Books like The Gods Are Not to Blame

I remember when I read this for my African Literature class in high school. After we had finished reading the book, discussion and analysis were the next things up the list of things to do next. And so we did that. The question which was thrown out to us for dissection by our teacher was: Are the gods to blame?Now this is the part where I tell you exactly why this book is memorable for me. But first, If you know this book: Oedipus Rex, then you already have an idea of what this story is about, it's implications, the cruelty of it's tragic plot, and amount of debate the question above presents. A boy destined to succeed, to be a king and be great, to kill his father and marry his mother. A boy who would be the author of many tragedies. Did the gods watch in calm amusement as humans tried to undo this monstrous prophecy by decreeing that the boy be killed when he was born? And were they fascinated by the blind confidence of men, and the uselessness of their fumbling schemes as they failed and the boy survived? Did they smile sinister, knowing smiles as the die was cast? I prefer the original from which this story was adapted. Oedipus Rex was one of the books I book-napped from my father's shelves and read as a little girl. I only remember bits and pieces from it. But I love it still.▶ \ \ THE QUESTION WAS "WHY?" THE ANSWER IS...\ \ At the time, I thought(and still think) the title of the book: The Gods Are Not To Blame wasn't an assertive declaration by the author - even if it simply presented itself as such - but rather it was the exact opposite, an open question in disguise, delivered for thought. An atmosphere for doubt and pensiveness. I thought about it(and not for long because I knew what my answer was from the first page to the very last page), and maintained what I saw as the truth long after I had put the book down. My answer was a negative. They were to blame goddamit. They were full of blame, stinking and rotting from it. They decided the fates, and they presented you with a false sense of choiceness, an empty cruel gesture. Daring you to outsmart, thwart, and evade the cunning lord, Kismet.But we were having a discussion, and like all discussions, contradicting opinions were guaranteed. My closest friend at the time, gave an answer, her opinion, which was in strong opposition to mine. And let me tell you something, that was the year of hormones. I got offended, how could she be so silly? Of course they were to blame! And this led to another question: \ Are we the writers of our destiny? Do we make our own destiny out of a few choices and nothings, or are we still unwittingly playing into the clammy hands of fate, believing these - the lives we live - are all our crafts?\ For a while, I refused to be faulted for what came next:And this:One word led to many, and many words led to a sentence, then sentences. And before anyone could put the flame out, it turned into a wild, poisonous fire. The whole class was screaming at, and yelling over each other. Needless to say, for a while African Literature class was a silent graveyard only disturbed by the swish-swosh of pens dragging across papers, students robotically taking notes and analyzed thoughts dictated to us by our teacher. If we weren't mature enough to handle a discussion, then there would be no discussion. But nobody agreed to take the fall for that moment of madness. It was the hormones and along with them came pride. Years later, I'm still pondering the same questions. Now, I really don't know now how I feel about this book after going over it again. All I know is people got screwed over and some people in high places were enjoying doing the screwing.