Antitheton

Antitheton (an-tith’-e-ton): A proof or composition constructed of contraries. Antitheton is closely related to and sometimes confused with the figure of speech that juxtaposes opposing terms, antithesis. However, it is more properly considered a figure of thought (=Topic of Invention: Contraries [a topic of invention in which one considers opposite or incompatible things that are of the same kind (if they are of different kinds, the topic of similarity / difference is more appropriate). Because contraries occur in pairs and exclude one another, they are useful in arguments because one can establish one’s case indirectly, proving one’s own assertion by discrediting the contrary]).

There was a time in my life when I was reckless—not careful or caring about anything. I jumped off cliffs. I crawled across deserts. I didn’t plan anything, I just went my merry way through death’s door and out the death’s back door unscathed. It was like magic, but I didn’t believe in magic. I just believed that one day I would die, and I did not care which day it was.

This was a great benefit in the the war. My reckless actions were construed as courage. My demeanor made me a soldier’s soldier. I felt none of it. My valor stemmed from a reckless disregard for my own life and the thrill of risking it.

When I got home, I went to work for the NYC Bomb Squad, finding bombs, blowing up bombs, dismantling bombs. Every mission was an opportunity to knock on death’s door, going through, and coming out the other side unscathed—clean as a whistle, still kicking. I got to know one of my colleagues fairly well. His name was Joe and he had a wife and two kids. He shouldn’t have been in the bomb squad business. His hands would shake when we disarmed a bomb. He was always last on the scene apparently hoping the bomb was safely disposed of. I didn’t care. I really liked him. He had great bomb jokes: “A man put a bomb in his hat. It blew his mind.” That’s pretty damn funny.

One day we were on a call at Grand Central Station. the bomb started buzzing and whirring. I was standing about two feet away. Joe jumped on the bomb and it blew him to pieces. His protective suit did him no good. He was shredded. He could’ve run away, but he chose to save me at the cost of his own life. It was sad seeing the steaming pieces of Joe scattered around on the floor and walls. It would take awhile to clean it up.

At his funeral he was valorized as a hero and his wife got up and told us what a loving family man he was. I was heartbroken. Something snapped in my head. Now I work in the public library shelving books. My risk-taking is a thing of the past—safety first is my motto. When I’m not at the library, I’m watching TV or making potholders in my basement workshop.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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