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The other day, as I was writing the article on fate versus chance in Frankenstein, I realized something: the trope of resisting fate forms the backbone of many great tragedies and stories in general. Defying destiny, resisting fate, is perhaps the ultimate insolence humans can display.

As such, there is something immensely powerful in it. At first I began to write an article on the topic, until I realized that I… have already. An entire chapter of my novel To Cross an Ocean: Apognosis basically talks about the protagonist’s struggle regarding destiny, kismet, resisting fate or surrendering to it.

Is it better to submit to it and avoid further heartache, or should one attack it fiercely, be the result what may? Or, just perhaps, is the concept of fate nothing but a man-made illusion?

What follows is a word-for-word copy of the novel’s 15th chapter. I have only added the headlines, to make the text more suitable for the purposes of this blog.

Resisting Fate: Dying Is not Scary; but Living Is

Sundays were usually good days for business on the Acropolis rock, but on that particular one Danny was in no mood for work. And that was a feeling he had increasingly more often in the past few weeks. The reasons were not readily apparent, at least consciously. Deep down Danny of course knew. He could fool himself enough to function and put one foot in front of the other, but just because his body obeyed, that did not mean his mind was not privy to the plot. He was the sole god of his universe; he was also the only devil, as well as the only believer. The loneliness immense, the Great Design was flawed; but there was no other available.

Danny’s relationship with time was odd. He rarely pondered on the matter, as it made him feel uncomfortable. Unlike other people, he would not admit to fearing the future and the grand boogie man that awaited. He had taken the necessary measures to build impregnable defenses, raising walls the height of medieval citadels around his mind. The monsters captured in the past were under lock and key in the dungeons, and as long as Danny did not venture outside the fortress, the island of his being, he could not be exposed.

One day, inevitably, he would die on the wall like any other human. But he would be unscathed. Dying was not something that scared Danny; living was. Perhaps precisely because, as he thought, he was not good at it. By anyone’s measure, he was a failure at living. Society expected him to have a family, to contribute with his work, to serve in some asininely abstract way that he could not grasp, let alone execute. He’d surely tried, and the result was catastrophic.

The Spark that Seems Harmless (Don’t They All?)

Now, sitting in his gloomy room and looking at the mold on the ceiling, he felt that resisting was futile. All those years in Greece, he hadn’t been unhappy – though not exactly happy either; the term was difficult to define and situate. In any case, he had felt safe and reasonably content, precisely because he had not resisted, he had not attempted to venture outside the castle. He had espoused a role that worked well and even served other people – most of the money he made he ended up spending on helping others. Not possessing worked. Why had things become suddenly so complicated? But there was an answer to that, too, albeit one that confused him and filled him with despair.

He was suddenly resisting.

The spark had seemed harmless (don’t they all) and he felt he could control it. But like all things that are beautiful and meaningful, it had become uncontainable. The effigy of the past, placed on the pyre of his yearning, was set alight by that innocuous spark. It was being consumed, and Danny was enthralled; the flames still warm and comforting. But he knew well what would follow: the fire would spread, the whole world would soon be burning. The paradise would darken, choked by smoke.

To resist was pointless, and yet he still could not help it. He felt he was balancing precariously on a tight rope that could break at any moment, without prior warning. On his one side lay the need to remain safe from loss – and keep people around him safe as well. On the other existed a nebulous unknown, covered in the smoke that had taken over the world. Danny was too scared to walk in either direction – the rope could break. And yet, he thought staring at the decaying ceiling, maybe that was the only escape he had left.

Resisting Fate: To Live Is to Die; To Want is to Defy

The hard, solid past kept reminding him of the consequences. To defy and resist, to go against what seemed to be the pattern of his life, could not lead to anything good. Danny would not use the word “fate,” and rationally thinking he could find no argument to support the hypothesis. But the risk involved was enormous: he could not survive again losing someone he loved. Then again, maybe nothing bad would ever happen, maybe he would be spared from tragedy. That was, rationally thinking, a real possibility – he entertained the very same thought seven years earlier, in New York.

And yet… For that possibility, real or unreal, true or imaginary, he could abandon every single thing. He could abandon his own self, becoming someone else. He could wipe the entire past with only a single waving motion of his hand, like a sorcerer, and embrace the future – nay, build it. For her love, for being in that feeling and that state of mind with her, the risk was worth it a million times over. He entertained the very same thought seven years earlier, in New York.

And so, Danny continued to stay still on the rope. The abyss below him seemed final, irreversible. Nobody could climb out of it. Maybe that was what fate, Yasir’s kismet, or the irrational force of his personal universe expected him to do, after all. Sophia would be inconsolable for a while, but she would eventually get over it.

Danny got up and went near his rucksack. He tilted it a bit and reached for the bottom pocket. He unzipped it and slid his fingers in. He pulled the envelope, containing the laconic letter. He opened it and held it close to the window, some daylight penetrating the space. He formed the words with his lips, though no sound was heard, not even a whisper.

“Sweet scent of mint green tea, will bring you home to me.”

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