It is this last question that Aeschylus asks most insistently in his two most famous works, the Oresteia (a trilogy comprising Agamemnon, Choephoroi, and Eumenides) and Prometheus Bound (the first part of a trilogy of which the last two parts have been lost): Is it right that Orestes, a young man in no way responsible for his situation, should be commanded by a god, in the name of justice, to avenge his father by murdering his mother? Is there no other way out of his dilemma than through the ancient code of blood revenge, which will only compound the dilemma? Again: Was it right that Prometheus, in befriending humankind with the gifts of fire and the arts, should offend the presiding god Zeus and himself be horribly punished? Aeschylus opened questions whose answers in the Homeric stories had been taken for granted. In Homer, Orestes’ patricide is regarded as an act of filial piety, and Prometheus’s punishment is merely the inevitable consequence of defying the reigning deity. All of the materials of tragedy, all of its cruelty, loss, and suffering, are present in Homer and the ancient myths but are dealt with as absolutes—self-sufficient and without the questioning spirit that was necessary to raise them to the level of tragedy. It remained for Aeschylus and his fellow tragedians first to treat these “absolutes” critically and creatively in sustained dramatic form. They were true explorers of the human spirit.

In addition to their remarkable probing into the nature of existence, their achievements included a degree of psychological insight for which they are not generally given credit. Though such praise is usually reserved for Shakespeare and the moderns, the Athenian dramatists conveyed a vivid sense of the living reality of their characters’ experience: of what it felt like to be caught, like Orestes, in desperately conflicting loyalties or to be subjected, like Prometheus, to prolonged and unjust punishment. The mood of the audience as it witnessed the acting out of these climactic experiences has been described as one of impassioned contemplation. From their myths and epics and from their history in the 6th century, the people of Athens learned that they could extend an empire and lay the foundations of a great culture. From their tragedies of the 5th century, they learned who they were, something of the possibilities and limitations of the spirit, and of what it meant, not merely what it felt like, to be alive in a world both beautiful and terrible.

Aeschylus has been called the most theological of the Greek tragedians. His Prometheus has been compared to the Book of Job of the Bible both in its structure (i.e., the immobilized heroic figure maintaining his cause in dialogues with visitors) and in its preoccupation with the problem of suffering at the hands of a seemingly unjust deity. Aeschylus tended to resolve the dramatic problem into some degree of harmony, as scattered evidence suggests he did in the last two parts of the Promethiad and as he certainly did in the conclusion of the Oresteia. This tendency would conceivably lead him out of the realm of tragedy and into religious assurance. But his harmonies are never complete. In his plays evil is inescapable, loss is irretrievable, suffering is inevitable. What the plays say positively is that one can learn through suffering. The chorus in Agamemnon, the first play of the Oresteia, says this twice. The capacity to learn through suffering is a distinguishing characteristic of the tragic hero, preeminently of the Greek tragic hero. He has not merely courage, tenacity, and endurance but also the ability to grow, by means of these qualities, into an understanding of himself, of his fellows, and of the conditions of existence. Suffering, says Aeschylus, need not be embittering but can be a source of knowledge. The moral force of his plays and those of his fellow tragedians can hardly be exaggerated. They were shaping agents in the Greek notion of education. It has been said that from Homer the Greeks learned how to be good Greeks and from the tragedies they learned an enlarged humanity. If it cannot be proved that Aeschylus “invented” tragedy, it is clear that he at least set its tone and established a model that is still operative. Such 20th-century dramatists as T.S. Eliot, in The Family Reunion (1939), and Jean-Paul Sartre, in The Flies (1943), found modern relevance in its archetypal characters, situations, and themes, and in the 21st century the Oresteia is still considered one of the greatest spiritual works written.