The Hero with A Thousand Faces
by Joseph Campbell
The Call to Adventure sets the story rolling by disrupting the comfort of the Hero’s Ordinary World, presenting a challenge or quest that must be undertaken. The Call throws the Ordinary World off balance, and establishes the stakes involved if the challenge is rejected. Often delivered by the Herald archetype, the Call to Adventure can take a multitude of forms, including: a message or announcement (The African Queen), a sudden storm (Home Alone), the arrival of the villain (High Noon), a death (Jaws, Some Like it Hot), an abduction (Star Wars), a man’s dying words (Citizen Kane). The Hero may need a Succession of Calls before finally realizing that a challenge must be met, or that his only means of escape is the Special World. Many times the Hero needs to choose between two Conflicting Calls…
The Hero Meets a Mentor to gain confidence, insight, advice, training, or magical gifts to overcome the initial fears and face the threshold of the adventure.
A Hero may not wish to rush into a Special World blindly and, therefore, seeks the experience and wisdom of someone who has been there before. This Mentor has survived to provide the essential lessons and training needed to better face the Journey’s Tests and Ordeals. The Mentor may be a physical person, or an object such as a map, a logbook, or hieroglyphics. In Westerns and Detective stories, the Hero may hold an Inner Mentor, a strong code of honor or justice that guides him through the Journey.
Archetypes
HeroHeroineVillianVillainess
Three Basic Stages of the Hero’s Journey
Substages of the Hero’s Journey
Beowulf
Translated by Seamus Heaney
Beowulf spoke, made a formal boast
For the last time: “I risked my life
Often when I was young. Now I am old,
But as king of the people I shall pursue this fight
5For the glory of winning, if the evil one will only
Abandon his earth-fort and face me in the open.”
Then he addressed each dear companion
One final time, those fighters in their helmets,
Resolute and high-born: “I would rather not
10Use a weapon if I knew another way
To grapple with the dragon, and make good my boast
As I did against Grendel in days gone by.
But I shall be meeting molten venom
In the fire he breathes, so I go forth
15In mail-shirt and shield. I won’t shift a foot
When I meet the cave-guard: what occurs on the wall
Between the two of us will turn out as fate,
Overseer of men, decides. I am resolved.
I scorn further words against this sky-borne foe.
20“Men at arms, remain here on the barrow,
Safe in your armour, to see which one of us
Is better in the end at bearing wounds
In a deadly fray. This fight is not yours,
Nor is it up to any man except me
25To measure his strength against the monster
Or to prove his worth. I shall win the fold
By my courage, or else mortal combat,
Doom of battle, will bear your lord away.”
Beowulf
Prose Translation
Out in the black fen something stirred. It was cruel and slimy and its eyes shone green. A part of the night it moved through, its wicked heart was darker than the darkest place in that night. . . .
[Back in the castle]
Queen Wealhtheow paced the corridors, wringing her white hands until the knucklebones nearly pierced the delicate flesh. Unferth, drunk, his buckle-belt undone, leaned from a turret to scan the murky marsh. Hrothgar and his lords waited in the banqueting hall below. Food was set out, steaming on the tables; but nobody felt like eating it.
• • •
The coming of Grendel was neither swift nor slow. This time, the night so thick, it was impossible to tell the precise moment when the creature emerged from his dreggy pool and began to drag his coils toward hall Heorot. There was only the sound to go by—the foul breath squeaking in little gasps, the noise in his throat like the splintery crunching of bones. The rats could not see him and ran over his scales in the dark. Grendel let them go. He was hungry for more than rats.
The door of the banqueting hall was thick and studded. Stout bars held it shut against the night’s alarms. None of the ten waiting warriors had slept a wink. Hrothgar’s eyes never left the door. He sat bolt upright, sword in hand, a broad axe at his side. The others were in similar attitudes.
But they had no chance against the fury of the beast.
One moment the door was standing . . .
The next, it was down, smashed by a single blow, and Grendel was upon them!
from Othello
by William Shakespeare
IAGO.Thus do I ever make my fool my purse;
For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane,
If I would time expend with such a snipe
But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor;
5And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets
He has done my office: I know not if ’t be true;
But I for mere suspicion in that kind
Will do as if for surety. He holds me well;
The better shall my purpose work on him.
10Cassio’s a proper man: let me see now;
To get his place, and to plume up my will
In double knavery – How, how? – Let’s see –
After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear
That he is too familiar with his wife.
15He hath a person and a smooth dispose
To be suspected; framed to make women false.
The Moor is of a free and open nature,
That thinks men honest that but seem to be so;
And will as tenderly be led by the nose
20As asses are.
I have’t. It is engender’d. Hell and night
Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light.
In the public domain.
from Othello
by William Shakespeare
IAGO. That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it;
The she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit:
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,
Is of a constant, loving, noble nature;
And I dare think he’ll prove to Desdemona
A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too,
Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure
I stand accountant for as great a sin,
But partly led to diet my revenge,
For that I do suspect the lusty Moor
Hath lead’d into my seat: the thought whereof
Doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my inwards;
And nothing can or shall content my soul
Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife;
Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor
At least into a jealousy so strong
That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,
I’ll have Michael Cassio on the hip,
Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb;
For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too;
Make the Moor thank me, love me and reward me,
For making him egregiously an ass
And practicing upon his peace and quiet
Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confused:
Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used.
“Blowin’ in the Wind,” Bob Dylan
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, ’n’ how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, ’n’ how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, ’n’ how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, ’n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
How many years can a mountain exist
Before it’s washed to the sea?
Yes, ’n’ how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
Yes, ’n’ how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn’t see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
“The Times They Are A-Changing,” Bob Dylan
Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway
Don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside
And it is ragin’.
It’ll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’.
Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’.
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.
The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin’.
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’.
Sonnet from Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare
ROMEO If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
JULIETGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
ROMEO
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
JULIET
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
ROMEO
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray — grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
JULIET
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
ROMEO
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
Sonnet 18, William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do ahake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untimm’d;
But they eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 130, William Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Sonnet 67, Edmund Spenser
Like as a huntsman after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
sits down to rest him in some shady place,
with panting hounds, beguiled of their prey:
So, after long pursuit and vain assay,
when I all weary had the chase forsook,
the gentle deer returned the self-same way,
thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.
There she, beholding me with milder look,
sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide,
till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
and with her own good will her firmly tied.
Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild,
so goodly won, with her own will beguiled.
Sonnet 31, Philip Sidney
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies !
How silently, and with how wan a face !
What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks;thy languisht grace
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?
The Spartan Creed
I would not say anything for a man nor take account of him for any speed of his feet or wrestling skill he might have, not if he had the size of a Cyclops and strength to go with it, not if he could outrun Bóreas, the North Wind of Thrace, 5 not if he were more handsome and gracefully formed than Tithónos, or had more riches than Midas had, or Kínyras too, not if he were more of a king than Tantalid Pelops, or had the power of speech and persuasion Adrastos had, not if he had all splendors except for a fighting spirit. 10 For no man ever proves himself a good man in war unless he can endure to face the blood and the slaughter, go close against the enemy and fight with his hands. Here is courage, mankind’s finest possession, here is the noblest prize that a young man can endeavor to win, 15 and it is a good thing his city and all the people share with him when a man plants his feet and stands in the foremost spears relentlessly, all thought of foul flight completely forgotten, and has well trained his heart to be steadfast and to endure, and with words encourages the man who is stationed beside him. 20 Here is a man who proves himself to be valiant in war. With a sudden rush he turns to fight the rugged battalions of the enemy, and sustains the beating waves of assault. And he who so falls among the champions and loses his sweet life, so blessing with honor his city, his father, and all his people, 25 with wounds in his chest, where the spear that he was facing has transfixed that massive guard of his shield, and gone through his breastplate as well, why, such a man is lamented alike by the young and the elders, 30 and all his city goes into mourning and grieves for his loss. His tomb is pointed to with pride, and so are his children, and his children’s children, and afterward all the race that is his. His shining glory is never forgotten, his name is remembered, and he becomes an immortal, though he lies under the ground35 when one who was a brave man has been killed by the furious War God standing his ground and fighting hard for his children and land. But if he escapes the doom of death, the destroyer of bodies, and wins his battle, and bright renown for the work of his spear, 40 all men give place to him alike, the youth and the elders, and much joy comes his way before he goes down to the dead. Aging, he has reputation among his citizens. No one tries to interfere with his honors or all he deserves; all men withdraw before his presence, and yield their seats to him, 45 the youth, and the men his age, and even those older than he. Thus a man should endeavor to reach this high place of courage with all his heart, and, so trying, never be backward in war. —Tyrtaeus
Scarborough Fair
Are you going to Scarborough Fair:
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.
Tell her to make me a cambric shirt:
(On the side of a hill in the deep forest green)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(Tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground)
Without no seams nor needlework,
(Blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain)
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
(Sleeps unaware of the clarion call)
Tell her to find me an acre of land:
(On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves)
Parsely, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(Washes the grave with so many tears)
Between the salt water and the sea strand,
(A soldier cleans and polishes a gun)
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather:
(War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions)
Parsely, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Generals order their soldiers to kill)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather,
(And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten)
Then she'll be a true love of mine.