’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

Just as lighting may strike a tree and send a shock wave through the ground, electrocuting every blade of grass, Iago's revenge is directed at Othello, but effects many of the people in Othello's life. The irony in it all is that it was love that became the ultimate downfall of many of the characters. It all began with Iago's unconditional love for himself, and his surety that the position as Lieutenant was rightfully his. Iago's preying on Roderigo showed his magnetism towards the weak, and how his manipulative nature easily molds Roderigo to his every whim. Roderigo's blind love bings his tragic end with his final realization of Iago's plan. Only in death does Roderigo regain his sight.
Othello and Desdemona seem to have the perfect marrige; true love, trust, and kindness. That is, until Iago slithers into the picture, whispering ideas directly through Othello's ear, and into his head; Poisoning it with a plague of doubt. Othellos pure love for Desdemona feeds his jealousy almost as much as Iago does, and to his very last weeping moments, Othello is passionatly, and deeply in love with his wife.
Both Emilia's love for her husband, Iago, and her devotion to Desdemona blind her of true motifs. Her purely ignorant acts, however, bring the end to both these people. Emilia's death is truely tragic in this way because her kindness was manipulated and twisted by the power of "lightning," and left her singed and torched.
The fast pace of the play Othello, and the power of manipulation lead this play's tragic vision. When people are hearing what they want to hear, or expect to hear, situations can be blown out of proportion, and insiuation can spred like wild fire. This theme shows up in some of Shakespear's other plays as well. In "Romeo and Juliet," it is Romeo and Juliet's hurried, rash actions that lead them to an unnessesary fate. The tragic vision of Othello is the journey of all characters through oblivion, directly to understanding, and ultimately to a passionate hate for Iago.

"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow:
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d the stones;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him - his scorn I approve -
I call’d my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow:
If I court more women, you’ll couch with more men."