Wow. I have just experienced one of the most disturbingly grotesque sentences in my literary lifetime, detailing a father(Aureliano) looking over his garden while searching for his newborn son: “ …he admired the persistence of the spiderwebs on the dead rose bushes, the perseverance of the rye grass, the patience of the air in the radiant February dawn. And then he saw the child. It was a dry and bloated bag of skin that all the ants in the world were dragging toward their holes along the stone path in the garden” (445). The mental image of a dead newborn baby being dragged by ants into their holes stuck with me throughout the rest of the book, leading me to gloss over the last several pages. Long after I put the book down, still sitting on my sofa, a chill ran down my spine to my feet, then back up again to my stomach. But somehow, I wasn’t exactly surprised.
Such is the power of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. His imagery goes from beautiful to utterly horrific in the width of a period; his writing reflects the sudden, awful aspects of his characters’ lives. For instance, the happy promise found in the arrival of Colonel Aureliano Buendia’s seventeen sons is sharply contrasted with the eventual murder of all of them. The exhilaration of the workers’ strike is followed by the horrendous massacre of thousands of the same workers and their families. The gorgeous Remedios the Beauty, whose very presence horribly kills her suitors. In my opinion, the most horribly cruel event in the novel was the shooting and subsequent paralysis of Mauricio Babilonia, Meme’s lover, who is “mistaken” for a chicken thief: “He died of old age in solitude, without a moan, without a protest, without a single moment of betrayal, tormented by memories and by the yellow butterflies, who did not give him a moment’s peace, and ostracized as a chicken thief” (313). The novel merely cycles the same effective plot device: a good episode, shortly followed by a disastrous event that eclipses the previous good episode and must be followed by another good incident. In this way, reading the novel becomes reminiscent of drowning in a depressing, melancholic ocean that is occasionally interrupted by a frantic gasp for redeeming air. Just when the reader thinks that the novel couldn’t be any darker, a someone else suddenly dies. It is a relentless, harsh novel detailing the rises and falls of one extremely unlucky family.
In making his novel an unending deluge of misfortune and sorrow, Marquez achieves several remarkable effects on the reader. For one, he made me glad that I’m not a Buendia. Secondly, in dehumanizing us through such unremitting catastrophe and really weird, incestual relations(!), Marquez shows us just how lucky we are, and even made this reader grateful for all that has not befallen him. And by the end of the novel, this makes us even more human: call it a humble pie made up of death, insanity, and a big slice of sexual perversion. (514)
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Seeing as how I will be in Bowdoin and Cornell all weekend visiting the campuses with no access to a computer, and the fact that I haven’t read enough more of my book to constitute another blog entry, I figured I would just post some Jstor articles I found that might be useful. I’ll write the blog when I return and have read more.
Thanks!
· Review: Gabriel Garcia Marquez & the Lost Art of Storytelling
· Ricardo Gullon
· Diacritics, Vol. 1, No. 1 (Autumn, 1971), pp. 27-32
· Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
· The Necessity of the Literary Tradition: Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "One-Hundred Years of Solitude"
· James C. Jupp
· The English Journal, Vol. 89, No. 3, Our History, Ourselves (Jan., 2000), pp. 113-115
· Published by: National Council of Teachers of English
· Play and Playfulness in Garcia Marquez' "One Hundred Years of Solitude"
· Enrique A. Giordano
· Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature, Vol. 42, No. 4 (1988), pp. 217-229
· Published by: Rocky Mountain Modern Language Association
Thanks!
· Review: Gabriel Garcia Marquez & the Lost Art of Storytelling
· Ricardo Gullon
· Diacritics, Vol. 1, No. 1 (Autumn, 1971), pp. 27-32
· Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
· The Necessity of the Literary Tradition: Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "One-Hundred Years of Solitude"
· James C. Jupp
· The English Journal, Vol. 89, No. 3, Our History, Ourselves (Jan., 2000), pp. 113-115
· Published by: National Council of Teachers of English
· Play and Playfulness in Garcia Marquez' "One Hundred Years of Solitude"
· Enrique A. Giordano
· Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature, Vol. 42, No. 4 (1988), pp. 217-229
· Published by: Rocky Mountain Modern Language Association
Bill is Too Harsh With Us
“The World is Too Much With Us”, by the English Romantic poet William Wordsworth, deals with man’s self-absorption and resulting disregard of nature in the early nineteenth century. The poem reads much like a pastor preaching from his pulpit; there is very little humility in the way Wordsworth scolds the reader for turning his or her back on Mother Nature’s gifts. Using both a threatening and frustrated tone along with a smattering of vivid imagery and metaphors, Wordsworth tries to warn his audience of an imminent threat before it becomes too late for mankind to redeem itself.
The first four lines of the sonnet address Wordsworth’s critical point: that the world is “too much with us”; in other words, that we dwell too much on our “material world”. In saying this, Wordsworth is not just talking about the material-capitalistic aspect of our lives. He is also referring to the rapid modernization and urbanization of his time. In doing so, Wordsworth argues that we have forgotten about the pure, simple joys to be found in Nature. When talking about “[g]etting and spending”, he bemoans the fact that we “lay waste our powers” by taking our world’s natural wonders for granted. These wonders are represented by our “hearts” which are, paradoxically, the very things that make us human.
The next three lines describe some of Nature’s awe-inspiring qualities, such as the sea that “bares her bosom to the moon” and the “howling” winds. Ironically, Wordsworth uses personification to describe such an inhuman force. Despite the awful magnificence of this apparent storm, Wordsworth exclaims that it “moves us not”. In being focused on our own selfish pursuits and material objectives, our eyes have become blind and our ears deaf to the natural world around us— even towards something so brutally powerful as a rampaging tempest.
The most interesting aspect of the poem begins halfway through the ninth line with the exclamation “Great God! I’d rather be / A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn”. Wordsworth is basically saying that he would rather be a pagan who is able to glean some joy from nature than belong to the materialistic 19th century society that he is surrounded by. The references to Greek mythology (Proteus and Triton, two sea gods) evoke a wistful longing for a return to an ancient world where Nature is revered. Wordsworth undoubtedly intended to shake pre-Victorian era England by renouncing both his society and his religion in the hopes of getting his point across.
Starting out as a gentle admonition, climaxing as a hopeless revelation, and ending with a pensive yet dramatic reflection, “The World Is Too Much With Us” uses many different styles of tone to guilt, teach, and shock the audience into realizing what they have become. While nineteenth century Englishmen thought they were becoming more and more “civilized” and “human”, Wordsworth argues that they are only reverting more and more to the base human tendencies of greed and egotism. In this desperate, apocalyptic plea for change, Wordsworth implicitly and explicitly states that the only hope for mankind lies in drastic action being taken to reverse such an unnatural course.
Discussion Questions:
1) Does anyone disagree with my interpretation of the poem? If so, please elaborate.
2) What is the significance of the “pagan” references in the poem?
3) Is the world too much with us? In other words, does this poem bring up an important issue in today’s society?
4) Why do you think Wordsworth is so upset about our growing insensitivity towards Nature?
The first four lines of the sonnet address Wordsworth’s critical point: that the world is “too much with us”; in other words, that we dwell too much on our “material world”. In saying this, Wordsworth is not just talking about the material-capitalistic aspect of our lives. He is also referring to the rapid modernization and urbanization of his time. In doing so, Wordsworth argues that we have forgotten about the pure, simple joys to be found in Nature. When talking about “[g]etting and spending”, he bemoans the fact that we “lay waste our powers” by taking our world’s natural wonders for granted. These wonders are represented by our “hearts” which are, paradoxically, the very things that make us human.
The next three lines describe some of Nature’s awe-inspiring qualities, such as the sea that “bares her bosom to the moon” and the “howling” winds. Ironically, Wordsworth uses personification to describe such an inhuman force. Despite the awful magnificence of this apparent storm, Wordsworth exclaims that it “moves us not”. In being focused on our own selfish pursuits and material objectives, our eyes have become blind and our ears deaf to the natural world around us— even towards something so brutally powerful as a rampaging tempest.
The most interesting aspect of the poem begins halfway through the ninth line with the exclamation “Great God! I’d rather be / A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn”. Wordsworth is basically saying that he would rather be a pagan who is able to glean some joy from nature than belong to the materialistic 19th century society that he is surrounded by. The references to Greek mythology (Proteus and Triton, two sea gods) evoke a wistful longing for a return to an ancient world where Nature is revered. Wordsworth undoubtedly intended to shake pre-Victorian era England by renouncing both his society and his religion in the hopes of getting his point across.
Starting out as a gentle admonition, climaxing as a hopeless revelation, and ending with a pensive yet dramatic reflection, “The World Is Too Much With Us” uses many different styles of tone to guilt, teach, and shock the audience into realizing what they have become. While nineteenth century Englishmen thought they were becoming more and more “civilized” and “human”, Wordsworth argues that they are only reverting more and more to the base human tendencies of greed and egotism. In this desperate, apocalyptic plea for change, Wordsworth implicitly and explicitly states that the only hope for mankind lies in drastic action being taken to reverse such an unnatural course.
Discussion Questions:
1) Does anyone disagree with my interpretation of the poem? If so, please elaborate.
2) What is the significance of the “pagan” references in the poem?
3) Is the world too much with us? In other words, does this poem bring up an important issue in today’s society?
4) Why do you think Wordsworth is so upset about our growing insensitivity towards Nature?
Monday, April 14, 2008
100 Pages of Solitude
While reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, this reader found himself asking whether or not the book transcends the normal realm of rational human thought and action and takes place in some sort of magical world. Of course, some of it is clearly seen through the eyes of an uneducated third-person narrator; for instance, the magnets and magnifying glass that are thought to be magical. On the other hand, the appearance of Prudencio Aguilar’s ghost (Who was killed by Jose Arcadio Buendia in a duel) is wholly unsurprising, even expected: “ Ursula…saw Prudencio Aguilar by the water jar…It did not bring on fear in hear, but pity. She told her husband what she had seen, but he did not think much of it”(24).The beauty of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s writing, however, is that he manages to portray everyday events and items as fantastic while supernatural events are described as if they were an everyday occurrence. In this way, Marquez captures the reader in a spell-binding place that leaves my head spinning long after I put the book down. I half-expected a unicorn to be sitting on my living room couch when I walked out of my room, yet I found the ice in my refrigerator to be wholly awe-inspiring. In creating a world that walks the line between reality and fantasy, Marquez creates a Harry Potter-like effect in that Marquez’s world is related to ours but is much, much better.
The characters in One Hundred Years of Solitude only add to the mystique. Jose Arcadio Buendia, the ranting lunatic; Rebeca, the orphan who eats dirt and whitewash; Melquiades, the leader of the gypsies who possesses many strange and seemingly devilish powers; Jose Arcadio, the tattooed giant; and many, many more exotic and intriguing characters. Another important facet of the novel is its preoccupation with death. When the line between life and death is blurred so indiscriminately, Macondo (the village) becomes either a heaven or a hell in the eyes of the reader. To me, there is certainly something satanic about the village, especially once strange things start happening, such as the inability of the villagers to sleep and retain memories for awhile.
By juxtaposing realistic, everyday life with the magical, supernatural events that give Macondo an eerie sort of zest, Marquez allowed me to relate character’s lives. Using intense, descriptive realism— and, might I add, overly sexual language that forms a gritty, genuine undertone— Marquez has written another masterful novel. In addition, I must say that I prefer this novel over Love in the Time of Cholera because although Love in the Time of Cholera deals with the tortured existence of one man, One Hundred Years of Solitude portrays the tortured existence of an entire family. And that, my friends, is tragic realism at its best. Now excuse me; I have to go feed that unicorn. (496)
The characters in One Hundred Years of Solitude only add to the mystique. Jose Arcadio Buendia, the ranting lunatic; Rebeca, the orphan who eats dirt and whitewash; Melquiades, the leader of the gypsies who possesses many strange and seemingly devilish powers; Jose Arcadio, the tattooed giant; and many, many more exotic and intriguing characters. Another important facet of the novel is its preoccupation with death. When the line between life and death is blurred so indiscriminately, Macondo (the village) becomes either a heaven or a hell in the eyes of the reader. To me, there is certainly something satanic about the village, especially once strange things start happening, such as the inability of the villagers to sleep and retain memories for awhile.
By juxtaposing realistic, everyday life with the magical, supernatural events that give Macondo an eerie sort of zest, Marquez allowed me to relate character’s lives. Using intense, descriptive realism— and, might I add, overly sexual language that forms a gritty, genuine undertone— Marquez has written another masterful novel. In addition, I must say that I prefer this novel over Love in the Time of Cholera because although Love in the Time of Cholera deals with the tortured existence of one man, One Hundred Years of Solitude portrays the tortured existence of an entire family. And that, my friends, is tragic realism at its best. Now excuse me; I have to go feed that unicorn. (496)
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
By Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Hamlet Subtext
SCENE IV. The Queen's closet.
Enter QUEEN GERTRUDE and POLONIUS
LORD POLONIUS
He will come straight. Look you lay home to him:Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,And that your grace hath screen'd and stood betweenMuch heat and him. I'll sconce me even here.Pray you, be round with him.
This is typical Polonius; in a pleading, ingratiating tone, he implores the Queen to scold Hamlet while he hides himself and listens
HAMLET
[Within] Mother, mother, mother!
Spoken in a mocking, high-pitched voice
QUEEN GERTRUDE
I'll warrant you,Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming.
(Agreeing to Polonius's request, she gestures at the arras and frantically pushes him over)
POLONIUS hides behind the arras
Enter HAMLET
HAMLET
Now, mother, what's the matter?
Fake concern, comical, caring expression on his face, while his words drip with scorn
QUEEN GERTRUDE
(Brushes away her hair, which was mussed in her distress. Pulls herself up in an attempt to appear haughty and powerful)Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
HAMLET
(Stares at her and shakes his head)Mother, you have my father much offended.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.(Her eyes dart around. She is clearly scared of him.)
HAMLET
Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Why, how now, Hamlet!
HAMLET
What's the matter now?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Have you forgot me?
HAMLET
No, by the rood, not so:You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;And--(glancing towards the sky)would it were not so!--you are my mother.(He grimaces at the word 'mother')
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak.(Starts to walk towards the door)
HAMLET
Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;You go not till I set you up a glassWhere you may see the inmost part of you.(He grabs her left arm and forces her to turn around and face him)
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?Help, help, ho! (Her voice becomes frantic. Her eyes dart around before settling on the arras)
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] What, ho! help, help, help!
HAMLET
[Drawing] How now! a rat?(He barks) Dead, for a ducat, dead!
Makes a pass through the arras
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] O, I am slain!
Falls and dies(One hears the sound of his body crumpling to the floor)
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O me, what hast thou done?(She exclaims, clutching her dress)
HAMLET
Nay, I know not:(laughing)Is it the king?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
HAMLET
A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
As kill a king!(Still scared, but her interest is piqued)
HAMLET
Ay, lady, 'twas my word.
Lifts up the array and discovers POLONIUS
He spits out the words:Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger.Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down,And let me wring your heart; for so I shall,If it be made of penetrable stuff,If damned custom have not brass'd it soThat it is proof and bulwark against sense.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongueIn noise so rude against me?
HAMLET (Grabbing her)
Such an actThat blurs the grace and blush of modesty,Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the roseFrom the fair forehead of an innocent loveAnd sets a blister there, makes marriage-vowsAs false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deedAs from the body of contraction plucksThe very soul, and sweet religion makesA rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow:Yea, this solidity and compound mass,With tristful visage, as against the doom,Is thought-sick at the act.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (is taken aback)
Ay me, what act,That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
HAMLET
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.(His eyes look upwards while he describes his father)See, what a grace was seated on this brow;Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;A station like the herald MercuryNew-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;A combination and a form indeed,Where every god did seem to set his seal,To give the world assurance of a man:This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?(Pointing at his eys)Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?(Pointing at his eyes again, more frantically this time)You cannot call it love; for at your ageThe hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,And waits upon the judgment: and what judgmentWould step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,Else could you not have motion; but sure, that senseIs apoplex'd; for madness would not err,Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'dBut it reserved some quantity of choice,To serve in such a difference. What devil was'tThat thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,Or but a sickly part of one true senseCould not so mope.O shame! where is thy blush?(Grabs her cheeks forcefully) Rebellious hell,If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shameWhen the compulsive ardour gives the charge,Since frost itself as actively doth burnAnd reason panders will.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, speak no more:Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;And there I see such black and grained spotsAs will not leave their tinct.
As she begins to realize what she has done, she weeps
HAMLET (His voice gradually crescendoes)
Nay, but to liveIn the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making loveOver the nasty sty,--
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Putting her hands up)
O, speak to me no more;These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;No more, sweet Hamlet!
HAMLET (With volume still increasing)
A murderer and a villain;A slave that is not twentieth part the titheOf your precedent lord; a vice of kings;A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,And put it in his pocket!
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Hands still raised, cups her ears)
No more!
HAMLET (Screaming now)
A king of shreds and patches,--
Enter Ghost
(Hamlet's voice drops to a whisper)Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Slowly uncups ears, whispers to herself)
Alas, he's mad!
HAMLET
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go byThe important acting of your dread command? O, say!
Ghost
Do not forget: this visitationIs but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.But, look, amazement on thy mother sits:O, step between her and her fighting soul:Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:Speak to her, Hamlet.
Is reminding Hamlet of the original purpose of his mission
HAMLET (turns to her, calm and collected now)
How is it with you, lady?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, how is't with you,That you do bend your eye on vacancyAnd with the incorporal air do hold discourse?Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,Upon the heat and flame of thy distemperSprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?(Scared, voice shaking)
Gertrude describes his disheveled appearance and crazy actions and how much they scare her
HAMLET(Gesturing at the ghost)
On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares!His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,Would make them capable. Do not look upon me;Lest with this piteous action you convertMy stern effects: then what I have to doWill want true colour; tears perchance for blood.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Eyes darting from Hamlet to where he is pointing)
To whom do you speak this?
HAMLET
Do you see nothing there?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.
HAMLET (Grabbing her)
Nor did you nothing hear?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
No, nothing but ourselves.
HAMLET (Wildly gesticulating)
Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!My father, in his habit as he lived!Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
Exit Ghost
QUEEN GERTRUDE
This the very coinage of your brain:This bodiless creation ecstasyIs very cunning in.
HAMLET
Ecstasy!My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,And makes as healthful music: it is not madnessThat I have utter'd: bring me to the test,And I the matter will re-word; which madnessWould gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,Lay not that mattering unction to your soul,That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,Infects unseen.(Draws his dagger and points it at her) Confess yourself to heaven;Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;And do not spread the compost on the weeds,To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;For in the fatness of these pursy timesVirtue itself of vice must pardon beg,Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Falls to her knees, rests her head against the wall)
O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
HAMLET
O, throw away the worser part of it,And live the purer with the other half.Good night: but go not to mine uncle's bed;Assume a virtue, if you have it not.That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,That to the use of actions fair and goodHe likewise gives a frock or livery,That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,And that shall lend a kind of easinessTo the next abstinence: the next more easy;For use almost can change the stamp of nature,And either [ ] the devil, or throw him outWith wondrous potency. Once more, good night:And when you are desirous to be bless'd,I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord,
He is offering her a chance at redemption, yet states that he already gave Polonius his chance
Pointing to POLONIUS
I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,To punish me with this and this with me,That I must be their scourge and minister.I will bestow him, and will answer wellThe death I gave him. So, again, good night.I must be cruel, only to be kind:Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.One word more, good lady.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What shall I do?
HAMLET (Pensive, hand on his chin)
Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed;Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,Make you to ravel all this matter out,That I essentially am not in madness,But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?No, in despite of sense and secrecy,Unpeg the basket on the house's top.Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,To try conclusions, in the basket creep,And break your own neck down.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Slides all the way down the wall, until she is lying down)
Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,And breath of life, I have no life to breatheWhat thou hast said to me.
Enter QUEEN GERTRUDE and POLONIUS
LORD POLONIUS
He will come straight. Look you lay home to him:Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,And that your grace hath screen'd and stood betweenMuch heat and him. I'll sconce me even here.Pray you, be round with him.
This is typical Polonius; in a pleading, ingratiating tone, he implores the Queen to scold Hamlet while he hides himself and listens
HAMLET
[Within] Mother, mother, mother!
Spoken in a mocking, high-pitched voice
QUEEN GERTRUDE
I'll warrant you,Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming.
(Agreeing to Polonius's request, she gestures at the arras and frantically pushes him over)
POLONIUS hides behind the arras
Enter HAMLET
HAMLET
Now, mother, what's the matter?
Fake concern, comical, caring expression on his face, while his words drip with scorn
QUEEN GERTRUDE
(Brushes away her hair, which was mussed in her distress. Pulls herself up in an attempt to appear haughty and powerful)Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
HAMLET
(Stares at her and shakes his head)Mother, you have my father much offended.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.(Her eyes dart around. She is clearly scared of him.)
HAMLET
Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Why, how now, Hamlet!
HAMLET
What's the matter now?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Have you forgot me?
HAMLET
No, by the rood, not so:You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;And--(glancing towards the sky)would it were not so!--you are my mother.(He grimaces at the word 'mother')
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak.(Starts to walk towards the door)
HAMLET
Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;You go not till I set you up a glassWhere you may see the inmost part of you.(He grabs her left arm and forces her to turn around and face him)
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?Help, help, ho! (Her voice becomes frantic. Her eyes dart around before settling on the arras)
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] What, ho! help, help, help!
HAMLET
[Drawing] How now! a rat?(He barks) Dead, for a ducat, dead!
Makes a pass through the arras
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] O, I am slain!
Falls and dies(One hears the sound of his body crumpling to the floor)
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O me, what hast thou done?(She exclaims, clutching her dress)
HAMLET
Nay, I know not:(laughing)Is it the king?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
HAMLET
A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
As kill a king!(Still scared, but her interest is piqued)
HAMLET
Ay, lady, 'twas my word.
Lifts up the array and discovers POLONIUS
He spits out the words:Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger.Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down,And let me wring your heart; for so I shall,If it be made of penetrable stuff,If damned custom have not brass'd it soThat it is proof and bulwark against sense.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongueIn noise so rude against me?
HAMLET (Grabbing her)
Such an actThat blurs the grace and blush of modesty,Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the roseFrom the fair forehead of an innocent loveAnd sets a blister there, makes marriage-vowsAs false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deedAs from the body of contraction plucksThe very soul, and sweet religion makesA rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow:Yea, this solidity and compound mass,With tristful visage, as against the doom,Is thought-sick at the act.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (is taken aback)
Ay me, what act,That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?
HAMLET
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.(His eyes look upwards while he describes his father)See, what a grace was seated on this brow;Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;A station like the herald MercuryNew-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;A combination and a form indeed,Where every god did seem to set his seal,To give the world assurance of a man:This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?(Pointing at his eys)Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?(Pointing at his eyes again, more frantically this time)You cannot call it love; for at your ageThe hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,And waits upon the judgment: and what judgmentWould step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,Else could you not have motion; but sure, that senseIs apoplex'd; for madness would not err,Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'dBut it reserved some quantity of choice,To serve in such a difference. What devil was'tThat thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,Or but a sickly part of one true senseCould not so mope.O shame! where is thy blush?(Grabs her cheeks forcefully) Rebellious hell,If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shameWhen the compulsive ardour gives the charge,Since frost itself as actively doth burnAnd reason panders will.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, speak no more:Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;And there I see such black and grained spotsAs will not leave their tinct.
As she begins to realize what she has done, she weeps
HAMLET (His voice gradually crescendoes)
Nay, but to liveIn the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making loveOver the nasty sty,--
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Putting her hands up)
O, speak to me no more;These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;No more, sweet Hamlet!
HAMLET (With volume still increasing)
A murderer and a villain;A slave that is not twentieth part the titheOf your precedent lord; a vice of kings;A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,And put it in his pocket!
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Hands still raised, cups her ears)
No more!
HAMLET (Screaming now)
A king of shreds and patches,--
Enter Ghost
(Hamlet's voice drops to a whisper)Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Slowly uncups ears, whispers to herself)
Alas, he's mad!
HAMLET
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go byThe important acting of your dread command? O, say!
Ghost
Do not forget: this visitationIs but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.But, look, amazement on thy mother sits:O, step between her and her fighting soul:Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:Speak to her, Hamlet.
Is reminding Hamlet of the original purpose of his mission
HAMLET (turns to her, calm and collected now)
How is it with you, lady?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, how is't with you,That you do bend your eye on vacancyAnd with the incorporal air do hold discourse?Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,Upon the heat and flame of thy distemperSprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?(Scared, voice shaking)
Gertrude describes his disheveled appearance and crazy actions and how much they scare her
HAMLET(Gesturing at the ghost)
On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares!His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,Would make them capable. Do not look upon me;Lest with this piteous action you convertMy stern effects: then what I have to doWill want true colour; tears perchance for blood.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Eyes darting from Hamlet to where he is pointing)
To whom do you speak this?
HAMLET
Do you see nothing there?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.
HAMLET (Grabbing her)
Nor did you nothing hear?
QUEEN GERTRUDE
No, nothing but ourselves.
HAMLET (Wildly gesticulating)
Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!My father, in his habit as he lived!Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
Exit Ghost
QUEEN GERTRUDE
This the very coinage of your brain:This bodiless creation ecstasyIs very cunning in.
HAMLET
Ecstasy!My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,And makes as healthful music: it is not madnessThat I have utter'd: bring me to the test,And I the matter will re-word; which madnessWould gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,Lay not that mattering unction to your soul,That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,Infects unseen.(Draws his dagger and points it at her) Confess yourself to heaven;Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;And do not spread the compost on the weeds,To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;For in the fatness of these pursy timesVirtue itself of vice must pardon beg,Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Falls to her knees, rests her head against the wall)
O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
HAMLET
O, throw away the worser part of it,And live the purer with the other half.Good night: but go not to mine uncle's bed;Assume a virtue, if you have it not.That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,That to the use of actions fair and goodHe likewise gives a frock or livery,That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,And that shall lend a kind of easinessTo the next abstinence: the next more easy;For use almost can change the stamp of nature,And either [ ] the devil, or throw him outWith wondrous potency. Once more, good night:And when you are desirous to be bless'd,I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord,
He is offering her a chance at redemption, yet states that he already gave Polonius his chance
Pointing to POLONIUS
I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,To punish me with this and this with me,That I must be their scourge and minister.I will bestow him, and will answer wellThe death I gave him. So, again, good night.I must be cruel, only to be kind:Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.One word more, good lady.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What shall I do?
HAMLET (Pensive, hand on his chin)
Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed;Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,Make you to ravel all this matter out,That I essentially am not in madness,But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?No, in despite of sense and secrecy,Unpeg the basket on the house's top.Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,To try conclusions, in the basket creep,And break your own neck down.
QUEEN GERTRUDE (Slides all the way down the wall, until she is lying down)
Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,And breath of life, I have no life to breatheWhat thou hast said to me.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Man, “The Metamorphosis” Has Got Me Buggin’( A Reader's Reaction to Kafka's Greatest Work)
So let me get this straight: one morning, a man wakes up as a bug. He is not surprised by this fact, but worries about the potential career-threatening possibilities of such a transformation. Huh. That’s a rather atypical reaction to a sudden transformation into a bug—to be fair, one could argue that there hasn’t exactly been a precedent for judging such matters, but still. Right off the bat, the reader is both forced to suspend rational thought and given a rather unflattering portrait of the protagonist, Mr. Gregor Samsa. As the story progresses, one hopes that there will be some redeeming character traits to be found in Mr. Samsa. Nope. He becomes even more spineless (Ha. Get it?), as evidenced by his opinions on his newfound and undesirable role in the family: “He stayed there all night, spending the time partly in a light slumber… and partly in worrying and sketching vague hopes, which all led to the same conclusion, that he must lie low for the present and, by exercising patience, and the utmost consideration, help the family to bear the inconvenience he was bound to cause them in his present condition” (¶ 37). As I continued reading, I found that, in my rising disgust for the man, I had to put down the textbook several times to seek out cockroaches and other such large insects with the hope of squashing Mr. Samsa. Alas, it was all to no avail.
Anyway, Kafka’s characterization of Gregor got me thinking (Unintentionally, I’m sure) about the necessity of such a story. Is it like “The Death of Ivan Ilyich”? That is, a not-so-hidden sermon on how the reader should live his or her life? If so, then apparently we should be less cowardly and bug-like and more courageous and human-like. It is my opinion that this is indeed the case, and Samsa represents either Kafka’s own failings(or self-perceived failings) or a dramatic characterization and personification( bugification?) of the many cowardly, ingratiating people that he and we have encountered in our lives. In the end, however, one cannot help but feel pity for poor Gregor Samsa. His death is a dramatically pathetic and pitiable conclusion to an already pathetic and pitiable existence: “The decision that he must disappear was one that he held to even more strongly than his sister, if that were possible…Then his head sank to the floor of its own accord and from his nostrils came the last faint flicker of his breath” (89).Whether we hate, identify with, or pity his cowardliness, the reader strongly reacts to Mr. Gregor Samsa. That universality is what has made “The Metamorphosis” one of the most famous short stories of all time. And in the end, it’s really just a story about a guy who wakes up as a bug. (492)
Anyway, Kafka’s characterization of Gregor got me thinking (Unintentionally, I’m sure) about the necessity of such a story. Is it like “The Death of Ivan Ilyich”? That is, a not-so-hidden sermon on how the reader should live his or her life? If so, then apparently we should be less cowardly and bug-like and more courageous and human-like. It is my opinion that this is indeed the case, and Samsa represents either Kafka’s own failings(or self-perceived failings) or a dramatic characterization and personification( bugification?) of the many cowardly, ingratiating people that he and we have encountered in our lives. In the end, however, one cannot help but feel pity for poor Gregor Samsa. His death is a dramatically pathetic and pitiable conclusion to an already pathetic and pitiable existence: “The decision that he must disappear was one that he held to even more strongly than his sister, if that were possible…Then his head sank to the floor of its own accord and from his nostrils came the last faint flicker of his breath” (89).Whether we hate, identify with, or pity his cowardliness, the reader strongly reacts to Mr. Gregor Samsa. That universality is what has made “The Metamorphosis” one of the most famous short stories of all time. And in the end, it’s really just a story about a guy who wakes up as a bug. (492)
Monday, January 14, 2008
The Last Breath of Ivan Ilyich
“The Death of Ivan Ilyich”, by Leo Tolstoy, is a textbook example of an author presenting social commentary about his status quo. In the story, a petty, ambitious judge falls ill to a mysterious disease that leaves him increasingly miserable and helpless. As the thin façade that is Ivan Ilyich’s life begins to crumble around him, he begins to notice the vanity and phoniness of the people surrounding him. Through the third-person narrator’s critical tone and unflattering portrayal of the key characters, the reader realizes that the material and superficial benefits of Ivan’s socially-gratifying life have all amounted to nothing in the end.
In the beginning of the story, it is hard feel any sympathy for Ivan. The reader asks himself what such a man must be like to elicit such an unsympathetic reaction to his death from close friends and family members: “[Ivan’s] face was handsomer and above all more dignified than when he was alive ( ¶ 28). They are self-absorbed, and seem to always think only of their own discomfort or inconvenience: “the more intimate of Ivan Ilych;s acquaintances, his so-called friends, could not help thinking also that they would now have to fulfill the very tiresome demans of propriety by attending the funeral service and paying a visit of condolence to the widow”(18) Throughout the funeral service Peter Ivanovich, Ivan’s closest “friend”, can only think of the bridge game later that night and his own discomfort at the social norms surrounding a funeral. By portraying his friends and family’s reactions to Ivan’s death, Tolstoy asks the reader a poignant question: What kind of society and/or person would inspire such a superficial lifestyle?
The other important defining point in the novel is Ivan’s realization of the shallowness and hopelessness of his former life. At first, he denies it to himself: “And whenever the thought occurred to him, as it often did, that it all resulted from his not having lived as he ought to have done, he at once recalled the correctness of his whole life and dismissed so strange an idea”(305). It is only when he begins to question himself that he realizes the bad aspects of his life; the memories that had seemed so pleasant now appear to him as distant and forlorn.
Throughout the novel, Tolstoy paints an unflattering portrait of the upper crust of the nineteenth-century Russian society and those who aspire to be in it. As he describes Ivan’s bourgeois home: “In reality it was just what is usually seen in the houses of people of moderate means who want to appear rich, and therefore succeed only in resembling others like themselves”(100). As Ivan realizes the mistakes he has made and the skin-deep, petty life he has led, it is already too late; apparently, Tolstoy thinks greed is punishable by death. In one man’s death, Tolstoy is teaching the reader how to live, and in one man’s greed, Tolstoy leaves the question of humility. Sometimes what isn’t said and what isn’t done is what’s important.(512)
In the beginning of the story, it is hard feel any sympathy for Ivan. The reader asks himself what such a man must be like to elicit such an unsympathetic reaction to his death from close friends and family members: “[Ivan’s] face was handsomer and above all more dignified than when he was alive ( ¶ 28). They are self-absorbed, and seem to always think only of their own discomfort or inconvenience: “the more intimate of Ivan Ilych;s acquaintances, his so-called friends, could not help thinking also that they would now have to fulfill the very tiresome demans of propriety by attending the funeral service and paying a visit of condolence to the widow”(18) Throughout the funeral service Peter Ivanovich, Ivan’s closest “friend”, can only think of the bridge game later that night and his own discomfort at the social norms surrounding a funeral. By portraying his friends and family’s reactions to Ivan’s death, Tolstoy asks the reader a poignant question: What kind of society and/or person would inspire such a superficial lifestyle?
The other important defining point in the novel is Ivan’s realization of the shallowness and hopelessness of his former life. At first, he denies it to himself: “And whenever the thought occurred to him, as it often did, that it all resulted from his not having lived as he ought to have done, he at once recalled the correctness of his whole life and dismissed so strange an idea”(305). It is only when he begins to question himself that he realizes the bad aspects of his life; the memories that had seemed so pleasant now appear to him as distant and forlorn.
Throughout the novel, Tolstoy paints an unflattering portrait of the upper crust of the nineteenth-century Russian society and those who aspire to be in it. As he describes Ivan’s bourgeois home: “In reality it was just what is usually seen in the houses of people of moderate means who want to appear rich, and therefore succeed only in resembling others like themselves”(100). As Ivan realizes the mistakes he has made and the skin-deep, petty life he has led, it is already too late; apparently, Tolstoy thinks greed is punishable by death. In one man’s death, Tolstoy is teaching the reader how to live, and in one man’s greed, Tolstoy leaves the question of humility. Sometimes what isn’t said and what isn’t done is what’s important.(512)
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