tornados; I’m well aware of their dangers--Topeka’s 1960s tornado might have been before my lifetime, but Greensburg’s certainly isn’t.  Whether foolish or not, I don’t mind my little risky glimpses of nature’s power, knowing it is just a fraction of the power its Creator has at His disposal.  It awes and thrills me--though like anyone, I’d prefer the tornados chew up unused land instead of homes and crops and lives, but despite that, I’d rather live in unpredictable tornado country than in hurricane country, where those storms’ destruction and flooding are often more wide-spread than that left behind by our smaller, more powerful twisters.  I pray I’ll never have reason to regret this preference.