We have not even to risk the adventure alone, for the heroes of all time have gone before us. The labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god. And where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves. And where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence. And where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.
Joseph Campbell believed that everything begins with a story, so we begin this series with Joseph Campbell with one of his favorites. He was in Japan for a conference on religion, and he overheard another American delegate, a social philosopher from New York, say to a Shintō priest, “We’ve been now to a good many ceremonies and have seen quite a few of your shrines. But I don’t get your ideology, I don’t get your theology.” The Japanese paused as though in deep thought, and then slowly shook his head. “I think we don’t have ideology,” he said, “we don’t have theology. We dance.”
Campbell could have said it of his own life. When he died in 1987 at the age of 83, he was considered one of the world’s foremost authorities on mythology, the stories and legends told by human beings through the ages to explain the universe and their place in it. The 20 books he wrote or edited have influenced artists and performers, as well as scholars and students. When he died, he was working on a monumental Historical Atlas of World Mythology, his effort to bring under one roof the spiritual and intellectual wisdom of a lifetime.
Some of his books are classics: The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which established his fame 40 years ago; and his four-volume study of mythology, The Masks of God. Joseph Campbell was one of the most spiritual men I ever met, but he didn’t have an ideology or a theology. Mythology was to him the song of the universe, music so deeply embedded in our collective unconscious that we dance to it, even when we can’t name the tune. Over the last two summers of his life, we taped these conversations in California, at Skywalker Ranch, the home of his friend, George Lucas, whose movie trilogy Star Wars had been influenced by Campbell’s work. We talked about the message and meaning of myth, about the first storytellers, about love and marriage, gods and goddesses, religion, ritual, art and psychology. But we always came around to his favorite subject, the hero with a thousand faces.
Why the hero with a thousand faces?
Well, because there is a certain typical hero sequence of actions, which can be detected in stories from all over the world, and from many, many periods of history. And I think it’s essentially, you might say, the one deed done by many, many different people.
Why are there so many stories of the hero or of heroes in mythology?
Well, because that’s what’s worth writing about. I mean, even in popular novel writing, you see, the main character is the hero or heroine, that is to say, someone who has found or achieved or done something beyond the normal range of achievement and experience. A hero properly is someone who has given his life to something bigger than himself or other than himself.
So in all of these cultures, whatever the costume the hero might be wearing, what is the deed?
Well, there are two types of deed. One is the physical deed; the hero who has performed a war act or a physical act of heroism in saving a life; that’s a hero act. Giving himself, sacrificing himself to another. And the other kind is the spiritual hero, who has learned or found a mode of experiencing the supernormal range of human spiritual life, and then come back and communicated it. It’s a cycle—it’s a going and a return—that the hero cycle represents.
But then this can be seen also in the simple initiation ritual, where a child has to give up his childhood and become an adult—has to die, you might say, to his infantile personality and psyche and come back as a self-responsible adult. It’s a fundamental experience that everyone has to undergo, where in our childhood for at least 14 years, and then to get out of that posture of dependency—psychological dependency—into one of psychological self-responsibility, requires a death and resurrection, and that is the basic motif of the hero journey: leaving one condition, finding the source of life to bring you forth in a richer or more mature or other condition.
So that if we happen not to be heroes in the grand sense of redeeming society, we have to take that journey ourselves, spiritually, psychologically, inside us.
That’s right. And Otto Rank, in his wonderful, very short book called The Myth of the Birth of the Hero, he says that everyone is a hero in his birth. He has undergone a tremendous transformation from a little—you might say—water creature, living in a realm of the amniotic fluid and so forth, then coming out, becoming an air-breathing mammal that ultimately will be self-standing and so forth, is an enormous transformation and it is a heroic act, and it’s a heroic act on the mother’s part to bring it about. It’s the primary hero, hero form, you might say.
There’s still a journey to be taken after that.
There’s a big one to be taken.
And that journey is not consciously undertaken. Do heroes go out on their own initiative, or do they—
Well, there are both kinds. A very common one that appears in Celtic myths, of someone who had followed the lure of a deer or animal that he has been following, and then carries him into a range of forest and landscape that he’s never been in before. And then the animal will undergo a transformation, become the Queen of The Fairy Hills or something like that. That is one of not knowing what you’re doing. You suddenly find yourself in full career of an adventure.
There’s another one where one sets out responsibly and intentionally to perform the deed. For instance, when Ulysses’ son Telemachus was called by Athena: “Go find your father.” That father quest is a major hero adventure for young people, that is, the adventure of finding what your career is, what your nature is, what your source is. He undertakes that intentionally.
Then there’s one into which you are thrown and pitched; for instance, being drafted into the army. You didn’t intend it, you’re in. You’re in another transformation. You’ve undergone a death and resurrection, you put on a uniform, you’re another creature.
So does the heroism have a moral objective?
The moral objective is that of saving a people, or saving a person, or saving an idea. He is sacrificing himself for something; that’s the morality of it. Now you, from another position, might say that something was something that should not have been realized, you know. That’s the judgment from another side. But it doesn’t destroy the heroism of what was done. Absolutely not.
Well, that’s a different angle on heroes than I got when I was reading as a young boy the story of Prometheus, going after the fire and bringing it back and benefiting humanity, and suffering for it.
Yeah. I mean, Prometheus brings fire to mankind and consequently civilization. That’s, by the way, a universal theme.
Oh, it is?
The hero… the fire-theft theme with a—usually with a relay race after it. Often it’s a blue jay or a woodpecker—or something like this—that steals the fire and then passes it to something else, and something else, one animal after another, and they’re burned by the fires as they carry it on. Well, that accounts for the different colorings of animals and so forth. It’s a worldwide myth, the fire theft.
Do these stories of the hero vary from culture to culture?
Well, it’s the degree of the illumination or action that makes them different. There is a typical early-culture hero who goes around slaying monsters. Now, that is in the period of history when man is shaping his world out of a wild, savage, unshaped world. Well, it has another shape, but it’s not the shape for man. He goes around killing monsters.
So the hero evolves over time, like most other concepts and ideas and adventures.
Well, he evolves as the culture evolves. Now, Moses is a hero figure in his ascent of the mountain, his meeting with Yahweh on the summit of the mountain, and coming back with the rules for the formation of a whole new society. That’s the hero act. Departure, fulfillment, return. And on the way there are adventures that can be paralleled also in other traditions.
Now, the Buddha figure is like that of the Christ; of course, 500 years earlier. You could match those two traditions right down the line, even to the characters of their apostles, of their monks. Christ—now, there’s a perfectly good hero deed formula represented there, and he undergoes three temptations: the economic temptation, where the devil says, “You look hungry, young man; change the stones to bread,” Jesus said, “Man lives not by bread alone, but every word from the mouth of God.” Next, we have the political temptation: he’s taken to the top of a mountain and shown the nations of the world, and says, “You can come into control of all these if you’ll bow to me.” And then, “Now, you’re so spiritual, let’s go up to the top of Herod’s temple and see you cast yourself down, and God will bear you up and you won’t even bruise your heels.” So he says, “You shall not tempt the Lord your God.” Those are the three temptations of Christ. In the desert.
The Buddha also goes into the forest, has conferences with the leading gurus of the day. He goes past them. He comes to the bo tree, the Tree of Illumination, undergoes three temptations. They’re not the same temptations, but they are three temptations, And one is that of lust, another is that of fear, and another is that of social duty: doing what you’re told. And then both of these men come back, and they choose disciples who help them establish a new way of consciousness in terms of what they have discovered there. These are the same hero deeds; these are the spiritual hero deeds. Moses, the Buddha, Christ, Mohammed.
Mohammed literally—and we know this about him—he was a camel caravan master. But he would leave his home and go out into a little mountain cave that he found and meditate, and meditate, and meditate and meditate. And one day a voice says, “Write,” and we have the Quran, you know. It’s an old story.
Sometimes it seems to me that we ought to feel pity for the hero instead of admiration, So many of them have sacrificed their own needs.
They all have.
And very often what they accomplish is shattered by the inability of the followers to see.
Yeah. They come out of the forest with gold and it turns to ashes. That’s another motif that occurs.
In this culture of easy religion cheaply achieved, it seems to me we’ve forgotten that all three of the great religions teach that the trials of the hero journey are a significant part of it; that there’s no reward without renunciation and without a price. The Quran speaks, “Do you think that you shall enter the garden of bliss without such trials as come to those who passed before you?”
Well, if you realize what the real problem is, and that is of losing primarily thinking about yourself and your own self-protection. Losing yourself, giving yourself to another: that’s a trial in itself, is it not? There’s a big transformation of consciousness that’s concerned. And what all the myths have to deal with is transformation of consciousness. That you’re thinking in this way, and you have now to think in that way.
Well, how is the consciousness transformed?
By the trials.
The tests that the hero undergoes.
The tests or certain illuminating revelations. Trials and revelations are what it’s all about.
Well, who in society today is making any heroic myth at all for us? Do movies do this? Do movies create hero myths?
I don’t know. Now, my experience of movies—I mean, the significant experience I had of movies—was when I was a boy. And they were all really movies, they weren’t talkies, they were black and white movies. And I had a hero figure who meant something to me, and he served as a kind of model for myself in my physical character, and that was Douglas Fairbanks. I wanted to be a synthesis of Douglas Fairbanks and Leonardo da Vinci, that was my idea. But those were models, were roles, that came to me.
Does a movie like Star Wars fill some of that need for the spiritual adventure, for the hero?
Oh, perfect. It does the cycle perfectly. It’s not simple morality play. It has to do with the powers of life and their inflection through the action of man. One of the wonderful things, I think, about this adventure into space, is that the narrator—the artist, the one thinking up the story—is in a field that is not covered by our own knowledges, you know. Though it’s… much of the adventure in the old stories is where they go into regions that no one’s been in before. Well, we’ve now conquered the planet, so there are no empty spaces for the imagination to go forth and fight its own war, you know, with the powers. And that was the first thing I felt: there’s a whole new realm for the imagination to open out and live its forms.
Do you, when you look at something like Star Wars, recognize some of the themes of the hero throughout mythology?
Well, I think that George Lucas was using standard mythological figures. The old man as the adviser—well, specifically, what he made me think of is the Japanese swordmaster. I’ve known some of those people, and this man has a bill of their character.
Well, there’s something mythological, too, isn’t there, in the sense that the hero is helped by this stranger who shows up and gives him some instrument—a sword or a sheaf of light, shaft of light?
Yes, but he gives him not only a physical instrument, but a psychological commitment and a psychological center. When he had him exercising with that strange weapon, and then pulled the mask over, that’s real Japanese stuff.
When I took our two sons to see it, they did the same thing the audience did at that moment when the voice of Ben Kenobi says to Luke Skywalker in the climactic moment, “Use the force, Luke. Let go. Luke.” The audience broke out into elation and into applause.
They did. Well, you see, this thing communicates. It is in a language that is talking to young people today. And that’s marvelous.
So the hero goes for something, he doesn’t just go along for the ride. He’s not a mere adventurer.
Well, a serendipitous adventure can take place, also. You know what the word serendipity comes from? Comes from the Sanskrit Siṃhaladvīpaḥ, “the Isle of Silk,” which was formerly the name of Ceylon. And it’s a story about a family that’s just rambling on it’s way to Ceylon, and all these adventures take place. And so you can have the serendipitous adventure as well.
Is the adventurer who takes that kind of trip a hero in the mythological sense?
Yeah. He is ready for it. This is a very interesting thing about these mythological themes. The achievement of the hero is one that he is ready for, and it’s really a manifestation of his character. And it’s amusing the way in which the landscape and the conditions of the environment match the readiness of the hero. The adventure that he’s ready for is the one that he gets.
The mercenary, Solo, begins as a mercenary and ends up as a hero.
He was a very practical guy, a materialist in his character—at least as he thought of himself. But he was a compassionate human being at the same time, and didn’t know it. The adventure evoked a quality of his character that he hadn’t known he possessed. He thinks he’s an egoist. He really isn’t, and that’s a very lovable kind of human being, I think, and there are lots of them functioning beautifully in the world. They think they’re working for themselves, very practical and all, but no, there’s something else pushing them.
What did you think about the scene in the bar?
That’s my favorite—not only in this piece, but of many, many pieces I’ve ever seen.
Why?
Well, where you are is on the edge. You’re about to embark into the outlying spaces. And—
The real adventure.
The real adventure. This is the jumping-off place, and there is where you meet people who’ve been out there, and they run the machines that go out there, and you haven’t been there. It reminds me a little bit in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, that atmosphere before you start off the adventure. You’re in the seaport, and there’s old salts—seamen who’ve been on the sea—and that’s their world. And these are the space people, also.
My favorite scene was when they were in the garbage compactor, and the walls were closing in and I thought, that’s like the belly of the whale that Jonah came out of.
That’s what it is, yes, that’s where they were: down in the belly of the whale.
What’s the mythological significance of the belly?