Sophokles’ Antigone

Translated by Anne Carson
April 25-28, 2019
Directed by Danielle A. Drakes
Set Design: Mark and Katherine Wujcik
Costume Design: Gail Beach
Lighting Design: Dr. Thomas Donahue

Reviewed by Patricia M. Craig
The Catholic University of America

Sophocles’ Antigone stands among the most widely read and performed tragedies of all time. George Steiner noted in 1984 that “[its] supremacy was a commonplace to Kant and to Shelley, to Matthew Arnold and to Nietzsche.”1 Also on Steiner’s list of Antigone’s admirers is Hegel, whose appreciation for the play Anne Carson commemorates with a quotation on the back cover of her impressionistic translation, Antigonick: “The Antigone [is] one of the most sublime and in every respect most excellent works of art of all time.”2 Hegel is an unseen presence in Antigonick itself, and although Carson excised mention of him from her later, more literal translation of the play, its characters exhibit a self-consciousness that seems to be informed by the rich history of Antigone’s interpretation, reception, and adaptation. The Catholic University of America’s recent performance of Carson’s Antigone confirmed that “the ‘original’ play no longer stands intact as easily separable from the history of appropriations that has come to define it,” as Tina Chanter put it in Whose Antigone?3 Any performance of Antigone must choose where to stand within the vast tradition of reception. Antigone has been appropriated as a symbol of feminism, of religious freedom, of defiance in the face of tyranny. This production’s setting, its set design, and the art and wording of its program placed it firmly within the long tradition of appropriating Antigone for political purposes.

An African-style set and costuming suggested that director Danielle Drakes drew inspiration from adaptations of Antigone set in postcolonial Africa. As Astrid van Weyenberg explains in her study of African drama and Greek tragedy, these adaptations tend to “adopt the figure of Antigone as a political symbol.”4 The best-known and most-studied of such adaptations are probably The Island (first performed in 1973) by South African playwrights Athol Fugard, John Kani, and Winston Ntshona,5 and Tègònni, an African Antigone (first performed in 1994) by the Nigerian playwright Femi Òsófisan.6 Van Weyenberg significantly notes that: “[n]either [work] seems particularly interested in Antigone’s cultural origin or her status as a Western canonical figure. Their main concern is with her political potential in the present.”7 In both of these plays, Antigone inspires characters to struggle against oppressive regimes. The Island is set all but explicitly in the oppressive apartheid in South Africa; two prison inmates, arrested for protesting apartheid laws, put on an abridged version of Antigone that allows them to express their unconditional dedication to honoring “those things to which honour belongs.”8 Tègònni is set in colonial Nigeria, where the mythological Antigone reincarnate appears as an alter ego for the title character and promises to rise again “wherever the call for freedom is heard.”9 Both plays invoke Antigone as a representative of “the excluded yet constitutive ground of a polity,” as Chanter put it.10

Almost certainly, the African Antigone tradition influenced the vision for Catholic University’s production. Not only was the setting and costuming African, but Antigone appeared essentially as a symbol of courageous defiance and Kreon as a power-hungry oppressor. This characterization of the play’s protagonists became monotonous, despite the real interest that interacting with the tradition of African reception promised. Since the most celebrated African versions of Antigone are in fact adaptations of the Greek original that speak directly to contemporary political issues, employing Antigone as a symbol of freedom in an unadapted reperformance risks simplifying her character into something that cannot evoke empathy. Nonetheless, director Danielle Drakes and her cast and crew should be commended for staging the play in a way that encouraged audience members like me to learn more about the rich reception history of Antigone.

Antigone (Jasmine Proctor) and the chorus
Photo Credit: C. Stanley Photography

For the Catholic University production, the African setting was juxtaposed with American political symbols, both in the program and on set. The front page of the program showcased a raised fist, a symbol of resistance that has been used most often to protest racism or other abuses of human rights, and not exclusively in the United States. Additionally, the dramaturg’s notes encouraged the audience to relate the events of the play to the present day: “As you experience the play, keep in mind where you are today: our nation’s capital. What weight does that add to the message of the play? Who are the Kreons in our lives and in our world, and what message do we have for them?” These questions were left unanswered, probably to avoid taking an explicit political stance. The language in the program forewarned me, however, that Kreon would be portrayed not as a worthy antagonist, himself perhaps struggling with the hard question of how to maintain order in the wake of an incestuous king’s abdication, civil war, and fratricide, but as a token oppressor of the marginalized. Antigone herself was defined in the program as “the matriarch of female social justice warriors throughout history, a symbol of courage in the face of the deathly consequences of defying an institution.” The protagonists of Sophocles’ tragedy are often treated as political symbols, but the result in this case was more tedious than it would have been in an adaptation with a more immediate purpose.

Front page of the program
Photo Credit: C. Stanley Photography

The play was performed in Hartke Theater, where a large proscenium stage faces the audience, who for this performance were primarily members of the Catholic University community.11 Once the curtain rose, we saw a stage set with six tall, moveable panels, arranged to create a triangular space that was narrower upstage. Each panel was illuminated with gray-scale light that traced what appeared to be abstract, African-inspired shapes; upon closer examination, these shapes were discernible as the only politically-charged symbols in the production: the three panels on the left depicted the head and shoulders of a donkey, the three on the right the head and shoulders of an elephant. The animals were effectively facing each other down. The back wall of the stage was colorfully lit, and its hue shifted occasionally from orange to deep blue for dramatic effect. Especially during choral odes, the lighting was dimmed to focus on the actors alone.

Members of the chorus
Photo Credit: C. Stanley Photography

Costuming was simple, combining styles that reflected both classical Greek and traditional African dress in a way that kept the setting non-specific. Most actors wore patterned robes, dresses, or shawls draped over neutral-colored street clothes, in a style reminiscent of togas or chitons. Antigone and Ismene each wore a golden diadem, necklace, and earrings, to indicate their royal lineage. Kreon wore no crown, but he did have a long gold chain around his neck, and his red robe stood out as the brightest costume on stage. Eurydike, too, caught the eye when she entered in an elaborately patterned robe and turban, as well as a broad, beaded necklace. Haimon, on the other hand, was minimally costumed in a sarong over blue pants and a light-gray-and-green muscle tee. The chorus members were all dressed similarly, in hues of light blue, gray, and brown, with no jewelry, so that they looked like commoners beside the lead characters.

The first line of Carson’s translation is not found in the original Greek: “we come out of the dark,” says Antigone.12 These words, spoken slowly and forcefully by Jasmine Proctor, an MFA student at Catholic University, set the tone for the entire play. The line seems to indicate that the characters exist solely for the sake of the actions they will perform on stage today. Indeed, Carson’s translation reuses certain elements of her own earlier Antigonick, itself largely a commentary on Antigone’s inability to escape her notorious fate, which begins thus:

Antigone: We begin in the dark and birth is the death of us
Ismene: Who said that
Antigone: Hegel
Ismene: Sounds more like Beckett
Antigone: He was paraphrasing Hegel
Ismene: I don’t think so
Antigone: Whoever it was whoever we are dear sister ever since we were born from the evils of Oidipous what bitterness...13

Although lacking the reference to Hegel, Carson’s translation for performance retains the metatheatrical tone and sense of inevitability found in Antigonick. The characters come out of the dark, in the sense that most audience members know nothing about them other than their actions in this very play, and their “birth,” their coming into the light, is their death, in that they live only for the sake of the staged events. Many passages could demonstrate how Carson adapted Antigonick for performance, but one more example will suffice. Just before Antigone’s final farewell, Carson shortens what was a six-line exchange in the original Greek (931–36) to a few words that indicate Antigone is aware of her role in a predetermined plot:

Kreon: get a move on
Antigone: next word / is death
Kreon: DEATH / you have no way out 14

This exchange is precisely the same in Antigonick, although Kreon’s last phrase, “you have no way out,” is omitted there. Hence, although Carson’s new translation, here as elsewhere, faithfully represents the essential meaning of Sophocles’ original, she repeatedly chooses clarity and brevity of expression over the formality of the original. She often shortens or simplifies Sophocles’ words, as though to indicate that everything is already well known to the reader or spectator.

Carson’s tendency to simplify Sophocles’ original, often for metatheatrical effect, had the unfortunate result that her characters easily became stereotypes in this performance. Her Antigone seems aware that she will become a symbol, her Kreon that his stance will be simplified to represent irrational oppression. Concerning the two Greek lines that Carson renders “DEATH” in Antigonick, Griffith comments that the original has “a legal/political tinge characteristic of Kreon’s speech.”15 This characteristic is often lost in Carson’s translation, which here and elsewhere boils down Kreon’s language to the bare bones. Senior drama major Tommy Stack interpreted his lines as indicating Kreon’s straightforward hunger to abuse power. Probably because Catholic University adopted both a translation and a reception tradition that present Antigone and Kreon in predestined or symbolic roles, the result was flattened characters and a surprisingly uninteresting dynamic between the two protagonists. To this viewer, the combination did not set a compelling tone for the performance. Nevertheless, several moments stood out when the actors and actresses breathed life into the production.

The opening scene showed Antigone at her most human; Jasmine Proctor and Trystan Crichton, who played Ismene, portrayed the sisters as loving and sympathetic toward each other, rather than divided by opposing viewpoints. Ismene was a convincingly simple, weak woman; her refusal to help Antigone bury Polyneikes appeared to come from an absolute conviction of her helplessness rather than from cowardice. Ismene’s humanity made Antigone’s choice to face death stand out as almost superhuman. Antigone showed a dominance over her sister by leading her around the stage, as though seeking a place of secrecy for intimate communication. This was the only scene in which Antigone moved about the stage at all, so that her immobile stance later in the play was striking. Although I have said that Antigone appeared as a flattened stereotype, the dynamic between these two characters was convincing. In her later appearance, Ismene again brought some relief to Antigone’s statically aloof character, for it was only in interactions with Ismene that Antigone exhibited feeling for a fellow human rather than for an abstract principle. Antigone did not appear overly harsh or selfish in denying Ismene’s wish to die with her, nor did Ismene seem disingenuous in her sudden desire to claim responsibility for burying Polyneikes.

Kreon, too, shone most in his first scene, when he entered jubilantly to tell the chorus, “I am the throne and power now.”16 As he explained the new state of affairs in Thebes, Stack surveyed the chorus in an almost fatherly manner. Once he had announced the edict forbidding Polyneikes’ burial, however, Stack began emphasizing just one dimension of Kreon’s character, his love of power and suspicion of every subject. From that point on, he tended to stalk about the stage, loud and restless in his authoritative gestures, pounding his chest with his fist or raising both arms as though to glorify himself. In the confrontation scene with Antigone, the tense relationship between (great-)uncle and niece, expressed in stichomythia peppered with passionate, quick-witted insults, was largely lost in the characters’ methodical delivery of lines and the static blocking. Kreon and Antigone were both consistent in their tone, he frustrated and self-righteous, she deliberate and resigned. Antigone stood on a raised platform from this point in the play, like a speaker at a protest, and only Ismene dared to stand with her there for any length of time. This blocking choice, combined with Antigone’s rebellious but resigned attitude, led to some monotony and little empathy; even if we admired her, we did not feel her humanity.

Antigone (Jasmine Proctor) and Ismene (Trystan Crichton) & Antigone (Jasmine Proctor)
Photo Credit: C. Stanley Photography

The confrontation scene constituted one instance when certain political implications did arise from a rearrangement of the panels depicting donkeys and elephants. Before the sentry re-entered to accuse Antigone, the elephant pillars were pushed from stage right towards stage left, as if to imply that Kreon was now encroaching upon Antigone’s territory and winning. Since the elephants were later pushed back to their original position, the backdrop’s political message did not remain a central focus. At the plot’s climax, however, the donkeys and elephants met again, head to head, center stage. If the political message was deliberately left vague, the audience was at least encouraged to consider how an unbending leader, like Kreon, might impede the resolution of civil conflicts.

Two standout performances by MFA candidates at Catholic University deserve particular mention. Jamil Joseph, who played Haimon, entered in a youthful huff to spar verbally with his father; his anger grew less and less controlled until he finally stormed out. It was wholly believable that he loved his fiancée and was ready to die for her. Another MFA student, Elena Anderson, played the Sentry with spot-on comical self-concern. She gave a long-winded apology for her own presence before delivering the news of Polyneikes’ burial quickly and apprehensively, in a way that conveyed the power disparity between her and Kreon. It was fun to watch Elena tell her story: she stopped and started walking several times to reenact her slow progress on the road, she knelt down and lifted her hands like a man under arrest as she disavowed doing the deed, she mimed her own discovery of the buried body, and she lifted two fists like a boxer as she described the guards falling to blows.

Kreon (Tommy Stack) and Haimon (Jamil Joseph)
Photo Credit: C. Stanley Photography

Within the Sentry’s scene, a bizarre moment (perhaps indicative of a misinterpretation of Carson’s text) occurred when, after one chorus member interjected “you know, king / it’s been my feeling for a long time now / that gods are mixed up in this somehow,”17 the other chorus members immediately laughed at her. Although this line in the original play also belongs to one speaker, the chorus leader, since Kreon responds with the singular command, παῦσαι (280), Carson’s text clearly indicates that the entire chorus agrees that the gods may be involved in Polyneikes’ burial, for Kreon immediately chastises the chorus in the plural, “you demented old men / you think the gods buried him for his good intentions... despite the fact that he came to burn their temples down / to desecrate their laws...”18 Carson’s instinct is right; nothing in the text indicates that any chorus member assumes their city’s leader scorns the gods. Kreon’s angry reaction, in fact, indicates what he does assume: the gods agree with him about what is sacred, not with the violator of his law. By having the chorus laugh, the director may have intended them to be flattering Kreon by anticipating his reaction, but the laughter was inconsistent with the chorus’ overall characterization as believers, and it was jarring for me as an audience member, since it seemed to indicate a fundamental misinterpretation of the play.

A few other moments struck me as incongruous with the original, but these infelicities were largely due to certain ambivalent or colloquial word choices in Carson’s translation. Some of her modernized language effectively conveyed the tone of the original; for example, Kreon’s jibe, “enough talk of beds it’s disgusting,”19 for ἄγαν γε λυπεῖς καὶ σὺ καὶ τὸ σὸν λέχος (573), and the chorus’ petrified praise, “Zeus you win you always win,”20 for τεάν, Ζεῦ, δύνασιν τίς ἀνδρῶν / ὑπερβασία κατάσχοι; (604–05). Other phrases, however, allow for an interpretation that trivializes the sacred, even if they do not demand it. For example, Carson renders the sentry’s message that the corpse is buried as “the corpse someone buried it / someone threw dust on it someone did all the required holy stuff.”21 This translation conveys the meaning of the original, τὸν νεκρόν τις ἀρτίως / θάψας βέβηκε κἀπὶ χρωτὶ διψίαν / κόνιν παλύνας κἀφαγιστεύσας ἃ χρή (245–47), but the colloquial “stuff” implies indifference or incomprehension on the part of the sentry, which then seems confirmed by the rendering of the reverent phrase, τάφον / κοσμοῦσα (395–96), as “fiddling with the grave.”22 Then, soon after the chorus observes that the gods may be mixed up in the burial, Kreon calls on Zeus as his witness in what Griffith terms a “solemn oath” in the original Greek: ἀλλ᾿ εἴπερ ἴσχει Ζεὺς ἔτ᾿ ἐξ ἐμοῦ σέβας... (304)23 Kreon is asserting that reverence for Zeus flourishes because of him, i.e., through the sacred decrees promulgated under his authority. Carson’s translation, however, allows for another interpretation, since Kreon says: “I swear by Zeus himself—yes I still honour Zeus— / if you don’t find and bring to me the guilty man...”24 With these words, Kreon could easily be reassuring anyone who doubts his piety, such as the laughing chorus members in Catholic University’s production. If Stack had emphasized the word “I” by saying “yes I still honour Zeus,” the interpretation would fit the original text more closely, for Kreon is contrasting his own reverence for the sacred with the irreverence of those who break sacred decrees, like Polyneikes and Antigone. This aspect of Kreon, his reverence for the gods, whether misguided or not, was lost in Catholic University’s production, probably through misinterpretation of Carson’s ambivalent text. I doubt that the intent was to belittle ancient Greek religious practices, but the production generally construed Carson’s ambivalent or concise renderings of pious expressions as trivializing religion, a choice that felt out of place in a play whose main character reverences burial rites and the gods of Hades so unconditionally.

The chorus played the most intriguing role in the production. Their words, songs, and actions drove the responses of the audience and set the tone for each scene in a way that reflected the original role of the Greek tragic chorus. The director was clearly intentional in involving the chorus in the unfolding of the plot, and they stood out as stars of the show. Choral lines within scenes were assigned to individual chorus members, and so carefully that some of them seemed to have a consistent personality. For example, the same actress who suggested that “the gods are mixed up in this somehow” voiced most lines of a religious timbre, so that she appeared to be a sort of religious fanatic. Such expressions of piety felt like warnings directed at Kreon, who appeared disingenuous whenever he referred to the gods. Although this interpretation of Kreon was oversimplified, as I have claimed, it was consistent, and casting just one chorus member as the pious one worked against the coherence of the chorus only rarely; I have described the most egregious instance already. Generally, the practice of individuating choral lines lent variety and interest to the production. With only intermittent defiance from the religious fanatic, the chorus acted as a sort of echo chamber for everything that Kreon said before Teiresias’ entrance. At this point, the religious chorus member, played by Anna Fitzmaurice, was recast as Tiresias’ guide, perhaps to associate questioning of Kreon with the foretelling of his demise. Careful thought went into this casting choice. When the seer spoke, the remaining chorus members appeared captivated and terrified; they soon began urgently advising Kreon. Because they had been largely sympathetic to him up to this point, their change in attitude demanded the audience’s attention.

Since Teiresias’ scene is the turning point of the play, I expected more gravitas from Teiresias and Kreon in particular. The chorus at least conveyed the import of the scene by their suddenly horrified expressions and their insistence on taking charge after Teiresias left. Kreon becomes essentially subject to the chorus by the end of the play. Teiresias, played by John Jones, entered with flair, slamming his staff on the ground authoritatively. He delivered his lines slowly, in a somewhat trembling voice, like a very old man. Following this grand entrance, Kreon casually says, as though he were in a hurry and perhaps bored by Teiresias’ formalities, “What’s up, Tiresias?” This was one of a handful of instances when serious moments in the original play became laugh lines in this production. This line was particularly striking since Carson’s Kreon regularly uses antiquated language, such as “thou utter miscreant / to prosecute thine own father” and “sayest thou so.”25 Still, the colloquial tone of Carson’s translation invited the interpretation Stack gave it here, and it did not really distract. It seemed almost a metatheatrical comment on the strangeness of putting on a Greek tragedy, in which a blind prophet might arrive with devastating news from the gods, in our modern world where information is available at our fingertips.

The choral odes were newly composed by Andrew E. Simpson, who compensated for the lack of meter in Carson’s translation with clearly demarcated rhythms, played on drums by chorus members. Simpson has composed music for other contemporary productions of Greek tragedy, such as the Oresteia Project, which comprises three one-act operas.26 Both in that adaptation and in this performance, Simpson’s musical settings bring contemporary sound to ancient tragedies without altering their original mood or meaning. His harmonies are at times dissonant, at times classical, yet they are beautiful and memorable, as in Antigone’s “Ode to Man,” which evoked real wonder at man and his accomplishments. To perform this ode, the chorus members walked down and sang from the stage steps, as though to communicate directly with the audience. This blocking choice seemed to mimic the function of the orchestra in an ancient Greek theater, and it was effective. Different chorus members simultaneously sang the words “strange terrible clever wondrous monstrous marvellous...”27 in dissonant, surprising harmonies, so that there was a sense of conflicting ideals or confusion as the words were repeated. The pace of the music was generally fast, but it slowed considerably when the chorus sang the line “to Death he has no answer.”28 By slowing down and standing up as they sang this line, the chorus conveyed unanimity in evaluating man’s one weakness: his inability to escape death. They also implied that the audience shared in this weakness by sweeping their collective gaze from left to right as they sang the line. The rhythm then returned to its quick pace, and the ode almost rushed to a close as the chorus delivered the final lines regarding a wrongdoer, “I would not have that person at my hearth / nor share in his opinions.” They appeared concerned that this stance should be immediately known to all.

The chorus sings and acts their odes
Photo Credit: C. Stanley Photography

The first stasimon, the Ode to Man, was the most memorable and awe-inspiring of the choral songs—it remained in my head for weeks after the performance—but each ode impressed in its own way. The parodos, which tells of Polyneikes’ assault on “the streets of sevengated Thebes,”30 was notable for its individuated lines, which gave the impression that several people wanted to tell us the background of their story all at once. As they sang the second stasimon, the chorus appeared genuinely overwhelmed by the power of the gods; the line “Zeus you win you always win”31 stood out particularly in their rendition. They seemed confused and helpless in their reverence for powers beyond their control. In the third ode, the second note was held each time the chorus named “Eros,” so that the god to whom the song was dedicated literally pervaded its sound. In the fourth stasimon, Carson’s translation encourages dividing the lines among three voices, which is what the chorus did: “I’ll give you three examples / of people who lost access to the light / first the girl called Danaë... example two Lykourgos... third example the woman / who...”32 A new chorus member came forward to offer each example, so that the chorus again seemed to be working together to tell us a story, as they had done in the parodos. The final ode stood out as compelling praise for Bacchus, with dissonant harmonies that lent it an air of mystery. The choral odes struck a pleasing balance of modernizing and remaining faithful to ancient dramatic conventions.

Kreon (Tommy Stack), Haimon (Jamil Joseph), and the chorus
Photo Credit: C. Stanley Photography

The blocking of the final scene, Kreon’s lament for his son, was admirably conceived and executed. The chorus lingered uncomfortably behind Kreon, who cradled his dead son’s body. As Kreon allowed his grief to overcome him, the chorus drove home that he was too late to recognize his bad judgment, which had shattered his family. Kreon remained on his hands and knees, and only the chorus was left standing at the end. They delivered their closing, moralizing lines effectively, and they even implicated the audience in Kreon’s bad judgment and hubris by looking out at us as they stated, “but in the end / you learn wisdom too / even you.”33 Even if the primary purpose of the show was to challenge us to defy “the Kreons in our lives,” as the program put it, before we become complicit in their crimes, moments like this last one struck a deeper, apolitical, universally human tone. Combining the African Antigone tradition with Carson’s abbreviated translation may have led to flattening the main characters, but the haunting choral odes and standout performances by certain actors made up for some of the monotony, and the play was an intriguing attempt to revitalize contemporary understanding of Greek theater and to engage with the rich reception history of Sophocles’ classic play.34


1Steiner 1984, 1

2Carson 2012.

3Chanter 2011, 147.

4Van Weyenberg 2013, 36. See Raji 2005, passim, and especially 146 on Antigone as a symbol.

5Fugard, Kani, and Ntshona 1976.

6Òsófisan 1999.

7Van Weyenberg 2013, 36.

8Fugard, Kani, and Ntshona 1976, 77.

9Òsófisan 1999, 128.

10Chanter 2011, 85.

11As a PhD candidate at Catholic University, I myself am part of this community. During the spring semester, I sat in on a few meetings of Dr. Sarah B. Ferrario’s graduate course, “Sophocles’ Antigone in Ancient and Modern Context.” I am grateful to her and the students in that course for our thought-provoking discussions before and after the performance. I would like to thank Dean Jacqueline Leary-Warsaw, Associate Dean Patrick Tuite, and C. Stanley Photography for granting me permission to use promotional photos.

12Carson 2015, 13.

13Carson 2012.

14Carson 2015, 41.

15Griffith 1999, 282, ad 935-6.

16Carson 2015, 17.

17Carson 2015, 21.

18Carson 2015, 21.

19Carson 2015, 31.

20Carson 2015, 32.

21Carson 2015, 20.

22Carson 2015, 24.

23Griffith 1999, 75, ad 304-5.

24Carson 2015, 22.

25Carson 2015, 36


27Carson 2015, 23.

28Carson 2015, 24.

29Carson 2015, 24.

30Carson 2015, 16.

31Carson 2015, 32.

32Carson 2015, 42-43.

33Carson 2015, 54.

34 I would like to thank Jodie Rice Augustine, Sarah B. Ferrario, and the editor at Didaskalia for carefully reading drafts of this review and suggesting revisions.


Carson, Anne. 2012. Antigonick (Sophokles). New York; China: New Directions.

Carson, Anne, trans. 2015. Sophokles: Antigone. London: Oberon Books

Chanter, Tina. 2011. Whose Antigone? The Tragic Marginalization of Slavery. New York: SUNY Pr.

Fugard, Athol, John Kani, and Winston Ntshona. 1976. Sizwe Bansi is Dead and The Island. New York: The Viking Pr.

Griffith, Mark, ed. 1999. Sophocles: Antigone. Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Pr.

Òsófisan, Fémi. 1999. Tègònni, an African Antigone. Ibadan, Nigeria: Kenbim Pr.

Raji, Wumi. 2005. “Africanizing Antigone: Postcolonial Discourse and Strategies of Indigenizing a Western Classic.” Research in African Literature 36.4, 135-154.

Steiner, George. 1984. Antigones. New York; Oxford: Oxford Univ. Pr.

Van Weyenberg, Astrid. 2013. The Politics of Adaptation: Contemporary African Drama and Greek Tragedy. Brill: ProQuest Ebook Central,