Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.
I am lost in a rocky twisted vale, knowing I cannot find my way home unassisted.
I never should’ve opened “Twilight of the Idols,” let alone read it. Nietzsche’s “philosophizing with a hammer” smashed my heart with its unrelenting pounding, recasting it into an unreliable source of moral comfort.
So, I’m calling Miss Grimes, for help. “You may not remember me, but I remember you. You were my sixth grade teacher. You spanked me in the coat room. It was ecstasy feeling the blows of your bony hand and your chanting ‘bad boy, bad boy, bad boy’ over and over until you got tired and left me alone in the darkened cloak room to contemplate the sting of my misbehavior. I never knew what I had done to warrant the spankings, but I looked forward to them, from the sacred blows of your spirited hand. You were my Eulabeia (although I did not know it at the time).
As I look back, I think I’ve already hammered a lot of idols to pieces, without even knowing it, before reading Nietzsche. For example, I consistently fail to excuse myself when I fart. My hope is by remaining silent nobody will know it was me. I also grimace and look disapprovingly at the person nearest to me. Another example: I have stopped holding doors for women, even though sometimes an unhelpful door will hit them in the face and causes a minor injury such as a bloody nose—another idol smashed by my will to power? In addition: I’ve started spanking myself on the subway and in the rest room at work. I can’t drop my pants on the subway, so it is only a partial perfunctory spanking.
Now I know how morally confused I am. Up is down, down is up. I hope you can help me. How about a good old spanking for old time’s sake, to reset my moral compass and make north into north again?
I am always free on Sundays. There is a storage room in the Church where we could go and listen to the choir while you spank me. Help?”
Miss Grimes: “You’re a bad, bad, bad boy.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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