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....
Monday, February 28, 2011
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)....
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....
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.
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
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.
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....
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....
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