Arthur Miller precis
The form of tragedy is not archaic. Not only has it survived these thousands of years, but tragic stories still make us think and feel like no others. Few, if any other forms stir the same kind of passion in our hearts. Though the common tragic hero, the king, is relegated to antiquity, the tragic story is still powerful. ?It is inconceivable that the mass of mankind should cherish tragedy above all other forms, let alone be capable of understanding it? if it only applied to the highly-placed. The common man is an equal or better substitute for a king when we look at the cause and effect of tragic stories.
A tragic hero must feel indignation. Who else but the put-upon and those oppressed feel that most? That indignation comes only after an evaluation of self and results in a battle against the tragic hero?s present circumstances. Whether he is contending personal demons or societal ills, the common man is bound to suffer more than any king of old.
Besides indignation, there must be a fear of being displaced. ?In fact, it is the common man who knows this fear best.? As stated before, the tragic hero may be battling himself or society, but, at any rate, his position is much more vulnerable than that of the mighty.
Of course, this new definition of tragedy applies only to those indignant men who engage in ?active retaliation? against their circumstances. Their tragic stories could be seen as a marriage between two cliches; ?no pain, no gain? and ?nothing to lose.? There is a ?terror and a fear? when
everything is questioned, but that is the only way an indignant hero can triumph over adverse conditions. Equal weight can be given to tragic heroes that act out of fear or outrage, the point is that enlightenment can only be found after taking drastic action.
The final result ought to be the reinforcement of the onlooker's brightest opinions of the human animal? Whether he has succeeded or failed, we have at least witnessed a stunning example of the Everyman deciding to overcome complacency and take on the quotidian. Putting former notions of servility aside, we should be overjoyed that one of our own kind has raised his voice - even if that?s all he was able to accomplish.
Just as not every drone is a fit tragic hero, not every writer can convey the majesty of one man?s struggle, especially if he (the hero) is not successful. The author must fully understand the character he has created and the set of conditions his potential hero is placed in. Without the ring of truth, of utter familiarity, the protagonist?s story will fall short of even the abstract majesty of the tragic king. The new tragedy is a fully human story - for better or for worse.

First Street survey
First Street Development

Age_____ Years of residence in St. Charles_____ Sex_____

1. Residence:
in town outside city in a neighboring town

2. How often do you shop in downtown St. Charles?
every day a few times a week a few times a month rarely

3. Downtown St. Charles needs more
Retail Strongly Disagree Disagree Agree Strongly Agree
Entertainment Strongly Disagree Disagree Agree Strongly Agree
Dining Strongly Disagree Disagree Agree Strongly Agree
Other (please specify)_______________________________________

4. If First Street were to be developed I would shop in downtown St. Charles.
Strongly Disagree Disagree Agree Strongly Agree

5. I support the city?s current plans to make First Street more residential.
Strongly Disagree Disagree Agree Strongly Agree

6. I would prefer to see these kinds of stores on First Street:
national retailers ?ma and pa? a mixture of both no preference

7. I would prefer this kind of architecture for new buildings on First Street:
modern old-fashioned a mixture of both no preference

8. Is there anything else you?d like to see in downtown St. Charles?
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________

Kafka
For many generations, no man in his family had become a holy man. They were descended from a line of brahmins, but no longer were the teachings passed down from father to sons. The family had become rich, and few wanted to leave luxurious world of the family compound to live in the jungle. It was a large and well-known family, but every year fewer and fewer of the many cousins followed the path of the holy man. Young men thought it would be humiliating to beg for alms and have just one tattered garment. They came to pityand mock those from poorer families who chose vows of poverty.
Many years later an unusual son was born. As a boy, he sought out the elders and listened to their teachings. He sat with rapt fascination as elders and aunts told him about his family?s past. He learned how the holy man came to be spat upon, even in his own clan.The elders prophesied he would try to restore holy honor to the family?s name.
At a young age, he left his family to find the yogi who lived in the jungle. The most reverened old man was sitting on a tattered woven mat of vegetable stalks. His face was peaceful and beamed with absolute content. The young man waited, hour upon hour, until the yogi was done with his meditation. Even before the opened his eyes, the old man told the young man to go away. But the young man insisted.
After many years the old yogi died. His young apprentice had been a quick study. By concentrating completely, he could meditate for hours and levitate a foot and a half above the ground, but he could not find perfect h appiness. He had complete control of his mind over his body, but not his heart.
Over time, news of his accomplishments spread. His family members came to hear about the yogi in the jungle and wondered if it was their foolish boy. Eventually, three of his cousins made the journey deep into the jungle. They wanted to see him for themselves. When they arrived at the clearing they saw him deep in meditation, just as the old yogi had been when the young man found him many years earlier. In fact, he was sitting on the same mat of woven vegetable stalks, though it was almost completely in tatters now. They waited impatiently for him to emerge from his trance, but he addressed them before he even opened his eyes. ?Go away,? he said. But they did not.
The cousins mocked him, but said they were glad to see him. They wanted to take him into the village and charge people money to see his tricks. He refused. They left. They thought about him infrequently over the next few years, but were always sore that theywere missing out on a money-making opportunity.
After some more years had passed, the cousins decided to return to the jungle. They had come up with a plan to get their cousin out of the jungle. Again, when they reached him, he was meditating, and again he told them to go away. This time, instead of playing, they made supplications to him. They talked about how badly the people in the village were suffering, especially the women. Decades of fighting and poverty had turned the hearts of their men cold, and the women were debased. They appealed to his good heart and he conceded to go and help uplift the villagers. He was flattered by his cousins? attention, and felt great honor in appeasing their little request. Deep down, he hoped they would be more humble from now on.
In the village, he did meet many of the wretched poor. He tried to help them, and became even more famous. His cousins became filled with even more scorn for him and his family publicly derided him. He spread his message of love, but there was bitterness in his own heart. He was praised right and left by the villagers, but his own family would not recognize his greatness. He started to meditate for long hours in public to prove to everyone he was holy, but always in the back of his mind he was screaming with the injustice he felt. His own flesh and blood! After more years, his face became twisted with bitterness.
He went back to the jungle to separate himself from the family. There were more people he could have helped, but he was too bitter about his own misfortune to want to help them any longer. He meditated for hours and hours and later days at a time but could never get rid of the anger from his family?s scorn. Eventually, his entire heart was filled with bitterness.
Other yogis, who had heard of the little good he did in the village, came to visit him. They sat for hours in meditation with him but their happiness was always disturbed by him. When they inquired about what was wrong they were shocked by the answer.