Eric The Blue

Threads in Macbeth

In the intervals between orgies of televised basketball viewing I've been perusing Macbeth, which my 10th-grader is reading for English class. I thought maybe we'd discuss it like adults, but she mainly has complaints:

What the hell does this mean?

And this?

And this?

What are they talking about? I thought this was English class.

Here's a passage she hasn't mentioned, from Act I, Scene iv:

KING
Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not
Those in commission yet returned?

MALCOLM
                                       My liege,
They are not yet come back. But I have spoke
With one that saw him die, who did report
That very frankly he confessed his treasons,
Implored your Highness' pardon and set forth
A deep repentance: nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving it. He died
As one that had been studied in his death,
To throw away the dearest thing he owed
As 'twere a careless trifle.

KING
                                There's no art
To find the mind's construction in the face:
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust.

Enter Macbeth . . . .

O worthiest cousin!

And for several lines the king fawns on Macbeth, who in the next act will murder him. Enter another gentleman on whom the king had built an absolute trust! I don't know how many times my eyes had passed over these words without communicating to my brain the force of that stage direction. 

The effect is to link the new Thane of Cawdor with the one who made a good death. Nothing in the first traitor's life became him like the leaving it; here is Macbeth contemplating his imminent death in the fifth act:

I have lived long enough. My way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

My daughter's teacher has evidently stressed this idea of the tragic hero, the great man who falls on account of a "tragic flaw," in this case ambition, but Macbeth at the end, pitifully placing his confidence in the witches' equivocating prophecies, seems to me too pathetic to inspire anything like awe or the philosopher's "catharsis." His entrance for his first interview with the witches is announced by

A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come!

which, in the second interview, is reduced to

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

In Macbeth, more than I've ever noticed in any other of Shakespeare's tragedies, lines from near the conclusion are intended to put us in mind of a previous speech, in a way that highlights a lie or error. Bucking up her husband in the immediate aftermath of the horrible crime, Lady Macbeth says of a potentially incriminating blood spattering, "A little water clears us of this deed." Later, having gone to pieces, she unconsciously mutters to herself while sleepwalking, "Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?"

ADDENDUM

I didn't mention maybe my favorite example of this design, one that sounds like a 420-year-old commentary on the current topic of "toxic masculinity." In the scene (I.vii) in which Lady Macbeth persuades her husband to murder the king, she really has nothing more than "a real man wouldn't be afraid of taking an action needed to attain his goal." Macbeth memorably refutes her:

                        Prithee peace!
I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.

She succeeds even though her method is just to repeat herself: "When you durst do it, then you were a man," she avers in the speech immediately following the one in which Macbeth says he would dare to do anything that could properly be understood as manly. I think we're meant to recall this conversation much later when Macduff, on his mission to Malcolm hiding out in England (IV.iii), receives the news that his entire family has been slaughtered in their home back in Scotland. Malcolm advises him to assuage his grief and anger by resolving to take revenge and is then slightingly rebuffed by the grieving family man:

MACDUFF
He has no children. All my pretty ones?
Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?

MALCOLM
Dispute it like a man.

MACDUFF
                        I shall do so;
But I must also feel it as a man.

Lady Macbeth presses upon her husband hellish advice, is reproved, repeats herself, and carries the day. When Malcolm is reproved, he also repeats himself—and is reproved again. 

Times considers whether therapy really works

Some of my favorite moments in Shakespeare plays occur when a soaring speech, often quoted, I think with the suggestion that the character is speaking for the playwright, is immediately undercut by a terse and usually forgotten reply. For example, in The Tempest, when Miranda is for the first time contemplating human beings, she enthuses:

                                            O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world
That has such people in't!

Her father's terse reply to these famous exclamations is, if known, rarely mentioned:

'Tis new to thee.

I thought of another one, from Macbeth, when reading this New York Times article on the efficacy of therapy, or its lack thereof. That someone was even willing to consider in print, in The New York Times, the possibility that there might be some claptrap involved seemed to me kind of exciting, though the author, being a true journalist, plays it down the middle in recommended on-the-one-hand-but-on-the-other fashion. Nevertheless, the evidence for therapy is in my view pretty thin.  A study finds, for instance, that "among the 'neurotics' and 'psychotics' who had undergone various kinds of talk therapy, the typical patient fared better than 75 percent of those with similar diagnoses who went untreated." Is this impressive? Seems that if therapy was completely worthless, the "typical patient" would fare better than 50 percent of those with similar diagnoses who went untreated.  So therapy lifts you past another 25 percent. I wonder how many percent are netted by a placebo effect—you feel better because you believe you are taking steps to help yourself, and besides, diplomas on the therapist's wall. Maybe it helps just to rant aloud to someone, even if they don't bill you or an insurance company to listen. And bill, and bill, and bill. Is the point to get better, or just to be "in therapy," a status marker like season tickets in the NBA?

I'll admit to a certain antagonism. Maybe it's mainly the social media world, but people seem almost aggressively happy, like there's something desperate about it. Everyone must recognize the absurdity of

I was a really distasteful person, so I got into therapy, and now I've accepted my distastefulness.

The therapy vocab is impenetrable, so I could be wrong, but I think that's what a lot of them are saying, and they were less unpleasant before they were pleased with themselves. 

In Macbeth, the title character is beseeching a doctor to help his wife, whose neuroses are connected to an overpowering sense of guilt (the source of which is her actual guilt for a hideous crime). He famously pleads:

                                Cure her of that!
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that terrible stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

And the doctor less famously replies, "Therein the patient must minister to himself." 

Rereading Romeo and Juliet

I joked recently about telling my high-school freshman that the play she's going to be reading for English class, Romeo and Juliet, is intended as a cautionary tale about what happens when people her age think they are "in love." It's possible that an earnest reader of the play could believe me. Probably shouldn't, however. 

In the first scene, Romeo is moping about, and explains, when his friends ask what ails him, that he's been dumped by the most exquisite specimen of female humanity in Verona. This elicits from his friends much cynical merriment. The scene shifts to the Capulet household, where the highly placed Paris is asking Juliet's father to bless his planned courtship of Juliet. Capulet is reluctant, on account of his daughter's age, just 13, but he invites Paris to a party he's throwing. Juliet will be there, of course, but so will a lot of other attractive young women: if after regarding them all Paris is still determined to court Juliet, they'll talk more, says her father. Back to Romeo, who's still pining after lost love in the company of his sneering friends. When by chance they learn of the Capulet party, one of the friends essentially repeats to Romeo old man Capulet's line to Paris: Romeo should go to the party, where he'll see his ex (her name is Rosalin) surrounded by a lot of other beauties, and suddenly she won't be all that and a bag of chips anymore. Romeo is indignant—

One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun

—but agrees to go, since at least he'll be able to admire Rosalin from afar (and, his friends would say, wallow in the pleasures afforded the lovesick).  He enters the ball in disguise, as the Capulets are the bitter enemies of his family, and immediately views Juliet across the room, whereupon:

ROMEO [to a Servingman]
What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?

SERVINGMAN
I know not, sir.

ROMEO
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear—
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

The justness of the friends' sneers is thus in every detail ratified. Romeo, a ridiculous figure, drops one pose and adopts another as easily as he might change clothes. His praise of Juliet, in perfectly metered lines adorned with chiming rhymes, is out of the Hallmark shop. And there's a lot more where that came from. In his first exchange with Juliet, she listens to a few of his lines before remarking, "You woo by the book." This has always seemed to me an aptly tart observation, raising the question of why she falls for such an absurd fellow—so hard and fast that she's soon consenting to the desperate plan that ends in their double suicide.

In reading here and there in search of enlightenment regarding such a question, I came across the following morsel from Frank Kermode: "Whenever Shakespeare is working largely from a single text, [as he is in Romeo and Juliet], one observes his readiness to accept and transform a conventional morality, and to find an appropriately limited place in his play for what had struck the author of his source as being the whole moral bearing of the story." The source for Romeo and Juliet is a long and, according to all who've read it, tedious poem, The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet, by a poet named Brooke, first published in 1562, a couple years before Shakespeare had been born. From what I can understand, "the whole moral bearing" of Brooke's poem is in line with the cautionary tale I described to my daughter: in matters of the heart, young people should not take themselves so seriously, for when they do, ignoring the wise counsel of their elders, tragedy ensues. This conventional lesson is present in Romeo and Juliet, but the exposition of Romeo's callowness, preeminently the mocking treatment of his love sickness, which I assume is entirely Shakespeare's invention, obscures Brooke's tidy lesson and transforms it into something enjoyable on the stage. 

Then, as events unfold, the tidy lesson suffers more and harder blows. I have in mind two scenes, mainly. The first is the one in which Juliet's feigned death is discovered. If you're familiar with the plot, you'll remember that, having secretly married the banished Romeo, Juliet drinks a potion the night before she is to marry Paris. The potion has the effect of making her appear dead for a period of time sufficient to be entombed at the family monument. The plan is that, in addition to avoiding the wedding with Paris, she will when she awakens be reunited with Romeo, who is to be recalled from exile in Mantua. On the morning of the wedding day, then, the Capulet household is busy with wedding preparations while Juliet sleeps in. The audience knows that soon the trivialities will be interrupted by the discovery of her "death." The dramatic challenge is to draw out the scene long enough for tension to build but not so long that the audience's interest begins to flag. Of course  Shakespeare manages it perfectly. It's Juliet's nurse who discovers her. "O lamentable day!" she wails. Lamentable: usually grief does not deploy polysyllables. Juliet's mother echoes, "O woeful time!" Then the nurse again:

O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful day
That ever ever I did yet behold!
O day, O day, O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this.
O woeful day! O woeful day!

It doesn't rhyme, unless you count four "day"s, but each line has the correct number of syllables, and one wishes Romeo's friends were on the scene to comment. Capulet enters the bedroom and declares himself unable to speak, his grief being too great. He soon recovers, however, and there creeps into his eloquent lament regret over his meticulous plans for the wedding celebration having come to nought. This guy really enjoys planning and putting on parties. 

Recall that the idea of what I've called "the tidy lesson" is that the reckless young should listen to the advice of their more experienced elders, whose wisdom and prudence is worthy of emulation. Along this line, it might be mentioned too that, in the coming climactic scene at the Capulet tomb, the Friar who has been assisting the young lovers exhibits too much prudence, thereby abetting the tragedy. 

The second scene I have in mind relates to Romeo exiled in Mantua. The letter by which the Friar meant to inform him of the plan to fake Juliet's death miscarries, but a messenger who knows only as much as the Capulet family makes his way to Mantua with the bad news. Romeo immediately determines that life then isn't worth living: he will kill himself at Juliet's tomb and be united with her in death. How to acquire the means? He remembers seeing a seedy apothecary business, and surmises that the owner, out of financial desperation, will for a price be persuaded to supply him with an illegal dose of poison.  As he searches out the shop, alone on stage, he describes the druggist and his failing business—it's almost my favorite thing in the play:

                        Meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuffed, and other skins
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses
Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.

His surmise about what the proprietor of this business might be willing to do, for a price, is in the event confirmed, and Romeo's speech as money and poison change hands is why I said the description of the business is only "almost" my favorite passage:

There is thy gold—worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.
Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh.
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee.

I feel sure that this incident, if it is in The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet, has been elaborated by Shakespeare, and that the vivid description of the place of business, as well as the expressions of worldly disgust and sympathy for the poor apothecary—"Sharp misery had worn him to the bones . . . Buy food and get thyself in flesh"—are not from his source but from his mind. It might almost be objected that the scene is too elaborate, a slack digression from the plot, or that the Romeo of the early scenes could never speak like this. Just so, however. In the course of the play Romeo's consciousness expands to such a degree that he's able to take in the suffering of others and be disgusted by the world's trivial, money-grubbing ways. Juliet had complained that he speaks "by the book" but she could not say that about his speeches in the fifth act. If you don't believe in Romeo's transformation, you can still love Shakespeare for making him talk this way. In his play, notwithstanding the poem he used as a source, speaking by the book is a sign of dubious character and it's the older generation that never leaves off. 

Johnson on Shakespeare at work

No doubt the literary world is anxiously awaiting the promised sequel to my mini essay on Samuel Johnson's Preface to Shakespeare. I discussed briefly there Johnson's defense of Shakespeare for having violated the "dramatic unities"—the idea that, in a play, the elapsed real time while the audience watches in the theater must match the elapsed time depicted in the stage action. Shakespeare obviously cared nothing for this dictum. In Othello, for example, the action begins in Venice and then shifts to Cyprus, at the other end of the Mediterranean, where the same leading characters reconvene. It is today about a 3-hour flight from Italy to Cyprus, so several hundred years ago the journey could not have been achieved while an audience took in the action of the play. In Shakespeare's history plays, of course, wars are begun and ended within the same drama. We are not supposed to believe that Macbeth killed Duncan and then was killed himself around three hours later. According to the theory of the "unities," the theater experience is diminished by these obvious corruptions of "reality." 

I did not mention that Johnson takes up the question of whether Shakespeare was even aware of violating theater convention:

Whether Shakespeare knew the unities and rejected them by design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, I think, impossible to decide, and useless to enquire. We may reasonably suppose, that, when he rose to notice, he did not want the counsels and admonitions of scholars and criticks, and that he at last deliberately persisted in a practice, which he might have begun by chance. [The word "want" is here a synonym for "lack"—Johnson is saying Shakespeare likely received the conventional advice of "experts" and rejected it.]

This is interesting to me mainly for the suggestion relating to Shakespeare's character and private views. The suggestion is of the impatience of a professional practitioner for the theories of "scholars and criticks." He knew what worked, at least for him (and his audience). He wouldn't have wanted to discuss the question. He had no time for that—too busy—and would just have ignored the advice.

This suggestion, admittedly slight, lines up pretty well with several other small details Johnson has gleaned from his reading of Shakespeare. Here he is criticizing Shakespeare for what we might call general sloppiness:

The plots are often so loosely formed, that a very slight consideration may improve them, and so carelessly pursued, that he seems not always fully to comprehend his own design. He omits opportunities of instructing or delighting which the train of his story seems to force upon him, and apparently rejects those exhibitions which would be more affecting, for the sake of those which are more easy.

It may be observed, that in many of his plays the latter part is evidently neglected. When he found himself near the end of his work, and, in view of his reward, he shortened the labour to snatch the profit. He therefore remits his efforts where he should most vigorously exert them, and his catastrophe is improbably produced or imperfectly represented.

If we can put aside the tendency either to concur or disagree, and just allow that Johnson might be on to something, it seems worth noting that there comes into view a picture of a man with much to do and not enough hours to do it in. It is easy to imagine such a man being impatient with the learned views of theoreticians about matters on which he, without formal education or privileged background, had built a busy and successful professional career. Johnson, in a mode still generally critical, then observes:

I am indeed far from thinking, that his works were wrought to his own ideas of perfection; when they were such as would satisfy the audience, they satisfied the writer . . . .

It does not appear, that Shakespeare thought his works worthy of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon future times, or had any further prospect, than of present popularity and present profit. When his plays had been acted, his hope was at an end . . . .

So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though he retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little declined into the vale of years, before he could be disgusted with fatigue, or disabled by infirmity, he made no collection of his works, nor desired to rescue those that had already been published from the depravations that obscured them, or secure to the rest a better destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine state. 

Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in the late editions, the greater part were not published till about seven years after his death, and the few which appeared in his life are apparently thrust into the world without the care of the authour, and therefore probably without his knowledge.

It seems Shakespeare just didn't care about the things we contemporary people think an author must care about. He didn't care about the "unities," sure, and he also didn't care that his plays weren’t as good as he might have made them, if he'd had more time and fewer obligations, or that there was no published collection of his plays, with the text as he had originally written it, that would project into the future his genius. He was a professional theater person who had begun as an actor, had acquired an ownership interest in an acting company and, eventually, the theater in which they performed, and by the way was simultaneously supplying this company, from about 1590 to 1610, with one or two new plays per year in order to attract the public to their theater. He pursued these activities in London while keeping a family and a big house back in his hometown of Stratford-on-Avon, about a hundred miles away. The plays, widely regarded as among the greatest works of the world's literature, as they encompass everything that humans have thought or felt, and express it memorably, were pretty clearly regarded by their author as nothing too special, just one facet of his professional activity in the theater biz. He made a good living at it.

Dr Johnson's Shakespeare

I've been reading Johnson's Preface to Shakespeare with considerably more enjoyment than I can remember deriving when, years ago, it had a place on a syllabus in a folder in my backpack. What did I make, back then, of the defense Johnson offers against the charge that Shakespeare violated the dramatic "unities," a critical standard holding that if the running time of a play is three hours then the action depicted on the stage must represent three hours in the lives of the characters?  This obviously precludes travels of any distance or scenes involving the same character set in different places. Any familiarity with Shakespeare's plays, including some of the very best known ones (say, King Lear and Othello), proves that he cared not at all for this standard, if he even knew about it. Here is Johnson's version of the complaint:

The necessity of observing the unities of time and place arises from the supposed necessity of making the drama credible. The criticks hold it impossible, that an action of months or years can be possibly believed to pass in three hours; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit in the theater, while ambassadors go and return between distant kings, while armies are levied and towns besieged, while an exile wanders and returns, or till he whom they saw courting his mistress, shall lament the untimely fall of his son. The mind revolts from evident falsehood, and fiction loses its force when it departs from the resemblance of reality. 

His rebuttal begins:

The objection arising from the impossibility of passing the first hour at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes, that when the play opens, the spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and believes that his walk to the theater has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this may imagine more. 

And he proceeds energetically in the same vein for a few pages, with the result that one is surprised when, indent, new paragraph, Johnson suddenly admits:

Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatick rules, I cannot but recollect how much wit and learning may be produced against me; before such authorities I am afraid to stand . . . .

But he's just demonstrated that he's not afraid to stand against them. Is the above admission actually a sneer, the intended meaning being that there is no wit or learning on the other side of the argument? The content indicated by the ellipses tends to disprove such a notion, as does Johnson's essential conservatism, which led him to defend, on many questions, the judgments of time. The question relating to the aptness of the dramatic unities appears to be a case of his intelligence defeating his reactionary impulses—reluctantly, but with verve, and not only in this instance, he defends a view that but for his honesty and mental vigor he'd be inclined to reject. It's one of his endearing qualities. 

Just how conservative his judgments could be is on display when, having summarized aspects of Shakespeare's genius, he comes to his reservations:

His first defect is that to which may be imputed most of the evil in books or in men. He sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much more careful to please than to instruct, that he seems to write without any moral purpose. . . . [H]is precepts and axioms drop casually from him; he makes no just distribution of good and evil, nor is always careful to shew in the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he carries his persons indifferently through right and wrong, and at the close dismisses them without further care, and leaves their examples to operate by chance. This fault the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate; for it is always a writer's duty to make the world better. . . .

This seems to approach the view that only sermons and moral exhortation are permitted, and indeed Johnson went so far as to give his imprimatur to a 17th-century adaptation of King Lear in which at the end Cordelia marries Edgar, the king vanquishes his foes, and all is well in the world. The conclusion to Johnson's discussion of Shakespeare's greatness—

This therefore is the praise of Shakespeare, that his drama is the mirrour of life; that he who has mazed his imagination, in following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him, may here be cured of his delirious extasies, by reading human sentiments in human language, by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor predict the progress of the passions.

—appears to refute his leading criticism, inasmuch as a drama that is "the mirrour of life" will inevitably offend the sensibilities of a Christian moralist. One can imagine Shakespeare replying, "Sorry, Sam, it's not me but the world that's indifferent to the progress of good and evil."

The most interesting parts of the Preface (to me) concern the passages that touch on the vexing question of Shakespeare's biography. But . . . another day. 

Finally how funny is Falstaff?

That Falstaff is "Shakespeare's greatest comic character" seems such an accepted opinion as almost to have achieved the status of a cliche. I recently read again the two parts of King Henry IV and, though he makes you laugh, isn't there something pretty uncomfortable about the "jokes"? I mean that the humor is so subversive as to make a shadow over the fun.

These plays famously alternate scenes of the "high" and "low"—the king at court, Falstaff & fellow revelers at a tavern in Eastcheap; the king receiving war counsel from his top advisors, working stiffs on the road complaining about the lack of chamber pots at a cheap roadside inn; etc. It's Prince Hal, heir to the throne, who moves in both worlds. The dramatic interest created in the early scenes concerns the question of whether or not Hal will reform himself, slough off his low friends, preeminently Falstaff, and prove himself worthy of the throne. This he does, and it seems the proof of his reformation offered by the play is the valor he displays in battle against the rebels angry at his father for having deposed the prior king, Richard II. In what feels like the climactic scene in the story of his rise, Hal slays Hotspur, the hot-tempered and fanatical leader of the insurrection. It is (to me) an amusing artificiality that the outcome of this "battle" is signaled by a confrontation between two principals when of course there are actually opposing forces of nameless soldiers trying to kill one another. But you can't really represent that on a stage, and anyway Shakespeare's purpose is to highlight Hal's transformation. The play doesn't appear to treat this story with any irony. The question was whether Hal could pull himself up and do what's needed. He does it. His accomplishment is demonstrated on the stage. It's meant to be satisfying.

But then there is Falstaff. As a subject of the king, one with connections, he also serves—specifically, in "the king's press," that is, conscription. His approach is to press "good householders," "yeomen's sons," "contracted bachelors"—in other words, men of means with obvious reasons for wanting to avoid military service, with the result that they pay Falstaff for an exemption. In this way, he bankrolls his dissipation, and the "soldiers" he ends up with are a ragtag collection of impoverished misfits. When his ways then cross with Hal's, the following exchange occurs:

PRINCE: But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these who come after?

FALSTAFF: Mine, Hal, mine.

PRINCE: I did never see such pitiful rascals.

FALSTAFF: Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder. They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

Is "funny" the word for this? "What difference does it make, bad soldiers will fill a mass grave as well as good ones—war is butchery." The argument perhaps isn't sincere, inasmuch as it's advanced to cover corruption, but that doesn't make it a less devastating comment on the events of the "high" plot wherein Prince Hal proves his mettle in glorious combat. This is why I say he's "subversive." A bit later, Falstaff gets a little too close to the fighting and expresses fear for his life. Hal, by now gallant Hal, provides high-minded encouragement: "Why, thou owest God a death." He then exits and Falstaff soliloquizes:

'Tis not due yet: I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter; honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honor? A word. What is that word honor? Air—a trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. 'Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon—and so ends my catechism. 

By the logic of the "high" plot, such a "catechism" needs repudiation, but I don't know when this happens. It just stands as a commentary—take it or leave it—on the elevated affairs suggested by the title, The History of Henry IV. 

M. A. Shaaber, Shakespearean

 

Don't know whether I got a bigger charge out of the Twins hitting six homers in yesterday's game or noticing the discrepancy in the name of the Shakespearean scholar in my Pelican paperback for Henry IV Part One—he's M.A. Schaaber on the cover but M.A. Shaaber at the end of the Introduction he penned for the edition he edited. If you're not M.A. Shaaber himself, you probably have to be a geek just to notice, let alone enjoy, the mishap. But I wonder whether the professor was bemused or insulted. Being selected to edit a volume that would be assigned to a million undergraduates, and read by a few hundred, would have merited a new entry on his Curriculum Vitae. And then they go and spell his name wrong on the cover. Even the chairs of Ivy League English Departments are subject to indignities. 

Matthias Adam Shaaber was born at Reading, Pennsylvania, in 1897, and taught at the University of Pennsylvania, his alma mater, from 1922 until 1968. After his death in 1979, his widow donated his papers to the university library, whose website supplies the correct spelling of his name: Shaaber. If you're interested in memoranda related to the proceedings of the Shakespeare Society of Philadelphia, or would like to inspect successive drafts of Dr. Shaaber's numerous articles on Renaissance literature, you have to make an appointment with the library's archivist.  For $2.50 in around 1980, you could read what he thought of Shakespeare's greatest comic character, and then check his impression against your own:

But even Hotspur is overshadowed by Falstaff, who is indeed the great triumph of this play. Otherwise a superior battle-piece, it is transfigured by his presence into something unique and transcendent. . . .

Traditionally a comic character is the butt of ridicule, a simpleton, a monomaniac, an imposter who, like that other Falstaff who swaggers through The Merry Wives of Windsor, overreaches himself in the end and is exposed to the derisive laughter of men of better judgment. But the Falstaff of this play, for all the verbal derision hurled at him by the prince and others, which he always parries skillfully enough, is never completely exposed, discomfited, or humiliated by the turn of events; he always manages to earn at least a draw and often something like a triumph. At the end of the play he is even left in dubious possession of the claim of victory over Hotspur. For success like this we have no derision; indeed, at least in fiction, it excites something more like sympathy, and Falstaff carries away our admiration, or at least our astonishment, by his overwhelming effrontery. When we laugh with him we forfeit all chance of sitting in judgment of him. The utter disabling of our normal censoriousness, the assigning to Falstaff of a role that is sympathetic as well as depraved, is indeed a triumph of the comic imagination.

His fondness of "indeed" marks him as a professor but this is good enough to have earned a proper credit on the cover. 

Coen bro does Macbeth

The entity usually referred to as "the Coen brothers" has always seemed like one person to me. I know that Frances McDormand is married to one of them, I have no idea which, but presumably the brothers are distinct persons to her. Now that one of them, I guess Joel, has written and directed a film version of Macbeth maybe I'll achieve some clarity myself. McDormand plays Lady Macbeth in the movie and I see now that she's Joel's spouse. A household proprietorship instead of the familiar brotherly one.

I'm a little puzzled about some of the conventions surrounding the film project. It's said the movie was "written and directed by Joel Coen," which must mean that, in addition to directing, he's responsible for a script that's adapted from the play written by William Shakespeare in the first decade of the seventeenth century. Yet reviewers, sophisticated ones, often make it sound as if the thing dropped from the mind of Joel Coen. Here is Joyce Carol Oates.

(as the child speaks brightly & is allowed to be "cute," in the sole playful scene in the entire film, I thought: Coen is preparing us to think this little boy is real, before he's savagely murdered.)
(a transparent move, yet still effective.) https://t.co/Pb0q33FnJZ

— Joyce Carol Oates (@JoyceCarolOates) January 14, 2022

The scene she describes, whether "out of place" or not, wasn't invented by Joel Coen: it's Act IV, Scene 2 of Shakespeare's play. The murder of Macduff's family serves no political or strategic purpose, which may contribute to the impression that it's extraneous, "spliced in." But the senselessness is the point. Macbeth's first murder followed an agonizing scene of moral deliberation. The boundary once crossed, however, there's no more reasoning. He's self-aware enough to diagnose his own disorder:

                                        I am in blood
Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand,
Which must be acted ere they may be scanned.

This speech had begun with a bit of wayward information dropped, as it were, unintentionally:

I hear it by the way; but I will send;
There's not a one of them but in his house
I keep a servant fee'd . . . .

"Keep a servant fee'd"—that is, pay them to spy. He succeeds to the throne after killing the king and his profit on it is that he takes up residence in a nightmare world of paranoia and madness. He tries to escape by committing more and more murders, the consequent slaughters making less and less sense. In general, Shakespeare's savagery receives short shrift, and a movie version that elided the slaughter of Macduff's family would be contributing to the trend. The scene in which Macduff receives the news is brutal. What we call "toxic masculinity" is one of the play's themes. His wife had tempted Macbeth to act on his foul ambition by taunting him, "When you durst do it, then you were a man." Macduff, told of the slaughter of his family, is advised by a third party to "Dispute it like a man." 

MACDUFF:
He has no children. All my pretty ones?

Hamlet and Hamnet

I was planning on watching basketball games this afternoon as I had no idea that today was reserved for the so-called play-in games, the marquee one being Michigan State v. UCLA late tonight. It took me awhile to adjust to the existence of these play-in games. Now I think there's more of them, and the NCAA and the TV networks are evidently trying to elevate their status by scheduling them on what used to be the first day of the actual 64-team tournament. Ka-ching! Maybe just a matter of time till the field expands to 128. Any team that doesn't make it must fire the coach. He'll then be hired by one of the other universities that had to fire its coach. The unsuccessful coaches will just circulate among the unsuccessful programs. The salaries are all into 7 figures so it's not a bad gig, even if you have to move a lot. 

Anyway, since the afternoon is open, more about Shakespeare, whose Hamlet I recently reread after reading this review of Hamnet, one of the New York Times's ten best books of 2020. Shakespeare's only son, Hamnet, died at age 11. We know that the boy was buried at Stratford-on-Avon, where he lived with his mother, on August 11, 1596. By that time his father, 32, had been working in London's theater biz as an actor and playwright for five or more years. Stratford-on-Avon is about 100 miles northwest of London, and 100 miles in 1600 was a lot farther than it is today. The theatre guy, then, lived apart from his family. Hamnet, by Maggie O'Farrell, is a novel based at least loosely on what is known, or surmised, about Shakespeare's family, his likely problematic marriage, grief, and its possible impact on the playwright's work.

A source for Hamlet is a previously existing work with a boy hero named Hamlet, a circumstance that tends to refute the notion that Shakespeare, thinking of his son, chose a name that differed by a consonant. Nor is it the case that after his son's death Shakespeare, in his grief, immediately turned to the composition of Hamlet, for the play was almost certainly composed in the year 1600, about three years after the boy died. But, as there is little known about Shakespeare's emotional life, it is a kind of pastime to try to infer one from his work, and Hamlet seems the most personal work. There is, for example, the title character's obvious interest in the theatrical arts. He'd been moping around the castle, soliloquizing about suicide, but when the traveling theater troupe arrives he's suddenly animated and alive—full of questions, advice, and suggestions for the players, who it seems might have had reason to be put off by the presumption: they're the professionals, right? But Hamlet will not shut up. The scene goes on and on—too long, some may think, all the details not really necessary in order to advance the plot. It's said that Shakespeare's self-education had left him so well versed in the tricks of so many trades that carpenters think he must have been at least a carpenter's apprentice, sailors that he must have shipped out to sea, etc., etc., but the title character in Hamlet is like his creator sunk in the fine points of the theatre professions. 

It's also intriguing that Hamlet appears to represent a break with Shakespeare's artistic past, which, some have felt, is suggestive of a rupture in his private life. Hamlet is about half again as long as any of the 20 or so plays that preceded it. Scholars have determined that Shakespeare deployed in Hamlet more than 600 words that don't occur in any of the plays or poems he'd already written.  The technique is different, too. To praise Hamlet, you would not say that it's "tightly plotted" or "well paced." Elements of the plot don't make a ton of sense. The hero’s first despondent ruminations—

O that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon against self-slaughter. O God, God,
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't, ah, fie, 'tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.

—occur before his interview with the Ghost causes him to suspect foul play. Once he knows his father was murdered, the audience wonders whether he'll take revenge, but he wonders whether he should commit suicide:

To be, or not to be, &c

The tight plot and paced action are gone and replaced by this brooding figure, dissatisfied with life and disgusted with the corruption around him. The length of the thing, and the new vocabulary, are like a piling on—an analog of the famous "double plot" in King Lear, about which someone observed it's apparently not enough that one old man should roam the earth in despair: there must be two. Between Hamlet (1600) and Lear (1605) Shakespeare created Iago, and Macbeth belongs to 1606. Maggie O'Farrell's Hamnet is fiction, her surmises just surmises, but it's hard to dispute that Shakespeare discovered something new within himself in 1599 or 1600. 

Who dies in Hamlet? And how?

If we don't count Hamlet's father, who is murdered before the action begins, the first to go is Polonius, in Act III. He's eavesdropping from behind an arras when, thinking that Hamlet is about to kill the Queen, he cries out, and Hamlet stabs him through the tapestry. Then:

[Lifts up the arras and sees Polonius.]
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune.

His "better" is the king, so an apparent case of mistaken identity. Next up is Ophelia, daughter to Polonius and Hamlet's supposed love interest: her suicide occurs off stage and is reported by the Queen in Act IV. The courtiers Rosencrantz and Guildenstern suffer the next deaths. They are accompanying Hamlet to England and do not know that the sealed instructions they carry to the British throne direct that Hamlet be immediately killed. While they sleep, Hamlet opens the order, reads it, and replaces it with his own composition—the clueless pair now bear orders directing their own executions while Hamlet returns to Denmark. 

The last four deaths, of the King and Queen, Hamlet and Laertes, occur in the last scene. The plan is for Hamlet to be lured into a fencing match with Laertes, who will then kill him with an unbated rapier that has in addition been laced with poison at the tip. The backup, in case Hamlet defends too well, is a chalice holding a poisoned refreshment. In the event, the unknowing Queen, celebrating a point scored by Hamlet in the fencing match, helps herself to the poisoned drink prepared for her son. Before she falls, the match heats up and the reader of the play comes to the stage direction:

[In scuffling they exchange rapiers, and both are wounded with the poisoned weapon.]

The Queen falls to the ground and dies. The repentant Laertes, in his dying speech, brings Hamlet up to speed on the murderous plan gone awry. Hamlet then uses the rapier with the "envenomed point" to stab the king, who dies. Then Hamlet dies. The stage therefore is strewn with the corpses of the King, Queen, Laertes, and Hamlet when a contingent of foreign representatives arrives on the scene. An English ambassador, having delivered himself of the observation that "[t]he sight is dismal," says he had hoped to deliver to Hamlet the news that, in accordance with his directive, "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead." 

Adding them up, eight die, which maybe doesn't seem like a big number but it's pretty much everyone excepting Horatio and the extras who here and there are hustled on and off the stage to move things along. Though two of these extras are sacrificed as well.  It's as if the slaughter of all the principals isn't brutal enough: "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead." So:

Polonius—stabbed through the arras because Hamlet thought he was the King. Ophelia—dead by her own hand. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—dutiful courtiers who, ignorant of the large events they are occasionally summoned to participate in, deliver their own death warrants to a foreign court. In the final scene—the two plotters die when the weapon they've poisoned is turned against them, in one case by an oblivious assailant, and in yet another unforeseen accident the Queen drinks poison intended to kill someone else. Before this shit show can commence, the following exchange occurs:

HAMLET
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will—

HORATIO
That is most certain.

Hamlet's exalted sentiment is frequently quoted without acknowledgment that the play functions to undercut it. Of the characters who are on stage any considerable amount, Horatio is the only one who survives, and his final speeches are like an amendment:

And let me speak to th' yet unknowing world
How these things came about. So shall you hear
Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts,
Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters,
Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause

. . . . let this same be presently performed,
Even while men's minds are wild, lest more mischance
On plots and errors happen.

 

Re Marlowe and his contemporary

I've been reading up on Christopher Marlowe, the Elizabethan dramatist I referred to the other day (because a line from one of his plays gave Hemingway the title for "In Another Country"), and I see that a correction is in order: I said that Marlowe was murdered when he was 30, but actually he was 29. I think he gets the silver medal in English literature's "What Might He Have Achieved" competition, the gold going to the poet John Keats, who died, of tuberculosis, in 1821 at the age of 25. 

The circumstances around Marlowe's death are a topic of intrigue. According to Hallett Smith, author of the headnote to the section on Marlowe in The Norton Anthology, the dramatist was killed on May 30, 1593, at a London tavern, over a dispute about the bill. The method was stabbing with a dagger. It's possible for a Law and Order fan to imagine a jaded 16th-century London homicide detective debating with himself whether there might be more to the story. On the one hand, your work experience has impressed on you the sorry drab circumstances that can end in homicide. A person might very well be murdered over a dispute about a bar tab, especially considering the effects of alcohol on inhibition and judgment. But Marlowe was a notorious figure whose sudden death in a bar fight might attract suspicion—and it has attracted suspicion. Smith's headnote includes the following information:

From the time of his first great success, when he was 23 [Smith refers to the first production of the play Tamburlaine], Marlowe had only six years to live. They were not calm years. In 1589 he was involved in a brawl with one William Bradley, in which the poet Thomas Watson intervened and killed Bradley. Both poets were jailed, but Watson got off on a plea of self-defense and Marlowe was released. In 1591 Marlowe was living in London with the playwright Thomas Kyd, who later gave information to the Privy Council accusing Marlowe of atheism and treason.

In an essay called "Marlowe's Damnations," the poet and critic John Berryman energetically amplifies:

Shakespeare and Ben Jonson apart, only of Christopher Marlowe among the playwrights of the first Elizabeth is enough known personally to make feasible an exploration of those connexions, now illuminating, now mysterious, between the artist's life and his work, which interest an increasing number of readers in this century, and the existence of which is denied only by very young persons or writers whose work perhaps really does bear no relation to their lives, tant pis pour eux ["so much the worse for them"—French phrases, British spellings: you'd never guess Berryman was born in Oklahoma]. Marlowe was a professional secret agent, a notorious unbeliever, a manifest homosexual, cruel, quarrelsome, and perhaps murderous, his habitual associates scoundrels and traitors. . . .

Let us take both the atheism and the homosexuality seriously, because Marlowe did: he was missionary about both and he could have been burned for either. As William Empson has remarked, he was lucky to be murdered before he was burned.

Thus a cottage industry of criminal theories. He was murdered by the Church. He was murdered by a double-crossed spy. He was murdered by a double-crossed gay lover. He was murdered by the Privy Council, which was Queen Elizabeth's version of the FBI. It's wild that all these are defensible, though only one could be true, and it's also possible that a barroom fight was just a barroom fight. In his dramatic works, Marlowe's theme of themes is the transgressive pursuit of forbidden things. It's not surprising, for example, that one of his plays is a version of the Faust legend and that, in his hand, the tale is a parable of intellectual history: the medieval view that the purpose of human life is to work out one's religious salvation is contrasted with the desire—the lust—to find things out, to get knowledge. 

He had been born at Canterbury in February, 1564, and was therefore older than Shakespeare by two months, a circumstance that has resulted in Marlowe being often compared to the GOAT. This hasn't necessarily worked to Marlowe's disadvantage. For example, in one of Shakespeare's best known sonnets, the 29th, the speaker acknowledges having "desir[ed] this man's art and that man's scope," which has caused some to speculate that Shakespeare envied Marlowe's art and scope. (Because who else could possibly have aroused his jealousy?) Smith states that Shakespeare would "scarcely be known today" had he died at the same age as Marlowe. Investigating this claim, I discover that, by the best estimate of scholarship, only four of Shakespeare's extant plays clearly belong to 1593, the year he turned 29, or before. These are the first, second, and third parts of Henry VI and Richard III—a linked series of English history plays about strife between the Houses of York and Lancaster. The comedies Two Gentlemen of Verona, The Comedy of Errors, and Love's Labour's Lost all belong to his 30th year, give or take a year. From what we can tell, Shakespeare's 20s were devoted to acquiring practical work experience in the London theatre world. At first, the principal vehicle was acting, and he was in his late 20s before writing plays supplanted acting in them as a career path. He would have known Marlowe, or at least been familiar with his work, and you don't have to think the man two months his senior is lurking in the 29th sonnet to have fun wondering what he thought about him. The two were in many ways opposites. Shakespeare seems to have possessed an essentially conservative temperament, and, though it's easy to see that he had knowledge of drink, drunks, and alcoholic dissipation, he was himself a poor candidate for getting stabbed in a tavern—and, indeed, he did not.  He was also one of the world's preeminent autodidacts, whereas Marlowe spent six years on scholarship at Cambridge. Berryman points out that Marlowe's plays are full of his classical education, and I identified what I take to be his "theme of themes." Such notions suggest the limits of his art and scope. It's possible to detect his obsessions in his work. Shakespeare's output is too variegated for that. No one speaks of Shakespeare's obsessions.

Happy birthday to Will

Shakespeare was baptized on this day in 1564. His birthday is celebrated on April 23, which is the date of his death in 1616. Since his birthday is unknown, but very close on the calendar to the opposite bookend, we just assign April 23 to both his vitals. The most likely date of his birth is today, April 26. Infant mortality was high. No sense dallying.  

As I noted here, King Lear was almost certainly composed in 1604. I just reread it: uff da! As has been argued by others, certain scenes, preeminently the one in which Gloucester has his eyes gouged out on stage, are so difficult to behold that "doubts of its propriety as art have been expressed even by critics who are reluctant to admit that Shakespeare can ever be at fault."*  By the time the assault on our sensibilities is ended, it's natural to regard the work as a statement of nihilism and despair. The last scene includes probably the most shocking stage direction in the world's literature. Edmund, who is dying, remembers that he has sent his captain to the prison with a commission to hang Cordelia, so that her murder will look like a suicide. A messenger is dispatched to recall him. One then reads:

ALBANY: The gods defend her!

Enter Lear, with Cordelia in his arms

This aggressive juxtaposition is the last note in a theme insisted upon by the whole structure of the play, including the famous double plot. It's not enough that one old man wanders the earth in misery and intermittent, subsiding sanity. There have to be two. Also, God defends no one. 

All that is true. It's also true that other scenes are excruciating for their tenderness and the fellow-feeling between sufferers. Lear, locked out of doors in the storm, has perhaps for the first time the thought that someone besides him might be cold:

In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty—
Nay, get thee in. . . .
[He's now alone]
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'r you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel. . . .

You're reading along, frequently checking the notes at the bottom of the page for help with the Elizabethan English, and then this cry from the heart. I have taken too little care of this needs no gloss. The language is similarly strong and plain when, in the next act, the strands of the double plot converge and Lear meets the blinded Gloucester in a field near Dover:

GLOUCESTER: O, let me kiss that hand.

LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. . . .

[Snip]

What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears. See how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark in thine ear: change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar?

GLOUCESTER: Ay, sir. 

LEAR: And the creature run from the cur. There thou mightst behold the great image of authority—a dog's obeyed in office.
Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! . . .
Through tattered clothes small vices do appear;
Robes and furred gowns hide all.

This section is preceded by Lear's famous self-description, 

Ay, every inch a king

which is intended by him as self-mockery, though Shakespeare intends an irony, since the speaker has  through deprivation achieved moral kingship. The nihilism and savagery is mixed together with something like redemptive suffering. The world is so wicked that it's dangerous to be good, and the upshot is Edgar and Kent, instead of giving up, put on disguises and persist in being good. They're almost the only ones still alive at the end. 

The tendency among almost all readers must be to resolve the contraries in favor of one or the other contender. The third option, which according to the poet Keats would comport with Shakespeare's own habitual caste of mind, requires there be no resolution and that the contraries be held in the mind in a kind of equilibrium. My last thought about this is that, as has also been frequently observed, King Lear seems less than almost any other Shakespearean play made for the stage. The "pitiless" storm in Act III is really a metaphor for disorder and in the theatre it cannot be as impressive as it might be in the mind of an imaginative reader. You could in the theatre pump up the volume and the special effects and the result would be that the audience is made aware of your effort. It seems that the theatrical storm has to be artificial and therefore makes a poor analog for what it poetically represents in the play. So I think the reader could strive to attain Keats's lofty solution; in the theatre, a director has to make choices. Between the storm and the scene with Gloucester and Lear, the disguised Edgar leads his father to Dover, where, as Edgar knows, Gloucester means to commit suicide by leaping from a cliff. In a scene that's a little hard to imagine when reading, Edgar leads his blind father to what he says is the cliff's edge. It's really just flat land in a field. Gloucester then "leaps," which, given the actual circumstances, can mean only that he pitches forward six feet in the field. Of course he isn't dead. Edgar, now pretending to be a passerby at the bottom of the cliff, tells his swooning father that he has survived a long drop and "Your life's a miracle." The orthodox way of playing this emphasizes Edgar's devotion to his scarred, blind, helpless, desperate father whose life, notwithstanding his attempt to end it, is "a miracle." But the critic Jan Kott, who is very much of the savagery and nihilism interpretive school, argues that the scene should be played like a grotesque pantomime. The theatre audience must comprehend that Gloucester's life is not a miracle. He fell on his face in a field. Another bit of pitiless cruelty. 

______________

*Lionel Trilling in Prefaces to the Experience of Literature.

Shakespeare in a time of coronavirus

Social distancing? Self-quarantine? I've been practicing for this for years. All the fun, convivial people are freaking out as my eye scans, lasciviously, the bookcase. Finally, alone with you guys. School's not out till almost 4. 

But then, before the fun can begin, school cancelled indefinitely and I'm called back to the world: for example, IT support for online learning assignments, just the kind of work English majors can expect to get. The coronavirus giveth, and the coronavirus taketh away. 

Rosanne Cash, also standing at the intersection of books and pestilence, tweeted:

Just a reminder that when Shakespeare was quarantined because of the plague, he wrote King Lear.

— rosanne cash (@rosannecash) March 14, 2020

Well over a quarter million likes and more than 50,000 retweets. I got tired of scrolling through 3,000 comments to see whether anyone questioned her source. Here is Frank Kermode in The Riverside Shakespeare:

King Lear was entered in the Stationers' Register on November 26, 1607, and the entry mentions that it was performed "uppon S. Stephens night at Christmas last,"  that is, December 26, 1606. The lower limit is March 1603, when Samuel Harsnett published his Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostures, a work from which Shakespeare took the names of Edgar's devils, and which he also remembered at some other points [in the play].

And there follows more learned discussion, narrowing the date of composition to 1604, possibly leaking into 1605. We don't know much about Shakespeare's daily habits, but there would have been no reason for him to be quarantined in 1604. The previous year, 1603, had been a bad one, 30,000 dead of plague in London, but it was not enough for the theatres to close, as they had for the seasons of 1592 and 1593, to which years belong Shakespeare's long narrative poems, Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece. But who wants to say we owe those almost unknown poems to Shakespeare having been under quarantine? No one reads them except scholars, and scholars only read them because Shakespeare wrote them. Shakespeare's grocery lists would probably be the subject of PhD dissertations if they were extant, but they aren't. 

I love Rosanne Cash, and it's sort of a romantic notion to think of Shakespeare writing a play about the end of the world during a pestilence—maybe that's why she thinks it happened that way, but it didn't. He didn't need to be under quarantine to get things done. Besides writing plays, he acted in them, was a shareholder in the acting company that performed his works (as well as the works of others), and owned a 10% interest in the theatre in which these works were performed. Actor, playwright,  businessman, litigant—for, on at least two occasions, he sued people who (he claimed) owed him relatively small sums of money. A real multitasker but, I'm afraid, a disappointment to people with gushing feelings about how artistic geniuses likely live. Of all the penetrating commentary included in The Riverside Shakespeare, the one sentence that sticks in my mind, from Harry Levin's General Introduction, is: "The figure of Shakespeare as a practical man of affairs, though well attested by the evidence, seemed rather too modest to occupy the lofty pedestal reared by the Bardolaters." 

But, followers of Rosanne Cash, by all means, write more great songs while you're social distancing. I hope your kids don't distract you. Shakespeare's, by the way, were almost certainly a hundred miles away with their mother in Stratford-on-Avon when, toward the end of Lear, with chaos and dissolution encroaching, their dad made the old king say to his loving daughter:

              . . . Come, let's away to prison.
We two alone will sing like birds i' th' 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 walled prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by th' moon.

Droppings

1. Someone needs to tell Mayor Pete that the shirt-and-tie-without-a-jacket look has been ruined forever by Jim Jordan. You wouldn't think a gay guy would need a fashion tip from me, but then, I am stuck in a monolingual state. Maybe he was studying while I watched Queer Eye.

2. In Shakespeare's tragedies about good loving gone bad, the force of the tragedy is diminished somewhat by the slender basis for said love. Romeo is just a dopey teenager caught on the rebound. "You woo by the book," complains Juliet, who isn't as stupid as her wooer. She means that Romeo's lines, displaced in time, sound lifted from mediocre rom-coms, and she's right. As for Othello, here's how he describes the provenance of his marriage to Desdemona:

She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them.

Who could have guessed that they'd come to grief? As Desdemona's father would tell you, marriages might succeed more frequently if arranged by parents, over the objections of the principals.

3. What do you know, a shooting this morning at a church in Texas. Bloody Mary bars, people—assuming they have them in Texas and they're deemed safe to be open on Sunday, as gun shops presumably are.

4. I wonder whether the Buckeye football coach suffers from innumeracy. Five minutes into the fourth quarter, it makes little sense to take a 2-point lead by kicking an extra point.

5. If Trump's closest advisors would under oath refute the Democrats' theory of the case, he wouldn't be blocking them from testifying. Duh!

O O O O that Shakespeherian rag

The place of A.C. Bradley in the history of Shakespeare criticism may be judged by the following lines from the pen of some forgotten wag of the 1920s, which places it a couple of decades after the publication of Shakespearean Tragedy and a decade before Bradley's death, in 1935:

I dreamt last night that Shakespeare's Ghost
Sat for a civil service post.
The English paper for that year
Had several questions on King Lear--
Which Shakespeare answered very badly,
Because he hadn't read his Bradley.

The most interesting droppings from the Wikipedia entry for Bradley concern how he was the youngest of 21 [sic] children born to the preacher Charles Bradley and his second wife, a circumstance that may account for Bradley never marrying and living for much of his adult life with one of his many sisters: I imagine each of them, at some point in their young lives, separately considering the crowded conditions in the parsonage and concluding that there must be a better way to live.  

Shakespearean Tragedy is largely a commentary on Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth, which are taken up in turn and in the order of probable composition.  For the general reader, the attraction is accessibility.  Over and over again, you read something and think it's exactly right and would have occurred to you, too, if only you were as smart and careful a reader as Bradley.  For example:

Imagine Goneril uttering the famous words [of Lady Macbeth, explaining why she had not herself killed Duncan], Had he not resembled/My father as he slept, I had done 't.  They are spoken, I think, without any sentiment--impatiently, as though she regretted her weakness: but it was there.

I wonder whether Bradley's choice of plays to discuss elevated them above the others (so strong has been his influence), or whether he chose them because they were already regarded as preeminent.  It does seem that Hamlet, the first of them, likely written in 1600, the year Shakespeare turned 36, represents a new phase: it's about half again as long as any of its approximately twenty predecessors in the drama and contains more than 600 words that Shakespeare had not till then deployed in any play or poem.  He also for the first time abandons plot plausibility in order to create swirling effects of psychological disturbance, despair, savagery, and nihilism--effects that carry through in Othello (1603?), King Lear (1605?), and Macbeth (1606?).  The implications for Shakespeare's biography are intriguing but Bradley's focus is on these four plays, especially the characters.  One learns to keep one's guard up and not be knocked out by famous, soaring passages that are frequently turned in some way by a terse and regrettably forgotten reply.  

Macbeth:
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

Doctor:
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.

And from The Tempest:

Miranda:
O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in 't!

Prospero:
'Tis new to thee.

Much ado about Shakespeare

Discussing the options at Southwest High's "summer enrichment" program at the supper table, our 11-year-old made it pretty clear that "Much Ado About Shakespeare" is not for her.  She went so far as to suggest that Shakespeare is for "loser dweebs" like her loser dweeb stepdad.  I have to admit, the peppy course description, emphasizing how kids only THINK Shakespeare is boring, protested way too much.  Also, I've recently reread Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, and, even putting aside language difficulties, the plays are disorienting. 

I mean mainly that the plots don't make very much sense.  The whole set-up to King Lear seems implausible.  Why does the king insist that his daughters flatter him?  Considering that he does, why won't Cordelia play along?  It's preposterous.  In Macbeth, the two principals seem to trade characters off stage, between scenes.  First, he's cracking under the stress while she tries to prop him up; then, next time she's on stage, it's her mind that's diseased and he's putting on his armor.

Hamlet is the most perplexing.  It's been pointed out that, in the old play from which Shakespeare took the story, Hamlet is a mere boy, the king knows he knows, and the boy feigns madness in order not to be immediately killed.  Shakespeare's changes remove the motivation for the main character to pretend to be crazy, yet his main character pretends to be crazy, too.  It's a strategy without an objective.

Maybe the easiest true thing to say about this is that plots and plausibility don't help create in the theatre a whirling nightmare of an experience.  If it makes sense, it won't seem disturbing enough.  I don't think these plays are boring but I can see why normal young people wouldn't care for them.

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare was christened on April 26, 1564--the year of Michelangelo's death, and Calvin's--at the Church of the Holy Trinity, in Stratford-on-Avon, a small market town in Warwickshire, about 100 miles northwest of London.  He was the eldest child of six (to survive infancy)--four boys, two girls--born to John Shakespeare, a leatherworker, and Mary Arden, the daughter of a prosperous landowner.

John Shakespeare was active in town politics and in 1568 was elected bailiff, what we now call mayor, which would have permitted William to attend the local grammar school free of charge.  The curriculum stressed rhetoric, Christian ethics, and classical literature; it seems a virtual certainty that Shakespeare, who did not attend university, acquired the formal part of his education at this school.  The documentary record loses track of him, however, between his birth and the marriage license that was obtained on November 27, 1582.  His wife, the former Anne Hathaway, was 26, eight years his senior. Their first child, Susanna, was born six months later.  There has been much speculation about Anne, to whom 34 years later Shakespeare bequeathed his "second best bed," and the details of their marriage in general--whether, for example, it was a "shotgun wedding."  It's evident that during the twenty years or so that Shakespeare spent mainly in London, acting and pursuing business interests related to the theatre and composing 38 dramas, a dozen or so being widely regarded as among the very greatest works of the world's literature, they lived apart, she remaining at Stratford-on-Avon, where twins Hamnet and Judith were born in 1585.  The biographical record being too scanty to satisfy curiosity on this point and others, his literary output has naturally been mined for clues, and some have found significance in the passage in The Winter's Tale wherein a shepherd laments that from the ages of 16 to 23 young men do nothing "but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting." 

After the birth of the twins, Shakespeare again drops from sight until, in 1592, he is attacked in a pamphlet by the writer Robert Greene, a university-educated playwright who appears to have taken offense at the way in which a lowly actor was now establishing himself as a dramatist.  So between 1585 and 1592 Shakespeare had moved to London and acquired enough of a reputation in the theatre to have aroused a fellow practitioner's envy.  He also seems to have had defenders, for the publisher of the pamphlet soon issued a written apology in which some personal traits of the young dramatist are mentioned:

I am as sory as if the originall fault had beene my fault, because my selfe haue seene his demeanor no lesse ciuill than he excelent in the qualitie he  professes: Besides, diuers of worship haue reported his vprightnes of dealing, which argues his  honesty, and his facetious grace in writting, that approoues his Art.

From now on the broad outlines, if not the details of daily living, are chronicled in theatre records, property deeds, business documents, court records, and the like.  The picture that  emerges is of a practical man of affairs, extremely busy in his work life, where he excelled and prospered.  It has not escaped notice that on a couple of occasions he used the courts to enforce the payment of relatively small debts.  In 1597, he purchased, for sixty pounds, the second most valuable residence in Stratford-on-Avon.  Had he died  in the same year, he would have lived three years longer than did Marlowe, the second greatest dramatist of the period, and it is possible the two would be regarded similarly.  But starting right around 1600, the year in which Hamlet was likely composed, Shakespeare's work turned.  To the next six or seven years belong the tragedies of Othello, Lear, Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra.  For those inclined to read Shakespeare's autobiography in his plays, Hamlet seems a break through.  It is longer by half than anything before it, a linguistic analysis reveals more than 600 words that had not been deployed in more than twenty earlier plays (and two long poems), and plausibility is sacrificed in order to achieve disturbing effects--for example, the "antic disposition" adopted by the hero makes perfect sense in Shakespeare's source but not in the play that he wrote, where it is nevertheless preserved.  The audience, wondering whether Hamlet will indeed take revenge for the murder of his father, is confronted with unexpected soliloquoys in which the topic of suicide is at the fore.  One critic has remarked that, of all Shakespeare's characters, only Hamlet could have written his plays.  Many have sensed or supposed that Hamlet is the character closest to Shakespeare the man.

One approach to all such speculation is to dismiss it as overwrought and purely conjectural.  Those otherwise inclined will note that Shakespeare's son Hamnet was buried in 1596, his father in 1601.  The critic Edward Dowden identified four periods to Shakespeare's career and labeled them "In the workshop," "In the world," "Out of the depths," and "On the heights."  This seemed to indicate that autobiography was the principal force exerting itself on this "practical man of affairs" and has been dismissed as too pat.  Yet it is true that there is much gaiety in the plays composed before 1600, that his work for most of the next decade was characterized by savagery and nihilism, which then modulated into something like serene acceptance in such late works as The Winter's Tale and The Tempest. He retired and returned to Stratford-on-Avon in about 1612.  He made a will in March of 1616 and died on the 23rd of the following month, almost exactly 52 years after his birth.  The recurring word in the testimony of contemporary acquaintances is "gentle," which then was more closely related to gentilesse than it is today.  "The best verbal vignette," according to Alfred Harbage, "was written by his rival Ben Jonson, the more impressive for being imbedded in a context mainly critical":

. . . . I loved the man, and doe honour his memory (on this side idolatry) as much as any. Hee was indeed  honest, and of an open and free nature: had an excellent Phantsie, brave notions, and gentle expressions. . . .

Bear free and patient thoughts

King Lear: the commentary, if it does not swoon over Lear's "redemptive suffering," discovers a statement of bottomless nihilism.  It won't decide the question but, in the sources from which Shakespeare drew the story, Cordelia lives happily ever after.  One of the very many very memorable speeches in the play that Shakespeare wrote concerns Lear's conception of how he and she would spend their time if this happy ending were permitted:    

                        Come, let's away to prison.
We two alone will sing like birds i' th' 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 walled prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by th' moon.

The reader may make out, amidst the horrendous suffering, some advice, something to put up against the horrors that are pitilessly depicted.  Renounce the world.  Be patient.  "Bear free and patient thoughts," is how Edgar puts it, to his father, who wants to kill himself.  Maybe it doesn't seem like much.  His father, after all, has had both eyes plucked out--"One side will mock another. Th' other too."--in a scene so brutal that it caused one famous critic, Lionel Trilling, to observe that questions about its propriety as art have been raised by critics who otherwise are unwilling to admit that Shakepeare ever went wrong.

A stray word on Othello

Othello, holder of the lowest profile among the famous four (being the four taken up by A.C. Bradley in Shakespearean Tragedy), has been my recent coffee-shop companion.  Iago has gotten a lot of attention in his 400 years.   Coleridge spoke of his "motiveless malignity," and more than 150 years later Joan Didion began Play It As It Lays:

What makes Iago evil? some people ask.  I never ask.

This most famous of villains has been for so long the object of earnest inquiry that to dismiss his riddle, or deny that there even is one, suggests something has gone awry in the dismisser.  But what about Othello himself?  He's usually played as some deep-throated magnificence--"Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them"--whose tragic fall elicits horror but respect.  Not sure I see it.  "She loved me for the dangers I had passed," he says, explaining his history with Desdemona, "[a]nd I loved her that she did pity them."  The Duke's response--"I think this tale would win my daughter too"--reinforces one's sense of a certain conventional hollowness.  Iago is always given credit for being an evil genius but, really, how hard is it to gull Othello? 

IAGO
. . . . There are a kind of men so loose of soul
That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs.
One of this kind is Cassio.
In sleep I heard him say, 'Sweet Desdemona,
Let us be wary, let us hide our loves!'
And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand,
Cry 'O sweet creature!' and then kiss me hard,
As if he plucked up kisses by the roots
That grew upon my lips; then laid his leg
Over my thigh, and sighed, and kissed, and then
Cried 'Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!'

OTHELLO
O monstrous! monstrous!

Is it crazy to be less impressed by the diabolical cleverness of Iago than by the--shall we say--lack of a certain adult shrewdness in Othello?  As the action winds down Emilia berates Othello, "O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt!"--and who can disagree?  The whole play may be done as a low farce. 

Farcical, but brutal: as usual, the stage is strewn with corpses.

Hamlet talks with the king

You've heard of the nice lady who loved Hamlet because it has so many famous sayings.  I've been re-reading it and came today to a passage that the nice lady may have forgotten about.  It's in the third scene of the fourth act.  Hamlet, having killed Polonius, is called before the king, who asks, a little plaintively, "Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius?"  Hamlet answers, "At supper."  That Hamlet!  He doesn't mean that Polonius is eating supper.  It's the worms who are eating.  The king really wants to know where the body is but Hamlet riffs on how a beggar may fish with a worm that has supped upon a king, in which case royalty is obliged to make its way through the beggar's digestive tract.

It's not all famous soliloquies, "To be or not to be" perfectly enunciated and accompanied by graceful gestures.  Speaking of that, however: what exactly is going on?  Hamlet's problem is whether or not to believe the ghost, whether or not to take revenge upon the new king, his uncle, right?  But then, pretty much without warning, he assumes a position alone on the stage and declares that the question is not why he doesn't kill his uncle but why he doesn't kill himself.  He's got death on his mind.  It's possible he wasn't altogether healthy back in the days before the play began and his dad the king was taking those daily constitutionals in the orchard.

I King Henry IV

I'm coming to the conclusion of I King Henry IV and my reaction, which I think is in line with that of millions of others over the past 400+ years, is: less royal court, more Falstaff, please.  Indeed, scholars have speculated that II King Henry IV is an (initially) unplanned sequel intended to take advantage of the public's fondness for the boozy wheezing fatso who, in the first scene of Act V, provides this memorable summary of his personal "catechism" (in the context of preparation for battle, he has just been informed by the Prince of Wales that "he owes God a death"):

'Tis  not due yet: I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me?  Well, 'tis  no matter; honor pricks me on.  Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honor? A word. What is that word honor? Air--a trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. 'Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon--and so ends my catechism.

The officially-approved, Cliffs-notes interpretation is that the play depicts different character types and that Falstaff is a foil to the impulsive Hotspur, who is so hot for glory.  The one is too much this way, the other too much the other way, and what is recommended is for the humors to be mixed as, at the end, they are in the reformed Prince Hal. Very tidy.  If that was the intention, it seems to me that Shakespeare confounded himself, somewhat in the manner of Dostoevski making Ivan Karamazov's brief against God so convincing that it's the main thing readers remember about his last novel.  Who remembers Hotspur?  The official history concerning the king and the rebels, their conventional reckonings and assumptions--all obliterated by Falstaff's subversive intelligence.  Where will honor get you?  Into a casket.  Who has it?  "He that died a Wednesday" (while Falstaff was drinking and whoring, which pastimes he pursued again on Thursday).

Charged with raising a force through conscription, Falstaff accepts cash payoffs from anyone of means, so that his "soldiers" are a rag-a-tag collection of ne'er-do-wells.  Prince Hal, well along the road to reformation now, enters with Westmoreland to review the troops, which is the occasion for this exchange:

PRINCE  . . . . But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?

FALSTAFF  Mine, Hal, mine.

PRINCE  I did never see such pitiful rascals.

FALSTAFF  Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder.  They'll fill a pit as well as better.  Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

My paperback Pelican Shakespeare helpfully glosses, "toss i.e. on a pike."   

Shakespeare in his sonnets

A passage from Francis Meres's Palladis Tamia, Wits Treasury, published in 1598, refers to "honey-tongued Shakespeare, witnes his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his priuate friends, &c."  The passage has persuaded scholarship that most if not all of Shakespeare's known 150 or so sonnets were in existence by the latter part of the 1590s, which would mean they were composed when he was by a few years either side of 30.  They are uneven in quality and remind us that Shakespeare, who died within a few days of his 52nd birthday, was something of a late bloomer: had he been dead at 30, as was his contemporary Christopher Marlowe, literary history would likely regard the two as approximate coequals.  Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth all belong to a 5- or 6-year period coinciding roughly with the second half of his fourth decade of life.

Since he is perhaps the leading cultural icon of western civilization, and knowledge of his biography is mainly limited to documents as colorless as church records and real estate conveyances, there has naturally been a lot of interest in anything that might inform us about his private life.  The sonnets have been in this regard a fertile and possibly over-farmed field.  It's possible to detect two groups of poems: those numbered 1 to 126 concern a young man, the poet's admired friend and social superior, who is encouraged to marry and have children--though it is not always apparent that the subject is the same man, or even a man.  Several of these poems allude to a rival poet who also praises the friend. The remaining 25 or so sonnets concern the famous "dark lady" and an unusual love triangle.  The dark lady--the ideal Elizabethan beauty was a blonde ("snowy breasts" being a cliched term of praise)--is beautiful, promiscuous, and, to the poet, irresistible, though she also arouses in him feelings of disgust with himself. In #144 ("Two loves I have, of comfort and despair"), the dark lady has seduced the trusted friend, and the poet's reaction is not anger over the double betrayal but concern for the welfare of the friend.  The poem, like many of those involving the dark lady, is overtly sexual: in #144, for instance, it is not hard to tell what the poet means when he imagines "one angel in another's hell" (the trusted friend penetrating the dark lady), the proof arriving in the well known symptom of a venereal infection ("Till my bad angel fire my good one out").

The temptation has been to regard these poems as veiled or even coded autobiography, and the reaction to the speculating succumbers to temptation has been to declare all such inquiries irrelevant.  If the author of Macbeth was not himself a mass murderer, then the sonnets, too, are an exercise of imaginative projection.  Hallet Smith, in his introduction to the sonnets in The Riverside Shakespeare, concludes that agnosticism is the responsible position on this question.  Perhaps, but what of our fun?  If only murderers could write of murder, then the literature of murder would be slight; the situation may however be different with love triangles. There is a sense in which the sonnets often seem quite personal--when the poet, for example, more than once puns on his first name. Last gossipy comment: when Shakespeare was 18, he married a woman 26; they had three children, a boy and two girls, but seem to have lived apart, Shakespeare of course in the theatrical world of London and his wife back at Stratford, through the better part of two decades; and Shakespeare, in his will, famously left to her his "second best bed."  It requires a quality of mind akin to negative capability to remain agnostic about the possible meaning of these details without flying to wild conclusions about how they may fit together with the sketchy "story" told by the sonnets.

I said that the sonnets are uneven.  Shakespeare is Shakespeare, but it has to be said that more than half are tangled, boring webs that would never be read if he hadn't written them.  One can find fault even with some that are justly famous.  Of #29, for instance, it seems fair to ask how, if the mere memory of his love elevates him from despair to "heaven's gate," he could nevertheless avoid thinking of her (or him) long enough to get so despondent in the first place.  Keats complained of the "pouncing rhymes," and indeed the concluding couplet lends itself to chimingly cheap endings.  Shakespeare rarely appears to have labored to avoid this pitfall--besides #29, see #12, #30, #60, and #130, all of which conclude gimpily after memorable starts.  I think the best of the lot are #71, #73, #116, and #138, though others will have favorites that I have maybe slandered.  We could still agree that his best sonnets are among the very best short poems in the language.

Discussions of Shakespeare's sonnets, if they take up The Autobiographical Question, invariably relate the anecdote of Wordsworth's remark that Shakespeare, in his sonnets, "unlocked his heart"--to which Browning retorted, "Then the less Shakespeare he."  I take Browning to be saying there's bigger game in the Shakespearean forest.  If you are interested in his biography, and have clicked through the links above, you will have noticed that what the sonnets are more than anything else about is: impermanence, the levelling power of time, the transience of life.  A characteristic emotion, and phrase, concerns "precious friends hid in death's dateless night."  The author of these poems is the author of Macbeth, whose hero denigrated life by comparing it to "a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more."  For all the infinite variety, the theme goes right through the center of his work.  Toward the end of The Tempest, the late play often called "Shakespeare's last word," Prospero expresses it one last time:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors
(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-clapp'd tow'rs, 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 a sleep.

In re the Shakespeare controversy

At Salon, Laura Miller has a review of Anonymous, the new movie concerning how Shakespeare's plays were written by Christopher Marlowe.  Marlowe seems an odd choice.  He was dead at 29, in 1593, by which time he had written the plays--The Jew of Malta, Dr Faustus, Edward the Second, Tamburlaine--on which his reputation as the second greatest Elizabethan playwright rest.  His biography is busy.  John Berryman's essay on him begins by observing that Marlowe was

a professional secret agent, a notorious unbeliever, a manifest homosexual, cruel, quarrelsome, and perhaps murderous, his habitual associates scoundrels and traitors. . . . Let us take both the atheism and the homosexuality seriously, because Marlowe did: he was missionary about both and he could have been burned for either. . . .

If to this busy lifestyle we add the authorship of some thirty plays, including Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra, and The Tempest, it begins to appear that Marlowe's ten or so years of adult life must have been unmarred by the stomach flu. 

But of the suggested alternative authors for the plays of William Shakespeare, Marlowe is not unusually implausible.  Here is Harry Levin on the subject:

The figure of Shakespeare as a practical man of affairs, though well attested by the evidence, seemed rather too modest to occupy the lofty pedastel reared by the Bardolaters.  Hence the strange proliferation of irresponsible theories proposing rival candidates for the authorship of Shakespeare's work, most of them titled and all of them colorful but none of them circumstanced to have done the job--as William Shakespeare indubitably was.

In general, theories of great intricacy, with many moving parts and involving elaborate conspiracies concocted in the pursuit of vague ends, may be dismissed as the play things of hobbyists.  There is a simple theory that explains a lot.  Shakespeare wrote the plays that have, since he lived and died, been attributed to him.  Ben Jonson and the editors of the First Folio edition were contemporary admirers, not co-conspirators in an extravagant fraud.  It's natural to be curious about the man who wrote these great plays, and frustrating that more isn't known.  But it's better to have his works than his biography.

UPDATE: I breezed over Miller's review too quickly.  Her first paragraph refers to Much Ado About Something, a 2003 documentary that does make the case for Christopher Marlowe being the author of Shakespeare's plays.  Anonymous, however, advances the notion that the actual author is Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, who, unlike Marlowe, had a title and no known literary ability.  He died in 1604, ten years after Marlowe (that helps), but before several of Shakespeare's greatest works were first performed (that's a problem).  As Levin writes, it's a "strange proliferation."

Who wrote Shakespeare's plays?

Shakespeare did.  A recent article in the local daily suggests that the conspiracy theorists are gaining ground, but read closely.  The idea is that Shakespeare, a provincial yokel who never attended university or traveled outside of England, could not be the author of some thirty plays that do not so much depict the world as reproduce it on the page and stage in all its many colors.  Writing is confessional; you have to have lived it to describe it; and the Earl of Oxford, not Shakespeare, has the needed biography.

But the Earl of Oxford died in 1604.  Around ten of the plays were written after that.  In a more fundamental way, the Earl of Oxford could not have lived them, or written them.  William Shakespeare did.

The article names some of the Earl of Oxford's champions: a few actors, a newspaper guy, three justices of the Supreme Court.  Call me an elitist, but why are there no literary scholars among them?  Here is Harry Levin, writing about 35 years ago in his General Introduction to The Riverside Shakespeare:

The figure of Shakespeare as a practical man of affairs, although well attested by the evidence, seemed rather too modest to occupy the lofty pedastel erected by the Bardolaters.  Hence the strange proliferation of irresponsible theories proposing rival candidates for the authorship of Shakespeare's work, most of them titled and all of them colorful but none of them circumstanced to  have done the job--as William Shakespeare indubitably was.

Still true, and the proliferations continue apace.

The principle of Occam's razor--simple explanations are to be preferred to more complicated ones--recommends we conclude that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare's plays.  The alternative view requires too much intrigue, too many conspirators.  The reason the editors of the First Folio attributed the plays to their friend and contemporary, William Shakespeare, is that he really did write them.  Ben Jonson's famous poetic tribute was just that, a poetic tribute to the author, not an exercise in advancing a very intricate web of intrigue and deceit.

A demurring opinion on Macbeth

Last night Amanda and I saw with friends a preview performance of the Guthrie Theatre's new production of Macbeth. I consequently spent my spare moments last week re-reading the play and some of the critical commentary to it that is available to me here at home.  There is one recurring note in the commentary that I just cannot see.  Here, for example, is Mark Van Doren in his Shakespeare:

Shakespeare again has enclosed his evil within a universe of good, his storm center within wide areas of peace. . . . Malcolm speaks the language of the play, but he has recovered its lost idiom. Blood will cease to flow, movement will recommence, fear will be forgotten, sleep will season every life, and the seeds of time will blossom in due order.

And Frank Kermode, in his introduction to Macbeth in The Riverside Shakespeare:

The suffering of the Macbeths may be thought of as caused by the pressure of the world slowly assuming its true shape and crushing them.  This is the work of time; as usual in Shakespeare, evil, however great, burns itself out, and time is the servant of providence. Nowhere is this clearer than in Macbeth.

Is it really that clear? There are some loose ends, and one of them concerns Banquo's son Fleance, who escaped the murderers who bludgeon his father to death outside Macbeth's castle right before the banquet.  Banquou's dying speech--"O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!/Thou mayst revenge--O slave!"--is interrupted at the line break by the stage direction, "Exit Fleance."  And he (Fleance) is not seen or heard from again.  Yet the weird sisters appear to have prophesied that he would be king: "Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none," they inform Banquo, in I.iii, after predicting Macbeth's ascent to the throne.  It was on account of that prophecy that Macbeth gave the murderers particular instructions to dispatch Fleance as well as Banquo, and when they report back after the ambush that Fleance escaped, Macbeth says in an aside, "Then comes my fit again. I had else been perfect."

The play ends with the impending coronation of Malcolm, the murdered Duncan's rightful heir.  But I cannot take it as a restoration of order that proves evil has burnt itself out--not with Fleance unaccounted for.  Malcolm should not sleep too soundly.  Fleance is to be king.

Myriad-minded

My wife and I saw a performance of The Merchant of Venice at the new Guthrie here in Minneapolis last weekend.  The production has been the subject of some spirited commentary, in local newspaper editorials and letters to the editor, about the character of Shylock and the question of anti-Semitism.  A rabbi stops short of calling Shakespeare, perhaps the iconic cultural icon, a bigot, but asks rhetorically what the purpose of staging the play could be.  Another theatre-goer answers that the real villains of the play are the hypocritical Christians who, not content to deny the Jew his just suit, torture and humiliate him soon as they gain the upper hand.

The opinions are strong and diverse and I disagree with all of them.  Or maybe it is that I agree with them all only in part.  To claim that Shylock is a victim of the Christian hypocrites, not a vicious caricature of a greedy scheming Jew, requires an ability to close one's eyes and ears for long periods, only to open them again at convenient moments.  Which is a way of allowing that there are such moments, the most famous being the lines in which Shylock asks whether a Jew does not bleed when pricked, laugh when tickled, die when poisoned.   More to the point about the Christian hypocrites, Shylock in the trial scene asserts:

What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchased slave,
Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them. Shall I say to you,
"Let them be free, marry them to your heirs!
Why sweat they under burdens? Let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be seasoned with such viands"? You will answer,
"The slaves are ours." So do I answer you.

Perhaps it is that the newspaper prints letters that are all on one side or the other and that Shakespeare is at all times on all sides--thus the phrases, invented by his best critics, such as "negative capability," "myriad-minded," "simultaneousness," all these nicely summarized by Arthur Eastman, in A Short HIstory of Shakespearean Criticism, as "the power to forego the gains derived from a particular vantage point in the interests of an inclusive view."  Shakespeare is more elusive than the letter-writers.

Yet I cannot myself help trying to catch hold of Shakespeare the man.  Little of his biography is known but we do know that, as a mature and prosperous man of the theatre, he more than once used the courts to compel payment of rather small debts.  Stephen Greenblatt, in Will and the World, writes:

For whatever the reason, Shakespeare seems to have treated money--his money, at least--with considerable seriousness.  No one refers to him as a skinflint, but he did not like to waste his substance, and he was clearly determined not to be an easy mark for anyone. In 1604 he was storing more malt in his barn in Stratford than he (or, more to the point, his wife) needed for domestic consumption.  He sold twenty bushels of it to a neighboring apothecary, Philip Rogers, who had a sideline brewing ale.  Rogers's debt, including another two shillings he borrowed from Shakespeare, amounted to a little over two pounds.  When the debtor returned only six shillings, Shakespeare hired a lawyer and took his neighbor to court to recover the remaining thirty-five shillings tenpence and damages.  Thirty-five shillings ten pence was not a trivial sum at the time, but neither was it a king's ransom.  It took energy to pursue the matter, just as it took energy a few years later when Shakespeare once again went to court to recover the six pounds, plus damages, that he said was owed to him by John Addenbrooke.

If "nothing human was alien to him" it might follow that his villains, too, partook of aspects of his character.