Tragedy in Literature

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Tragedy in Literature

A tragic story represents the downfall of goods and destruction by evil. Tragedy is a descending story shape. It can be compared to the season of fall because both fall and tragedy go from good to evil where living things die. Tragedy starts with "Destruction of the Beautiful," in which virtuous characters are destroyed through no fault of their own; this descends to "The Death of Innocence" where faultless characters meet the realities of life and are changed forever; "Triumph and Defeat" shows us a state where a quest either fails or triumphs but in the midst of suffering; "Pride and Death" in which a character who is familiar with evil is presented with affliction; "Nothingness" where a character only knows suffering and evil in life; and "Horror" where a victim of great horror can only escape through death. Tragedy is like a black hole of misery where a victim becomes a prisoner in hell like life and suffers until death. In Night, a horrific autobiography of Elie Wiesel's life in the Nazi concentration camps, Wiesel witnesses unspeakable acts of appalling pain and suffering. These included a boy killing his father for a piece of bread and the death of Wiesel's own father. Wiesel is eventually liberated from the concentration camps but it is after witnessing the loss of his friends, family, country, faith, and religion. Wiesel was one of millions who faced the tragic and unspeakable acts of the Nazis. In the concentration camps people gave up and lost any hope. This ultimately led to destruction, which can be compared to the phase of "Horror."

One day there was an American air raid on Buna, a concentration camp. A man attempted to eat some soup that was left out in a great pot. Everyone else was inside looking out, knowing, just like this man did, that his attempt to steal soup ultimately would lead to death. But the man has lost hope. He attempted to steal soup in a world where death is the only way to escape.

Then, for no apparent reason, he let out a terrible cry, a rattle such as I had never heard before, and his mouth open, thrust his head toward the still steaming liquid. We jumped at the explosion. Falling back onto the ground, his face stained with soup, the man writhed for a few seconds at the foot of the cauldron, then he moved no more.

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