Analysis 1: Sublime Death

In the television series Dead Like Me, the heroine, Georgia Lass, dies and becomes a Grim Reaper. In this excerpt from the end of the pilot episode, George faces her first assignment: taking the soul of a little girl. After saving the girl’s life in a train wreck where she should have died, George must face her boss Rube. Rube proceeds to explain to George that if she doesn’t let those destined to die do so their souls will “go bad” and “wither and die.”

This is only the beginning of a long series in which George and her fellow Grim Reapers are forced to come to terms with death, its merciless and senseless nature. As George states at the end of this scene “for me, death was just a wake up call,” and thus the show tells as much the story of George’s coming-of-age as a naïve young woman as it does the absurdity of life, death, and fate. These are heavy topics, ones that Dead Like Me consistently approaches with a grace and grandeur that can only be referred to as sublime.

To choose one scene to exemplify the show’s sublimity is no easy task, but using the pilot’s final scene gives a good overview of the general approaches the show takes. To begin with, it’s clear that Dead Like Me demonstrates Longinus’ first source of sublimity, greatness of thought. Dealing with the nature of death is a naturally weighty topic, and as Longinus states “words will be great if thoughts are weighty” (139). Thus Rube’s dialogue with George in the pilot’s final scene is frequently sublime thanks to the weightiness of the topic, death, and the ways in which Rube attempts to explain it.

Moreover, Rube’s lines follow many of Longinus’ points on use of language to create sublimity. One thing that stands out is his point on the use of everyday words, “phrases [that] come within an inch of being vulgar, but they are so expressive that they avoid vulgarity” (Longinus 147). Thus, an interesting effect is created when Rube states, “It is cruel, it’s cruel she’ll never know what life is really like, it’s cruel she’ll miss out on so much love and pain and beauty. That’s sad for everyone in the world, except for her. She won’t give a rat’s ass, she’ll be doing something different. That’s just the way it is.” By using a phrase like “rat’s ass,” Rube’s point seems almost ironically casual, and yet it becomes all the more weighty. Rube speaks bluntly, and by doing so he powerfully exemplifies death’s inevitability.

He also uses metaphor and what Longinus calls visualization, specifically when he tells George “You know what happens when you keep a soul around after its time? Same thing happens to milk – spoils, goes bad – souls go bad in all kinds of ways” and that if she doesn’t take the little girl’s soul it will “wither and die and rot inside her.” These are powerful images that express the show’s entire dilemma within a few lines.

Ultimately, the crowning element of sublimity for this scene comes after George has accepted what she must do, and tenderly takes the girl’s soul. The girl goes off into a dazzling display of lights that descend from the sky to reveal what looks like an amusement park, as the song “Qué Sera Sera” plays in the background. What makes this moment feel so strikingly sublime is its juxtaposing of multiple emotions. As Longinus says, emotion is one of the most important elements of the sublime. More than just pure emotion, Dead Like Me works with ones that are constantly shifting and highly ambivalent, creating a sublime sense of how quickly death can steal away life, how life is fragile and filled with both joy and sorrow. In this way this scene shows us “not a single emotion, but a complex of emotions” (Longinus 140), and these create its greatest sublime effect. As the little girl departs from the earth and George and Rube “walk off into the dark unknown, or whatever you want to call it,” as George puts it, we have a sense of hope combined with the knowledge of the severity of death’s power. “Qué Sera Sera” contributes to this, and we see that life goes on even in the face of tragedy. The ending of the pilot is thus ambivalent and unified in being so, demonstrating Dead Like Me’s overall sublime nature.

Works Cited


Longinus. “On Sublimity.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. Ed. Vincent B. Leitch. 2nd ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2010. 136-54. Print.


“Pilot.” Dead Like Me. Writ. Bryan Fuller. Dir. Scott Winant. MGM, 2003.

Week 2: Aristotle and some beginnings of psychology

I must admit Aristotle is a little bit too much of scientist for me. I appreciate theorists who speak very scientifically, and I realize this is huge basis of a lot of literary theory, viewing literature as a science, and I think that can lead to some great and interesting results. And yet, as an artist, I find Aristotle to get a bit too caught up in specific definitions of things, and would have much preferred if he had gone a little more into philosophy and psychology. The idea of catharsis is fascinating to me and I was quite disappointed that he didn’t elaborate on it in his Poetics at all, only just mentioned it (or at least in what we read from the book – is there more he wrote I don’t know about?)

Aside from that complaint though, and ignoring his minor sexist comments about how women shouldn’t be too “manly” and men shouldn’t be too “womanly” (Aristotle 100) (Odysseus is too emo for you, Aristotle? Come now, emo men make great tragedy!), I found Aristotle to have some good points and interesting ideas. My favorites:

Representation: It’s natural to us from childhood, we enjoy it because we naturally enjoy learning. See, this is the interesting psychological stuff!

This is a great way in which Aristotle has proven art’s importance. It teaches us something. Of course, perhaps this was really the same reason Plato was so afraid of it. It’s powerful. Every time we represent, we are saying something, exploring something. And maybe that something is an uncomfortable truth about life. Plato didn’t seem to be a big fan of art that showed ugly truths about life – how people aren’t always really very nice, good, or honest. But would us being ignorant to this truth help us cope with it as Plato thought? Sadly, it’s unlikely that would change human nature. The best way to make change is to acknowledge, not ignore.

Catharsis: Pity and fear in tragedy are therapeutic. Again, good psychology.

Art as therapy has got to be one of its best and most important attributes. Someone else has been there, you’re not alone. We all suffer. By talking about it and listening to each other we relieve ourselves of our pain and fear.

Action: This was interesting to me, how Aristotle says tragedy is less about character and more about plot – action.

These days it seems we place a lot of importance on someone’s character, and when I analyze works I tend to focus on character most. But who is someone without their actions, anyway? Our actions are what define us. It actually may be a more effective way to analyze a character than their personality – after all, personality is fluid, and our actions often don’t fit with our so-called “personalities.” We often surprise ourselves.

An example of a character I normally try to analyze in personality:

(Someone else who would be way too emo for Aristotle, incidentally.)

Zuko, from Avatar: The Last Airbender. (I’m way too obsessed with analyzing him, so expect him to pop up again here from time to time.) Zuko is a good example of a tragic hero who is actually very difficult to analyze outside of his actions. His actions define him absolutely. Reversals (another Aristotle term) are what make his character so powerful – the times he does what one would not expect him to do. It is his actions that make him such a dynamic and interesting character, because they illustrate his struggles with morality.

Anyway, that’s a super quick abridged example of how Aristotle has a very good point I probably don’t consider enough – actions in tragedy (or other fiction) are of prime importance. Even when analyzing character, you must look at their actions first to understand them. This is of course most true for theater, film/TV – performed fiction, as opposed to narrative, which of course is what Aristotle was talking about in regards to tragedy (theater) vs. epic (narrative). (And they were both poetry, to complicate that further!)

There’s Aristotle for you. Now onto Longinus’s sublimity for my first analysis…

Week 1: Gorgias, Plato, nothing much has changed

Looking back at 400 B.C.E., I find it endearing (perhaps a funny choice of word, but the way I feel all the same) that Gorgias and Plato were writing things that sound so familiar.

I want to begin by commending Gorgias with ending his argument with “I wished to write this speech for Helen’s encomium and my amusement” (Gorgias 41). His amusement – I love that. He reminds me of the casual forum poster or blogger of today, writing an essay (of course they probably wouldn’t call it an essay) about their favorite character on their favorite television series. The fact that nothing has changed in some 2,000+ years but myths replaced with TV and gods with superheroes is something incredible to see. This is the way so many of us engage with the myths of our own day and age, especially now thanks to the internet. Today, we are all our own Gorgiases, and it’s cool and crazy (at least for me) to see where it all began thousands of years ago.

Plato is quite an interesting fellow. Of course we’ve seen his ideas crop up often enough throughout history, the positives and the negatives of his ideal Republic. Again, I have to begin by commending him for being an open-minded, logical, and humble enough person to admit at the end of his dialogues that he might be wrong, and that if his “allegations met a poetic rebuttal” he would be “justified in letting poetry return” to his Republic (Plato 76). This makes me more inclined to listen to him, for he admits his theories are only that – theories, and should be challenged when necessary.

Plato’s fears are of course reasonable. He’s not wrong, he’s just a pessimist, essentially. He sees all the negatives of literature and art and none of the positives, believing the only positive to be a superficial entertainment value. Plato is the concerned parent of today whose paranoia over what their kids are exposed to on TV outweighs their willingness to let their kids actually learn from the media they consume. Plato wants one set of ideals expressed in a literal way. He assumes the majority of people are too stupid to understand the concept of metaphor. He believes metaphor is dangerous, anything not literally true is dangerous, because people are too stupid not to take things literally.

Plato, like many parents today, has reason to be concerned, yes. But at the same time he greatly underestimates the masses. He thinks the dangers of metaphor make their positives unimportant. He thinks it better to eliminate expression rather than explore it and understand it. He would prefer censorship to understanding. And so, ironically, he is the one advocating the very cave he supposedly detests in his cave analogy. A cave in which people are blocked out from a world of fiction.

Of course, to Plato this would be blasphemy. I am equating fiction with the highest, purest forms of reality! The cave is fiction, the world outside reality. I acknowledge his fears, don’t get me wrong. One can’t simply stay inside all day watching TV, ignoring the world outdoors. But on the flipside, should one live only in the outside world, never once using fiction for positive reasons? Not at all. Fiction is truly helpful when it helps us to face reality. And it does this plenty.

So I guess I can’t help but speak of Plato negatively, even when I wanted to stay neutral. I blame it on my upbringing and the fact that I am clearly, clearly an artist.

I mean, I’ve been brainwashed. Whoops. (Aristotle, I think it’s your turn now.)

Philosophy of Theory, or Theory on Philosophy

Theory. I’ve never taken a class devoted solely to theory, and in the past I believe only two of my classes really discussed theory at all, and sporadically.

But here’s how I know I love theory already. Two things.

There is a book called Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland. Both photographers, they decided to write a book for artists, artists in any medium. The book discusses what they have found to be true for them as working artists over the years: the anxieties attached to making art and how to overcome them, the ways artists work and grow, all types of things artists might encounter when they create. It was, essentially, their theory of art making.

The way I termed this book after reading it, before really understanding what the word “theory” meant, was a book on the philosophy of art. Looking in the dictionary, the two words appear to be synonymous. But while we tend to stick to using the word theory, philosophy, in my opinion, better represents the way I feel about it.

(And the extra nice thing is, it doesn't way ten tons like our theory anthology.)

This book made me realize something I probably already knew, but hadn’t yet stated for myself: I find this stuff fascinating. In retrospect, it was probably a major thing that brought me to love the study of literature in the first place. In high school, I started to love writing essays for the first time in my life, and it was solely because of my English classes. It was the first time I’d probably ever loved writing period, because suddenly we were allowed to explore texts in any way we wanted. We weren’t writing book reports, dry summaries. We were analyzing.

I found Art & Fear not only fascinating, but more importantly inspiring. Which leads me to my second great encounter with theory: last semester. I took a special topics creative writing class, Hybridity and Narrative with Prof. Haake. This class focused, alongside writing and literature, on theory. I immediately began to hear echoes of Art & Fear in our discussions of theory, and I felt myself drawn right back into that same state of wonder. I was surprised to find, although in retrospect I shouldn’t have been, that this class helped inspire me to write much more than creative writing classes in the past had – ones which hadn’t focused on theory at all.

And so I’ve discovered that, as both a writer and a reader, theory is overwhelmingly important to me. And trust me, I’m not just saying this because that’s what an English major is “supposed” to say. Looking back on my love of art, I see that it’s theory that makes me love it. I don’t read, watch movies and TV, even play RPG video games just to be entertained by them in the immediate way. I love and am entertained by them by looking at them critically, analyzing them backwards and forwards, and squeezing every last drop of meaning out of them.

That’s what theory is to me. The study of meaning.

I like to call it philosophy.