The question of whether the misfortunes that befall Oliver and his friends are the result of fate or a consequence of the fourth-years’ own choices is one that haunts Oliver throughout If We Were Villains. At the heart of these misfortunes is the tragic death of Richard, a mystery that unravels the once close friend group and ultimately brings about their undoing. When the fourth-years see Richard dying in the water, they react with both horror and relief. Richard’s death presents a solution to their problems and an escape from the abuse he inflicted on them. Because it’s easy and familiar to them to point to the stars, so to speak, they choose to believe that Richard’s death was fated to be, rather than the direct consequence of their failure to save him. Oliver, in fact, is the one to offer this reasoning to James by reciting a line from Hamlet in which Hamlet characterizes death as inevitable. Oliver suggests that Richard’s death is divinely ordained, urging James to (in the words of Hamlet) “let be”—a decision that ultimately destroys James, leaving him wracked with guilt. It’s through performing the role of Edmund (in King Lear), who derides those who blame their own bad behavior on higher powers, that James finally comes up with the words to resist the concept of fate and come to terms with his own agency in Richard’s death. Fate, as James and Oliver ultimately both realize, is just an illusion amplified by the fact that they’re all actors with predetermined lines and blocking. Part of the tragedy of If We Were Villains is that its characters mistake choice for fate, considering themselves actors in the larger drama of real life. But in the end, If We Were Villains suggests that, while things may appear inevitable or destined in retrospect, everything can be traced back to individual decisions—and it’s to one’s benefit to accept responsibility for the consequences of those individual decisions sooner rather than later.
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Fate vs. Free Will Quotes in If We Were Villains
The lake, the broad black water, lurked in the background of every scene we played after that—like a set from a play we did once, shuffled to the back of the scene shop where it would have been quickly forgotten if we didn’t have to walk past it every day. Something changed irrevocably, in those few dark minutes James was submerged, as if the lack of oxygen had caused all our molecules to rearrange.
I knew by then the way the story went. Our little drama was rapidly hurtling toward its climactic crisis. What next, when we reached the precipice? First, the reckoning. Then, the fall.
Suddenly it seems there is a fourth person in the room. For the first time in ten years, I look at the chair that had always been Richard’s and find it isn’t empty. There he sits, in lounging, leonine arrogance. He watches me with a razor-thin smile and I realize that this is it—the dénouement, the counterstroke, the end-all he was waiting for. He lingers only long enough for me to see the gleam of triumph in his half-lidded eyes; then he, too, is gone.