Comedy, Tragedy and Irony

In the seventh thesis of his dissertation, The Concept of Irony, Søren Kierkegaard claims, “Aristophanes in Socrate depingendo proxime ad verum accessit.”¹ One of three Greek writers who record the figure of Socrates, Aristophanes preserves the gadfly in the form of comedy. As such, when given the task of identifying the real Socrates, the comic poet is an unlikely candidate. Plato and Xenophon record the philosopher’s words in the form of dialogue, on the surface a more realistic mode of representation. Nevertheless, Kierkegaard maintains that Aristophanes helps us discover a more accurate view of Socrates precisely because of the comedic form. The argument, in short, is that Xenophon’s Socrates falls short of the heights to which his philosophy attained, while Plato’s Socrates suffered from Plato’s idealization of him. Aristophanes comes closer in comedy, or at the very least provides a foil for Plato, because the comic poet is, a) less concerned about recording the actual Socrates, and b) is not as starstruck as Socrates’ pupils.² “Therefore, even though we lack direct evidence about Socrates, even though we lack an altogether reliable view of him, we do have in recompense all the various nuances of misunderstanding, and in my opinion this is our best asset with a personality such as Socrates.”³

Kierkegaard’s claim operates with reference to the topic of his thesis: irony. Xenophon and Plato, who try to depict Socrates in a more accurate way, let the truth slip through their fingers, while Aristophanes, casually observing the humor of Socrates’ character, comes closer to the truth. In other words, the representation which admits it is a representation comes closer to the truth of the matter. In another twist of irony, this is the essence of Socratic wisdom: true wisdom is found in the admission of ignorance. While we could take issue with Kierkegaard’s assessment of Plato, Xenophon and Aristophanes, the argument provides a point of departure, providing us with various avenues of exploration.

While irony stands at the center of Kierkegaard’s argument, his concept of irony carries implications for two other ideas, tragedy and comedy: “Plato and Aristophanes do have in common an ideality of depiction, but at opposite poles; Plato has the tragic ideality, Aristophanes the comic.”⁴ Kierkegaard argues that Greek comedy depicted the ideal through the actual. The same can be said of tragedy––that it depicts the ideal or universal through the actual. Indeed, this follows Aristotle’s judgment:

Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are of the nature rather of universals, whereas those of history are singulars. By a universal statement I mean one as to what such or such a kind of man will probably or necessarily say or do––which is the aim of poetry, though it affixes proper names to the characters; by a singular statement, one as to what, say, Alcibiades did or had done to him.⁵

Both comedy and tragedy express the ideal through actuality.

In layman’s terms, we might express the relation between the ideal and actual as relatability. To use a modern example, the genre of romantic comedy sets for us an ideal of boy-meets-girl, but expresses the ideal through characters and circumstances which are real enough for us to believe that the ideal does, in fact, exist. The Greek tragic hero requires a realistic appearance, not only to be believable, but to remind the audience that such evils could just as easily befall them. I might not be Tom Hanks, but I could still find my Meg Ryan. I might not be Oedipus, but my pride could just as easily get me into trouble.

The relatability of comedy and tragedy contributes to their purpose. Good art is not mere entertainment; it is also instruction. When we associate ourselves with the events of a comedy or tragedy, the instruction which it offers settles into us more naturally and more agreeably. While there are as many lessons as good comedies and tragedies, one common thread runs through all, because it is inherent to the form. The lesson is epistemological, and returns us to Kierkegaard’s concept of irony.

Irony per se describes an incongruity between what is expressed and what actually is. For example, if it was cold and rainy outside and I said, “What a beautiful day,” the exclamation is ironic because it does not express how the day actually is. Let us suppose two different scenarios in which I might say, “What a beautiful day,” when it is raining and muggy outside. In the first, I know that it is not a beautiful day, but I express the opposite anyway. Here, I am using irony for comedic effect. Here, I am in a sense controlling irony for my own purposes. Irony of this kind often resembles sarcasm. In the second scenario, however, let’s say that for some reason I think it is bright and sunny outside, but it is not. Perhaps it was bright and sunny last I saw, but no longer is. I say, “What a beautiful day,” and a few friends, who just came in from outside, laugh at my ignorance. Here, there is still comedy, but because I speak in earnest (in other words, I am not consciously employing irony), I succumb to irony. Here, rather than being the source of a comedic remark, I myself am the object of laughter. The difference between the two scenarios is really one of knowledge: in the first, I know that what I express does not match up with what actually is; in the second, I am ignorant.

Comedy and tragedy both hinge on dramatic irony. Here, there is a discrepancy between what the writer knows and what the characters know. The characters’ ignorance drives the conflict of the story, and their ignorance is often perpetuated by their own flaws. The author of the story controls the irony and therefore can produce a comedic effect. He can also, if he so chooses, wield the irony to tragic effect. The characters succumb to the irony which the author wields. Remember that irony concerns knowledge: for the characters in the story, there is something which they do not know. The author, and we as the audience, have this secret knowledge, and desperately wish the characters to discover it.

In Oedipus Rex, the irony comes in the fact that Oedipus, by seeking to escape his fate, actually fulfills it. We as the audience are aware of what is going on, but he is not, and even furthers the destruction of Thebes in his pride. When the events are laid open, the knowledge deepens, rather than alleviates, the suffering of Oedipus.

On the comic side, Aristophanes’ The Clouds presents us with a Strepsiades, a man who, in order to get out of debt, sends his son to Socrates’ Thinkery. He reasons that, with the Socratic skill of debate, his son will be able to save him from his debtors. However, the son beats his father, and threatens to beat his mother, and justifies these impious actions using the reasoning skills acquired from the Thinkery. Thus, the consequences of Strepsiades’ actions come down upon him, magnified by the means he took to avoid them.

Comedies and tragedies share dramatic irony but differ in the effects which the irony produces in the audience. Aristotle suggests that a tragedy ought to contain “incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions.”⁶ Comedy, most immediately, ought to be funny. While the comic and tragic effect differs greatly, both stem from the presence of dramatic irony within the work.

We have examined two aspects of comedy and tragedy: first, their representation of the ideal through the actual, or what we called relatability; second, their shared element of dramatic irony, or knowledge which is hidden to the characters but revealed to the audience. By bringing these two elements together, we arrive at the same lesson from Kierkegaard. Our Danish Gadfly suggests that Aristophanes, by giving us a “less realistic” portrayal of Socrates, arrives very close to the truth. This reflects the heart of Socratic wisdom itself, which claims that true wisdom begins with the admission of ignorance. Going one step further, Kierkegaard suggests that a dramatic irony hovers over us all––we all pretend to know more than we actually do. Socrates himself is the prime example––the great master of the ideal forms could not work out his relation to the real world of Athens, and it killed him. Kierkegaard develops this idea in Either/Or, pondering how both a hedonist and an ethically minded judge face the problem of their own ignorance. In Fear and Trembling, he presents us the knight of faith, a man like Abraham who, against all “reasonable” knowledge, must live according to faith.

Comedy and tragedy reflect the truth of Socratic wisdom by holding ourselves up to us. We are all ignorant, and the more we trust our own wisdom, the more likely we are to fail. Like Victor Frankenstein to the magistrate, we shout, “How ignorant art thou in the pride of wisdom!”⁷ having ourselves created monsters from pride. Viewed properly, comedy and tragedy teach us how to live in ignorance. This whole discussion is a manifestation of Solomon’s Proverb: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”⁸  The book of Ecclesiastes contains a similar theme. The Law, the Prophets, the Wisdom, and the History all demonstrate the failures of pride, over and over again. Adam and Eve want to be like God, knowing good and evil (an intellectual pride). Cain is jealous of Abel. Abraham takes God’s promise into his own hands, and sins with Hagar. The Judges rise and fall back into sin. Neither David nor Solomon keep peace within the household. The history of Israel is one of rebellion; in other words, one of pride.

With one exception.

Indeed, let this attitude be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus. Though he was by nature God, he did not consider equality with God as a prize to be displayed, but he emptied himself by taking the nature of a servant. When he was born in human likeness, and his appearance was like that of any other man, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.⁹

In the gospel we see what appears to be first a tragedy, then a comedy. However, Christ defies the criteria of the tragic or comic lead. Aristotle argued that the central figure could not be a good man passing from happiness to misery. Additionally, according to the criteria laid out above, Christ does not make sense because a) he is not ignorant, and b) has no flaw to perpetuate the ignorance. Can we, therefore, count the gospel as a tragedy or comedy?

God is often described as the author of history. When we first spoke of irony, we distinguished between controlling irony (as does an author) and succumbing to irony (as characters in a story). The uniqueness of the gospel is that God as the author of the story also becomes a man as a character within the story. Under these circumstances, Christ does not share in the ignorance of the tragic or comic lead. However, because he as author enters the story as character, he opens a way for us as characters to live within tragic or comic circumstances. In other words, Christ as author lives a human life with omniscience so that we can live a human life with ignorance.

Imagine the gospel story from two perspectives: a) from the perspective of the high priest Caiaphas, and b) from the perspective of the apostle Peter. Caiaphas, high priest during the ministry of Jesus, sees the man claiming to be God’s Son as a threat. If he causes too much of a problem, the Romans will come and destroy us. Caiaphas even says that “it is better for you that one man should die for the people, not that the whole nation should perish.”¹⁰ Caiaphas prophesies but does not realize the way in which his words will become true (an instance of dramatic irony). Caiaphas contributes to the arrest and crucifixion of Jesus. At this point, it looks like a good ending. However, Christ’s crucifixion leads to the resurrection, which fulfills Caiaphas’ words, but also undercuts the religious system which Caiaphas meant to protect. In his ignorance, Caiaphas sped along his own destruction. This is a tragedy.

In contrast, behold Peter. Peter is a fiery, stubborn man, eager for Christ to start drawing swords and overthrowing Romans. Peter stays with Christ through his ministry, but rejects Christ at the crucial moment. Christ is crucified and the disciples go into hiding; all things look like a tragedy. But then there is the resurrection. Peter is restored to Christ and becomes a powerful apostle in the Kingdom of God. As such, Peter does help Christ overthrow the Romans, but in a deeper way than Peter could have imagined.

Between Caiaphas and Peter, we see types for the tragic and comic figures. Both suffer from and act out of ignorance. Caiaphas ultimately rejects Christ, and his ignorance draws his life to a tragic end. Peter, on the other hand, allows Christ to teach his ignorance which restores him to Christ. Peter suffers much, but through Christ the suffering gives way to joy. When the deeper truth is revealed, it condemns the one and frees the others. Christ’s own resurrection is the promise of our resurrection. We cling to this promise, through faith, when our knowledge is insufficient. “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.”¹¹ For the enemies of God, life is a tragedy. For the children of God, life is a comedy. And like a good romantic comedy, it ends with a wedding.

1. Søren Kierkegaard, The Concept of Irony, trans. Howard and Edna Hong (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 5.

2. Consider, as a crude analogy, the following scenario. If a new film comes out, and I expect to accurately convey it to you by a repetition of details, I really have not conveyed the grand scope of the film. If, on the other hand, I talk and talk about the genius of the film, even citing particular examples, I still have not truly conveyed the film. The best way to present the film to you in a credible way is to give my impression of it, then encourage you to see it for yourself.

3. Kierkegaard, Concept of Irony, trans. Hong & Hong, 128.

4. Kierkegaard, Concept of Irony, trans. Hong & Hong, 128.

5. Aristotle, Poetics, 1451b-5, trans. Ingram Bywater (New York: The Modern Library, 1984), 235.

6. Aristotle, Poetics, 1449b–25, trans. Bywater, 230.

7. Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2008), 193.

8. Proverbs 3:5–6, ESV.

9. Philippians 2:5–11.

10. John 11:49.

11. 1 Corinthians 13:12.