Monday, November 28, 2011

Why, look you, how he doesn't storm! (The Merchant of Venice, 3.1)

To Salerio’s question, “Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh: what's that good for?” Shylock offers a reply very similar to Lear’s when Regan asks, “What need one?” to her father’s demand to be followed with such a number of “knights.”  Shylock’s “reason” for needing the flesh, then, is very similar to Lear’s ("O, reason not the need...") and to Caesar’s when telling Decius Brutus why he will not go to the Senate (“The cause is in my will”): because it is good enough for him.  It also rings of what Charles Foster Kane exclaims to his second wife when she wonders why she needs to continue with her fruitless efforts of becoming a diva: "My reasons satisfy me, Susan!"  Shylock’s reply, though, is not only ironic, but gruesome.  If Salerio and Solanio must know, then to appease them, and shock them, Shylock states, “To bait fish, withal.”

Shylock will indeed take the flesh.  His statement, however, may not only perturb the two men on the Rialto, but would most likely terrify and offend any reader or audience member, too.  But Shylock quickly gets himself out of the perhaps bad graces of his listeners and makes his reason, the use of the flesh (that which is not his own), a bit more reasonable, and understandable: “if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.”

Very astute that Shakespeare would have two of his most profound leads, Lear and Shylock, be of like mind and like ability to make quick and strong replies to questions that nag them so.  Both men suffer from what can be considered a Job-complex, even though everything that they’ve lost (that they want back: daughters, kingdom, ducats) they’ve brought about themselves.  But both want what they feel is due to them.  Both want (and get, in different ways) their day in court.  And when that happens, like Lear, whose revenges shall be the terrors of the earth, so too will Shylock’s execution of revenge “go hard” and “better the instruction.”  Each man’s sense of entitlement is not meant for others to comprehend, but to accept, abide by, and accommodate.  

Lear’s command to “reason not the need” is often read as meaning, “do not measure or calculate the need,” but can also be read and performed as meaning, “I do not need a reason,” and can be performed in a very measured way (even though the line is often taken as the precursor to the storm that begins, aptly, toward the end of this speech in 2.4 and to the great storm speech of 3.2).  Likewise, there are different ways that Shylock’s “bait fish” line can be read and performed.  Two interpretations, specifically, that come to mind are that of David Suchet and that of Patrick Stewart in the fourth episode of the Playing Shakespeare series led by John Barton in the early 80s (available on DVD).  Both men played Shylock at different times under Barton’s direction, but in this program we get to see both men perform nearly every speech made by Shylock.  As for this particular line, Suchet’s interpretation is driven by anger, and Stewart’s almost by madness or one could even say Joker-like hysterics.  Both are very interesting and suitable enough for the part.  Olivier seems to just pass over the line altogether, and not give it much emphasis.  A possible third interpretation, one that also perhaps does not require as much effusiveness as it is given by Suchet and Stewart, is more matter of fact, as if to almost say, “What difference does it make?” which speaks to the sense of entitlement described earlier.  Shylock does not immediately have to make heaven’s vault crack, as one might be inclined to have him or Lear do right off the bat, but rather maybe build up to the emphasis where it is most needed.  Hamlet’s words, as ever, remain germane: an actor ought to acquire and beget a temperance that may give the whirlwind of passion smoothness.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

When we are born (Hamlet, 5.1)

As Banquo says to Macbeth, "the instruments of darkness tell us truths."

In Hamlet, this is especially true in the graveyard scene.  Every once in a while, Shakespeare allows a protagonist to step out of his noble robes and, like Odysseus, don rags in order take what is, perhaps, a public opinion poll.  Find out what people know or think, especially about the protagonist.  Two such instances of this occur for sure in Measure for Measure and in Henry V.  Now, in Act 5 of Hamlet, the prince is not necessarily in disguise.  One wonders, then, if the Gravedigger (or Clown) knows whether or not he is actually speaking to Hamlet.  One could make a case either way.  Regardless, the Gravedigger makes a rather profound point regarding that sheds light on both the birth of Hamlet and the madness of Hamlet.  In a passage that most scholars typically use to mark the age of the prince, the Gravedigger says, in response to the question about how long he has been a "gravemaker":

Gravedigger:
Of all the days i' the year, I came to't that day
that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.
Hamlet:
How long is that since?
Gravedigger:
  
          Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it
          was the very day that young Hamlet was born; he that
          is mad, and sent into England.

Here, an interesting correspondence is made by the Gravedigger between two events, and the result of one of those events, that most likely took place right about the time of the beginning of the play: Denmark's triumph over Norway and the subsequent death of King Hamlet, which is the likely cause of Prince Hamlet's madness, however one chooses to define or describe his madness.  That moment, then, according to the Gravedigger, seems to be the moment that Hamlet was truly born: the moment that he first went mad.   

Call this an "imperial theme," then, for this idea of a connection between birth and madness is not uncommon in Shakespearean lore.  This idea certainly gains attention in King Lear.  No doubt that when the king goes mad, that is when he begins to see the world more clearly, lucidly, perhaps even more astutely.  In a man in rags, his godson Edgar as Tom O'Bedlam, Lear recognizes a "philosopher," "Theban," "Athenian."  What rational man would take for gobbledygook, King Lear, in all his crazy splendor, soon to be arrayed like the wild flowers of the field, is able to deduce wisdom in Tom's windy words.  Even Poor Tom is amazed by this. This becomes most apparent when in Act 4.6 of King Lear, Tom reinforces a point made earlier in Hamlet by Polonius that immediately and aptly precedes Lear's recognition of Gloucester:

          O, matter and impertinency mix'd! Reason in madness! 

Once  Lear states his recognition of Gloucester, he makes the compelling statement that "When we are born, we cry that we are come/To this great stage of fools."  The more we live, the more distracted by the world we become that we don't even realize how foolish it is.  We get pooped and demoralized, according to the Creator of the Universe in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions, by "having to reason all the time in a universe which wasn't meant to be reasonable."  O, reason not the need!  The phrase that the Duke of Venice says to Othello comes to mind: the more we "slubber the gloss" the more we lose sight, perhaps, of just how foolish the world is, of how country matters are, because we get too exhausted to even think about it when we have maybe those few precious moments away from the toiling and spinning.  One needs to officially break, go mad, in order to really see it all, understand it all, more clearly.  That is the moment that one is truly born.    

Friday, September 16, 2011

Hamlet's Great Speech in Act IV.4

Before I get into the words, I would just like to share one particular reason why I love this speech and why I think it's important.  As you may or may not know, there are at least two versions Hamlet: the quarto (single copy) of 1603 and the folio (complete works) version of 1623.  The quarto version, as we know it, is believed to have been transcribed by some of the actors in the play and is therefore probably based on what they remember from their performance, and is thus shorter.  The folio version, though printed after Shakespeare's death, is believed to be the full version as Shakespeare intended. 

The debate as to which is the "true" Hamlet continues to this day and some productions (and even printed editions of the play) are produced according to the shorter, quarto version. 

Act IV.4 is one such scene that belongs to the folio version, but not the quarto version.  Therefore, sometimes, you'll see a stage production or read a version of the play that is missing this very important scene.  Personally, I think it's unfortunate to strike this scene from the record.

Why I particularly love Hamlet's big speech in this scene is because it really speaks to the true genius that was Shakespeare with regard to the way he constructs a play.  If you think about it, Act II.2 and Act IV.4 reflect each other, which I think makes total sense or is at least the result of a sublime coincidence.  Multiply II.2 by itself and the product is IV.4, with perhaps even double the intensity, too.  The two scenes, then, hold the mirror up to each other (in Act III.2, Hamlet speaks of holding the mirror to nature; I believe that these two speeches both hold the mirror up to nature, with regard to the way Hamlet thinks and continues to ponder similar issues/problems throughout the play, but they also hold the mirror up to each other).

The "What a piece of work is a man" speech to R & G in Act II.2, parallels the Act IV.4 speech, when Hamlet reacts to seeing Fortinbras gathering his power, which is very similar to the way he reacts at the end of II.2 to the player’s recitation of the Hecuba saga.  It’s as if, then, II.2 is seeing a double image of itself.  With regard to the theme of the IV.4 speech, Hamlet, once again, discourses on the nature of man, as he sees it.  The recurrence of this thought, the swirl of this idea--as a song that plays in one’s head over and over and over again and she can't get it out--is about as true to nature/human nature as it gets.


Here's a look at some of those words from IV.4:

                                                        ...What is a man
         If his chief good and market of his time
         Be but to sleep and feed?  A beast, no more...

Consider, "A beast, no more."  We can read this as, "A beast, and nothing more (if all man does is eat and sleep); that's it."  Or perhaps Hamlet, is introducing his next thought:

        Sure, He that made us with such large discourse,
        Looking before and after, gave us not
        That capability and godlike reason
        To fust in us unused...

A beast, no more.  Perhaps Hamlet is saying "A beast, but not any more; now's the time to plan and act... once and for all."

Remember all the things that Hamlet says about man in II.2, only to go on to say that man delights him not.  Perhaps man delights him not, because man does not use his gift of reason properly.  "To fust in us unused."  The creator did not give us this gift, just to have us allow it to go unused and rot inside us--'tis a wasted gift, then.  Hamlet will once and for all put the gift of reason to good use by putting it into action. 

This also supports his advice to the players in III.2, "Suit the action to the word, the word to the action."

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Bottom's advice to the players (MND, 1.2)

http://theshakespearestandard.com/2011/03/29/bottoms-advice-to-the-players-mnd-1-2/

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

He Is Not A Dreamer (Julius Caesar, 2.2)

http://theshakespearestandard.com/2011/03/15/he-is-not-a-dreamer-julius-caesar-2-2/

Monday, March 14, 2011

What a Girl Wants (As You Like It, 3.2)

http://theshakespearestandard.com/2011/03/14/what-a-girl-wants-as-you-like-it-3-2/

Friday, March 11, 2011

What Gets Us Into These Messes (Twelfth Night, 1.1)

Please visit me at my new location:

http://theshakespearestandard.com/2011/03/11/what-gets-us-into-these-messes-twelfth-night-1-1/

Thanks!

mz

Thursday, March 10, 2011

The Howling Mob of Blockheads (Coriolanus 1.1)

Nearly every Shakespearean tragedy begins with a question.  And rightfully so.  Questions represent doubts, doubts represent problems.  If everything were ok, then there wouldn't be anything in question.  The objective of the next five acts is to unfold or try to arrive at possible answers, solutions, or resolutions to the opening question.  For instance, one such question that immediately comes to mind is Kent's question about Albany and Cornwall--the very first line of King Lear.  The play ends with Albany in charge (regardless of the issue as to whether or not he is fit or right for the job).  In Hamlet, the question is "Who's there?" during a time in which Fortinbras is basically knocking on Denmark's door.  The play ends with Fortinbras in charge.

Coriolanus begins, as does Julius Caesar, with the authority of Rome and the loyalty of Roman subjects in question.  In Julius Caesar, Romans are just fickle.  In Coriolanus, however, an actual quality-of-life issue is raised: the price and availability of corn, to which the following question is raised by the First Citizen:

                You are all resolved rather to die than to famish?

This is an interesting question that not only incites further rabble, but that also raises the question about the value and sanctity of life.  "Is not life more important than quality of life?' versus, "What is life without quality of life?"  The First Citizen has an insightful response to this question: he speaks in hunger for bread, not thirst for revenge.  His anger is, to take from The Godfather, business, not personal.  If he were eating, then he wouldn't necessarily have a problem with the men in charge.  Let them do whatever they want, as long as we get to eat.

The play begins with a question about Caius Marcius (later called, Coriolanus) and ends with an answer: the slaying of Caius Marcius. 

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

All the World is this Great Stage (King Lear, 4.6): Part II

So when Lear says that we wawl and cry, we have a Job-like moment in which Lear deems it better to have never been born at all.  He is once again "every inch a king" who realizes that "cares and business" make like a hassle.  Better to have never been born at all.  What's so great about being great?

There is a parallel here between Lear's "shake all cares and business from our age" and Hamlet's "shuffle off this mortal coil."  By diving his kingdom in three, conferring them upon younger strengths, Lear was trying to shuffle off his mortal coil, "shake the superflux (3.4)," and die peacefully.  One could call this a selfish move; Lear's only worried about his health.  One could call this a selfless move; Lear, concerned about his health, is also concerned about the health of his kingdom--if he is no longer fit, then he is no longer fit to rule; time to pass the torch.  However, if ignorance is the mother of all tragedy, then the problem is that Lear doesn't really seem to know his daughters and how they will respond to his act, whether it be selfish or selfless.  Good initiative, bad judgment?  There are a number of possible explanations, not really the point right now....

The other point of interest in these words to Gloucester is the implication of his sons-in-law.  Lear has already put his daughters on trial.  He doesn't know that Cornwall is the one responsible for gouging out his loyal statesman's eyes, but seeing blind Gloucester triggers Lear to basically say that he's not going to let his sons-in-law off scot-free either.  And, once again, horse imagery.  "Darkness and devils!  Saddle my horses....(1.4)"  Just as for King Macbeth and King Richard III, the horse appears on Lear's way to dusty death.  On their way to riding out into the sunset....

Monday, March 7, 2011

All the World is this Great Stage (King Lear, 4.6)

Perhaps the most beautiful moment in all of Shakespeare's works is when Lear recognizes Gloucester.  This most likely causes Gloucester to weep profusely; at this point, nothing matters more to him than being known or recognized by the man for whose life he had risked his own and had his eyes gouged-out, as a consequence. 

Lear, who did not want water drops staining his man's cheeks in 2.4, is touched by Gloucester's tears and once again resumes to role of Father of His Country that he began to take on with the Fool in 3.2.  Basically, what Lear says to Gloucester is that what he is going through right now isn't anything compared to the pain of being born (almost as if he is transferring birth pains from the mother to the child, which is significant, since this is a play that wants a mother):

KING LEAR
If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.
I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:
Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air,
We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.
GLOUCESTER
Alack, alack the day!
KING LEAR

          When we are born, we cry that we are come
          To this great stage of fools: this a good block;
          It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe
          A troop of horse with felt: I'll put 't in proof;
          And when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law,
          Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

To be continued....

Friday, March 4, 2011

Acrostic Universe (A Midsummer Night's Dream, et al.)

It's Friday, so that can only mean one thing.  No, not re-run.  Better.  Guest Host!

Today's post comes to us by way of Florida and Jane Austen studies.  I'm very pleased to present my good friend, Arnie Perlstein.  Take it away, Arnie:

http://sharpelvessociety.blogspot.com/2011/03/o-titania-brave-new-world-of.html

Thursday, March 3, 2011

A Patrician Bids You Beware (Julius Caesar, 1.1)

Much of Shakespeare's audience most likely had a pretty decent handle on Roman history--the decline and fall of both the republic and the empire.  But let's say the play Julius Caesar is one's first lesson in Roman history.  If this is the case, then, once again, a tip of the hat needs to go to the way Shakespeare crafts his plays.  In the roles of Flavius and Marullus, he creates two brief candles who strut and fret their, in this case, minutes upon the stage and then are heard no more.  But the tale they tell is extremely important.

Once again, the beginning of a Shakespeare play provides a glimpse into the future.  In this case, the future is not just the end of the play, but real historical circumstances.  In Marullus' famous harangue to the throng, he calls the people of Rome out on their fickleness and reckless thinking:

              Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
              What tributaries follow him to Rome,
              To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
              You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
              O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
              Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
              Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
              To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
              Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
              The livelong day, with patient expectation,
              To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome....

Render unto Pompey?  But how quickly and easily the plebeians of Rome shift their loyalty!  This will happen two more times in the play, after the two funeral orations.  And since the play's the thing that holds the mirror up to nature, then what we are witnessing here in this shiftiness and inconstancy of thought and values is the first pressure change, so to speak, in 500 years worth of tides in the affairs of the Roman Empire....

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

It Takes One to Know One (The Merchant of Venice, 1.3)

Today's post was originally going to be about Shylock's big speech in 3.1, but I continue to have a hard time wrapping my mind around it.  Of course, that's the beauty of the speech.  Wondering, is it meant to make us empathize with Shylock more thank we may already do?  Is it meant to villainize him even more in our eyes?  The answer is, yes.

The line from that speech that really gets to me is, "If you tickle us, do we not laugh."  This one really strikes at the core.  Takes the train of thought and derails it!

Instead, because I don't think anyone is really fundamentally good or evil in this play (especially in this play)-- ok, before I continue, a note about Portia.  And I am breaking some rules, here.  Getting a little subjective.  But on the "quality of mercy speech."  First, if you have access to it, then I strongly recommend that you read Steven Doloff's article, "The Qualitas of 'Mercy': Etymological Conversion in The Merchant of Venice" from the Winter 2009/2010 issue of The Shakespeare Newsletter.  If you don't, then just look what this speech leads to: Shylock having to choose between his losing his wealth or converting to Christianity.  Granted, he chooses conversion, but what kind of way is this to admit or accept someone into the Christian fold?  This is the mercy that Antonio can render Shylock?

Antonio is my least favorite character in all of Shakespeare.  This does not mean that I think he is a poorly written character.  I don't.  I just fail to find any redemptive quality in him.  He's a wonderfully written character who is just in no way wonderful.  The purpose of the "sacrifice" that he makes, is willing to make, for his friend Bassanio is defeated by two things. 1) The fact that it leads to a public hearing.  If Antonio really knows his scripture--more on this very shortly--then he should know that his act of charity, no matter what it leads to, should not be made public or turned into a spectacle.  2) It still comes at the cost of someone else, even if that someone else is Shylock.  Yet another gain made by Antonio at Shylock's expense.

The title of and basis for today's post comes from something particularly despicable that he says in 1.3.  This is in response to Shylock's speech about Jacob and Laban's lambs:

                Mark you this, Bassanio,
                The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
                An evil soul producing holy witness
                Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,
                A goodly apple rotten at the heart:
                O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

It's almost as if Antonio is describing himself!  Thus ends my catechism....

Read Doloff's article.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Hotspur to Prick the Sides (1 Henry IV, 1.1)

Not unlike, say, Priam in the face of Achilles, does King Henry highly respect the drive of Young Henry Percy; aka, Hotspur.  He calls Hotspur "Fortune's minion," in light of the fact that his own Harry (or Hal) is out there running with the "minions of the moon," "Diana's foresters."  Hotspur is prodigious; Harry, prodigal:

               Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest me sin
               In envy that my Lord Northumberland
               Should be the father to so blest a son,
               A son who is the theme of honour's tongue;
               Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
               Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride:
               Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
               See riot and dishonour stain the brow
               Of my young Harry. O that it could be proved
               That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged
               In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,
               And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet!
               Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.

It is sad, but King Henry seems to see a reflection of his younger self in Young Percy than he does in his own son.  No wonder.  Look at how Percy responds to the exile of Mortimer (1.3), then go back to Richard II and see how Bullingbrooke (now King Henry) responds to his own exile.  The fiery quality of the Earl's son is a bit reminiscent, then, and is intense enough to lead the King to exit as soon as he is through demanding that the Percy's turn over their prisoners of war.

The theme of honor's tongue.  Of course, another man with a very large presence will have something to say to that later on....

Monday, February 28, 2011

She Hath a Way (Sonnet 145)

In honor of the Oscars and my love for Anne Hathaway, today's post is related to the sonnet that is believed to have been written for Shakespeare's own Ms. Hathaway ("hate away" being a play on "Hathaway"):

                  Those lips that Love's own hand did make
                  Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
                  To me that languish'd for her sake;
                  But when she saw my woeful state,
                  Straight in her heart did mercy come,
                  Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
                  Was used in giving gentle doom,
                  And taught it thus anew to greet:
                  'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
                  That follow'd it as gentle day
                  Doth follow night, who like a fiend
                  From heaven to hell is flown away;
                  'I hate' from hate away she threw,
                  And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

I'm not positive (need to double, triple, quadruple check), but I believe that this is the only sonnet written in tetrameter, which gives the sonnet perhaps a lighter, livelier feel.  The sonnet recalls what may have been or what was almost a dreadful experience in the speaker's life, but the tetrameter seems to convey a sense of relief, thanks to the words "not you."

The eighth line serves as the turn in this sonnet and introduces something epic, something pre-Miltonic.  Words have the power to cast away.  The words are so powerful that even the ones who are cast away or are hated remember where they come from and how much they love the deliverers of those words.  Banished Cordelia never forsakes Lear.  Milton's Satan, Joseph Campbell's Satan remember God also saying "Get out of my sight," and keep the words close to them, not for the meaning, but for the voice.  That's how much the beloved are loved.

The speaker of this sonnet seems to be having a similar experience.  The speaker is recalling words of hate coming from the lips of the beloved, whose lips were made by Love's own hand.  Lips produced by Love's own hand producing words of hate!  The words are so powerful; they basically have the power to banish the lover to hell.  The speaker seemed to have seen this coming, but instead was recalled to life, so to speak, by the completion of the beloved's thought.  The words of the beloved, instead, banish the night, or the darkness, to hell.  The lover's life is spared, but still, the words, lips, of the beloved have the power to condemn....

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Who Art The Thing Itself (Hamlet, 2.2; King Lear, 3.4)

Final post for the week.  Something that's been on my brain for a while.  The Thing.  Which is it?  The play or unaccommodated man?

It has taken a little while, but by the end of Act 3.2 is Lear becomes Duke Senior.  After realizing that his wits begin to turn, he turns his mind to the succor of his companions, especially the Fool, whom the son-less father begins to treat like a sun.  In 3.4, the King recites fervent prayer to the "Poor naked wretches"; one of the most beautiful moments in the play.  The words, just like Kent's good night/good knight wish to Fortune when he's in the stocks at the end of 2.2, summon up from the dirt Edgar, who is now in disguise as Tom O'Bedlam.

That Lear's wits have turned and that he is now the pattern of all patience, he is able to see clearly and see something magnificent in the hobo-like figure.  Ever since the end of 2.4, we have had an idea of Lear's own concept of "Bestial oblivion" (cf. Hamlet 4.4), but it really shines through when it manifests itself physically before him in the form of Edgar as Poor Tom.  Pomp has heeded Lear's words, has taken physic, and is now exposing itself to feel what wretches feel.  Lear is able to see this very clearly and these are his words to man in his most basic, bestial form:

                  Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer
                  with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies.
                  Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou
                  owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep
                  no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's three on
                  's are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself:
                  unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare,
                  forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings!
                  come unbutton here.

This is the quintessence of dust.  Lear is in awe.  Calls Poor Tom learned Theban, philosopher, Athenian and will keep still with him.  In this instrument of darkness, Lear recognizes a truth teller.  As King in the court, Lear may have had a man like this whipped.  As King in nature, Poor Tom is his new all-licensed Fool.  The role of the Fool becomes significantly diminutive at this point; the Fool will only be Tom's "yokefellow of equity" (3.6) for a very short time before disappearing.

Edgar, then, as Poor Tom, as unaccommodated man, is the play, is the thing that catches the conscience of the King! 

The play, all along, is about accommodated man and the problems that come with the lendings.  Borrowed robes.  How we manipulate nature in order to suit, placate our fortune (of which we have no control).  Remove the lendings.  Make vile things precious.  Go to the hovel.  Find tongues in trees, books in brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.  It is the unaccommodated man who truly lives....

The play's the thing wherein Shakespeare catches the conscience of Man and exposes him, holds the mirror to his obsession and preoccupation with things (money, power, etc)....                          

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

The Name's the Thing (Twelfth Night, 2.3)

Someone very dear to me once complained that the "problem" with Twelfth Night is that Shakespeare does not "develop the revenge plot against Malvolio" enough.  Naturally, I had a major league problem with this.  Made me shutter.  But instead of throwing down my glove, I merely stated that everything that we need to know about the revenge plot is in the name itself.  Malvolio.  Ill will. 

The following passage says it all.  This is the speech that elicits the famous response from Toby about "no more cakes and ale" and commentaries about Puritanism.  Here is Malvolio reacting to the present mirth and present laughter, in the words of Feste's song, the irony being that Sir Toby and Sir Andrew chose a song about love rather than the good life:

               My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye
               no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like
               tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an
               alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your
               coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse
               of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor
               time in you? 

Interesting, though.  Present mirth hath present laughter.  Mirth.  The House of Mirth.  The Heart of the Fool, according to Ecclesiastes, lives in the House of Mirth.  In two houses where music is played live the hearts of two fools: Orsino and Olivia.

For all the negative criticism about inconsistencies in the works of Shakespeare, it is important to remember that, as Hamlet says, "the purpose of playing...is to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature."  These inconsistencies are but directions by indirections.  They represent nature as best as possible by the human mind.  They are about as lifelike as it gets....

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

His Majesty's Antic Disposition (Richard II, 3.2)

So fair and foul a day he had not seen.

Coming home after a major success at quashing the Irish rebellion, King Richard comes home to find out that his cousin Henry Bullingbrooke has returned from exile and has amassed a rapidly growing power.  Apparently, it is easier for the King to handle disturbances abroad than it is in his own home; or worse, in his own family.  As of right now, Richard is a King not without honor except in his own family.  He understands the nature of Henry (a subject for another post) and is very quick to throw in the towel.  Perhaps as quick as he was to throw down his warder in 1.3, before the duel between his cousin Henry and Mowbray--an interesting moment at which Richard basically announces his own death sentence.  If he had let the duel go through, instead of declaring the two men banished, then his cousin may not have been so inclined to topple him.  When Richard comes home to find out that his cousin has also come home, he realizes that any conquests brings he home from Ireland are basically all for naught.  Today is the day of doom: from Richard's poor night to Bullingbrooke's fair day.  What was gentle earth to Richard, is now barren earth.  Paste and cover to our bones.

A grave.

He shall not live.

Enough.

In light of this darkness, these are his words:

             For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
             And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
             How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
             Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
             Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
             All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
             That rounds the mortal temples of a king
             Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
             Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
             Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
             To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
             Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
             As if this flesh which walls about our life,
             Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
             Comes at the last and with a little pin
             Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

Like Isabella, here Richard articulates the transience of authority.  Of everything.  Nothing belongs to man.  Everything belongs to death.  Richard articulates this truth very sadly and prettily.  Death will scoff at the King's pomp, which will therefore feel what wretches feel.  Treasons that will make himself wish he were a beggar.  And so he will be.

The idea of sitting upon the ground, though.  That is very interesting.  The idea that the throne doesn't mean anything.  That ultimately, all men are doomed to the same seat: the earth.  I am not completely sure if Richard is completely humiliating himself here in the same way that Macbeth does when he says things like, "My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten," or when he makes light of his "strange infirmity," but it's close....

No more.

'Tis not so sweet as it was before.

Later, when Richard feels his death coming on and hears music, his response is very similar to that of another young, melodramatic nobleman, Orsino, in the midst of his heartache:

                                       ....how sour sweet music is,
             When time is broke and no proportion kept!
             So is it in the music of men's lives.

So let it be with Richard.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Our Universe's Several Dowers

Today's reflection has to do with the many references to "heavenly music" and the "music of the spheres" in the works of Shakespeare.  Late the other night, I happened upon a BBC World Service report about the Kepler space telescope and its recent discovery of some 1200 new planets/planet-like structures.  The end of the report provided a real treat: the sound of a heartbeat of a star!  I'd never heard anything like it.  Wish I could have found the exact recording, but this clip (and some of the others available) should do it justice.  Sounds like Holst out there!  Pythagoras is beaming....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7TfNrIBKGI

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Touching Wounds (Julius Caesar, 5.1)

Ever thinking about the correlation between Caesar and Christ.  Today, Octavius opens the eyes wide open in the following reply to Cassius:

             Come, come, the cause: if arguing make us sweat,
             The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look;
             I draw a sword against conspirators;
             When think you that the sword goes up again?
             Never, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds
             Be well avenged; or till another Caesar
             Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.

This is a startling passage on two fronts.  First, in an almost "Doubting Thomas" type moment, Octavius' wonder is connected to the wounds.  The answer to his question is related to the wounds of Caesar.  Second, the number.  Three and thirty.  The two great lives of Caesar by Plutarch and Suetonius report that the number wounds was three and twenty.  According to T.S. Dorsch in the second Arden edition, Theobald emended accordingly.  Big mistake.  The number here is three and thirty for a reason, a very good reason.  To draw a parallel between Caesar's wounds and the supposed age of Christ when he was crucified (mortally stabbed).  An extremely effective device here that should not be tampered with.  The most unkindest cuts of all deserve to placed at the center of the table.

Side note: I always think that Thomas gets a bad rap.  

Thursday, February 17, 2011

The Sermon in the Tavern (2 Henry IV, 1.2)

I'm not sure where it comes from, but I heard that Shaw said that at the heart of every joke is a great truth.  I may not be quoting this exactly, either.  I would say the same for truth, though.  That at the heart of every truth is a great joke.  This can certainly be said for the parables of Christ.  I think it was John Dominic Crossan, the former priest and writer of some of the best biblical criticism, who used to imagine Jesus winking at the end of every parable--as though he were delivering a punchline!

Of course, we call this, in both cases, irony.  The king of irony in the works of Shakespeare is, of course, Falstaff.  Today's moment of reflection takes us to the tavern in Eastcheap.  The Chief Justice wants to interrogate Sir John about the robbery at Gadshill.  The scene is pure Vaudeville.  The poor servant is the monkey in the middle of Sir John's deft defiance and the Chief Justice's determination.  When Falstaff, the man who can never have enough, pretends to have had enough (of the pestering), he throws up his arms, slaps his thighs and says (in another hilarious moment, just like when he asks, "Is there no virtue extant?"):

                   What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not
                   wars? is there not employment? doth not the king
                   lack subjects? do not the rebels need soldiers?
                   Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it
                   is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side,
                   were it worse than the name of rebellion can tell
                   how to make it.

At the risk of sounding perhaps too Bloomian, I'll let Falstaff do most of the talking here.  But here, we have another "honor speech."  Worse shame to beg than be on the worst side, the losing side.  Better to have fought and lost than to have begged.  Begging, then, is even below suicide in the agony of defeat.

My dad used to have a very funny line about unreliable people: "....always there when you need him, instead of right here where you can really use his help."  This description fits Falstaff certainly better than his armor.  And yet, of course, everything that Falstaff says, every question that he asks here, is true.  It is funny, but it is so true.  Is there not anything better or more important to do?  And yet, Falstaff is our guide down the primrose path, our captain in fleeting the time carelessly....  

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Shakespeare's Small Time & Lesse Speake (Brutus and Macbeth)

Cassius and Lady Macbeth are similar roles, and so it is no wonder that Brutus and Macbeth respond similarly to their respective deaths.  Time once again rears its ever present head in the small eulogies that Brutus and Macbeth pay to their loved ones.  They speak of it not being the right time for death or not having the right amount of time to pay full tribute, and yet in the little bit of time that they have they speak the perfect amount of perfect words.  First, Brutus:  

                     Are yet two Romans living such as these?
                     The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!
                     It is impossible that ever Rome
                     Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears
                     To this dead man than you shall see me pay.
                     I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.

And Macbeth:

                    She should have died hereafter;
                    There would have been a time for such a word.
                    To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
                    Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
                    To the last syllable of recorded time,
                    And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
                    The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
                    Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
                    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
                    And then is heard no more: it is a tale
                    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
                    Signifying nothing.

And then, for both men, it's once more unto the breach.... and then, no more.

But these two speeches often get taken for granted.  I think a lot of Shakespeare's words do.  They get read and heard and quoted and played with so often that many people forget or don't even realize just how piercing they are.  This was a particularly difficult post for me to write, because every time I read or hear "The last of all the Romans," I lose it.  That's "Renown and grace is dead" to me.  Great men are dead.  A great society is dead.  An era is dead.  Something is lost that can never be retrieved or repeated. 

What a tribute.  The last of all the Romans.  There'll never be another one like Cassius.  Perhaps, that's a good thing.  In the beginning of the play, Caesar was wary of men like Cassius.  Here, in Brutus' words, there is a touch of that, too, but moreover, would there were more men like Cassius.  Both men are right. 

Side note: Who would call Iago, "The last of all the Venetians?"  After all, he is not even worthy of death; 'tis happiness to die.  Perhaps this is something that Iago realizes, though, which is maybe why he doesn't even take the officer's way out.  His battle was not even a battle worth losing and taking his own life for.  He will go on as a Spartan dog with no journey shortly to go....       

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Which I'd Fain Call Master (Measure for Measure, 2.2)

More people in the law enactment and law enforcement industries ought to read Measure for Measure.  Today's clip comes from Isabella, who is pleading for her brother Claudio's life to Angelo, the newly installed duke:

                                            ....but man, proud man,
               Drest in a little brief authority,
               Most ignorant of what he's most assured,
               His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
               Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
               As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
               Would all themselves laugh mortal.

An excellent little lesson how man wastes his gifts, talents, and powers.  There used to be the idea of ruling by divine right.  Here, Isabella says that there isn't anything divine about it.  If only man could see how angels would react to how man functions down here.  
Like time, authority is a man made thing, often and usually misappropriated in the name of God or some other divine being.  Drest in a little brief authority.  Just like the candle.  Signifying nothing.  All very self-serving.... 
And Claudio must march to his execution.  His offense, copulation.  Would Lear were here to back Isabella up.  Let copulation thrive!

Monday, February 14, 2011

Brawling Love (Hamlet, 4.5)

Today is Valentine’s Day, and yesterday, the fair Ophelia might have spoken these words:

No one has expressed or will express love better than Shakespeare.  The reality of love, which is so often wonderfully depicted in the works of Shakespeare, is that it will drive you mad.  Here, Ophelia, with the wildflowers of the field in her hair (in a state resembling Lear in 4.6), has snapped as a result of the death of her father.  It is not evident that she knows that her father has been slain by the man to whom she’s been romantically inclined, Hamlet, but in her dirge here, the memory of Hamlet in his doublet all unbraced (her own balcony scene) seems to be crossing her mind.  There is a connection, here.

The intensity of the love that she has for the three men in her life—a trinity, so to speak, of father (Polonius), son (Laertes), and son of a holy ghost (Hamlet)—drives her to this.  She is either crazy or in the heat of a spiritually ecstatic experience.  A transition to her own death, with Gis (Jesus) and Saint Charity also in her sights.  Tripping the light fantastic on her way to the netherworld.   

Sunday, February 13, 2011

In His Perfect Mind (As You Like It, 2.1)


A week late, but say there were a Shakespeare Bowl and the two teams were Pure Evil and Pure Good.  No doubt Team Pure Evil would be co-captained by Aaron and Saturninus from Titus Andronicus.  I can just imagine Iago jumping up and down, saying “Pick me, pick me!” but I don’t see him a captain.

It’s been a while since I’ve read and taught As You Like It, but one thing I remember always pointing out is just how great Duke Senior is.  The man is a champ.  And so, if voting for the Shakespeare Bowl MVP were being held today, then I think that the trophy and new Camaro would go to the captain of Team Pure Good: Duke Senior.

Duke Senior makes his first appearance in Act 2.1 when he is entering the Forest of Arden after being driven out of his dukedom by his brother Frederick.  Like Lear, Senior is not alone when he goes out into exile.  The energy that Lear creates on the heath is magnificent, but Duke Senior truly handles his circumstances with aplomb.  He is accompanied by Amiens and two or three other lords and his wondering about the location of Jaques, perhaps his most important attendant.  Here is how Senior reacts to entering the forest:


Here, Senior uses the word “pomp” that Lear uses in his prayer to the poor naked wretches in 3.4.  Here, Senior already knows what it takes Lear a little while to discover: that, out here, pomp is of no circumstance.  And that is a good thing.  Out here, life can truly be lived.  Duke Senior is feeling heartache, no doubt, for three reasons: his brother has betrayed him; he’s been separated from his daughter Rosalind (and, if he does know that she is residing with her uncle Frederick and cousin Celia, then he may not be too comfortable with that); and, of course, he’s lost dukedom.  This speaks to the tug-of-war between Nature and Fortune (Shakespeare Bowl II?) that runs throughout the course of this play.  Fortune breeds too many cares that get in the way of pure living.  Despite the heartache, this is something that Senior is man and leader enough to recognize when out of doors.  The elements are on his side, too, and he can see the beauty that Nature has to offer.  The true ornaments of life.

Renown may be dead, but his grace is not.  Duke Senior cares about the morale of his attendants and puts it before his own cares.  He is still their leader and it is his job to keep their spirits up.  It is incumbent upon him to express the beauty that they are now able to enjoy away from the court.  Senior continues to come out a champion in his reaction to how Jaques has been ranting (“moralizing”) about deer hunting and even later still when he invites a crazed Orlando to retrieve the elder Adam and join him in breaking bread. 

“Here feel we but the penalty of Adam.”  In doing so, Duke Senior feeds Adam.  Something also needs to be said to that….