The Tragic Hero: How to Transform Sorrow Into Strength
In life, downfalls are inevitable — but we can always do something about it.
Do you have a tragic past?
If you do, your present circumstances might not be quite what you want them to be. You might carry some scars — seen, or unseen — that hinder you from becoming your best self. In fact, you might be going about your days believing that there’s “something wrong” with you.
After all, it’s hard to walk with a crippled leg or to love with a broken heart.
But that doesn’t mean you’ll be frail forever. Even after everything fell into ruin, you can always find retribution. You can always rise from the ashes.
You can learn how to do it from the fascinating archetype of “the tragic hero.”
The Tragic Hero
In Poetics, Aristotle outlined the characteristics of a tragic hero:
Virtuous: The hero should embody noble and honorable traits, which makes him a “good person” that’s easy for the audience to adore.
Has a fatal flaw (hamartia): Despite his virtuous character, the hero must carry a flaw that shows that he’s an imperfect human being, just like the audience, thus making him relatable.
Goes through a reversal of fortune (peripeteia): The hero’s fatal flaw should cause a major turnaround in his fate, primarily from good to bad circumstances (rich to poor, strong to weak, and so on).
The original excerpt actually states more requirements, but the usage of Aristotle’s definition has eased considerably over time, and these three are perhaps the most relevant for today’s tragic heroes.
As for other tropes, like “the hero dies a tragic death,” is no longer seen as mandatory. Today, there are many examples of tragic heroes who managed to avert their doom and find a second wind.
A classic example that fits Aristotle’s definition would be someone like Oedipus Rex from the Ancient Greek myth. And the modern ones that you might be more familiar with are Anakin Skywalker from Star Wars or Daenerys Targaryen from Game of Thrones.
Here, the primary example I’ll use to illustrate this archetype will be Ken Kaneki from Sui Ishida’s Tokyo Ghoul.
Ken Kaneki
“I’m not the protagonist of a novel or anything. I’m just a college student who likes to read, like you could find anywhere. But… if, for argument’s sake, you were to write a story with me in the lead role, it would certainly be… a tragedy.”
— Ken Kaneki (Tokyo Ghoul, Chapter 1: Tragedy)
Ken Kaneki didn’t come from a royal lineage, like Oedipus. Nor was he born with innate supernatural powers, like Anakin. This means he’s also not like Daenerys, who has both.
As he said in his prologue, he’s just a college student who likes to read. It’s precisely this ordinary trait of him that makes him so relatable to the readers.
When I first came across Tokyo Ghoul, I was still a college student, and I’ve also been an avid reader forever, so Kaneki’s characterization immediately resonated with me.
This relatability might be an example of the Barnum effect — so it’s highly likely for you to feel the same way. It’s not uncommon to find “a college student who likes to read” type of person. We’re everywhere.
So, what makes Kaneki a tragic hero?
Kaneki’s tragedy began on a date gone wrong. A normal guy, doing a normal guy thing: Trying to woo a girl.
This would lead some to believe Kaneki’s hamartia is lust, but I beg to differ. Rather than a pervert or a thirsty Casanova, Kaneki is portrayed more as an innocent, clueless young man. Perhaps, this cluelessness is his hamartia.
Little did he know, that Kamishiro Rize, the girl he’s meeting, is a ghoul — a predatory creature that eats humans.
Long story short, an accident happened. Rize dies and Kaneki is hospitalized. Kaneki lost some of his organs in the accident, and they were replaced with Rize’s. The transplant turns Kaneki into a half-human, half-ghoul hybrid.
This is Kaneki’s peripeteia. He gained the monstrous power of a ghoul, but he also paid a monstrous price. He can’t eat normal human foods anymore. Now, he can only eat human flesh — and drink coffee.
Kaneki struggles to accept his new, nightmarish identity, while also hanging on to the remnants of his humane self. From here on, even if you’ve never read Tokyo Ghoul, surely you can imagine the events that follow.
Kaneki’s circumstance is very much like that of Gregor Samsa, the protagonist of Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis (Kaneki alludes to this fact in his story).
Both are ordinary humans who are neither particularly righteous nor wicked. Just everyday people like you and me. And yet, without any particular reason, a terrible event befell them and turned them into a monster.
But what’s so great about stories like these? They’re so gloomy.
To understand the charm of the tragic hero, first, we should examine his stage: The tragedy itself.
Tragedy
We can loosely define tragedy as “a drama based on human suffering.” While this simple description might not be entirely accurate, it serves to capture the essence of a tragedy.
Etymologically, the word “tragedy” comes from tragoidia, which means “song of the goat” (not-so-coincidentally, this goat symbolism is alluded to several times in Tokyo Ghoul, like in the title of Sen Takatsuki’s book “The Black Goat’s Egg,” or the name of Kaneki’s organization, “Goat”).
The Greek tragedy is perhaps the oldest surviving form of tragedy. It’s a form of drama that was highly influential and widespread in Ancient Greece, around the late 6th century BC. The most eminent Greek tragedians are Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides.
Tragedians — the word sounds off, huh? Most people would be more familiar with its cheerful counterpart: Comedians. But tragedy and comedy are two sides of the same coin. There’s even a hybrid genre called Tragicomedy.
Comedy is fun and lighthearted — it’s perfectly understandable that people enjoy watching it: It makes them feel good. Tragedy, however, is bleak and cheerless, and yet, people also love it.
But why? Why the paradoxical response?
Katharsis
The reason is something called katharsis, a process of “emotional cleansing” that purges pent-up emotions, particularly pity and fear.
This art-induced cleansing brings about a sense of “renewal” or “restoration” in the audience, and it’s an integral part of a tragedy (again, not-so-coincidentally, “Katharsis” is the title of Tokyo Ghoul:re’s second theme song).
Furthermore, while Kaneki doesn’t explicitly use the term “katharsis,” he describes a similar phenomenon in Tokyo Ghoul: Days:
“Fiction books give the reader a chance to step away from their own reality and into the shoes of the characters, and they show you a world that isn’t the one you already know. And sometimes the story’s not so different from your own, and it lets you get closer to your own feelings. So when you close a book you’ve just finished reading and return to reality, all the pain and sadness you couldn’t put into words before are still there on those pages. And that can be comforting.”
Katharsis can be brought about by mimesis, another literary process where artwork mirrors real life and makes itself relatable to the audience.
In a tragedy, mimesis will expose us to negative experiences and emotions in a controlled environment. It allows us to “suffer without suffering,” therefore regulating our emotions and somewhat priming our minds to be resilient should a similar tragedy occur in real life — however unlikely that is.
And this leads us to another process.
Metamorphosis
Metamorphosis is derived from a Greek word that means transformation. It’s also the title of Franz Kafka’s book that’s mentioned before.
Despite Kafka’s grim interpretation, the word metamorphosis actually has a neutral connotation, maybe even positive — like the transformation of a caterpillar into a butterfly, surely you’re familiar with that.
Metamorphosis is actually a scientific concept. It’s not a literary device nor does it have a particular connection with tragedies. However, some tragedies incorporate a process of metamorphosis in their narrative.
Some tragic heroes die deaths as tragic as their lives, like Oedipus or Daenerys. However, others like Anakin found retribution and died a righteous man once again. Metaphorically, he metamorphoses.
Kaneki, as a tragic hero, is of the metamorphosing kind, and his metamorphosis is depicted in both physical and mental manifestations:
Physical: His ghoul form evolves in several stages, which earns him the monikers Eyepatch, Centipede, Black Reaper, and finally, Dragon. With the attainment of each stage, he grows stronger incrementally.
Mental: He matures from a timid college student to the One-Eyed King, a leader who unites the contradicting worlds of humans and ghouls. This feat is akin to that of uniting lions and gazelles, the predator and the prey — a feat with impossible odds.
Kaneki starts as a clueless college student who receives a horrible fate he doesn’t deserve, and yet he manages to turn the tides of fate in his favor. His character exemplifies a tragic hero who’s able to use their tragedy as a driving force for growth, to transform their sorrow into strength.
From Kaneki — and other tragic heroes like him — we can learn more than just how to survive in the face of tragedies, but how to thrive through them.
Conclusion
In the end, tragedies are meant to be “just stories.” Real life is usually not so grim — unless you live during the Holocaust.
However, there’s much we can learn from these stories. After all, human life is littered with “mini-tragedies” like heartbreaks, failed exams, and lost jobs. Tragedies, through their tragic heroes, teach us how to handle these circumstances.
To conclude, I’ll leave you with one of Kaneki’s last excerpts in his story, which beautifully answers his prologue:
“If, lets say, you were to write a story with me as the main character, it would certainly be a tragedy.
No. Everyone’s the same, in fact.
He’s the main character of his novel, and she’s the main character of her movie. All those that walk this earth are the main characters of their own tragedies.
All steal, and from all, something is stolen. We can’t help it. That’s who we are. Steal, and be stolen from. Imprison, and be imprisoned. Follow, and be followed. Do, and be done unto. Affirm and negate, over and over.
We fight ceaselessly to save ourselves from loss. And yet the people and places we love will one day surely be lost. We will all surely be forgotten.
Life is sad. Empty. But, despite knowing we will one day be bereft, despite knowing we will one day disappear, we still strive in wretched ways. We still wish to be beautiful.
And I consider: “Which one?”
I choose: “This one.”
Forever choosing, forever being chosen.
Nothing more. Nothing less.”
This essay was originally published in The Apeiron Blog on 17 September 2020.