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| Character | Philoctetes | |
|---|---|---|
| Gender | Male | |
| Age Range(s) | Young Adult (20-35), Adult (36-50) | |
| Type of monologue / Character is | Crying, Descriptive, Depressed, Lamenting, Complaining, Reminiscing life story/Telling a story | |
| Type | Dramatic | |
| Period | Ancient Greek | |
| Genre | Tragedy, Drama | |
| Description | Philoctetes tells Neoptolemus his sad story | |
| Location | 1/4 of play | |
Summary
In the background story of the play, during the Trojan war between Troy and Greece, the Greeks capture a Trojan seer who tells them they will need Philoctetes and Heracles' bow to win the war. When Heracles had died, in fact, Philoctetes had received his bow. Philoctetes is a Greek hero and soldier who, after being bitten by a snake, had been left on the deserted island of Lemnos by Odysseus. Odysseus now sails back to the island with Neoptolemus to try to convince Philoctetes to join the Trojan war, difficult task considering that Philoctetes now hates him.
In the beginning of the play Odysseus and Neoptolemus arrive on the island. Odysseus decides to hide and convinces Neoptolemus to tell Philoctetes that he hates Odysseus as well since he has his father's armor (Neoptolemus is Achilles' son and Odysseus had received his armor after his death).
In this scene Neoptolemus has just met Philoctetes. He pretends not to recognize him and therefore Philoctetes narrates his sad story to him.
In the beginning of the play Odysseus and Neoptolemus arrive on the island. Odysseus decides to hide and convinces Neoptolemus to tell Philoctetes that he hates Odysseus as well since he has his father's armor (Neoptolemus is Achilles' son and Odysseus had received his armor after his death).
In this scene Neoptolemus has just met Philoctetes. He pretends not to recognize him and therefore Philoctetes narrates his sad story to him.
Written by Administrator
| Excerpt |
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| PHILOCTETES Alas! how hateful to the gods, How very poor a wretch must I be then, That Greece should never hear of woes like mine! But they who sent me hither, they concealed them, And smile triumphant, whilst my cruel wounds Grow deeper still. O, sprung from great Achilles! Behold before thee Poeas' wretched son, With whom, a chance but thou hast heard, remain The dreadful arrows of renowned Alcides, E'en the unhappy Philoctetes- him Whom the Atreidae and the vile Ulysses Inhuman left, distempered as I was By the envenomed serpent's deep-felt wound. Soon as they saw that, with long toil oppressed, Sleep had o'ertaken me on the hollow rock, There did they leave me when from Chrysa's shore They bent their fatal course; a little food And these few rags were all they would bestow. Such one day be their fate! Alas! my son, How dreadful, thinkst thou, was that waking to me, When from my sleep I rose and saw them not! How did I weep! and mourn my wretched state! When not a ship remained of all the fleet That brought me here- no kind companion left To minister or needful food or balm To my sad wounds. On every side I looked, And nothing saw but woe; of that indeed Measure too full. For day succeeded day, And still no comfort came; myself alone Could to myself the means of life afford, In this poor grotto. On my bow I lived: The winged dove, which my sharp arrow slew, With pain I brought into my little hut, And feasted there; then from the broken ice I slaked my thirst, or crept into the wood For useful fuel; from the stricken flint I drew the latent spark, that warms me still And still revives. This with my humble roof Preserve me, son. But, oh! my wounds remain. Thou seest an island desolate and waste; No friendly port nor hopes of gain to tempt, Nor host to welcome in the traveller; Few seek the wild inhospitable shore. By adverse winds, sometimes th' unwilling guests, As well thou mayst suppose, were hither driven; But when they came, they only pitied me, Gave me a little food, or better garb To shield me from the cold; in vain I prayed That they would bear me to my native soil, For none would listen. Here for ten long years Have I remained, whilst misery and famine Keep fresh my wounds, and double my misfortune. This have th' Atreidae and Ulysses done, And may the gods with equal woes repay them! |
