I’m afraid of the dark. While it may be natural to fear what we cannot see, I can’t help but race to dive beneath the covers in the brief moment I have after turning off the lights, until my seemingly plain room is transformed into a den of shifting shadows. Maybe I am a coward for not simply enduring an ordinary fact of life. Or maybe, I’m a craven, a poltroon, even a dastard, to speak more boldly. Or maybe, by facing my fear and emerging triumphant in my bed every night, I am courageous. For words that, on their face, appear antonymic, cowardice and courage are often difficult to distinguish.
A classic illustration of this appears in the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz, who is, in one telling scene, frightened by his own tail that is literally tucked between his legs, yet is truly a hero throughout the film.
My favorite example is Courage the Cowardly Dog. By all appearances, Courage is indeed cowardly, the cartoon dog cowers and screams with a singularly high pitch whenever startled. However, his name tells the full story. Orphaned at birth, Courage faces all manner of horrifying, surreal creatures and endures great physical and mental suffering to protect Muriel, his adoptive mother, and Eustace, her husband who espouses a personal hatred for Courage. This is the epitome of courage. Therefore, being frightened or startled is not enough; acting cowardly does not entail cowardice.
Among the melange of accusations and insults, cowardice is perhaps one of the most potent available, especially in a culture driven by heroism. Following World War I, over 300 British soldiers were executed for cowardice. Osama bin Laden expressed in his 1996 fatwa against the United States, a belief that all Muslims who allowed Americans “peace and security” were cowards. Aristotle declared all suicides an act of “softness” of a coward.
By definition, a coward is “a person who lacks courage,” thus cowardice is defined in contrast to courage and vice versa. Courage cannot form without cowardice to gird it. Hector, prized among Greek heroes, fled in fear when he first encountered Achilles, recognizing that living to fight another battle is as courageous as it is cowardly. Refusing orders out of fear can be courageous, much as fearing the shame of cowardice can motivate the fulfillment of exceptionally courageous duties.
Thus, it appears that cowardice and courage are situationally delineated. While these intertwined concepts may speak to some broader moral virtue, that specific virtue escapes identification, as even the great Socrates, in Plato’s “Laches,” cannot pinpoint these seemingly commonplace terms.
I find solace in the spookiest kind of classical tale: “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving. The story’s moral arc always confounded me, as the curious, cowardly schoolmaster, Ichabod Crane (who shares in my very normal and rational fear of the dark), is simply overcome by his fear and anguish at the hands of Brom Bones — a Herculean country rascal — who wins the affection of Katrina Van Tassel. Measured by action, Crane’s cowardly countenance belies an intelligent, unwavering pursual of Van Tassel, the wealth associated with her, and whatever other local power he can generate. Van Brunt’s bravado is matched by schoolyard pranks and sulky unwillingness to confront Crane. Maybe our initial impressions are, in reality, reversed. But I think not.
Ichabod Crane is a true coward because he is selfish, lusting only for individual satisfaction and glory. He flees after Katrina rebukes him. Brom Bones is courageous because he acts with and for his community and the natural landscape they inhabit, warding off the material evil of Crane through falsified spiritual evil.
In its most pernicious and dangerous sense, cowardice is an individual act — impersonal, self-serving and isolating. True courage occurs in solidarity, in taking the ‘cowardly’ action to reach for help and serve others. Heroes do not exist alone.
