Shakespeare, As You Like It; Twelfth Night

The problem with Shakespeare’s place in my reading list—I promise that soon I will stop opening all my posts by complaining about Shakespeare—the problem is that his plays are short enough that I don’t have the time to write up an entry immediately after finishing one, which is my usual practice: writing up a post while reading the next book. With Shakespeare, I find myself always playing catch-up, and while I would like to spend the time meditating on these plays more, I suppose I’ll have to leave those exercises for the second time around. Today, we have a slightly less daunting task: only two plays, As You Like It and Twelfth Night. Unfortunately, I remember very little about either of them, even though (or rather, because) I read them a couple weeks ago. My notes, however, will be sufficient to get us through these plays, which contain some of the best speeches in Shakespeare, all spoken by women: in the first place, by the incomparable Rosalind; then, in the love poetry between Olivia and Rosalind. As You Like It Someone I know referred to As You Like It as "that one without a plot," an assessment that doesn't become evident until the very end, when it seems as if all the conflicts that were built up throughout the play are resolved with several simultaneous deus ex machina; to give one example, Duke Frederick, who usurped Duke Senior's throne, magically repents and returns the throne to Senior, without any apparent reason. Motivation is often opaque in Shakespeare, but it usually feels more substantive than, "Surprise! War's over!" Nonetheless, the play is one of Shakespeare's most memorable (despite the fact I don't remember much about it). For one thing, it contains probably the most famous speech in Shakespeare's comedies, Jacques' "All the world's a stage" speech, which we might as well quote here because it's so great: "All the world's a stage, / And all the men and women merely players. / They have their exits and their entrances, / And one man in his time plays many parts, / His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, / Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. / Then, the whining school-boy with his satchel / And shining morning face, creeping like snail / Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, / Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad / Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, / Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, / Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, / Seeking the bubble reputation / Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, / In fair round belly, with a good capon lined, / With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, / Full of wise saws, and modern instances, / And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts / Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, / With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, / His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide / For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, / Turning again toward childish treble, pipes / And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, / That ends this strange eventful history, / Is second childishness and mere oblivion, / Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." The comparison of life to a play is not too surprising, given Shakespeare's preoccupation with metadrama, and he will revisit the idea in a much more nihilistic mode in Macbeth’s final soliloquy. Jacques, though, is not a king facing his impending doom, but a young man afflicted by melancholy, who sees in life only deterioration and farce and folly. In this he serves as the counterpoint to Rosalind’s vitality. Note the way he closes his speech: sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. He is full of negation, acknowledging nothing but the meaningless shadows that plague life. Indeed, it is this emptiness that Rosalind seeks to disabuse Jacques of. Consider the following exchange between them: Jacques: Why, ‘tis good to be sad and say nothing. Rosalind: Why then, ‘tis good to be a post. Rosalind, astute as she is, immediately follows Jacques’ self-defeating argument to its logical conclusion: that one who rejects life may as well be inanimate. Jacques is nothing if not stubborn, and continues: J: I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.” R: “A traveler! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.” J: “Yes, I have gained my experience.” R: “And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad: and to travel for it too.” When Rosalind recognizes his melancholy as stemming from his itinerant lifestyle, Jacques does not get it; he dimly responds that his travels have indeed given him experience. I find it interesting that Rosalind does not respond that experience in general makes one sad, rather that Jacques’ experience in particular makes him sad. For what good, she seems to say, is experience if it does not confirm in one the great gift of life? One would be better off living as (or with) a fool and be able to travel with company, as well. Rosalind’s brilliant pragmatism leads Harold Bloom to call her one of the great educators in Shakespeare: “Hamlet diagnoses everyone he encounters, and is too impatient to teach them. Rosalind and Falstaff both augment and enhance life, but Hamlet is the gateway through which supernal powers, many of them negative, enter as intimations of mortality.” Of course, since As You Like It is a comedy, it cannot but tackle the subject of love. Once again, Rosalind brings her level-headed approach to the hopeless adolescence of the men in the play. This time, the student is Orlando, who confesses his love for her and claims that without her love he will die. She is not subdued by such words, but replies with one of the most beautiful speeches in Shakespeare: “No, faith, die by attorney [by proxy]. The poor world is almost six thousand years old [checkmate, atheists], and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet [namely], in a love cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was “hero of Sestos.” But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.” Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Even in prose, Shakespeare cannot help but write in iambs. Rosalind asserts that love is not a force that condemns but vitalizes. Though the world is a place in which death occurs, where men of power and greatness can be devoured by simple worms, which feast on idleness and indolence and decay, love does not participate in such matters. Let us turn our attention to the other main figure in the play, the fool, Touchstone. He appears when Rosalind and her cousin, Celia, are talking, and they turn their attention to him: Celia: Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool [Touchstone] to cut off the argument? Rosalind: Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature when Fortune makes Nature’s natural [Nature’s fool] the cutter-off of Nature’s wit. C: Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work neither, but Nature’s, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses and hath sent this natural for our whetstone, for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.” A touchstone is something used to judge quality; a whetstone is used for sharpening tools. Celia, then, is saying that though we have the ability to turn up our noses at fortune, we are not safe from its caprices, which she then revises, saying that perhaps it is not fortune that limits our abilities, but nature itself when it recognizes that we have strayed too far off course. This literal Touchstone is provided, then, for them to sharpen their wits against; sharpen, here, in an ironic sense, since the fool would actually serve to dull one’s wits. I will confess that while this passage is very intriguing, its meaning escapes me insofar as it is relevant to the play. Perhaps it is that Touchstone exists to remind us of the foolishness of things like love and honor. Consider these passages from him: “We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.” (I.e., all lovers reveal their humanity through their foolishness, according to my edition’s gloss.) “No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning [with a pun on faining, i.e., desiring], and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry, it may be said, as lovers, they do feign.” (I.e., what lovers promise belie how they actually behave.) “But if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn; no more was this knight swearing by his honor, for he never had any.” If Rosalind is similar to Falstaff in that she is an educator, Touchstone is also similar to Falstaff in that he has no patience for falsehood masquerading as truth. Recall Falstaff’s attack on honor at the end of 1H4 and you will see a reflection of it in the above quotes. One of the more vexing parts of the play is the epilogue, wherein Rosalind appears on stage and breaks the fourth wall, speaking directly to the audience. Consider these lines: “And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women--as I perceive by your simpering none of you hates them--that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not.” Rosalind, or rather the male actor playing Rosalind, says that she would kiss the men in the audience if she were a woman. This is a promise that she does not have to keep, since she is, in fact, a man: recall that Touchstone says that swearing by what you are not means you are not forsworn (i.e., perjuring yourself). The actor playing Rosalind, then, seems to be in conversation with this sentiment: though he has ceased to play a character, he continues to keep up the appearance. This is a point that deserves more attention, and though we won’t say more about it now, let us not forget it. Twelfth Night Twelfth Night is another play that I wouldn’t have found very interesting had it not contained some of Shakespeare’s most beautiful speeches. (Can I keep calling them some of the most beautiful if they’re all some of the most beautiful?) As with so many of Shakespeare’s plays, two themes are at the fore here: the instability and uncertainty of identity, and the illogical nature of love. In Midsummer we are reminded that young love is arbitrary; here, we are told that “all sexual love is arbitrary in its origins,” as Harold Bloom writes, adding that, despite this, it is “overdetermined in its teleology.” In the play, Viola masquerades as a young man named Cesario and pleads with Olivia to love her (Viola’s) master, Duke Orsino. Unfortunately, due to the arbitrariness of love, Olivia falls in love with Viola/Cesario, which leads to this beautiful exchange, in which Viola gives a vision of love unmatched in Shakespeare: Viola: If I did love you in my master’s flame, / With such a suff’ring, such a deadly life, / In your denial I would find no sense; / I would not understand it. Olivia: Why, what would you? V: Make me a willow cabin at your gate / And call upon my soul within the house; / Write loyal cantons of contemned love / And sing them loud even in the dead of night; / Hall your name to the reverberate hills/ And make the babbling gossip of the air / Cry out “Olivia!” O, you should not rest / Between the elements of air and earth / But you should pity me.” Let us not focus on the irony that this speech causes Olivia to fall in love with Viola when its intention was to make her fall in love with Orsino. Let us instead focus on the incredible poetry of her words. Her master loves with a “deadly life,” just as Orlando did, a life whose sights are set on death. Let us focus on the “loyal cantons of contemned love,” on the “babbling gossip of the air,” and consider that there are people who exist right now who don’t believe that Shakespeare is the greatest writer in the English language. There is also the sense, apart from the irony, of the unreason of love, that the refusal of a woman could possess no sense to Viola, an unreason that is emphasized later on when it is Olivia’s turn to confess love to Viola/Cesario: Olivia: I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me. Viola: That you do think you are not what you are. O: If I think so, I think the same of you. [You don’t say?] V: Then think you right. I am not what I am. [Oh hey, Iago, didn’t see you there.] O: I would you were as I would have you be. V: Would it be better, madam, than I am? / I wish it might, for now I am your fool. O: O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful / In the contempt and anger of his lip. / A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon / Than love that would seem hid: love’s night is noon. / Cesario, by the roses of the spring, / By maidhood, honor, truth, and everything, / I love thee so that, maugre [despite] all thy pride, / Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. / Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, / For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; / But rather reason thus with reason fetter, / Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.” Olivia is perhaps more limited in her ability than Viola, and a little more misguided, but she has her moments. The closing couplet, especially, is worth the entire play: if Viola/Cesario must have a reason for accepting Olivia’s love, she should find it in this even greater and stronger reason: that it is better to be freely offered love than to win it. (We would also do well to notice that Olivia swears by “maidhood, honor, truth,” which, if we know anything about Shakespeare, Viola probably shouldn’t put much stock in; hence why I say Olivia’s a little more misguided.) There is another love story in the play that I want to mention: that of Malvolio. But it is not his love for Olivia that I find most interesting, but rather his odd and unfortunate position in the play. Harold Bloom makes the observation that he is a character similar to Shylock, and I had the very same thought. Both are characters who seem too serious for their plays. I think especially of Malvolio’s would-be soliloquy in II.5 which is constantly interrupted by Toby, Fabian, and Maria’s derisive comments. For being such a busybody (shut up, I’m not a 50-year-old woman), one feels very bad for Malvolio, as he is not so malevolent, despite how his name sounds; rather he is just in the wrong play. Consider his exchange with Feste, the clown, who is dressed as a curate visiting Malvolio’s cell: Feste: What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wildfowl? Malvolio: That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. [Referring to the doctrine of metempsychosis, the transmigration of souls after death.] F: What think’st thou of his opinion? M: I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. F: Fare thee well: remain thou still in darkness. Feste indicates that identity is, as Bloom contends, “hopelessly unstable,” which Malvolio cannot or will not understand. And indeed, this fact is evident throughout the play, with its constant confusion of identities. Moreover, consider this remark by Toby, Olivia’s uncle and one of Malvolio’s tormentors, regarding Olivia mourning her brother’s death: “What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus. I am sure care’s an enemy to life.” Many things, Shakespeare may agree, are enemies to life: attachment to false ideals, absolutism; but not care. I don’t believe that Toby is speaking for Shakespeare here the way Rosalind, for example, may be said to speak for him; and he is certainly not speaking for Malvolio, who, misguided though he may be, possesses great care for Olivia, though it, like Olivia’s love for Viola/Cesario is misguided. One of the subtle tragedies of the play is the unfortunate condition of Malvolio. Stray Observations Toby: “Not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes…” Andrew: “I know to be up late is to be up late.” Toby: “A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can.”

John Donne, Songs and Sonnets

I’ve been reading Shakespeare at a slightly accelerated pace: not necessarily fast, but definitely not what you’d call “leisurely.” I have it in my head that I should finish him by June, when it will have been exactly three years since I first began this reading list (this blog was conceived a little later). This falls into the category of “problems I create for myself,” but it’s good to not get bogged down in the details of Shakespeare, which is very, very easy to do. I don’t, however, want to put everything on pause while I trudge through the Bard, so I’ll continue to work through the reading list while I finish him up.

Today, then, is John Donne, one of the three major metaphysical poets (the others being George Herbert and Andrew Marvell). All three are poets whom I read in school but never really “got,” and frankly I think they’re a little too much for a high school sophomore to wrap his head around. As is the case with all poets, Donne is working in conversation with poets from the past, specifically Petrarch, to whom he owes many of the tropes of love poetry that he so deftly shapes and reshapes. Moreover, Donne truly lives up to the title of “metaphysical” poet, as his poetry contains long and complex meditations on religion, spirituality, infinity, and even Neoplatonism. He often reads like a Persian Sufi poet in the way he marries romantic love with the experience of the divine, which makes his approach interpretation of traditional love poetry truly fascinating. We will focus here on his songs and sonnets; his religious poetry, which occasionally overlaps with his sonnets, feels more conventional, at least in its themes if not in its style.

Love, Revisited

We mentioned that Donne owes a lot to Petrarch for establishing the language with which to talk about love, and it’s interesting how relevant and modern many of those tropes feel, though his spin on them is always refreshing. Consider the simply titled poem, “The Broken Heart,” where he muses on the self-annihilating nature of love:

“He is stark mad, who ever says, / That he hath been in love an hour, / Yet not that love so soon decays, / But that it can ten in less space devour; / Who will believe me, if I swear / That I have had the plague a year? / Who would not laugh at me, if I should say, / I saw a flask of powder burn a day?”

Love is like a fast chemical reaction or a plague, something that destroys and decimates, with the power to metamorphose one thing into another. Who has not heard pop songs comparing love to something like fire or a drug (I’m looking at you, Ke$ha) that is swift and merciless?

Other poems hint at more complicated assessments of love. Consider the poem “Lovers’ Infiniteness,” which deals with the familiar idea that love can be, in some sense, infinite in measure. Yet he astutely recognizes the problems inherent in this idea. First, if she did not offer him all her love, then he can never win it all, if it is indeed infinite. Nor could he have all of her if she had offered it to him at one point, for “All was but all”: there is more to her today than the day she gave him all her love. What’s more, he realizes he can never possess all of her, because that would mean his love would one day plateau, yet he says that it grows every day. Maybe it’s the mathematician in me, but it’s cool to hear a poet give the logic behind his words due consideration, and even cooler when that consideration yields a fuller understanding of the words: for he doesn’t conclude from these meditations that love is finite, QED; rather he is able to understand better what the infinitude of love truly means.

Consider also “The Dream,” wherein the poet is awoken from a dream by his lover, and he feels as if his waking life is a continuation of the dream. Certainly we’ve heard that a beautiful lover may be a dream come true, but the focus is not on the beauty of the lover, but what she represents: a force that conflates reality and fantasy, truth and fiction: “My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it; / Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee suffice / To make dreams truths, and fables histories…” We will talk more about the line between dreams and reality later when we get to Descartes, but for now it’s interesting to consider the function of the lover for Donne: she is the instrument of truth the world, the dividing line between what is real and what is not.

Whence comes the metaphysical aspect of Donne’s poetry. Though the woman he loves is a person, she represents divinity and the manifestation of the perfect world in ours. And though both the poet and the lover exist in the world, they somehow transcend finitude through their love. In the poem “A Fever,” where his lover is sick and near death, he doesn’t worry that she will die because if she did, she would take the world with her: she is not only his world, but that which sustains the whole world:

“But yet thou canst not die, I know, / To leave this world behind, is death, / But when thou from this world wilt go, / The whole world vapours with thy breath. / … / Oh wrangling schools, that search what fire / Shall burn this world, had none the wit / Unto this knowledge to aspire, / That this her fever might be it?”

All and Nothing

Donne, like Shakespeare, enjoys playing with the idea of “nothing,” of negation, nonbeing, and the paradoxes those ideas engender. Love has a transformative power, as every lover since Ovid, and even before, knew. When it departs, it leaves the poet as the dried husk of a man, or even perhaps less:

“Study me then, you who shall lovers be / At the next world, that is, at the next spring: / For I am every dead thing, / In whom love wrought new alchemy. / For his art did express / A quintessence even from nothingness, / From dull privations, and lean emptiness / He ruined me, and I am re-begot / Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.” (“A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day”)

Love, which sustains the world, which is the essence of truth and reality, also has the power to unmake: its absence is darkness, death, negation.

The obverse of nothingness is completeness, which, if we learned anything from the medieval philosophers, can be as inscrutable as nothingness. Just as God is unknowable, so is love. From the poem “Farewell to Love”:

“I thought there was some deity in love / So did I reverence, and gave / Worship; as atheists at their dying hour / Call, what they cannot name, an unknown power, / As ignorantly did I crave…”

Two poems I think touch on these ideas (negation and completion), and I would like to consider them a little more closely. The first is one of Donne’s more famous poems, “Negative Love”. Being good students, we instantly think of “negative theology,” the idea that God cannot be described except in terms of what He is not: He is not finite, He is not corporeal, etc; that through knowing what He is not, we get a sense of what He is. The poem is short, so let’s quote the whole thing:

“I never stoop'd so low, as they / Which on an eye, cheek, lip, can prey; / Seldom to them which soar no higher / Than virtue, or the mind to admire. / For sense and understanding may / Know what gives fuel to their fire; / My love, though silly, is more brave; / For may I miss, whene'er I crave, / If I know yet what I would have. / If that be simply perfectest, / Which can by no way be express'd / But negatives, my love is so. / To all, which all love, I say no. / If any who deciphers best, / What we know not—ourselves—can know, / Let him teach me that nothing. This / As yet my ease and comfort is, / Though I speed not, I cannot miss.”

We get a sense of Donne’s love: he doesn’t love her for her outer beauty, which many who speak of inner beauty will admire. Yet Donne doesn’t stop at inner beauty either: “virtue, or the mind” are not the object of his admiration, for he can describe what those things are, and love that has reasons is not love. Loving everything about a person is insufficient; for we have no understanding even of ourselves, so how can we expect to accurately love another person. (My edition quotes Montaigne: “And he who hath no understanding of himself, what can he have understanding of?”) Therefore, Donne loves instead what he cannot know, “that nothing,” that inexpressible, untranslatable nothing. This again gives us a sense that his love is infinite, boundless. I am reminded of a line from “John My Beloved,” off Sufjan Stevens’ new album: “I love you more than the world can contain / In its lonely and ramshackle head.” There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, and to Donne, love is one of them.

As a side note, the idea of misguided or poorly aimed love recurs in Donne’s poems. In the poem “Love’s Alchemy,” he compares the love that people claim to find to compounds created in alchemy that are thought to be precursors of gold, but not gold itself: alchemists glorify “some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,” even though what they seek is (a) not that odoriferous thing, and (b) impossible through the means of alchemy. (This second point may not have been in Donne’s mind, but it certainly adds a dimension to our understanding.)

The other poem that I wanted to take a closer look at is “Air and Angels,” which is a portrayal of “realized” love, one that transcends a woman’s physical beauty and arrives at an abstract vision of “beauty.” Though he professes in “Negative Love” to not love because of outward appearances, he contends in A&A that he could not love without it: for although physical beauty is not an end in itself, one would not be able to recognize transcendent beauty without first understanding physical beauty:

“But since my soul, whose child love is, / Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, / More subtle than the parent is / Love must not be, but take a body too…”

If love were so subtle as to completely disregard beauty, the soul, which, like a child, can only understand by example, would not be able to comprehend love.

The connection between love, which is “some lovely glorious nothing,” and reality is explored also in the poem “The Ecstasy,” which has the line: “On man heaven’s influence works not so, / But that it first imprints the air, / So soul into the soul may flow, / Though it to the body first repair.” Heaven cannot work through men except through an intermediary, and so in order for two souls to be joined, first two bodies must be joined.

Stray Observations

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•       Penguin editions are usually very solid, but this one was especially good. AJ Smith carefully annotated the poems so that probably half the book is made up of notes; these aren’t simple glosses either, but often are interpretive, a rarity in Penguin books nowadays. Highly recommended if you plan to pick up a copy.
•       Another theme common to Donne is our personal responsibility for our own misery. From “Song”: “But come bad chance, / And we join to it our strength, / And we teach it art and length, / Itself o’er us to advance.” It reminds me of that great line from High Fidelity, paraphrased here: which came first, the music or the misery? Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable, or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?
•       From “The Sun Rising”, which plays on the common theme of young lovers separating at sunrise: “Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, / Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. / She is all states, and all princes, I, / Nothing else is. / Princes do but play us; compared to this, / All honour’s mimic; all wealth alchemy.” And a final command: “Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; / This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.”

Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew; A Midsummer Night's Dream; The Merchant of Venice

To paraphrase a statement made about K. in The Trial, I make it a point not to learn from experience: this time, we will again combine three plays into one post, not to preserve any sort of continuity but more simply to hide the fact that I don’t have much to say about them. These plays constitute some of Shakespeare’s earlier comedies (i.e., not the "big four"), and while I might have interesting observations if I were more of a poet, as this was the time when he really honed his technique, there isn’t as much philosophical heft to these plays, at least in the way that interests me. Of today’s plays, Midsummer has the most of what I would consider “Shakespearean”: long passages pregnant with meaning, characters who seem out of place in their world, metafictional aspects. Taming lacks most of these features, as does Merchant.

Additionally, discussions around Taming and Merchant usually focus on political rather than literary or philosophical matters. Critics make attempts to save Shakespeare from being a sexist or an anti-Semite, hoping that he was as forward-thinking in his politics as he was in his art. Whether or not they are right, the discussions are pretty uninteresting (although we will touch briefly on that discussion in relation to Taming).

In the sections below, we’ll take the plays one at a time, an approach that will hopefully prove more fruitful than our Henriad hodgepodge.

Taming of the Shrew

One undeniably “Shakespearean” feature of Taming is the play-within-a-play, which turns out to essentially be the entire play. In the opening, the vagrant Christopher Sly is duped into thinking he is an aristocrat, and the story of Katherine’s taming is told for his entertainment. We notice that this framing device is very similar to Arabian nights, and not only because of the story-within-a-story: one of the people duping him is a page pretending to be his wife, and Sly tries to have sex with him; the page convinces him to watch a play instead. Interestingly, we never return to Sly’s story. He gets a couple lines after the story begins, in act I, but then he’s gone. As far as I can tell, there’s no good explanation for his disappearance, and I'd rather not waste time speculating.  

The story itself is well-known in the sense that everyone remembers what the title promises: a shrew, Katherine, is tamed by a man, Petruchio. What’s so great about Shakespeare, though, is that the story is considerably more complicated than this. I’m not going to try to save him from charges of sexism, because that seems even more useless than speculating about Sly, but it is worth noting that his presentation of the “taming” is more subversive than it seems at first blush. As the introduction notes, for all Katherine’s famous temper, “She turns out to be remarkably pliable, doing exactly as her father… wish[es] her to do. Her younger sister, Bianca, on the surface all sweetness and good nature, is in fact the willful one, getting what she wants by pretending to be pliable. In a sense the taming of Katherine consists of turning her into Bianca—revealing to Katherine that she can get what she wants out of her husband by simply telling him what he wants to hear.”

And indeed she does, proving herself to be a "better" wife than Bianca and the weird prostitute or whatever that Hortensio brings, and along the way convincing Petruchio that she has been tamed.

Speaking of the taming, the descriptions of Katherine’s ordeal at Petruchio’s hands vary in intensity. The introduction says that Katherine “is wooed by bullying, invective, and physical mistreatment” and elsewhere accusations of starvation and torture are levied as well. In a way, these characterizations are true—Katherine does complain at one point about Petruchio not letting her eat—but that doesn’t stop them from being misleading. In casting Katherine as traumatized and helpless, we miss two key points. The first is that Petruchio, for all his torments, is giving her a taste of her own medicine: Petruchio “kills her in her own humour.”

Of course the notions of taming and domestication are abhorrent to us now, but viewing them simply as despicable distracts us from the second point, namely that Katherine’s wooing is the complement of Bianca’s. The introduction notes that while Katherine is wooed through mistreatment, Bianca is wooed “by impersonation, rhetoric, and charm,” and that “the two suitors’ methods have more in common than appears on the surface” as both depend on “misrepresentation, costume, and playacting.” Though the content is disturbing, the doubling, the shifting of offices, the subversion of expectations, is all very poetic. In that regard, Taming is a nice play. (Besides, the “physical mistreatment” seems funnier than critics make it out to be; there are worse atrocities in Married… with Children.)

Stray Observations

• Tranio to Lucentio on why to study: “Only, good master, while we do admire / This virtue and this moral discipline, / Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray, / Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks / As Ovid be an outcast quite adjured. / Balk logic with acquaintance that you have / And practice rhetoric in your common talk. / Music and poesy use to quicken you. / The mathematics and metaphysics, / Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you. / No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en. / In brief, sir, study what you must affect [like].”

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Midsummer, one of Shakespeare’s few original creations, was written around the time of Richard II, and to me, the two plays bear a good deal of resemblance to one another. For one thing, they both deal with big questions: Richard, about the relationship between power and mortality, Midsummer, about the boundary between reality and fantasy. Moreover, they address these questions with an intellectual seriousness that adds great enjoyment to the plays. As the introduction puts it, the play “marks the beginning of [Shakespeare’s] artistic maturity.”

At issue in the play, as we noted, is the relationship between reality and fantasy: “The Athenian court, where the action begins, is associated with the law, with reason…the wood outside Athens…is the realm of magic.” Yet thinking in such terms is detrimental to an understanding of the play, which emphasizes the fluidity and interdependency of the two: for all the incursions the fairy-world makes on the “real” world, the fairies are not all-powerful guardians of another realm, but fallible beings that have close cousins in Athens. Think of the domestic squabbling between Titania and Oberon vs Theseus and Hippolyta; think of the way Titania falls for Puck’s spell just as Lysander does.

Where the relationship between of reality and fantasy figures in is rather in the stubbornness of the humans, who, save for Bottom, have no knowledge of the fairy world; though we get the feeling that some characters—Hippolyta, notably—are amenable to the existence of such a world, others, like Theseus, are far too dull for such knowledge. In addition, the young lovers are just as guilty of privileging reality over fantasy. When Lysander wakes up loving Helena instead of Hermia, he says, “The will of man is by his reason swayed / And reason says you are the worthier maid.” Though the fairies are the cause of “those twists that the lovers attribute to logic[,] their efforts to rationalize their changing affections ironically expose the inadequacy of reason to explain much human perplexity.”

The mortals are not the only dull ones. Oberon, who literally has a means of making people fall in love, rebukes Puck after he makes a mistake, saying he “laid the love juice on some true love’s sight.” Bloom notes, though, that the youths lack such personality that they must be “a Shakespearean irony that suggests the arbitrariness of young love, from the perspective of everyone except the lover.” Though Oberon's sentiment is heartwarming, we haven't seen much to suggest that the love between any of these crazy kids is "true." Puck, by the way, sounds an awful lot like Theseus when he says, “What fools these mortals be!" Both men (well, sort of "men") think little of the other's world, though neither has had any meaningful interaction with it.

Returning to the idea of love, what are we to make of this play's attitude toward love? We have noted the seeming randomness of it. When Demetrius says he “will not know what all but he do know,” namely that he loves Hermia over Helena, we scoff a little; when Lysander says to Helena “when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, / In their nativity all truth appears. / How can these things in me seem scorn to you, / Bearing the barge of faith to prove them true?” we may pause before we dismiss it; yet when Demetrius says to Lysander “disparage not the faith thou dost not know,” who can laugh? For all the arbitrariness that love seems to take on, we must not dismiss as Theseus does its importance and reality. Hermia says to Theseus, “I would [Theseus] looked but with [Hermia’s] eyes,” to which her father responds, “rather your eyes must with his judgment look.” 

Shakespeare convinces us easily that there is little factual basis to any of the claims of love in the play; he could’ve accomplished it even just by depicting Titania in love with Bottom as an Ass (there are so many double entendres there). Yet having been guided away from Scylla, we must not content ourselves in sailing into Charybdis, for to dismiss claims of love because we see no basis for them is to be dull like Theseus. The love we see on display may not be true, and it may be as random as Bloom says. But who can deny the reality of a love that speaks these words: “Things base and vile, holding not quantity, / Love can transpose to form and dignity. / Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, / And therefore is winged cupid painted blind. / Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste: / Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste. / And therefore is Love said to be a child, / Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.” You can thank plain, boring Helena for that number.

We haven’t spoken yet of Bottom and the players. Much is made of Bottom being the only character who communicates with the fairies as well as the mortals, and indeed, his part is symbolic: I mean, he literally says “the wall is down that parted their fathers.” He might as well have ripped the curtain in the temple.  

He and the players worry about the line between fantasy and reality, whether fair ladies will take the clothes of a lion to be an actual lion, which, by the way, is another paradox the play presents: the lion is both real and fake, just like love. In its fantasy, it exists in the world of fairies; in its admission of playacting, it is “practically a parody of Theseus’s view of reality,” as Northrop Frye puts it, and indeed, Theseus does enjoy it: “The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.”

The lighthearted fancies of Midsummer are not to last, though. Frye continues: “When we come to King Lear, we shall suspect that it takes a madman to see into the heart of tragedy, and perhaps it takes a fool or clown, who habitually breathes the atmosphere of absurdity and paradox, to see into the heart of comedy.” Indeed, another critic, Meredith Skura, argues similarly: “The affection and indulgence with which Shakespeare depicts Bottom will turn to self-loathing in the tragedies, where the player merely struts and frets his hour upon the stage, where imagination is self-annihilating, and where the world is so dark that illusion is always deceptive and usually fatal.”

Stray Observations

• Theseus’s great pedantry: “More strange than true. I never may believe / These antique fables nor these fairy toys. / Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, / Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend / More than cool reason ever comprehends. / The lunatic, the lover, and the poet / Are of imagination all compact. / One sees more devils than vast hell can hold: / That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic / Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. / The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, / Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, / And as imagination bodies forth / The form of things unknown, the poet’s pen / Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing / A local habitation and a name. / Such tricks hath strong imagination / That, if it would but apprehend some joy, / It comprehends some bringer of that joy; / Or in the night, imagining some fear, / How easy is a bush supposed a bear.”  
• A thought from Northrop Frye related to the above quote: “What the poet apprehends are moods or emotions, like joy, and what he uses for comprehension is some story of character to account for the emotion.”

Merchant of Venice

Merchant was a very weird play to me. In some ways, it has rather traditional features of Shakespeare: play-acting, a brilliant female lead, anti-Semitism (wait, nevermind). In other ways, however, it feels so little like what we expect of Shakespeare. For example, Harold Bloom notes that Shakespeare generally dislikes plots in which young people get the better of old people, which was a common theme in his day (as in ours); yet that is what happens here. For another, the plot is extremely conventional. There are few twists, few subplots, few hidden motives; everyone seems to act exactly the way they are expected to. Which doesn’t make the play bad by any means, but it does make it a little boring.

Which is unfortunate, because it had a very promising opening. Portia and Nerissa are two fantastic characters, and their banter at the beginning is wonderful. Consider this speech of Portia’s:

“If to do were easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth—to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband.”

Bloom puts a high premium on the “liveliness” of Shakespeare’s characters, and he gives Rosalind the highest place among the heroines. If I had a vote, it would be for Portia, but perhaps only the Portia of the first act.

And… yeah. That’s about all I have to say for Merchant. It was a pretty entertaining play, with some reprehensible anti-Semitism, but like I said for Taming, there’s no reason to either condemn Shakespeare or save him from our 21^st century maligning. (Plus, everyone addressing Shylock as “Jew” made me think of Borat, so that’s pretty funny.) 

Stray Observations

• Gratiano: “You have too much respect upon the world; / They lose it that do buy it with much care.”
• Gratiano: “All things that are / Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.”
• Antonio: “You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, / Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.”

Shakespeare, Henry IV, 1 and 2; Henry V

There may be a touch of hubris--or perhaps just of laziness--in writing a single post about three separate Shakespeare plays, especially when we dedicated an entire post to one play last time. Yet the similarities among the Henries make them feel distinct from Richard II. For one thing, they relate the aftermath of Bolingbroke's usurpation of the throne, of the interruption of cosmic order by political savvy and physical force. For another, they are about a new political dynasty, that of Henry Bolingbroke and his son, Prince Hal. Even more significantly, they trace the development of Prince Hal, who is the true focus of all three plays, even the ones named for his father; the elder Henry, true to his advice to his son, remains aloof and largely unseen, both by his people and the audience. (Let's ignore the fact that I didn't much care for Henry V and don't have much to say about it except in relation to the Henry IVs.)

It is the interruption of order and the resulting chaos that I want to focus on, though it is by no means the only theme running through the plays. The recurring cosmological imagery, also present in Richard II, is another thread to follow. So, too, is the way in which power begets power, and falsehood falsehood; Henry's rise to the throne may have seemed unscrupulous and even Machiavellian in Richard II, but in these plays, Hal's political mind is revealed to be much greater than his father's, and the way in which he defines his own mythology, as the introduction put it, is fascinating and terrifying. The interruption of order, though, provides the best (or at least most interesting) lens through which to view the plays.

For example, the tension between order and chaos can be seen in the way that events through H4&5 repeat and, through repetition, devolve. The lively tavern scenes in 1H4 are bled of their mirth by H5; the ambition of Hotspur is replaced by the clowning of the soldiers under Henry V; and the miraculous faux-resurrection of the Falstaff only delays his silent off-screen death, a death that should remind us of the end that Mowbray feared in Richard II.

This post will be structured, then, not by chronology but by the different manifestations of this transition from order to chaos.  Let's listen to the words of Northumberland, at the opening of 2H4--the midpoint of the Henriad--upon discovering that his son died in battle:

“Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature’s hand / Keep the wild flood confined! Let order die! / And let this world no longer be a stage / To feed contention in a lingering act. / But let one spirit of the first-born Cain / Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set / On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, / And darkness be the burier of the dead!”


Truth and Falsehood

“We fortify in paper and in figures, / Using the names of men instead of men.”

We know from having previously read Othello that Shakespeare is inclined to thinking about the relationship of one's actions to one's self. Iago, a consummate actor, is not what he is, and this quality is also within the young Prince Hal, of whose carefully curated appearance very little can be said with certainty. 

Without a doubt the most obvious manifestation of his falsehood is in his treatment of Falstaff, who for all his bawdy wisdom cannot figure Hal out, or perhaps just does not wish to. Yet the fat knight dotes upon him, and it is impossible not to love their relationship, which seems built upon a mutual love of puns, wordplay, and debauchery. Apart from this, there are many other reasons for Falstaff to love Hal so. The most obvious is that Hal is a surrogate son for Falstaff, who instructs the prince carefully in the ways of parody and thievery. He also appreciates that the soon-to-be ruler of England enjoys the company of tavern-dwellers as much as he does, something the current King Henry does not.

Status also motivates Falstaff to a degree: not, however, the currency of social status that so many others long for, but the ability to sit at the right hand of the king and be set for life, so to speak. When Hal is about the be crowned king, Falstaff rushes to his friend, certain that both of their futures are secure. Yet in the most devastating act of falsehood, Hal denies Falstaff his acknowledgement: “I know thee not, old man… / I have long dreamt of such a kind of man, / So surfeit-swelled, so old, and so profane, / But, being awaked, I do despise my dream… / Presume not that I am the thing I was.” Falstaff becomes but a bad dream to the new king, and he plays that role well: by the time of Henry V, he is a shade, a man spoken of but never seen. (Similar, I think, to the way in which Henry IV is often heard about but rarely seen.)

To stay with this rejection for a moment, we should consider that some of the most heartbreaking scenes in literature focus on a rejection of knowledge: "Eveline" and "The Dead," two of Joyce's most famous short stories, close with rejection: the first, a fiancee's rejection of her betrothed ("Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition."); the second, the knowledge that a husband never even knew his wife at all. Similarly, Nora's decision to leave Torvald at the end of Ibsen's "A Doll's House" is motivated by her realization that her love for him and the life they built together is not as sure as she once believed. Perhaps there is no greater sorrow than that of betrayal, that sin for which one is devoured for eternity in the maw of Lucifer.

Perhaps Hal's rejection of Falstaff would have been difficult to predict, but one cannot deny that it was anticipated throughout 1H4 and 2H4. Hal was never "who he is," neither to Falstaff nor to his father. When Henry tells him how worried he is about his trajectory in life, Hal assumes the role of the faithful son, saying, “I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord, / Be more myself.” We should be suspicious of people in Shakespeare who claim to be themselves, as if such a thing were simple to do. His uncertain selfhood is revealed all the more when he becomes king. When he tries to woo the French princess, Katherine, he asks her, "Do you like me," to which she tellingly responds, "Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell wat is like me."

His most obvious rejection of the fixed nature of truth and self comes early on, in his first soliloquy, where he sets out his plan for becoming king, one which he follows with terrifying consistency: 

“I know you all [tavern-dwellers], and will awhile uphold / The unyoked humor of your idleness. / Yet herein will I imitate the sun, / Who doth permit the base contagious clouds / To smother up his beauty from the world, / That, when he please again to be himself, / Being wanted, he may be more wondered at / By breaking through the foul and ugly mists / Of vapors that did seem to strangle him. / If all the year were playing holidays, / To sport would be as tedious as to work; / But when they seldom come, they wished-for come, / And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents…” 

Notice, too, the shifting offices: sport is like work, work sport.

Moreover, when Hal asks Poins, hypothetically, what he would think of him if he--Hal--were to weep over his father's impending death, Poins responds that, since Hal clearly wants the throne, he would think him a hypocrite, and asks forgiveness for such a thought. Hal, however, does not begrudge him it: he says, "It would be every man's thought, and thou art a / Blessed fellow to think as every man thinks." Hal recognizes the utility of honestly believing what others believe, yet perhaps he is a little sullen that he himself does not.

Falstaff, too, is capable of falsehood, to a degree that surprises even Prince Hal. When Hal observes the fat knight seemingly lying dead only to see him later, alive, Hal is astounded: “I saw him dead, / Breathless and bleeding on the ground. Art thou alive? / Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight? / I prithee speak. We will not trust our eyes / Without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem’st.” Perhaps he did not expect his friend to be as protean as he; perhaps he feels he has underestimated him; and perhaps it is this recognition of Falstaff's cleverness that leads Hal to reject him when he gains power.


2Henry4Furious

Sequels in literature are few and far between. You have the Iliad and the Odyssey (and the fanfic spinoff, the Aeneid), but other than that, there aren't many examples. In order to help us elucidate the nature of the sequel, let's look to the wise words of the tagline of the film Scream 3: the first one makes the rules; the second one breaks the rules; the third one....there are no rules.

To put this idea in a more literary mode, let's see the introduction to 2H4: “Shakespeare returns to the familiar storyline of Henry IV, but in the process of satisfying our desire to revisit the past he causes us to examine our own appetite for such a return – and, ultimately, painfully, to renounce it... Shakespeare’s return to this world renders it both the same and irrevocably changed, a deliberate and distorted echo of its former self.”

Indeed, a feeling of devolution permeates the play, to the point that even the characters acknowledge it, however obliquely: "There is a history in all men's lives, / Figuring the nature of the times deceased, / The which observed, a man may prophesy, / With a near aim, of the main chance of things / As yet not come to life." (Cf. Machiavelli)

Though in these cases no one outright says, "Man, it feels like we're in a sequel, huh?" Although....

"Things must be as they may. Men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time, and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may. Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I cannot tell." 

That's Nym, a knight in Henry V's retinue, speaking in the final play of the tetralogy. It sounds an awful lot like this speech...

"It's the final chapter. It could be fucking 'Reservoir Dogs' [i.e., bloody] by the time this thing is through...So in closing, let me say good luck, godspeed, and for some of you, I'll see you soon. Cause the rules say some of you ain't gonna make it."

That's Randy, speaking of the nature of trilogies from beyond the grave via videotape in Scream 3. Now, it's expected that a horror movie to talk about blood, in the same way that a play about war talks about blood. But the important thing is the acknowledgement. This is a conclusion.

There are other clues that we are in a sequel. Consider the trajectory of Hal. From the outset, we have been uncertain about who Hal is. Though we have access to him through his soliloquies, even they rang false considering the rich tapestries of lies he can weave in an instant. How can we trust the protagonist if we even doubt him at his most candid and vulnerable moments?

In the Henry IVs, we had access to his interior, however murky it was. In Henry V, when he is king, we don't, not truly. Hal becomes fully king, a bright sun shining in the sky. Unlike his father, whose comet showed its face on rare occasions, Hal is never "off": he is an actor who is always onstage. And from the way in which he handles himself and his people, he seems pretty damn good at it. And there's the rub. How good is he? Can we imagine that, though he never acknowledges it himself, he is still the boy sitting in the tavern with Falstaff, plotting robberies?

Imagination is an odd thing in these plays. H5 features a chorus, a rare feature in Shakespeare, that asks us to use our imagination when watching the battles, as Elizabethan theater did not have the special effects we take for granted today. (Or, you know, the scenery.) The battles, they say, are not life-size, and they ask us to imagine that they are greater than they seem.

What do we make of such a choice? Given that our focus has been on Hal's falsehood, perhaps the chorus is something of an open acknowledgement of the falseness of this final play. If the chorus begs us to take the bare stage for a battlefield, should we not also take Hal's play-acting of a king for a real king, one whose intentions we have no reason to question? Or how about his love for Katherine? Are we to take that at face value?

I should hope not. If Falstaff carries over, even as a shadow, it must be so that we will not forget what Hal is capable of, no matter how much the chorus praises him and his leadership, no matter how playful the scenes between him and Katherine are, no matter how charming and smart and skilled he is, we must remember that Hal is above all a liar. Hal is the boy who rejected Falstaff, and no amount of victories can erase such a sin.

Should we then not enjoy the play? Should we watch Hal play king with our arms crossed, scowling, hoping that he notices us and realizes that we know who he truly is?

Do we in real life? Do we call out hypocrisy, falseness, sin? Do we let evil flourish? Do we stop it? 

Doing Things With Words

Of course, Shakespeare wouldn't be Shakespeare without incredible wordplay, and in that regard, Hal and Falstaff are two of his most outstanding characters. Joyce's power over language was reflected in his love of puns, and so too do Hal and Falstaff demonstrate their command of language by constantly making puns. I won't quote any of them because most of their punning is lost on me; 400 years later, their jokes need to be heavily, heavily annotated. Suffice it to say that their words are very powerful weapons. What is important to understand is that puns, as noted in the introduction, "change the value of a heretofore stable and singular meaning of a word;" they are the very essence of disorder.

So, too, is the work that parody accomplishes. Hal and the tavern mercilessly parody the court, effectively neutering any power that the king's words could have held. Again, the introduction notes that parody makes it "difficult for us subsequently to regard the assumptions of king and rebels with the gravity with which they take themselves."

Outside of his puns and parodies, Hal does not cease to use language to great effect. To return briefly to the rejection of Falstaff, what is most devastating is that Hal is more a progeny of Falstaff than of Henry in this sense: that Hal is the only character in the plays who can move between the king's court and the tavern as well as Falstaff--truly, even better than Falstaff. Hal, despite getting along well with the miscreants in the tavern, is just as comfortable in the political world, “where power belongs to those best able to improvise in response to constantly changing circumstances.”

Politically gifted, Hal avoids the pitfalls of Kafka's characters, who mistake the trappings of authority with authority itself: Hal “never [takes] the sign of royalty for literal truth” and “can easily move among the necessary symbols as the occasion requires.” To be king “is to know how to manipulate signs and symbols and stories, to be master of all, but believe in none.” [All quotes from the introduction.]

Hal and Falstaff are not, however, the only characters in the play who command language. Hotspur, the analogue of Hamlet's Laertes, uses the language of knighthood in a world where the value and future of chivalry is uncertain. From the introduction: 

“Hotspur is the ‘theme of honor’s tongue’… [his] world is the traditional one of ‘History,’ a record of events written by the winners, of the doings of great men enacting God’s design, with little recognition of what goes on behind the scenes of battle. He is as ill at ease with political negotiation as he is with domestic life.” 

We have noted at other points in our reading that adhering to outmoded conceptions of honor is a sure way to disaster, and in this, “Hotspur is ultimately the tragic figure of the play, caught by his own flaws in a machinery larger than his own power to direct it.” The tragedy of Hotspur is exactly that his conception of a firm truth is simply not justifiable in the world of the plays. “The problem in this universe is that sincerity of speech or action—in the sense of originality and authenticity—is long gone, eroded by the climate of ever feebler echoes of long-lost first truths.”

It is hard, though, to feel all that bad for him: when, for example, he makes fun of soldiers for using “lady terms,” or when he talks about “fill[ing] up chronicles in time to come” with his deeds. His idea of honorable speech is just unrestrained ego: “By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap / To pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon, / Or dive into the bottom of the deep, /…/ And pluck up growned honor by the locks.” Of this speech, it is said: “He apprehends a world of figures here, / But not the form of what he should attend.” This, of course, is supremely different from Hal.

Yet as we learned from John of Gaunt in Richard II, nothing bequeaths command of language (or at least the appearance of such command) as effectively as death, and in death, at the hands of young Hal, Hotspur almost becomes a poet:

"O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth! / I better brook the loss of brittle life / Than those proud titles thou hast won of me. / They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh. / But thoughts the slaves of life, and life time’s fool, / And time, that takes survey of all the world, / Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy, / But that the earthy and cold hand of death / Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust, / And food for—" 

Yet he doesn't achieve the transcendence that Richard did: his speech is cut off in the middle.

(As an aside, notice that the speech is in verse. While R2 was completely in verse, the other plays of the Henriad are a mix of prose and verse, often (I think?) divided between prose tavern scenes and verse court scenes. This seems a characteristic of the same tendency toward disorder felt elsewhere in the play: the court tries to retain a sense of old-world decorum, while the tavern lives to subvert it.)

The killing of Hotspur by Hal feels like the only possible outcome in the world of the plays, for without such a decisive event (death may be the only remaining certainty, though Falstaff avoids it once) there would be no way to choose between their contending claims to the throne: we cannot arbitrate between them because neither owns “the language of right and order”: it is “just a language, to be spoken more or less convincingly by any speaker who chooses.” Language can provide semblance of order, but it is not order itself. As such, only the finality of death can settle the matter.

I often dislike climaxes (climaces?) that rely on one person living and another dying (since we can usually guess who will live, and when we can't it's somehow even more heavy-handed), but this is an example of the best way of handling such an ending. There could have been no other way of deciding the outcome, and as Judge Holden said in Blood Meridian, "This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justification. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination. It is the testing of one’s will and the will of another within that larger will which because it binds them is therefore forced to select."


Ambitions, Fulfilled and Unfulfilled

Alluded to at the end of R2, Jerusalem becomes something of a symbol in the remainder of the Henriad. Throughout Henry IV's kingship, he talks about going to Jerusalem to fight a holy war. Yet he always finds excuses to avoid it; his "holy purpose" is not holy enough for him to follow through. This is but a symptom of the decline of the king's office. As the introduction notes, once Henry overthrows Richard, “Politics is no longer a matter of high ideals and high tempers, but an ignoble and repetitive motion of declining momentum.” Henry's repeated putting-off of his crusade is not an anomaly, but a fact of this brave new world.

In the end, though, he does make it to Jerusalem, dying in a room of his palace so named, fulfilling a prophecy that he will die “in Jerusalem.” From the introduction: “It is a fulfillment that brilliantly figures the loss of the former sacred truths and their replacement by the far more mundane terms of realpolitik.” To Henry, “’Jerusalem’ has always meant the latter.” Notice, too, the devolution implicit in his death: Henry aims (or claims to aim) for Jerusalem, yet ends up dead in a parody of the holy city.

His son, however, is far more skilled in political campaigns than his father. Not only is he more convincing in his feigned religiosity--his first line in 2H4 is "Before God, I am exceedingly weary"--but we get the impression at the beginning of H5 that Hal will make it to Jerusalem: he effectively uses reverse psychology to convince the archbishop (who needs very little convincing) to bless the Jerusalem campaign: “And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, / That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading.”


Stray Observations

• I expected my hubris to catch up to me, and in a way it did: there was far too much material in these plays to cover in one post. Yet the most fascinating material lies in the intersections between the plays. I do find it useful to see the way chaos seeps into every crack, and in that regard, a bird's eye view is useful. Yet the individual plays, particularly the Henry IVs, just have so much that I wish I could have looked at alone. Alas, another time.
• “There is some soul of goodness in things evil, / Would men observingly distill it out.”
• Falstaff: "A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true to one another." This is very similar to the opening of The Dark Knight, itself a sequel, wherein the manager of the bank the Joker robs says, "Oh, criminals in this town used to believe in things. Honor. Respect. Look at you! What do you believe in, huh?" Even among thieves, there is honor, yet Hal, who robs the robbers, seems to be a new breed of villain.
• Well, honor, what do you think of that, Falstaff? “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. 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 an insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction [slander] will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon [coat of arms]—and so ends my catechism.” 
• Wow, another Falstaff quote, you don't say: “Emboweled? If thou embowel me today, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too tomorrow. ‘Sblood, ‘twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot [Hotspur] had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie; I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure; yea, and I’ll swear I killed him. Why, may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me.”
• "Past and to come seems best, things present worst."
• Lol tennis balls.