I've noticed a few classmates this semester applying Shakespeare to Beckett. this is specifically applicable on the subject of nothing. Fletcher's presentations citing the nothing rant in Winters Tale paired with the evocation of Beckett made my heart soar.
And I just have a few things to say about nothing. and a little film about nothing that is perfect.
to start, there is a very interesting distinction Heidegger makes about nothing.
The paradigm is centered on the article we address to nothing. do we imply nothing as no-thing or nothing as Nothing. ie. emptiness, sans all.
an example of this from Heidegger would be the issue
-There is nothing to be afraid of.
-Wrong, there is Nothing to be afraid of.
Beckett often deals with Nothingness. he once said, "Nothing is funnier than unhappiness" now if we apply Heidegger to this statement at what meaning do we come to?
just a thought.
Also, Thomas Wells turned me on to this little clip. perhaps a perfect recapitulation of Waiting for Godot. with muppets.
But the play, brings up the question once again. Often I have heard criticism of Godot in that, "nothing happens"
right.
or wrong, Nothing happens.
How privileged are we to experience Nothing, instead of our usual nothings.
this is seriously one of the best productions i've seen. And I rest that claim on one line, articulated so perfectly here:
"then we'll be...happy."
Monday, April 25, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
megoist.
Megoist.
If you ever wanted to know what the meaning of life is or why we are here, I’ll tell you: Every one of us is an egoist.
Not many are willing to accept this, but the biggest (or Best) of us egoists have already and fully embrace it.
Joyce understood remembrance, his transfiguration of the phrase “remember me” into “mememoreme!” perhaps best synthesizes this entire philosophy into one final yawping death rattle.
Ovid rather blatantly exposed his own drive for immortality when he stating
"And now my work is done: no wrath of Jove
nor fire nor sword nor time, which would erode
all things, has power to blot out this poem.
Now when it wills, the fatal day (which has
only the body in its grasp) can end
my years, however long or short their span.
But, with the better part of me, I'll gain
a place that's higher than the stars: my name,
indelible, eternal, will remain.
And everywhere that Roman power has sway,
in all domains the Latins gain, my lines
will be on people's lips; and through all time--
if poets' prophecies are ever right--
my name and fame are sure: I shall have life."
He knew. That’s why we remember him.
Let me recount this realization, my thoughts came to me somewhat erratically, but this is how it all materialized.
My roommates recently bought a Playstation 3, and have been playing it non-stop since it arrived. Being self absorbed, I often scoff at their wasting time. I sit and read and make undermining comments about their incessant virtual life.
Whenever they are playing hockey games, or skiing games I always say, “you know those things are really a lot more fun in real life.”
On the eve of this revelation my roommates were playing a game where you steal cars, run civilians over, and shoot people.
I felt my stock comment maybe inappropriate at this particular juncture.
So I turned my mind inward, and sought sanctum in my meditations.
I began to criticize video games, and virtual worlds. I wondered what is it in human nature that drives us to operate characters outside ourselves. To live vicariously through fictitious figures, fields of dreams. It was almost instantly apparent that video games are hardly the sole venue for this act, this puppet show. The curtain over the world lifted, and I knew: were all at the helm of a vast web of puppet strings, and in turn, we are all at the mercy of an unseen puppeteer.
To begin at our own birth, or better yet: conception lets just examine the beautiful art of utter selfishness.
I don’t think It’s necessary for me to go into detail, but lets just be honest about a few components:
Regardless of your parent’s intent, whether you were planned or not, bastard, or well begotten, there were two moments—well at least one—of your conception that really were solely an egotistical act.
Moving quickly past that, the idea of children is often evoked as the magnum opus of selfless scenarios, but children are possibly the simple most me-driven metamorphosis of all.
Whether we accept it or not, our motive for having children is really our only guaranteed act of prolonging immortality. We come to terms with death, its inevitability and yet we constantly ask our selves, “how can I beat this?”
Then we snap our fingers and say, “Oh! I know I’ll have a baby, and I’ll raise them to be just like me, but smarter, better, faster, and able to do all thing things I wish I could have done."
For proof, simply ask yourself: how much are you becoming your parents?
The answer is shocking.
we may attempt to distance ourselves as far from our family as possible, but we cannont deny we are a product of our parents, and theres before them, ad infintum.
As in Hamlet, mourning over his fathers death is dismissed by the usurping king,
"KING
Our being begotten, spins our thread of life into a tapestry whose vastness is incomprehensible. Our existance is a continuation of life dating back to the origin of all.
our lineage ferries us across all rivers of history, exploring each tributary of time to the darkest recsesses of that backward abysm. Cavernous libraries slumber under cobweb quilts, attainable only by that echo of an archaic heart. Bloodlines like rivers and deltas seem stagnat untill we here the gulls, re-calling us home.
"But I'm loothing them that's here and all I lothe. Loonely in me loneness. For all their faults. I am passing out. O bitter ending! I'll slip away before they're up. They'll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me. And it's old and old it's sad and old it's sad and weary I go back to you, my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms. I see them rising! Save me from those therrble prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. So. Avelaval. My leaves have drifted from me. All. But one clings still. I'll bear it on me. To remind me of. Lff! So soft this morning, ours. Yes. Carry me along, taddy, like you done through the toy fair! If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to washup. Yes, tid. There's where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the
riverrun"
Thus ends and begins again the bit of recirculation. Life coming out of death, out of birth.
We come and go. (there is no end to inquiry and pursuit these words, their endless meanings-- all the world is contained between.)
the motives for this perpetuation are indeed selfish, yet it is the way of the world. It is the world itself.
I fear I am veering slightly off course here, but I trust my audience is adept.
Despite the inherent selfishness of the act itself and of Paroles, his speech is poignant in the manner that to deny this act (albeit self fulfilling) is to deny nature, to damn the meaning of life.
‘It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept is ever lost. 'Tis too cold a companion. Away with't! 'Tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin; virginity murders itself, and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese, consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by't. Out with't! Within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with't! 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying: the longer kept, the less worth. Off with't while 'tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion, richly suited, but unsuitable, just like the brooch and the toothpick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats drily. Marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a withered pear! Will you anything with it?"
We also must abstain from mental virginity. If we so foolishly belive our minds pure within their own isolated stagnation, we shall never live on, never remembered.
And those whose minds, seeded by all the world will forever flower, they will eternally emerge by virtue of invention, and creation.
Shakespeare is widely criticized as being "un-educated" (swan of Avon) but it is clear his mind mated quite frequently with mythology. Virtually none of Shakespeare's plays would be possible without the sweet caress of Ovid.
Thus begins the exploration of Shakespeare:
Virtually all of Shakespeare's mind babies center around family, real babies. I can see nothing altruistic about any of his plays, nor any of his characters. Tragedy arises from jealousy and greed. Romance is simply the essence wafting off personal desire, it is joyace true, but it is a product of individual need.
And what becomes of a romance other than a family? The family becomes the structure for control. Thus recapitulating the egoism of self duplication. Family throughout Shakespeare represents that dictorial control, and it is re-presented throughout many frames.
When we look at Lear, it is plain to see the self induced wrath of destruction. Lear, unwanting to fully relinquish the throne, establishes a vice-roy kingdom delegated out to assuaging daughters. Whose two-fold tongues praise the bland old Isaac, to horde and inheritance...Tragedy ensues.
Yet what has become of this great egoism?
- a beauty shared amongst all the world.
The Tempest too, falls into this label. Miranda's marriage, the islands sweet song, the storm, the play itself all an orchestration--devised by the Magus Prospero to regain himself.
This thought extrapolated, is easily applied to the cumulative magus himself: Shakespeare. Who like Bottom, requires every role. Though the ends justify the means, his operations were as Ovid's, as Cleopatra's .
To be revered.
To "live on, on fly on, in reflected sky,"
To have immortality.
What's this?
I hear
Shakespeare,
calling on...
pages and stages
"Remember me."
If you ever wanted to know what the meaning of life is or why we are here, I’ll tell you: Every one of us is an egoist.
Not many are willing to accept this, but the biggest (or Best) of us egoists have already and fully embrace it.
Joyce understood remembrance, his transfiguration of the phrase “remember me” into “mememoreme!” perhaps best synthesizes this entire philosophy into one final yawping death rattle.
Ovid rather blatantly exposed his own drive for immortality when he stating
"And now my work is done: no wrath of Jove
nor fire nor sword nor time, which would erode
all things, has power to blot out this poem.
Now when it wills, the fatal day (which has
only the body in its grasp) can end
my years, however long or short their span.
But, with the better part of me, I'll gain
a place that's higher than the stars: my name,
indelible, eternal, will remain.
And everywhere that Roman power has sway,
in all domains the Latins gain, my lines
will be on people's lips; and through all time--
if poets' prophecies are ever right--
my name and fame are sure: I shall have life."
He knew. That’s why we remember him.
Let me recount this realization, my thoughts came to me somewhat erratically, but this is how it all materialized.
My roommates recently bought a Playstation 3, and have been playing it non-stop since it arrived. Being self absorbed, I often scoff at their wasting time. I sit and read and make undermining comments about their incessant virtual life.
Whenever they are playing hockey games, or skiing games I always say, “you know those things are really a lot more fun in real life.”
On the eve of this revelation my roommates were playing a game where you steal cars, run civilians over, and shoot people.
I felt my stock comment maybe inappropriate at this particular juncture.
So I turned my mind inward, and sought sanctum in my meditations.
I began to criticize video games, and virtual worlds. I wondered what is it in human nature that drives us to operate characters outside ourselves. To live vicariously through fictitious figures, fields of dreams. It was almost instantly apparent that video games are hardly the sole venue for this act, this puppet show. The curtain over the world lifted, and I knew: were all at the helm of a vast web of puppet strings, and in turn, we are all at the mercy of an unseen puppeteer.
To begin at our own birth, or better yet: conception lets just examine the beautiful art of utter selfishness.
I don’t think It’s necessary for me to go into detail, but lets just be honest about a few components:
Regardless of your parent’s intent, whether you were planned or not, bastard, or well begotten, there were two moments—well at least one—of your conception that really were solely an egotistical act.
Moving quickly past that, the idea of children is often evoked as the magnum opus of selfless scenarios, but children are possibly the simple most me-driven metamorphosis of all.
Whether we accept it or not, our motive for having children is really our only guaranteed act of prolonging immortality. We come to terms with death, its inevitability and yet we constantly ask our selves, “how can I beat this?”
Then we snap our fingers and say, “Oh! I know I’ll have a baby, and I’ll raise them to be just like me, but smarter, better, faster, and able to do all thing things I wish I could have done."
For proof, simply ask yourself: how much are you becoming your parents?
The answer is shocking.
we may attempt to distance ourselves as far from our family as possible, but we cannont deny we are a product of our parents, and theres before them, ad infintum.
As in Hamlet, mourning over his fathers death is dismissed by the usurping king,
"KING
87 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, 88 To give these mourning duties to your father: 89 But, you must know, your father lost a father; 90 That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound 91 In filial obligation for some term 92 To do obsequious sorrow: but to persever 93 In obstinate condolement is a course "Our being begotten, spins our thread of life into a tapestry whose vastness is incomprehensible. Our existance is a continuation of life dating back to the origin of all.
our lineage ferries us across all rivers of history, exploring each tributary of time to the darkest recsesses of that backward abysm. Cavernous libraries slumber under cobweb quilts, attainable only by that echo of an archaic heart. Bloodlines like rivers and deltas seem stagnat untill we here the gulls, re-calling us home.
"But I'm loothing them that's here and all I lothe. Loonely in me loneness. For all their faults. I am passing out. O bitter ending! I'll slip away before they're up. They'll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me. And it's old and old it's sad and old it's sad and weary I go back to you, my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms. I see them rising! Save me from those therrble prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. So. Avelaval. My leaves have drifted from me. All. But one clings still. I'll bear it on me. To remind me of. Lff! So soft this morning, ours. Yes. Carry me along, taddy, like you done through the toy fair! If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to washup. Yes, tid. There's where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the
riverrun"
Thus ends and begins again the bit of recirculation. Life coming out of death, out of birth.
We come and go. (there is no end to inquiry and pursuit these words, their endless meanings-- all the world is contained between.)
the motives for this perpetuation are indeed selfish, yet it is the way of the world. It is the world itself.
I fear I am veering slightly off course here, but I trust my audience is adept.
Despite the inherent selfishness of the act itself and of Paroles, his speech is poignant in the manner that to deny this act (albeit self fulfilling) is to deny nature, to damn the meaning of life.
‘It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept is ever lost. 'Tis too cold a companion. Away with't! 'Tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin; virginity murders itself, and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese, consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by't. Out with't! Within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with't! 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying: the longer kept, the less worth. Off with't while 'tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion, richly suited, but unsuitable, just like the brooch and the toothpick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats drily. Marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a withered pear! Will you anything with it?"
We also must abstain from mental virginity. If we so foolishly belive our minds pure within their own isolated stagnation, we shall never live on, never remembered.
And those whose minds, seeded by all the world will forever flower, they will eternally emerge by virtue of invention, and creation.
Shakespeare is widely criticized as being "un-educated" (swan of Avon) but it is clear his mind mated quite frequently with mythology. Virtually none of Shakespeare's plays would be possible without the sweet caress of Ovid.
Thus begins the exploration of Shakespeare:
Virtually all of Shakespeare's mind babies center around family, real babies. I can see nothing altruistic about any of his plays, nor any of his characters. Tragedy arises from jealousy and greed. Romance is simply the essence wafting off personal desire, it is joyace true, but it is a product of individual need.
And what becomes of a romance other than a family? The family becomes the structure for control. Thus recapitulating the egoism of self duplication. Family throughout Shakespeare represents that dictorial control, and it is re-presented throughout many frames.
When we look at Lear, it is plain to see the self induced wrath of destruction. Lear, unwanting to fully relinquish the throne, establishes a vice-roy kingdom delegated out to assuaging daughters. Whose two-fold tongues praise the bland old Isaac, to horde and inheritance...Tragedy ensues.
Yet what has become of this great egoism?
- a beauty shared amongst all the world.
The Tempest too, falls into this label. Miranda's marriage, the islands sweet song, the storm, the play itself all an orchestration--devised by the Magus Prospero to regain himself.
This thought extrapolated, is easily applied to the cumulative magus himself: Shakespeare. Who like Bottom, requires every role. Though the ends justify the means, his operations were as Ovid's, as Cleopatra's .
To be revered.
To "live on, on fly on, in reflected sky,"
To have immortality.
What's this?
I hear
Shakespeare,
calling on...
pages and stages
"Remember me."
Monday, April 4, 2011
a last.
“And the clash of our cries till we spring to be free” F.W.
I’d just like to preface that what I’ve posted bellow is not easy for me to share, I am not the kind that readily speaks of such issues, or in any way seeks comfort through confession. But purging myself is part of the ritual. And I am so overcome with jubilation--now that the colossus that so long eclipsed my world, has fallen and now lies asunder-- that I'm free of inhibitions.
This is sort of a personal cacophony, poorly written in places and important probably only to me, but it was brought on by this class, by Shakespeare and Dr. Sexson,
I have felt entombed in dark depths, poured over by the grey still cement of loss.
I’ve buried more family and friends in the past year than I’ve made in the past decade.
I await the turnaround—my re-birth.
But birth never comes, I’m stuck in the: my re. myre. mire.
This bad poem is evidence of my stagnation.
I feel sealed in an early sarcophagus; adorned with a painted smile.
.
I recede into books, but the solace is superficial and I spend more time watching my hair fall
.
I recede into books, but the solace is superficial and I spend more time watching my hair fall
making parenthetical paragraphs I forget to read.
I sing a song of metamorphosis
and wait.
This coffin is no cocoon.
I sing a song of metamorphosis
and wait.
This coffin is no cocoon.
- It is no easy thing to feel so lonesome. And I have for some time.
- I’m reminded of a song by Jackson Browne, (covered by many) entitled These Days
The lyric in minds that has seemed to consume my past year or so, goes thusly:
“Now if I seem to be afraid to live the life that I have made in songs… it’s just that I’ve been losing so long.”
******************************************************************************
Today though, is a happy day. The spell has been lifted.
I have awoken.
"O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed O my dear"
Now that i've made my way back up those cilffs of fall I realize that mountain peaks are shaped by the voids around them. In order to find myself full again I had to first empty out.
---Phall if you but will, rise you must - F.W. ----
"O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed O my dear"
Now that i've made my way back up those cilffs of fall I realize that mountain peaks are shaped by the voids around them. In order to find myself full again I had to first empty out.
---Phall if you but will, rise you must - F.W. ----
I owe this awakening to the material discussed in class: renewal, redemption.
I have been flooded lately with torrents of happenings, I have for sometime been entirely at the mercy of these elements, yet they show no forbearance. I have felt like Camus' stranger: adrift and exposed, affected by the world. Often I have thought as Ariel did, "hell is empty and the devils are here." (1.2 Tempest)
Today however I was subjected to an epiphanic tempest. an unveiling of my world that has lifted the weight of woe. Let me attempt to recount:
As I have said, for some time this hollow solitude has left a husk of me—dried, cracked, and sans seed. This is due in large part to the passing of many people quite close to me, two good friends, a lover (my first), a grandmother and most painfully my grandfather.
Perhaps it’s wrong to quantify the hurt, but the passing of my grandfather not only left me devoid of person, but it severed that intangible thread, damned that river of remembrance.
My ancient cistern has dried.
The drought had left me feeling barren, and those ceaseless waves of loss seemed to wash away all my castles made of sand.
I endured this erosion.
I know not how.
I shared Leadbelly’s great notion,
But when I jumped in that river, I instead felt baptized anew.
After class today, I walked with the idea of Shakespeare’s redemption.
I felt like Prospero, my neglected Milan usurped by the world during a momentary lapse of reason.
My inattention.
I got into my car and put on some tunes that began my metamorphosis.
The power of song induced in me a synesthesia of the emotions.
The first, Here comes the Sun, by the Beatles
And the second, Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen .
And as hallelujah came through my crackling speakers, I witnessed the perfect visage of liberation: a once tangled kite, ripping free from a dying tree, then it soared, soared, skyward.
No words can accurately describe the transformation that I experienced, I felt the overwhelming urge to weep but found my self incapable. Instead I gasped, not short of breath, Instead as if I was breathing for the first time.
This may seem a bit contrived to my readers, but the difference in me is night and day.
It's really not easy to discuss a bought of the blues, but once you rise out of that mire, it is so exalting to experience a new found freedom.
The power of song can be so influential and transformative.
The awe inspired in me at that moment by Cohen truly deserves the so common Keanu colloquialism
It is very easy to be dismissive over the power of music. "it's just a song" is as commonly uttered as "it's just a story".
As with the Tempest, the storm is a farce. Prospero conducts a bewitching upon us all through the aid of Ariel. Prospero admits this, he lifts the curtain as it were,
"These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And, like the baseless fabric of vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep."
though a performance, there is still no doubting the power of influence it has over the characters. Further, there is no doubting the power of influence it has had over us.
Caliban's famous soliloquy is most readily cited as apex example of this poetic power. He describes most eloquently the awe of illusion.
He like myself is affected by song, by the strange noises of the island. They are no more real than Leonard Cohen was for me. The question of "reality" should heed little regard, instead we must allow our selves to succumb to the sweet song.
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.
In order to dream we must first submit to sleep.
It is that willing suspension of disbelief that unties our moorings and sends us swiftly adrift upon the moon taut tide.
If we follow Proseros redemption, we see the true moment of liberation comes not from the effect of his pageantry. Though through his tempest he regains and restore all, the climactic culmination of all restorative power is initiated by his letting go. By burring his staff and drowning his book.
It is as Lao Tzu said, "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be."
It is a delicate waltz, a stasis between enchantment and exposure, that the true power of Shakespeare's work radiates.
PROSPERO
We must simultaneously loose ourselves, while maintaining focus.
But it is a far more ancient ritual than that,
its thematics can be traced to the Egyptian and Tibetan Book of the Dead,
My synopsis is quite a hack job, but essentially these books describe the trials one must undergo once dead to pass on peacefully into the afterlife. During the death trial experience, the dead must be entirely awash and enthralled into the experience, but they must maintain a sense of focus, they must remember the way.
This may seem a bit contrived to my readers, but the difference in me is night and day.
It's really not easy to discuss a bought of the blues, but once you rise out of that mire, it is so exalting to experience a new found freedom.
The power of song can be so influential and transformative.
The awe inspired in me at that moment by Cohen truly deserves the so common Keanu colloquialism
It is very easy to be dismissive over the power of music. "it's just a song" is as commonly uttered as "it's just a story".
As with the Tempest, the storm is a farce. Prospero conducts a bewitching upon us all through the aid of Ariel. Prospero admits this, he lifts the curtain as it were,
"These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And, like the baseless fabric of vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep."
though a performance, there is still no doubting the power of influence it has over the characters. Further, there is no doubting the power of influence it has had over us.
Caliban's famous soliloquy is most readily cited as apex example of this poetic power. He describes most eloquently the awe of illusion.
He like myself is affected by song, by the strange noises of the island. They are no more real than Leonard Cohen was for me. The question of "reality" should heed little regard, instead we must allow our selves to succumb to the sweet song.
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.
In order to dream we must first submit to sleep.
It is that willing suspension of disbelief that unties our moorings and sends us swiftly adrift upon the moon taut tide.
If we follow Proseros redemption, we see the true moment of liberation comes not from the effect of his pageantry. Though through his tempest he regains and restore all, the climactic culmination of all restorative power is initiated by his letting go. By burring his staff and drowning his book.
It is as Lao Tzu said, "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be."
It is a delicate waltz, a stasis between enchantment and exposure, that the true power of Shakespeare's work radiates.
PROSPERO
Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have’s mine own,
Which is most faint. Now, ’tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got
And pardoned the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell,
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands.
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Mustfill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardoned be,
Let your indulgence set me free.
We must simultaneously loose ourselves, while maintaining focus.
This stasis has been popularized by such films as waking life, with the practice of lucid dreaming.
But it is a far more ancient ritual than that,
My synopsis is quite a hack job, but essentially these books describe the trials one must undergo once dead to pass on peacefully into the afterlife. During the death trial experience, the dead must be entirely awash and enthralled into the experience, but they must maintain a sense of focus, they must remember the way.
To connect all this takes one of those mysterious mental maneuvers. Shakespeare is simultaneously and Enchanter, and Educator and a Dismantler. Like gazing into the many mouths of Krishna we see the world created and destroyed in an instant.
Shakespeare creates these entire vast worlds, which delight and inspire. But a clever curtain is lifted as it falls.
once the play comes to a close, the plays significance is extrapolated exponentially. As in The Wizard of Oz (which I finally have seen) we are meant to see the man behind the curtain. Our doors of perception have been cleansed and we begin to see the world in its infinite self.
to discover this path we must venture deep, leaving behind only the faintest bread crumb trail.
it is as in finnegans wake, while rushing back to sea of her mad feary father, entirely at the will of the water, yet still and solid in remembrance, "my leaves have drifted from me. All. But one still clings. I'll bear it to me. To remind me of. Lff!" - Finnegans Wake
Shakespeare creates these entire vast worlds, which delight and inspire. But a clever curtain is lifted as it falls.
once the play comes to a close, the plays significance is extrapolated exponentially. As in The Wizard of Oz (which I finally have seen) we are meant to see the man behind the curtain. Our doors of perception have been cleansed and we begin to see the world in its infinite self.
to discover this path we must venture deep, leaving behind only the faintest bread crumb trail.
it is as in finnegans wake, while rushing back to sea of her mad feary father, entirely at the will of the water, yet still and solid in remembrance, "my leaves have drifted from me. All. But one still clings. I'll bear it to me. To remind me of. Lff!" - Finnegans Wake
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Chrisitain Nativity in Cymbeline?
I've been prodding around some extra-textual criticism on Cymbeline and I've found an amount of critics claiming a fabric of Christianity, specifically Christ's becoming in Cymbeline. I, however cannot place this in the text itself. Perhaps Mary is found in the symbolic image of Imogen in some form of purity, and the manifestation of a God figure is intriguing, but aside from these few weak connections I find this rather unmanifested. So I pose a question to the class, and perhaps it is irrelevant and futile, but do any of you see this theory materializing in Cymbeline? does this have any base?
-just a small point of interjection, but I'm just stuck on this point.
-just a small point of interjection, but I'm just stuck on this point.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Post-Tragedy in the Tempest
Perhaps a better working title for this blog may be The Tempest: Tragedy Transcended.
I've spent a long time with The Tempest. I mainly spend my time studying the tempest through a looking glass of illusion. I feel this is the accurate way to deal with the play, but lately i've been interested in adding a little depth to my perception.
What i've come to lately, is that The Tempest is an act of transcendence beyond Shakespeare, beyond the form of tragedy. It is the Post-Tragic.
Reading an essay by Paul Cantor entitled Tragicomedy and the Philosophical Hero, has really been my illuminatory light in these views. In Canto's view, the central tragic plot of the Tempest is only viewed in retrospect, he states that we, "do not see Prosepero actually undergoing what would normally be a tragic experience; instead we see him reflecting back upon it." This idea of Canto's really got me thinking in a new and refreshing way.
We as readers can see that no true tragedy ever materializes during the play. All the various subplots, (caliban and the fools planned murder, Antiono and Sebations re-attempt) have all been muted, reduced, and eventually thwarted. Prosperos recount of his own usurpation is the closest we can agree on as a full-fruited tragedy, and this is already overcome, past and done. "What sets thou else..." now transcends aestheticism , becoming substance and wholly foundational to this play.
Prospero transcends the form of tragedy, through his illusions. Though he is entirely central to the play, his is removed from nearly every action, his power is wielded vicariously. Like the conductor with his baton, he simultaneously controls and creates all noise while outside of the orchestra pit.
In this fashion, he is beyond conspirators like Iago who despite clever manipulation still succumb to tragic ends because he is still physically and actively participatory. What makes The Tempest such a master-work of the theater is this removal or transcendence outside the frame of the play. Canto states, "A dramatist has no trouble portraying the active life on the stage; indeed action is the heart of drama. But Portraying the contemplative life is difficult, because it must of necessity appear passive, static, and dull if not simply ridiculous, when brought on stage." Yet despite Prosperos self removal, he at no point appears static, his is simultaneously central, omniscient, and entirely absent.
Shakespeare very keenly plays with this notion of the failed in the physical world with his subplot of Caliban Stephano and Alonso. As Canto claims in his essay, "The usurpers are concerned with acquiring the mere trappings of the kingship, not with becoming true kings themselves." This is the attraction to the crown, and not that heaviness of the crown. It applies not only to the failed kingship of Antonio, but more comically and poignantly to the foolishness of Caliban, Stephano and Alonso whose base minds get lost in material distraction, found frolicking in kingly clothing.
I've spent a long time with The Tempest. I mainly spend my time studying the tempest through a looking glass of illusion. I feel this is the accurate way to deal with the play, but lately i've been interested in adding a little depth to my perception.
What i've come to lately, is that The Tempest is an act of transcendence beyond Shakespeare, beyond the form of tragedy. It is the Post-Tragic.
Reading an essay by Paul Cantor entitled Tragicomedy and the Philosophical Hero, has really been my illuminatory light in these views. In Canto's view, the central tragic plot of the Tempest is only viewed in retrospect, he states that we, "do not see Prosepero actually undergoing what would normally be a tragic experience; instead we see him reflecting back upon it." This idea of Canto's really got me thinking in a new and refreshing way.
We as readers can see that no true tragedy ever materializes during the play. All the various subplots, (caliban and the fools planned murder, Antiono and Sebations re-attempt) have all been muted, reduced, and eventually thwarted. Prosperos recount of his own usurpation is the closest we can agree on as a full-fruited tragedy, and this is already overcome, past and done. "What sets thou else..." now transcends aestheticism , becoming substance and wholly foundational to this play.
Prospero transcends the form of tragedy, through his illusions. Though he is entirely central to the play, his is removed from nearly every action, his power is wielded vicariously. Like the conductor with his baton, he simultaneously controls and creates all noise while outside of the orchestra pit.
In this fashion, he is beyond conspirators like Iago who despite clever manipulation still succumb to tragic ends because he is still physically and actively participatory. What makes The Tempest such a master-work of the theater is this removal or transcendence outside the frame of the play. Canto states, "A dramatist has no trouble portraying the active life on the stage; indeed action is the heart of drama. But Portraying the contemplative life is difficult, because it must of necessity appear passive, static, and dull if not simply ridiculous, when brought on stage." Yet despite Prosperos self removal, he at no point appears static, his is simultaneously central, omniscient, and entirely absent.
Shakespeare very keenly plays with this notion of the failed in the physical world with his subplot of Caliban Stephano and Alonso. As Canto claims in his essay, "The usurpers are concerned with acquiring the mere trappings of the kingship, not with becoming true kings themselves." This is the attraction to the crown, and not that heaviness of the crown. It applies not only to the failed kingship of Antonio, but more comically and poignantly to the foolishness of Caliban, Stephano and Alonso whose base minds get lost in material distraction, found frolicking in kingly clothing.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
an evening with Terry Tempest Williams
Never limit your cultural explorations.
Last night I was given a great opportunity to share an evening with Terry Tempest Williams. I must begin by saying, I did not know virtually anything about her, but what ensued really took me away.
I was expecting a literary discussion, or a forum of scholars. And, though these too were present, the evening consisted of much more. Terry Tempest Williams is an amazing activist, and her discussion last night rode on those winds. She began her talk by referencing one of her closest friends-- Doug Peacock (Hayduke) who happens to be one of my favorite people in the world, and character hero. She regaled the audience with very moving words and stories, and re instated a zeal in myself that I have long forgotten.
I absolutely must read her work, I felt embarrassed to be one in the crowd who never had.
She is has been called a "western Emerson or Thoreau" and from the brief illumination of her character- I couldn't agree more.
Growing up in New England I was infatuated with Thoreau, Civil Disobedience and the like.
My parents essentially grew up In Concord Mass, and I would often Visit Thoreau's pond.
Now, to give a true anecdote about EEmerson and Thoreau, that hopefully will educate some of this very western class on very eastern minds, and will hopefully help describe to you my sense of Terry Tempest Williams....
In protest to a poll tax--whose money went to support the Mexican American War-- Henry Davidson Thoreau simply defied government rule, and refused to pay and support this unjust war.
Subsequently he ended up in jail.
His contemporary, Ralph Waldo Emerson visited Thoreau in jail and asked him, "What are you doing in there, Henry?"
Thoreau simply responded, "Waldo, the question is, what are you doing out there?"
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, to discover that I had not lived.
Last night I was given a great opportunity to share an evening with Terry Tempest Williams. I must begin by saying, I did not know virtually anything about her, but what ensued really took me away.
I was expecting a literary discussion, or a forum of scholars. And, though these too were present, the evening consisted of much more. Terry Tempest Williams is an amazing activist, and her discussion last night rode on those winds. She began her talk by referencing one of her closest friends-- Doug Peacock (Hayduke) who happens to be one of my favorite people in the world, and character hero. She regaled the audience with very moving words and stories, and re instated a zeal in myself that I have long forgotten.
I absolutely must read her work, I felt embarrassed to be one in the crowd who never had.
She is has been called a "western Emerson or Thoreau" and from the brief illumination of her character- I couldn't agree more.
Growing up in New England I was infatuated with Thoreau, Civil Disobedience and the like.
My parents essentially grew up In Concord Mass, and I would often Visit Thoreau's pond.
Now, to give a true anecdote about EEmerson and Thoreau, that hopefully will educate some of this very western class on very eastern minds, and will hopefully help describe to you my sense of Terry Tempest Williams....
In protest to a poll tax--whose money went to support the Mexican American War-- Henry Davidson Thoreau simply defied government rule, and refused to pay and support this unjust war.
Subsequently he ended up in jail.
His contemporary, Ralph Waldo Emerson visited Thoreau in jail and asked him, "What are you doing in there, Henry?"
Thoreau simply responded, "Waldo, the question is, what are you doing out there?"
Thursday, March 3, 2011
RAN
Act 5, Scene 1
SCENE I. The British camp, near Dover.
Enter, with drum and colours, EDMUND, REGAN, Gentlemen, and Soldiers.
EDMUND
Know of the duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is advised by aught
To change the course: he's full of alteration
And self-reproving: bring his constant pleasure.
To a Gentleman, who goes out
REGAN
Our sister's man is certainly miscarried.
EDMUND
'Tis to be doubted, madam.
REGAN
Now, sweet lord,
You know the goodness I intend upon you:
Tell me--but truly--but then speak the truth,
Do you not love my sister?
EDMUND
In honour'd love.
REGAN
But have you never found my brother's way
To the forfended place?
EDMUND
That thought abuses you.
REGAN
I am doubtful that you have been conjunct
And bosom'd with her, as far as we call hers.
EDMUND
No, by mine honour, madam.
REGAN
I never shall endure her: dear my lord,
Be not familiar with her.
EDMUND
Fear me not:
She and the duke her husband!
Enter, with drum and colours, ALBANY, GONERIL, and Soldiers
GONERIL
[Aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister
Should loosen him and me.
ALBANY
Our very loving sister, well be-met.
Sir, this I hear; the king is come to his daughter,
With others whom the rigor of our state
Forced to cry out. Where I could not be honest,
I never yet was valiant: for this business,
It toucheth us, as France invades our land,
Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,
Most just and heavy causes make oppose.
EDMUND
Sir, you speak nobly.
REGAN
Why is this reason'd?
GONERIL
Combine together 'gainst the enemy;
For these domestic and particular broils
Are not the question here.
ALBANY
Let's then determine
With the ancient of war on our proceedings.
EDMUND
I shall attend you presently at your tent.
REGAN
Sister, you'll go with us?
GONERIL
No.
REGAN
'Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.
GONERIL
[Aside] O, ho, I know the riddle.--I will go.
As they are going out, enter EDGAR disguised
EDGAR
If e'er your grace had speech with man so poor,
Hear me one word.
ALBANY
I'll overtake you. Speak.
Exeunt all but ALBANY and EDGAR
EDGAR
Before you fight the battle, ope this letter.
If you have victory, let the trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seem,
I can produce a champion that will prove
What is avouched there. If you miscarry,
Your business of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune love you.
ALBANY
Stay till I have read the letter.
EDGAR
I was forbid it.
When time shall serve, let but the herald cry,
And I'll appear again.
ALBANY
Why, fare thee well: I will o'erlook thy paper.
Exit EDGAR
Re-enter EDMUND
EDMUND
The enemy's in view; draw up your powers.
Here is the guess of their true strength and forces
By diligent discovery; but your haste
Is now urged on you.
ALBANY
We will greet the time.
Exit
EDMUND
To both these sisters have I sworn my love;
Each jealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd,
If both remain alive: to take the widow
Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril;
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being alive. Now then we'll use
His countenance for the battle; which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him devise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercy
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The battle done, and they within our power,
Shall never see his pardon; for my state
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Exit
Enter, with drum and colours, EDMUND, REGAN, Gentlemen, and Soldiers.
EDMUND
Know of the duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is advised by aught
To change the course: he's full of alteration
And self-reproving: bring his constant pleasure.
To a Gentleman, who goes out
REGAN
Our sister's man is certainly miscarried.
EDMUND
'Tis to be doubted, madam.
REGAN
Now, sweet lord,
You know the goodness I intend upon you:
Tell me--but truly--but then speak the truth,
Do you not love my sister?
EDMUND
In honour'd love.
REGAN
But have you never found my brother's way
To the forfended place?
EDMUND
That thought abuses you.
REGAN
I am doubtful that you have been conjunct
And bosom'd with her, as far as we call hers.
EDMUND
No, by mine honour, madam.
REGAN
I never shall endure her: dear my lord,
Be not familiar with her.
EDMUND
Fear me not:
She and the duke her husband!
Enter, with drum and colours, ALBANY, GONERIL, and Soldiers
GONERIL
[Aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister
Should loosen him and me.
ALBANY
Our very loving sister, well be-met.
Sir, this I hear; the king is come to his daughter,
With others whom the rigor of our state
Forced to cry out. Where I could not be honest,
I never yet was valiant: for this business,
It toucheth us, as France invades our land,
Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,
Most just and heavy causes make oppose.
EDMUND
Sir, you speak nobly.
REGAN
Why is this reason'd?
GONERIL
Combine together 'gainst the enemy;
For these domestic and particular broils
Are not the question here.
ALBANY
Let's then determine
With the ancient of war on our proceedings.
EDMUND
I shall attend you presently at your tent.
REGAN
Sister, you'll go with us?
GONERIL
No.
REGAN
'Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.
GONERIL
[Aside] O, ho, I know the riddle.--I will go.
As they are going out, enter EDGAR disguised
EDGAR
If e'er your grace had speech with man so poor,
Hear me one word.
ALBANY
I'll overtake you. Speak.
Exeunt all but ALBANY and EDGAR
EDGAR
Before you fight the battle, ope this letter.
If you have victory, let the trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seem,
I can produce a champion that will prove
What is avouched there. If you miscarry,
Your business of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune love you.
ALBANY
Stay till I have read the letter.
EDGAR
I was forbid it.
When time shall serve, let but the herald cry,
And I'll appear again.
ALBANY
Why, fare thee well: I will o'erlook thy paper.
Exit EDGAR
Re-enter EDMUND
EDMUND
The enemy's in view; draw up your powers.
Here is the guess of their true strength and forces
By diligent discovery; but your haste
Is now urged on you.
ALBANY
We will greet the time.
Exit
EDMUND
To both these sisters have I sworn my love;
Each jealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd,
If both remain alive: to take the widow
Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril;
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being alive. Now then we'll use
His countenance for the battle; which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him devise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercy
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The battle done, and they within our power,
Shall never see his pardon; for my state
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Exit
SCENE II. A field between the two camps.
Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, KING LEAR, CORDELIA, and Soldiers, over the stage; and exeunt
Enter EDGAR and GLOUCESTER
EDGAR
Here, father, take the shadow of this tree
For your good host; pray that the right may thrive:
If ever I return to you again,
I'll bring you comfort.
GLOUCESTER
Grace go with you, sir!
Exit EDGAR
Alarum and retreat within. Re-enter EDGAR
EDGAR
Away, old man; give me thy hand; away!
King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en:
Give me thy hand; come on.
GLOUCESTER
No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.
EDGAR
What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither;
Ripeness is all: come on.
GLOUCESTER
And that's true too.
Exeunt
SCENE III. The British camp near Dover.
Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, EDMUND, KING LEAR and CORDELIA, prisoners; Captain, Soldiers, & c
EDMUND
Some officers take them away: good guard,
Until their greater pleasures first be known
That are to censure them.
CORDELIA
We are not the first
Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst.
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown.
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?
KING LEAR
No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take upon's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by the moon.
EDMUND
Take them away.
KING LEAR
Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?
He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;
The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve
first. Come.
Exeunt KING LEAR and CORDELIA, guarded
EDMUND
Come hither, captain; hark.
Take thou this note;
Giving a paper
go follow them to prison:
One step I have advanced thee; if thou dost
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is: to be tender-minded
Does not become a sword: thy great employment
Will not bear question; either say thou'lt do 't,
Or thrive by other means.
Captain
I'll do 't, my lord.
EDMUND
About it; and write happy when thou hast done.
Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so
As I have set it down.
Captain
I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats;
If it be man's work, I'll do 't.
Exit
Flourish. Enter ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN, another Captain, and Soldiers
ALBANY
Sir, you have shown to-day your valiant strain,
And fortune led you well: you have the captives
That were the opposites of this day's strife:
We do require them of you, so to use them
As we shall find their merits and our safety
May equally determine.
EDMUND
Sir, I thought it fit
To send the old and miserable king
To some retention and appointed guard;
Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,
To pluck the common bosom on his side,
An turn our impress'd lances in our eyes
Which do command them. With him I sent the queen;
My reason all the same; and they are ready
To-morrow, or at further space, to appear
Where you shall hold your session. At this time
We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend;
And the best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed
By those that feel their sharpness:
The question of Cordelia and her father
Requires a fitter place.
ALBANY
Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subject of this war,
Not as a brother.
REGAN
That's as we list to grace him.
Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded,
Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers;
Bore the commission of my place and person;
The which immediacy may well stand up,
And call itself your brother.
GONERIL
Not so hot:
In his own grace he doth exalt himself,
More than in your addition.
REGAN
In my rights,
By me invested, he compeers the best.
GONERIL
That were the most, if he should husband you.
REGAN
Jesters do oft prove prophets.
GONERIL
Holla, holla!
That eye that told you so look'd but a-squint.
REGAN
Lady, I am not well; else I should answer
From a full-flowing stomach. General,
Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony;
Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine:
Witness the world, that I create thee here
My lord and master.
GONERIL
Mean you to enjoy him?
ALBANY
The let-alone lies not in your good will.
EDMUND
Nor in thine, lord.
ALBANY
Half-blooded fellow, yes.
REGAN
[To EDMUND] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.
ALBANY
Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee
On capital treason; and, in thine attaint,
This gilded serpent
Pointing to Goneril
For your claim, fair sister,
I bar it in the interest of my wife:
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord,
And I, her husband, contradict your bans.
If you will marry, make your loves to me,
My lady is bespoke.
GONERIL
An interlude!
ALBANY
Thou art arm'd, Gloucester: let the trumpet sound:
If none appear to prove upon thy head
Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,
There is my pledge;
Throwing down a glove
I'll prove it on thy heart,
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less
Than I have here proclaim'd thee.
REGAN
Sick, O, sick!
GONERIL
[Aside] If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine.
EDMUND
There's my exchange:
Throwing down a glove
what in the world he is
That names me traitor, villain-like he lies:
Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach,
On him, on you, who not? I will maintain
My truth and honour firmly.
ALBANY
A herald, ho!
EDMUND
A herald, ho, a herald!
ALBANY
Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,
All levied in my name, have in my name
Took their discharge.
REGAN
My sickness grows upon me.
ALBANY
She is not well; convey her to my tent.
Exit Regan, led
Enter a Herald
Come hither, herald,--Let the trumpet sound,
And read out this.
Captain
Sound, trumpet!
A trumpet sounds
Herald
[Reads] 'If any man of quality or degree within
the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund,
supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold
traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the
trumpet: he is bold in his defence.'
EDMUND
Sound!
First trumpet
Herald
Again!
Second trumpet
Herald
Again!
Third trumpet
Trumpet answers within
Enter EDGAR, at the third sound, armed, with a trumpet before him
ALBANY
Ask him his purposes, why he appears
Upon this call o' the trumpet.
Herald
What are you?
Your name, your quality? and why you answer
This present summons?
EDGAR
Know, my name is lost;
By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit:
Yet am I noble as the adversary
I come to cope.
ALBANY
Which is that adversary?
EDGAR
What's he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester?
EDMUND
Himself: what say'st thou to him?
EDGAR
Draw thy sword,
That, if my speech offend a noble heart,
Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine.
Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,
My oath, and my profession: I protest,
Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,
Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune,
Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor;
False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;
Conspirant 'gainst this high-illustrious prince;
And, from the extremest upward of thy head
To the descent and dust below thy foot,
A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou 'No,'
This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent
To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,
Thou liest.
EDMUND
In wisdom I should ask thy name;
But, since thy outside looks so fair and warlike,
And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,
What safe and nicely I might well delay
By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn:
Back do I toss these treasons to thy head;
With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart;
Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise,
This sword of mine shall give them instant way,
Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!
Alarums. They fight. EDMUND falls
ALBANY
Save him, save him!
GONERIL
This is practise, Gloucester:
By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer
An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozen'd and beguiled.
ALBANY
Shut your mouth, dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: Hold, sir:
Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil:
No tearing, lady: I perceive you know it.
Gives the letter to EDMUND
GONERIL
Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:
Who can arraign me for't.
ALBANY
Most monstrous! oh!
Know'st thou this paper?
GONERIL
Ask me not what I know.
Exit
ALBANY
Go after her: she's desperate; govern her.
EDMUND
What you have charged me with, that have I done;
And more, much more; the time will bring it out:
'Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou
That hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble,
I do forgive thee.
EDGAR
Let's exchange charity.
I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund;
If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar, and thy father's son.
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us:
The dark and vicious place where thee he got
Cost him his eyes.
EDMUND
Thou hast spoken right, 'tis true;
The wheel is come full circle: I am here.
ALBANY
Methought thy very gait did prophesy
A royal nobleness: I must embrace thee:
Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I
Did hate thee or thy father!
EDGAR
Worthy prince, I know't.
ALBANY
Where have you hid yourself?
How have you known the miseries of your father?
EDGAR
By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale;
And when 'tis told, O, that my heart would burst!
The bloody proclamation to escape,
That follow'd me so near,--O, our lives' sweetness!
That we the pain of death would hourly die
Rather than die at once!--taught me to shift
Into a madman's rags; to assume a semblance
That very dogs disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my father with his bleeding rings,
Their precious stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, saved him from despair;
Never,--O fault!--reveal'd myself unto him,
Until some half-hour past, when I was arm'd:
Not sure, though hoping, of this good success,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him my pilgrimage: but his flaw'd heart,
Alack, too weak the conflict to support!
'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,
Burst smilingly.
EDMUND
This speech of yours hath moved me,
And shall perchance do good: but speak you on;
You look as you had something more to say.
ALBANY
If there be more, more woeful, hold it in;
For I am almost ready to dissolve,
Hearing of this.
EDGAR
This would have seem'd a period
To such as love not sorrow; but another,
To amplify too much, would make much more,
And top extremity.
Whilst I was big in clamour came there in a man,
Who, having seen me in my worst estate,
Shunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, finding
Who 'twas that so endured, with his strong arms
He fastened on my neck, and bellow'd out
As he'ld burst heaven; threw him on my father;
Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him
That ever ear received: which in recounting
His grief grew puissant and the strings of life
Began to crack: twice then the trumpets sounded,
And there I left him tranced.
ALBANY
But who was this?
EDGAR
Kent, sir, the banish'd Kent; who in disguise
Follow'd his enemy king, and did him service
Improper for a slave.
Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife
Gentleman
Help, help, O, help!
EDGAR
What kind of help?
ALBANY
Speak, man.
EDGAR
What means that bloody knife?
Gentleman
'Tis hot, it smokes;
It came even from the heart of--O, she's dead!
ALBANY
Who dead? speak, man.
Gentleman
Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister
By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it.
EDMUND
I was contracted to them both: all three
Now marry in an instant.
EDGAR
Here comes Kent.
ALBANY
Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead:
This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble,
Touches us not with pity.
Exit Gentleman
Enter KENT
O, is this he?
The time will not allow the compliment
Which very manners urges.
KENT
I am come
To bid my king and master aye good night:
Is he not here?
ALBANY
Great thing of us forgot!
Speak, Edmund, where's the king? and where's Cordelia?
See'st thou this object, Kent?
The bodies of GONERIL and REGAN are brought in
KENT
Alack, why thus?
EDMUND
Yet Edmund was beloved:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herself.
ALBANY
Even so. Cover their faces.
EDMUND
I pant for life: some good I mean to do,
Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send,
Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ
Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time.
ALBANY
Run, run, O, run!
EDGAR
To who, my lord? Who hath the office? send
Thy token of reprieve.
EDMUND
Well thought on: take my sword,
Give it the captain.
ALBANY
Haste thee, for thy life.
Exit EDGAR
EDMUND
He hath commission from thy wife and me
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame upon her own despair,
That she fordid herself.
ALBANY
The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.
EDMUND is borne off
Re-enter KING LEAR, with CORDELIA dead in his arms; EDGAR, Captain, and others following
KING LEAR
Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives.
KENT
Is this the promised end
EDGAR
Or image of that horror?
ALBANY
Fall, and cease!
KING LEAR
This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.
KENT
[Kneeling] O my good master!
KING LEAR
Prithee, away.
EDGAR
'Tis noble Kent, your friend.
KING LEAR
A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!
I might have saved her; now she's gone for ever!
Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!
What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee.
Captain
'Tis true, my lords, he did.
KING LEAR
Did I not, fellow?
I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion
I would have made them skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight.
KENT
If fortune brag of two she loved and hated,
One of them we behold.
KING LEAR
This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?
KENT
The same,
Your servant Kent: Where is your servant Caius?
KING LEAR
He's a good fellow, I can tell you that;
He'll strike, and quickly too: he's dead and rotten.
KENT
No, my good lord; I am the very man,--
KING LEAR
I'll see that straight.
KENT
That, from your first of difference and decay,
Have follow'd your sad steps.
KING LEAR
You are welcome hither.
KENT
Nor no man else: all's cheerless, dark, and deadly.
Your eldest daughters have fordone them selves,
And desperately are dead.
KING LEAR
Ay, so I think.
ALBANY
He knows not what he says: and vain it is
That we present us to him.
EDGAR
Very bootless.
Enter a Captain
Captain
Edmund is dead, my lord.
ALBANY
That's but a trifle here.
You lords and noble friends, know our intent.
What comfort to this great decay may come
Shall be applied: for us we will resign,
During the life of this old majesty,
To him our absolute power:
To EDGAR and KENT
you, to your rights:
With boot, and such addition as your honours
Have more than merited. All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!
KING LEAR
And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.
Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,
Look there, look there!
Dies
EDGAR
He faints! My lord, my lord!
KENT
Break, heart; I prithee, break!
EDGAR
Look up, my lord.
KENT
Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he hates him much
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.
EDGAR
He is gone, indeed.
KENT
The wonder is, he hath endured so long:
He but usurp'd his life.
ALBANY
Bear them from hence. Our present business
Is general woe.
To KENT and EDGAR
Friends of my soul, you twain
Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain.
KENT
I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;
My master calls me, I must not say no.
ALBANY
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
Exeunt, with a dead march
Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, KING LEAR, CORDELIA, and Soldiers, over the stage; and exeunt
Enter EDGAR and GLOUCESTER
EDGAR
Here, father, take the shadow of this tree
For your good host; pray that the right may thrive:
If ever I return to you again,
I'll bring you comfort.
GLOUCESTER
Grace go with you, sir!
Exit EDGAR
Alarum and retreat within. Re-enter EDGAR
EDGAR
Away, old man; give me thy hand; away!
King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en:
Give me thy hand; come on.
GLOUCESTER
No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.
EDGAR
What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither;
Ripeness is all: come on.
GLOUCESTER
And that's true too.
Exeunt
SCENE III. The British camp near Dover.
Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, EDMUND, KING LEAR and CORDELIA, prisoners; Captain, Soldiers, & c
EDMUND
Some officers take them away: good guard,
Until their greater pleasures first be known
That are to censure them.
CORDELIA
We are not the first
Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst.
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown.
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?
KING LEAR
No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take upon's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by the moon.
EDMUND
Take them away.
KING LEAR
Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?
He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;
The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve
first. Come.
Exeunt KING LEAR and CORDELIA, guarded
EDMUND
Come hither, captain; hark.
Take thou this note;
Giving a paper
go follow them to prison:
One step I have advanced thee; if thou dost
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is: to be tender-minded
Does not become a sword: thy great employment
Will not bear question; either say thou'lt do 't,
Or thrive by other means.
Captain
I'll do 't, my lord.
EDMUND
About it; and write happy when thou hast done.
Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so
As I have set it down.
Captain
I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats;
If it be man's work, I'll do 't.
Exit
Flourish. Enter ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN, another Captain, and Soldiers
ALBANY
Sir, you have shown to-day your valiant strain,
And fortune led you well: you have the captives
That were the opposites of this day's strife:
We do require them of you, so to use them
As we shall find their merits and our safety
May equally determine.
EDMUND
Sir, I thought it fit
To send the old and miserable king
To some retention and appointed guard;
Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,
To pluck the common bosom on his side,
An turn our impress'd lances in our eyes
Which do command them. With him I sent the queen;
My reason all the same; and they are ready
To-morrow, or at further space, to appear
Where you shall hold your session. At this time
We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend;
And the best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed
By those that feel their sharpness:
The question of Cordelia and her father
Requires a fitter place.
ALBANY
Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subject of this war,
Not as a brother.
REGAN
That's as we list to grace him.
Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded,
Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers;
Bore the commission of my place and person;
The which immediacy may well stand up,
And call itself your brother.
GONERIL
Not so hot:
In his own grace he doth exalt himself,
More than in your addition.
REGAN
In my rights,
By me invested, he compeers the best.
GONERIL
That were the most, if he should husband you.
REGAN
Jesters do oft prove prophets.
GONERIL
Holla, holla!
That eye that told you so look'd but a-squint.
REGAN
Lady, I am not well; else I should answer
From a full-flowing stomach. General,
Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony;
Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine:
Witness the world, that I create thee here
My lord and master.
GONERIL
Mean you to enjoy him?
ALBANY
The let-alone lies not in your good will.
EDMUND
Nor in thine, lord.
ALBANY
Half-blooded fellow, yes.
REGAN
[To EDMUND] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.
ALBANY
Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee
On capital treason; and, in thine attaint,
This gilded serpent
Pointing to Goneril
For your claim, fair sister,
I bar it in the interest of my wife:
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord,
And I, her husband, contradict your bans.
If you will marry, make your loves to me,
My lady is bespoke.
GONERIL
An interlude!
ALBANY
Thou art arm'd, Gloucester: let the trumpet sound:
If none appear to prove upon thy head
Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,
There is my pledge;
Throwing down a glove
I'll prove it on thy heart,
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less
Than I have here proclaim'd thee.
REGAN
Sick, O, sick!
GONERIL
[Aside] If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine.
EDMUND
There's my exchange:
Throwing down a glove
what in the world he is
That names me traitor, villain-like he lies:
Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach,
On him, on you, who not? I will maintain
My truth and honour firmly.
ALBANY
A herald, ho!
EDMUND
A herald, ho, a herald!
ALBANY
Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,
All levied in my name, have in my name
Took their discharge.
REGAN
My sickness grows upon me.
ALBANY
She is not well; convey her to my tent.
Exit Regan, led
Enter a Herald
Come hither, herald,--Let the trumpet sound,
And read out this.
Captain
Sound, trumpet!
A trumpet sounds
Herald
[Reads] 'If any man of quality or degree within
the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund,
supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold
traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the
trumpet: he is bold in his defence.'
EDMUND
Sound!
First trumpet
Herald
Again!
Second trumpet
Herald
Again!
Third trumpet
Trumpet answers within
Enter EDGAR, at the third sound, armed, with a trumpet before him
ALBANY
Ask him his purposes, why he appears
Upon this call o' the trumpet.
Herald
What are you?
Your name, your quality? and why you answer
This present summons?
EDGAR
Know, my name is lost;
By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit:
Yet am I noble as the adversary
I come to cope.
ALBANY
Which is that adversary?
EDGAR
What's he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester?
EDMUND
Himself: what say'st thou to him?
EDGAR
Draw thy sword,
That, if my speech offend a noble heart,
Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine.
Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,
My oath, and my profession: I protest,
Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,
Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune,
Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor;
False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;
Conspirant 'gainst this high-illustrious prince;
And, from the extremest upward of thy head
To the descent and dust below thy foot,
A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou 'No,'
This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent
To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,
Thou liest.
EDMUND
In wisdom I should ask thy name;
But, since thy outside looks so fair and warlike,
And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,
What safe and nicely I might well delay
By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn:
Back do I toss these treasons to thy head;
With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart;
Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise,
This sword of mine shall give them instant way,
Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!
Alarums. They fight. EDMUND falls
ALBANY
Save him, save him!
GONERIL
This is practise, Gloucester:
By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer
An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozen'd and beguiled.
ALBANY
Shut your mouth, dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: Hold, sir:
Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil:
No tearing, lady: I perceive you know it.
Gives the letter to EDMUND
GONERIL
Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:
Who can arraign me for't.
ALBANY
Most monstrous! oh!
Know'st thou this paper?
GONERIL
Ask me not what I know.
Exit
ALBANY
Go after her: she's desperate; govern her.
EDMUND
What you have charged me with, that have I done;
And more, much more; the time will bring it out:
'Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou
That hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble,
I do forgive thee.
EDGAR
Let's exchange charity.
I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund;
If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar, and thy father's son.
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us:
The dark and vicious place where thee he got
Cost him his eyes.
EDMUND
Thou hast spoken right, 'tis true;
The wheel is come full circle: I am here.
ALBANY
Methought thy very gait did prophesy
A royal nobleness: I must embrace thee:
Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I
Did hate thee or thy father!
EDGAR
Worthy prince, I know't.
ALBANY
Where have you hid yourself?
How have you known the miseries of your father?
EDGAR
By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale;
And when 'tis told, O, that my heart would burst!
The bloody proclamation to escape,
That follow'd me so near,--O, our lives' sweetness!
That we the pain of death would hourly die
Rather than die at once!--taught me to shift
Into a madman's rags; to assume a semblance
That very dogs disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my father with his bleeding rings,
Their precious stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, saved him from despair;
Never,--O fault!--reveal'd myself unto him,
Until some half-hour past, when I was arm'd:
Not sure, though hoping, of this good success,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him my pilgrimage: but his flaw'd heart,
Alack, too weak the conflict to support!
'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,
Burst smilingly.
EDMUND
This speech of yours hath moved me,
And shall perchance do good: but speak you on;
You look as you had something more to say.
ALBANY
If there be more, more woeful, hold it in;
For I am almost ready to dissolve,
Hearing of this.
EDGAR
This would have seem'd a period
To such as love not sorrow; but another,
To amplify too much, would make much more,
And top extremity.
Whilst I was big in clamour came there in a man,
Who, having seen me in my worst estate,
Shunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, finding
Who 'twas that so endured, with his strong arms
He fastened on my neck, and bellow'd out
As he'ld burst heaven; threw him on my father;
Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him
That ever ear received: which in recounting
His grief grew puissant and the strings of life
Began to crack: twice then the trumpets sounded,
And there I left him tranced.
ALBANY
But who was this?
EDGAR
Kent, sir, the banish'd Kent; who in disguise
Follow'd his enemy king, and did him service
Improper for a slave.
Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife
Gentleman
Help, help, O, help!
EDGAR
What kind of help?
ALBANY
Speak, man.
EDGAR
What means that bloody knife?
Gentleman
'Tis hot, it smokes;
It came even from the heart of--O, she's dead!
ALBANY
Who dead? speak, man.
Gentleman
Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister
By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it.
EDMUND
I was contracted to them both: all three
Now marry in an instant.
EDGAR
Here comes Kent.
ALBANY
Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead:
This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble,
Touches us not with pity.
Exit Gentleman
Enter KENT
O, is this he?
The time will not allow the compliment
Which very manners urges.
KENT
I am come
To bid my king and master aye good night:
Is he not here?
ALBANY
Great thing of us forgot!
Speak, Edmund, where's the king? and where's Cordelia?
See'st thou this object, Kent?
The bodies of GONERIL and REGAN are brought in
KENT
Alack, why thus?
EDMUND
Yet Edmund was beloved:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herself.
ALBANY
Even so. Cover their faces.
EDMUND
I pant for life: some good I mean to do,
Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send,
Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ
Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time.
ALBANY
Run, run, O, run!
EDGAR
To who, my lord? Who hath the office? send
Thy token of reprieve.
EDMUND
Well thought on: take my sword,
Give it the captain.
ALBANY
Haste thee, for thy life.
Exit EDGAR
EDMUND
He hath commission from thy wife and me
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame upon her own despair,
That she fordid herself.
ALBANY
The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.
EDMUND is borne off
Re-enter KING LEAR, with CORDELIA dead in his arms; EDGAR, Captain, and others following
KING LEAR
Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives.
KENT
Is this the promised end
EDGAR
Or image of that horror?
ALBANY
Fall, and cease!
KING LEAR
This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.
KENT
[Kneeling] O my good master!
KING LEAR
Prithee, away.
EDGAR
'Tis noble Kent, your friend.
KING LEAR
A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!
I might have saved her; now she's gone for ever!
Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!
What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee.
Captain
'Tis true, my lords, he did.
KING LEAR
Did I not, fellow?
I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion
I would have made them skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight.
KENT
If fortune brag of two she loved and hated,
One of them we behold.
KING LEAR
This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?
KENT
The same,
Your servant Kent: Where is your servant Caius?
KING LEAR
He's a good fellow, I can tell you that;
He'll strike, and quickly too: he's dead and rotten.
KENT
No, my good lord; I am the very man,--
KING LEAR
I'll see that straight.
KENT
That, from your first of difference and decay,
Have follow'd your sad steps.
KING LEAR
You are welcome hither.
KENT
Nor no man else: all's cheerless, dark, and deadly.
Your eldest daughters have fordone them selves,
And desperately are dead.
KING LEAR
Ay, so I think.
ALBANY
He knows not what he says: and vain it is
That we present us to him.
EDGAR
Very bootless.
Enter a Captain
Captain
Edmund is dead, my lord.
ALBANY
That's but a trifle here.
You lords and noble friends, know our intent.
What comfort to this great decay may come
Shall be applied: for us we will resign,
During the life of this old majesty,
To him our absolute power:
To EDGAR and KENT
you, to your rights:
With boot, and such addition as your honours
Have more than merited. All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!
KING LEAR
And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.
Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,
Look there, look there!
Dies
EDGAR
He faints! My lord, my lord!
KENT
Break, heart; I prithee, break!
EDGAR
Look up, my lord.
KENT
Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he hates him much
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.
EDGAR
He is gone, indeed.
KENT
The wonder is, he hath endured so long:
He but usurp'd his life.
ALBANY
Bear them from hence. Our present business
Is general woe.
To KENT and EDGAR
Friends of my soul, you twain
Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain.
KENT
I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;
My master calls me, I must not say no.
ALBANY
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
Exeunt, with a dead march
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
All the world's a stage, and so is Remainder
For Keeler's class this semester we've been reading Tom McCarthy's Remainder. I make mention of this because I know about half the Shakespeare class is in Keeler's as well, and I cannot stress enough to the rest of the class the need to read this author.
A witty writer who--though broady avoids any denotation of a lable-- adresses through a new form of perhaps "post-modernism" the issue of the "stage". McCarthy is quickly becoming one of my new favorite authors who--due to my recent injury-- I hope to read al of his works by the end of this semseter, starting with C.
The injury i've endured seems to be a great intersection of life, and literature from which i can branch out. to start I'll have to apologize for any misspelled words or slow posting. This obtrusive cast has forced me to re-learn how to type, to sleep, eat, really everthing. One really misses their water until their well runs dry. The character in Remainder has far, far more extensive damage and rehabilitation to go through, but he too deals with this re-learning, and recognizing the infinitly extensive compontents to every action that at some point we learned or inherited.
I think of this in terms of lanugage: not only our massive cosmos of novels, phrases, words, and lettering, but of our connections through communitaction, and through interaction. The anxiety of influence shows us our own impotence (or perhaps fear of) to these grand master works put out before us. But these are not entities to abhor, to be hanuted by, these are our muses. Not as english majors specifically but as humans, as particpants in human connections.
This is essentaily at the core of Bloom's book, I could qoute extensivly from him to support my argument but I won't. This is for several reasons, one: frankly I'm a bit tired of Bloom, I find he's really hit and miss in his Invention of the Human, obviously it is all excellent but I quickly tire of his exsessive drooling over Fallstaff. The second reason: it sort of debases my argument for the time being, in that yes a lot of his ideas are being channalled through me as we speak, but there are infinite other's who I owe homage to equally, both knowlingly and unknowingly.
For example, I owe much of my vocabulary to Shakespeare himself, words like submerge, assasination, lonely--all his, yet I won't cite him. That is not to say I should not be aware, That i should not be appricitative, instead that I am fully (not really) aware that this ether of language and literature is living, birthing, and consuming entity. But I digress.
Back to McCarthy and Remainder whose story line divulges into these obsessive re-creations of events, places, and characters, we see the concept of the stage developing, or rather we see it un-earthed. His work becomes absurdist, but we can perhaps catch a pale gilmpse of reflection in our own lives. Whether we aknowledge that our own language, our every day diaologe come from a nebulous of lines, stage ques, and previously uttered converstions, or whether our recognition of our lives' stage comes from the examination of our everyday rituals.
Why do we wake with the sun, eat cereal, have a baby, die and decompose? What have we understood about each of these events, each of thier infinite componats, the transparancy of their history, their mythology?
after these mimic motions what remains?
(*pealse note "Mimic" a shakespearane word and "mimic motion" a segment of Stevens)
As usual I get going, veer far off topic, and run out of time, not before throughouly confusing and confoudning myself and dropping segments, scattering them to the breeze upon millions of diffrent topics that I'd like to discuss.
So conisder this just a pre-amble to alot of other things i'd like to talk about.
A witty writer who--though broady avoids any denotation of a lable-- adresses through a new form of perhaps "post-modernism" the issue of the "stage". McCarthy is quickly becoming one of my new favorite authors who--due to my recent injury-- I hope to read al of his works by the end of this semseter, starting with C.
The injury i've endured seems to be a great intersection of life, and literature from which i can branch out. to start I'll have to apologize for any misspelled words or slow posting. This obtrusive cast has forced me to re-learn how to type, to sleep, eat, really everthing. One really misses their water until their well runs dry. The character in Remainder has far, far more extensive damage and rehabilitation to go through, but he too deals with this re-learning, and recognizing the infinitly extensive compontents to every action that at some point we learned or inherited.
I think of this in terms of lanugage: not only our massive cosmos of novels, phrases, words, and lettering, but of our connections through communitaction, and through interaction. The anxiety of influence shows us our own impotence (or perhaps fear of) to these grand master works put out before us. But these are not entities to abhor, to be hanuted by, these are our muses. Not as english majors specifically but as humans, as particpants in human connections.
This is essentaily at the core of Bloom's book, I could qoute extensivly from him to support my argument but I won't. This is for several reasons, one: frankly I'm a bit tired of Bloom, I find he's really hit and miss in his Invention of the Human, obviously it is all excellent but I quickly tire of his exsessive drooling over Fallstaff. The second reason: it sort of debases my argument for the time being, in that yes a lot of his ideas are being channalled through me as we speak, but there are infinite other's who I owe homage to equally, both knowlingly and unknowingly.
For example, I owe much of my vocabulary to Shakespeare himself, words like submerge, assasination, lonely--all his, yet I won't cite him. That is not to say I should not be aware, That i should not be appricitative, instead that I am fully (not really) aware that this ether of language and literature is living, birthing, and consuming entity. But I digress.
Back to McCarthy and Remainder whose story line divulges into these obsessive re-creations of events, places, and characters, we see the concept of the stage developing, or rather we see it un-earthed. His work becomes absurdist, but we can perhaps catch a pale gilmpse of reflection in our own lives. Whether we aknowledge that our own language, our every day diaologe come from a nebulous of lines, stage ques, and previously uttered converstions, or whether our recognition of our lives' stage comes from the examination of our everyday rituals.
Why do we wake with the sun, eat cereal, have a baby, die and decompose? What have we understood about each of these events, each of thier infinite componats, the transparancy of their history, their mythology?
after these mimic motions what remains?
(*pealse note "Mimic" a shakespearane word and "mimic motion" a segment of Stevens)
As usual I get going, veer far off topic, and run out of time, not before throughouly confusing and confoudning myself and dropping segments, scattering them to the breeze upon millions of diffrent topics that I'd like to discuss.
So conisder this just a pre-amble to alot of other things i'd like to talk about.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
"Of Experience"
“The more one reads and ponders the more one realizes that the accurate stance toward Shakespeare is that of awe” Harold Bloom
I joked in my last blog about the overwhelming power of to levitate the audience out of chaos and into bliss. I spent most of my time discussing those who cannot see the heavenly path and therefore are doomed to perpetuate in pedestrian and shadowed existence. Those things did happen, but I wanted to speak about a bit more honest material.
I’ve been reading a great deal of criticism on Shakespeare (Bloom) and a great deal of criticism on the life as a whole, (Camus, Montaigne, and Cicero). Now I must first state that these ideas are just a particular thread I’ve been following lately. I have no doubt I will contradict myself, like Whitman I am vast, I contain multitudes. The very act of discussing these points is an act of defeating them.
But, this is all for fun these ideas are have just manifested themselves in my recent reading and I thought that I’d share them.
Bloom’s quote about awe is what this matter all comes down to. Any commentary on Shakespeare could and possibly should be left at that…but oh, there’s just so much to be said.
The other day afterschool I swept into a discussion about Shakespeare and the Bahagavad Gita. For those unfamiliar, the Gita (for short) is quite possibly the greatest epiphanic text I’ve ever come across. This is due to two main reasons: first, the apocalyptic visions comfort us in their omnipotence. I personally don’t subscribe to the belief, but there is something soothing about the notion that all that has been has been, and all that will be will be. If any of you have studied Arabic, or (more likely) if any of you have read one of the most widely read novels ever The Alchemist you may remember a word that almost summarizes this idea. Kuthub كتب: meaning: it was written.
This story however, cannot be usurped by a single word, and this brings me to part two of its power: The story. The Gita is perhaps one of the most beautiful stories out of the east, its prose is poetic, its language and vernacular is…beautiful, there is really no other word to describe it. So if you’d like to explore more on that note, please do. Check out the Gita’s wiki GITA WIKI or read the text itself GITA
Harold Bloom seems to hold an almost Gita mentality when it comes to Shakespeare’s work. I’m not sure if the title of his book gives it away, Shakespeare the Invention of the Human, but Bloom suggests that Shakespeare has shaped and entirely altered the world in which we live. Bloom describes Shakespeare, “a vision that is everything and nothing, a person who was (according to Borges) everyone and no one, an art so infinite that it contains us, and will go on enclosing those likely to come after us” (xxi). Like that Gita this is a simultaneously frightening and comforting notion of our “lack of free will” as one might call it. Owen Barfield enunciates this point in one of his letters to Wittgenstein stating, “there is a very real sense, humiliating as it may seem, in which what we generally venture to call our feelings are really Shakespeare’s ‘meaning’” (13).
Now if we keep these ideas in mind, we find ourselves in a very delicate position. For if Shakespeare is both everyone, and no one we cannot by any means say that he is any one thing in particular, we also almost more heavily cannot say he is not any one thing. There for Bloom is as was Daedalus paradoxically stuck in a labyrinth of his own creation when he attacks Jan Kott’s idea that MSND is about bestiality and sex. He is right to say that the play is not completely centered around those ideas, but he cannot without contradiction say that those ideas are not contained within the infinite circumference of Shakespeare’s creation.
So this brings us back to Blooms quote about awe, that if we must remain tongue- tied and contrived within our ascertains we can only be accurate in the overwhelming experience.
I find as English majors we often forget that we are meant to enjoy what we read. The denominator of our readings should not be the extent of our scholarly insight it should be the depth of our delight.
Reading Bloom turned me on to Montaigne, which turned me on to Cicero who states, “Nothing is worse than that assertion and decision should precede knowledge and perception.”
We have confounded our relationship with Shakespeare as an entity we must overcome rather than enjoy. Since the start of this class I have heard,( and I am guilty of uttering it myself) of this wicked phrase: “I have to read this entire book”. What we should be saying instead is “I get to read this entire book”.
As you like it is a perfect transition from MSND, in that we should not have as difficult a time realizing that the intent is our delight, that the moral of the story is the story. In a MDSND one of the reasons I found it difficult to discuss act 5 is because I am of the personal belief (at least for this blog) that we are not meant to “discuss it”. This should have been clear when we looked at Theseus and Hippolyta position in the audience, they constantly criticize and comment on the play they have left no space in their minds to simply enjoy.
This is partly why—I believe—Bottom’s ballad was never included. Bottom like Arjuna has been “known” the gods, he has seen the “creation and destruction” of all things. As Shakespeare describes the poet, his eyes gaze from the earth to the heavens. The circumference of Shakespeare contains these two points and all points in between. The synesthesia in Bottom’s description is only fitting, because our sense cannot even conceive all things between and of the alpha and the omega. The attempt to define such a thing is defeating and reductive, instead we should ask ourselves in Hendrix like fashion, “Are you experienced?”
Camus in his essay “The Myth of Sisyphus” makes concord of this discord, “For if I try to seize this self of which I feel sure, if I try to define and to summarize it, it is nothing but water slipping through my fingers” (19). I feel we are often too critical to conceive the beauty before us. We shouldn’t ever have troubled times with Shakespeare, As you like it should give us a hint that this is a play for us to enjoy, it is…as we like it. Camus continues on this commentary of experience vs. examination, “the soft lines of these hills and the hand of evening on this troubled heart teach me much more. I have returned to my beginning. I realize that if through science I can seize phenomena and enumerate them, I cannot, for all that, apprehend the world” (20).
Again, these are just some ideas that I enjoyed running with, but it does not mean they contain or describe my ideas as a whole, Montaigne says in his essay “ ‘Of Experience’, never did two men find the same conclusion, nor the same man at different hours.”
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