Recently, I have attacked a new piece of classic literature, begun (most appropriately) on my spiritual journey. Milton's Paradise Lost is en epic poem from the bad ole 1600s. It tells of Satan's fall from heaven, and describes his temptation of Adam and Eve as a subtle revenge upon God. Suffice to say, it's pretty much been banned as long as it's been written.
However, I tend to think that controversy is a good place to find literature, and with this tome, I think I am correct.
The Fall interests me, not just the story, which is interesting enough, but the traces it has through all literature. I think that my study at Oxford this summer is going to centered around TH White's The Once and Future King as a reincarnation of this concept/theme.
For whatever reason, humans are deeply attracted to ideals, to logic, to the loftiness of reason and generosity. But, this deep attraction will always be undermined by our lower, animal instincts. Revenge, lust (whether for sex, wealth, or power), rage--these forces pull otherwise intelligent and strong humans from their pedestals and make barbarians of the purest and most civilized. It happens over and over again, and always will--because of the time it happened first. This is more than enough reason for me to be interested in Milton's work.
Yet the philosophy is not what I have enjoyed most about my reading of Paradise Lost. Rather, the lyrical descriptions of places unknown to Man that are the most endearing.
More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite
More grateful to their Supper Fruits they fell,
Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs
Yielded to them, sidelong as they sat recline
On the soft downy bank damaskt with flow'rs.
damaskt=patterned (a damask is also a type of rose, clever Milton)
No wonder the loss of Eden was such a price to pay, for such wonders. I always love it when a writer from centuries past is able to evoke something clearly to the modern reader--such beauty that transcends time and place.
Molly
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Saturday Spirit Quest
This past weekend I was fortunate enough to spend a day purely in the seeking of enlightenment. It was a journey of rather in-epic proportions, but my questing buddy and I made every effort to imagine ourselves heroic knights seeking all knowledge, beauty, and truth--it lent a certain gravity to mundane events such as crossing bridges (wild rivers into unknown lands), going to Cracker Barrel (a great bountiful feast set out by the gods for their true followers), etc.
The reason for this trip was that after the horrors of spring break, there seems to be a lingering sense of ill around those of us who went, as if the universe did not give us quite enough bad luck then, so they had to make up for it now. My questing buddy (QB) and I are attending a summer program at Oxford this summer, and were terrified that another experience would be tainted (or let's be honest, devoured) by our bad fortune.
So we sat down and mapped out a plan--there are only so many spiritual places in Alabama. We set off for The Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament--a beautiful monastery which is home, not only to some odd monks, but to the Clare Nuns of Perpetual Adoration, and the Knights of the Holy Eucharist (who keep emus). We attended one of the sessions of adoration, and it was one of the most transcendental experiences I've had--right up there with dancing naked under full moons, and skinny dipping under waterfalls. (It's funny that nudity has played such a large role in the defining moments of my life.) But seriously, we could not see the nuns, they were singing from behind the Shrine, but their voices, harmonized and unaccompanied repetitive in Hail Mary and The Lord's Prayer, wafted over, ghostly for us. We sat transfixed for the longest time, just listening and taking in the opulence.
After exploring for a while, we left offerings in the garden at the feet of the Virgin, and hit up the gift shop for some Saint Medallions. (For me, Michael: for travelers and in general--he's the archangel, guys. And Joan of Arc: for courage and passion.)
Then it was off to lunch at Cracker Barrel and the Ave Maria Grotto, or "little Jerusalem." Brother Joseph spent the better part of his life crafting all the important sites in the world in miniature with such odd materials as bottle caps, marbles, and scrap metal. It is a sight to behold--expansive and intricate. I loved the hanging gardens (of Babylon), as well as the Tower of Babel.
Later we attended the school play of a friend of ours, and made a late night Denny's run--sort of a conclusive way to make peace with the Chicago layover and the resultant hours spent in Denny's, trying to eat as cheaply as possible.
All in all, I felt like it was a highly successful quest--all week I have been buoyed by the things I've seen and I've tried to hold on to that transcendence I felt at the Shrine. I don't know if it was the nature of what we did, or just the very act of going and seeking for something immaterial--but I feel that we found it.
Molly
The reason for this trip was that after the horrors of spring break, there seems to be a lingering sense of ill around those of us who went, as if the universe did not give us quite enough bad luck then, so they had to make up for it now. My questing buddy (QB) and I are attending a summer program at Oxford this summer, and were terrified that another experience would be tainted (or let's be honest, devoured) by our bad fortune.
So we sat down and mapped out a plan--there are only so many spiritual places in Alabama. We set off for The Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament--a beautiful monastery which is home, not only to some odd monks, but to the Clare Nuns of Perpetual Adoration, and the Knights of the Holy Eucharist (who keep emus). We attended one of the sessions of adoration, and it was one of the most transcendental experiences I've had--right up there with dancing naked under full moons, and skinny dipping under waterfalls. (It's funny that nudity has played such a large role in the defining moments of my life.) But seriously, we could not see the nuns, they were singing from behind the Shrine, but their voices, harmonized and unaccompanied repetitive in Hail Mary and The Lord's Prayer, wafted over, ghostly for us. We sat transfixed for the longest time, just listening and taking in the opulence.
After exploring for a while, we left offerings in the garden at the feet of the Virgin, and hit up the gift shop for some Saint Medallions. (For me, Michael: for travelers and in general--he's the archangel, guys. And Joan of Arc: for courage and passion.)
Then it was off to lunch at Cracker Barrel and the Ave Maria Grotto, or "little Jerusalem." Brother Joseph spent the better part of his life crafting all the important sites in the world in miniature with such odd materials as bottle caps, marbles, and scrap metal. It is a sight to behold--expansive and intricate. I loved the hanging gardens (of Babylon), as well as the Tower of Babel.
Later we attended the school play of a friend of ours, and made a late night Denny's run--sort of a conclusive way to make peace with the Chicago layover and the resultant hours spent in Denny's, trying to eat as cheaply as possible.
All in all, I felt like it was a highly successful quest--all week I have been buoyed by the things I've seen and I've tried to hold on to that transcendence I felt at the Shrine. I don't know if it was the nature of what we did, or just the very act of going and seeking for something immaterial--but I feel that we found it.
Molly
Monday, April 23, 2007
The Travel Journal (part 4)
The big finale to our spring break debacle.
7:45pm 3.22.07
We are sitting in the Noel Coward theater about to see Avenue Q. We bought tickets for the balcony, but when we got here, they upgraded us to stalls! (Good luck? What?) However, the person in front of me is very tall, and I'm contemplating suicide. Boo.
Midnight 3.23.07
Well, I'll begin at the end and say that Avenue Q was incredible. The woman only partially obstructed my view, and the show was hysterical, creative, and a little bit bittersweet. It was one of the most satisfying theater experiences I've had.
Today started off with an interesting bus tour of London, including some great pictures, some rain, and a stop at the gorgeous St. Paul's Cathedral. Then there was the madness of Leicester Square and buying tickets. Lunch in a cute sandwich shop (pricy but good) and over three hours in the National Gallery. I saw half of the paintings/artists we studied in Art History, it was wonderful.
New favorite Monet: The Houses of Parliament at sunset. Favorite thing altogether? The eight small Seurat studies that showed his experimentation, which lead to the development of pointilism. Also the Bather's painting. Biggest disappointment? Finding out that La Grande Jatte was in Chicago and I missed it. Still I had an incredible, awe-inspiring time.
After this we met up with the group (The Alex City kids spent the entire day at the Hard Rock Cafe and looking for clubs) and had really good Indian food. Then there was the Q. As I've already said, it was wonderful. We took the Tube home, really excellent. That has to be one of the most efficient ways to travel. Tomorrow is a completely free day, and though I know that we can't do everything, I plan to have a fantastic time.
Oh, also today someone from EF came to talk to our teacher. I really hope we get partial reimbursement. We deserve it. On that note, I'm a little bit worried about the money situation, I haven't really kept track. As much fun as I'm (finally) having, by and large, I really just want to go home.
12:30am 3.24.07
Today at 5:45am) we get to go home. I just talked to mom and cried, I couldn't help it--I'm so happy to leave.
This past morning we woke up to find out that two girls on a completely separate tour in the same hotel claimed they were raped by two of the Alex City boys. They revealed this to a member of our group, meaning several of us had to give statements and be questioned (not me, thank God). This morning we went to the Tower of London, but I was so numb to it--all I remember was right before we saw the crown jewels this video of Elizabeth's coronation. She looked so beautiful and also scared and sad. But we had to stay in the gift shop for two hours while they questioned one of us. It was sickeningly stressful for all.
We saw those boys as being stupid and inconsiderate but not as monsters who (allegedly) raped 14 and 15 year old girls. I don't even want to think about it. Once all that mess was dealt with, we went to see the Globe (getting fairly lost along the way) and took a lot of pictures (not enough time or money to take a tour). Then to Leicester square for tickets to the Woman in Black and on to dinner. We had quite good fish and chips (I'm so glad we're past the peas and carrots stage). However, one of our group members had a total breakdown during dinner. It made me really see what this trip has done to us, both physically and mentally. We went and saw the play which was excellently acted, and then came back to the hotel to get packed up. I'm going to try to get some sleep before we're forced on a plane.
9:32am 3.24.07
We sit in Heathrow airport again, but at least this time we have seats to sit in. The rapists from Alex City posted bail and are going home, though police investigation will continue. Our flight is at eleven, but we've been here since seven in the morning and they've yet to post our gate. We're sitting (some people miraculously can sleep) in the holding area surrounded by bustling crowds of people. But again, at least we have seats.
9am 3.25.07
I am home.
As you can imagine, it was quite the trip of a lifetime, in many many mixed ways. It took several weeks before any of us started to act or feel normally, and telling the story was little help. Mostly we wanted sympathy, but no matter how we expressed the events, the emotion was unclear. Then we reached the point where we never wanted to talk about it again. Now, I think, I have made it into a dinner party story in my head, one that I will tell for years--the worst spring break ever. In that way, I think, I am taking the power out of the story and making it my own--my power to wield as I choose.
I will not be beaten down by circumstance--my trip to Oxford this summer remains bright, and it will be. Just the act of putting down the words of everything that happened over spring break was a way I managed to cope--if anything the trip was a testament to the power of the written word.
Not that I needed any more evidence of that.
Molly
7:45pm 3.22.07
We are sitting in the Noel Coward theater about to see Avenue Q. We bought tickets for the balcony, but when we got here, they upgraded us to stalls! (Good luck? What?) However, the person in front of me is very tall, and I'm contemplating suicide. Boo.
Midnight 3.23.07
Well, I'll begin at the end and say that Avenue Q was incredible. The woman only partially obstructed my view, and the show was hysterical, creative, and a little bit bittersweet. It was one of the most satisfying theater experiences I've had.
Today started off with an interesting bus tour of London, including some great pictures, some rain, and a stop at the gorgeous St. Paul's Cathedral. Then there was the madness of Leicester Square and buying tickets. Lunch in a cute sandwich shop (pricy but good) and over three hours in the National Gallery. I saw half of the paintings/artists we studied in Art History, it was wonderful.
New favorite Monet: The Houses of Parliament at sunset. Favorite thing altogether? The eight small Seurat studies that showed his experimentation, which lead to the development of pointilism. Also the Bather's painting. Biggest disappointment? Finding out that La Grande Jatte was in Chicago and I missed it. Still I had an incredible, awe-inspiring time.
After this we met up with the group (The Alex City kids spent the entire day at the Hard Rock Cafe and looking for clubs) and had really good Indian food. Then there was the Q. As I've already said, it was wonderful. We took the Tube home, really excellent. That has to be one of the most efficient ways to travel. Tomorrow is a completely free day, and though I know that we can't do everything, I plan to have a fantastic time.
Oh, also today someone from EF came to talk to our teacher. I really hope we get partial reimbursement. We deserve it. On that note, I'm a little bit worried about the money situation, I haven't really kept track. As much fun as I'm (finally) having, by and large, I really just want to go home.
12:30am 3.24.07
Today at 5:45am) we get to go home. I just talked to mom and cried, I couldn't help it--I'm so happy to leave.
This past morning we woke up to find out that two girls on a completely separate tour in the same hotel claimed they were raped by two of the Alex City boys. They revealed this to a member of our group, meaning several of us had to give statements and be questioned (not me, thank God). This morning we went to the Tower of London, but I was so numb to it--all I remember was right before we saw the crown jewels this video of Elizabeth's coronation. She looked so beautiful and also scared and sad. But we had to stay in the gift shop for two hours while they questioned one of us. It was sickeningly stressful for all.
We saw those boys as being stupid and inconsiderate but not as monsters who (allegedly) raped 14 and 15 year old girls. I don't even want to think about it. Once all that mess was dealt with, we went to see the Globe (getting fairly lost along the way) and took a lot of pictures (not enough time or money to take a tour). Then to Leicester square for tickets to the Woman in Black and on to dinner. We had quite good fish and chips (I'm so glad we're past the peas and carrots stage). However, one of our group members had a total breakdown during dinner. It made me really see what this trip has done to us, both physically and mentally. We went and saw the play which was excellently acted, and then came back to the hotel to get packed up. I'm going to try to get some sleep before we're forced on a plane.
9:32am 3.24.07
We sit in Heathrow airport again, but at least this time we have seats to sit in. The rapists from Alex City posted bail and are going home, though police investigation will continue. Our flight is at eleven, but we've been here since seven in the morning and they've yet to post our gate. We're sitting (some people miraculously can sleep) in the holding area surrounded by bustling crowds of people. But again, at least we have seats.
9am 3.25.07
I am home.
As you can imagine, it was quite the trip of a lifetime, in many many mixed ways. It took several weeks before any of us started to act or feel normally, and telling the story was little help. Mostly we wanted sympathy, but no matter how we expressed the events, the emotion was unclear. Then we reached the point where we never wanted to talk about it again. Now, I think, I have made it into a dinner party story in my head, one that I will tell for years--the worst spring break ever. In that way, I think, I am taking the power out of the story and making it my own--my power to wield as I choose.
I will not be beaten down by circumstance--my trip to Oxford this summer remains bright, and it will be. Just the act of putting down the words of everything that happened over spring break was a way I managed to cope--if anything the trip was a testament to the power of the written word.
Not that I needed any more evidence of that.
Molly
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Travel Journal (part three)
8am 3.20.07
We are now on the Ulysses, the largest ferry in the world. It's like a cruise ship that runs between Ireland and Wales. We're taking the route which takes a slow four hours, leaving Ireland behind and heading for Wales.
6:42 pm 3.20.07
What a lovely day. After a long (slightly nauseating) ferry ride during which we befriended art student and Irishman Ross, we got aboard a bus and headed into Angelsey, an island off the coast. The landscape was rolling and green with more sheep than people (to quote tour guide Matt) much like Ireland but craggier, more wild in its beauty. Compare the Bronte sisters, Charlotte and Emily--that is Ireland and Wales. I love Wales--it is shockingly beautiful. We ate lunch at an authentic countryside fish and chips place (greasy and delicious) and talked to the owners; an old husband and wife duo who gave us advice about hiding our money and called our group "Ala-bah-ma."
Then we asked to take our picture with the man. His wife spent forever looking through the camera only to say that she needed her glasses. His response? "Christ on a bike!" A wonderful phrase I fully intend to use. Words can't describe what comes next: Beaumaris Castle. In ruins and utterly picturesque. I fell in love with it, and the Snowdonia mountains in one incredible hour. Now I'm about to eat dinner in our adorable hotel restaurant, and although I've yet to see them, our entire group should be present.
9:11pm 3.20.07
Well, they're back. Yesterday they spent fifteen hours sitting on the floor of Heathrow Airport (ie. hell). Two girls were ill, spending the morning vomiting, the rest utterly broke down. They were finally rescued by a guy from EF, but he told them not to come to Dublin that night, that if they spent the night in London they'd get to tour Wales with us today. Obviously he lied. But the girls did not find out until they arrived in Wales that they'd completely missed all the touring. They went to the pub. It makes me sick to think of all that has happened to us, but especially to them. What have any of us done?
Tomorrow, day 6, the tour will begin for half of our group. But as much as I hate it, and if I'd known what was going to happen I would have stayed with them, I still had a lovely day, and I'm still really happy about it. Sort of.
Quotes from our fellow tour group from Alex City, AL:
1. In Wales do they speak Wale-ese?...No dude, I don't think that's a language.
2. Does roasted lamb taste like chicken?
3. Is salmon like sushi?
4. We went to the gas station and got some Budweiser and Corona--we didn't like that Guinness stuff.
5. We have music appreciation at my school--we listen to the AFI and talk about it.
6. I'm a loser...(us: Oh no!)...No, I'm a cool loser. With an -eur. (ie. loseur) It's an English spelling.
7. (about some Welsh word) I swear that says Robin Williams!
Some people should never be allowed to leave the country. I hate that they got to have our whole tour. Also, I'm scared because I have no English currency whatsoever and no viable way of getting any. Plus my "roommate" left me alone in the hotel room. Oh well. Shower and bed await, I guess.
7:45am 3.22.07
Yesterday made me so happy. Anne Hathaway's cottage was lovely and intriguing. The town of Stratford was picturesque and friendly, stuck in the past in the same gentle way as the "modern" parts of Williamsburg. Warrick Castle was disappointing, only an hour of rushed touring, and it felt much more like an amusement park than an authentic place. But on the bus I read my book and had interesting discussions with various people, and for dinner (in London) we all ate "pub grub" at the Wheatsheaf across the street from our hotel (a Comfort Inn). Afterwards Matt took us on a night walking tour down the Thames. It was incredibly beautiful in a completely different way than the nature of Wales. Today will be the first of our two days in London (mostly free time). This trip is finally working out.
So I thought. Next week: Our London (mis)adventures.
We are now on the Ulysses, the largest ferry in the world. It's like a cruise ship that runs between Ireland and Wales. We're taking the route which takes a slow four hours, leaving Ireland behind and heading for Wales.
6:42 pm 3.20.07
What a lovely day. After a long (slightly nauseating) ferry ride during which we befriended art student and Irishman Ross, we got aboard a bus and headed into Angelsey, an island off the coast. The landscape was rolling and green with more sheep than people (to quote tour guide Matt) much like Ireland but craggier, more wild in its beauty. Compare the Bronte sisters, Charlotte and Emily--that is Ireland and Wales. I love Wales--it is shockingly beautiful. We ate lunch at an authentic countryside fish and chips place (greasy and delicious) and talked to the owners; an old husband and wife duo who gave us advice about hiding our money and called our group "Ala-bah-ma."
Then we asked to take our picture with the man. His wife spent forever looking through the camera only to say that she needed her glasses. His response? "Christ on a bike!" A wonderful phrase I fully intend to use. Words can't describe what comes next: Beaumaris Castle. In ruins and utterly picturesque. I fell in love with it, and the Snowdonia mountains in one incredible hour. Now I'm about to eat dinner in our adorable hotel restaurant, and although I've yet to see them, our entire group should be present.
9:11pm 3.20.07
Well, they're back. Yesterday they spent fifteen hours sitting on the floor of Heathrow Airport (ie. hell). Two girls were ill, spending the morning vomiting, the rest utterly broke down. They were finally rescued by a guy from EF, but he told them not to come to Dublin that night, that if they spent the night in London they'd get to tour Wales with us today. Obviously he lied. But the girls did not find out until they arrived in Wales that they'd completely missed all the touring. They went to the pub. It makes me sick to think of all that has happened to us, but especially to them. What have any of us done?
Tomorrow, day 6, the tour will begin for half of our group. But as much as I hate it, and if I'd known what was going to happen I would have stayed with them, I still had a lovely day, and I'm still really happy about it. Sort of.
Quotes from our fellow tour group from Alex City, AL:
1. In Wales do they speak Wale-ese?...No dude, I don't think that's a language.
2. Does roasted lamb taste like chicken?
3. Is salmon like sushi?
4. We went to the gas station and got some Budweiser and Corona--we didn't like that Guinness stuff.
5. We have music appreciation at my school--we listen to the AFI and talk about it.
6. I'm a loser...(us: Oh no!)...No, I'm a cool loser. With an -eur. (ie. loseur) It's an English spelling.
7. (about some Welsh word) I swear that says Robin Williams!
Some people should never be allowed to leave the country. I hate that they got to have our whole tour. Also, I'm scared because I have no English currency whatsoever and no viable way of getting any. Plus my "roommate" left me alone in the hotel room. Oh well. Shower and bed await, I guess.
7:45am 3.22.07
Yesterday made me so happy. Anne Hathaway's cottage was lovely and intriguing. The town of Stratford was picturesque and friendly, stuck in the past in the same gentle way as the "modern" parts of Williamsburg. Warrick Castle was disappointing, only an hour of rushed touring, and it felt much more like an amusement park than an authentic place. But on the bus I read my book and had interesting discussions with various people, and for dinner (in London) we all ate "pub grub" at the Wheatsheaf across the street from our hotel (a Comfort Inn). Afterwards Matt took us on a night walking tour down the Thames. It was incredibly beautiful in a completely different way than the nature of Wales. Today will be the first of our two days in London (mostly free time). This trip is finally working out.
So I thought. Next week: Our London (mis)adventures.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
The Travel Journal (part two)
12:30pm, 3.18.07
We are about to leave our "home" at the Motel 6 and head back to the O'Hare International Airport. We do have to be there for about five hours, but supposedly there are lots of cute shops (spending money, just what I need) and that's good. Hopefully I will be able to find out the balance on my card--I definitely did not expect a two day unfunded layover when I planned my budget, Still, we're happy, rested(ish), clean, and about to fly overseas to take the train to Wales. (Mold, Wales, to be exact).
4:10pm, 3.18.07
Sitting at the airport. We board at 5:40--at least, we are supposed to. We are warm, fed, and comfortable, though I look forward to being all those things whilst flying over the Atlantic. Also free food and drink will be an excellent amenity, as everything here is overpriced to the extreme. I still have plenty of money, so I don't have to worry, and it definitely won't go as quickly when we aren't "paying to survive" as one girl put it. The enormous unfairness of it all has yet to really hit me. I just hope we can be practically reimbursed.
6:15am, 3.19.07
Landing in the UK! At last we are over London (Heathrow) after a seven hour (sleepless) flight. But after breakfast and coffee, I am excited and ready to be in a new country. This morning we saw the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean--except all we could see was a pink horizon line and a sea of billowing grey clouds. Down we go!
1:00 3.19.07
Dublin! Heathrow was an appalling mess. We were so so excruciatingly tired and there were hundreds of people yelling in all different languages. Then only six of us got on one flight--the rest are coming in a couple of hours. Now we are riding the bus to our hotel with Matt--out tour guide! Ireland is beautiful, and we now know where our luggage is. I have mine--I nearly cried when it came around the conveyor belt. Surely this trip will finally be good.
10:09, 3.19.07
This has been a day of intense ups and downs. D, B, E, and I were set loose in Dublin on our own, We went to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, then the Long Room (most unbelievable library, high vaulted ceilings and floor to ceiling ancient leather bound books. The long hall was lined with marble busts of literary figures, and the room smelt of knowledge. It was heaven.) We then shopped for souvenirs and all was glorious (if painfully cold). But then we were picked up by our bus only to find that the group left in London had split again.
Only five of them got to Dublin, the rest would be stranded for the night. It is disgusting. This journal has been positive for the most part, glossing over the reality that this trip has been terrible in so many ways. We put so much money and so many dreams into it, and it gave us heartache in return, as melodramatic as that sounds. I have now been awake for over two days, isn't that strange to think about? We ate a "traditional" (meat and potatoes) dinner and went to the famous Temple Bar for some lovely cider and not-quite-so-lovely Guinness. I need to crash, but we have a 5:45 wake up call, and we're taking an early ferry to Wales tomorrow where everyone else will meet us. We hope.
I think I will divide this into two more posts, Wales/Stratford and London. Think lots has happened already? Are you in for a roller coaster or what? Seriously, I don't know what we did in former lives, but the universe has had her vengeance in triplicate.
We are about to leave our "home" at the Motel 6 and head back to the O'Hare International Airport. We do have to be there for about five hours, but supposedly there are lots of cute shops (spending money, just what I need) and that's good. Hopefully I will be able to find out the balance on my card--I definitely did not expect a two day unfunded layover when I planned my budget, Still, we're happy, rested(ish), clean, and about to fly overseas to take the train to Wales. (Mold, Wales, to be exact).
4:10pm, 3.18.07
Sitting at the airport. We board at 5:40--at least, we are supposed to. We are warm, fed, and comfortable, though I look forward to being all those things whilst flying over the Atlantic. Also free food and drink will be an excellent amenity, as everything here is overpriced to the extreme. I still have plenty of money, so I don't have to worry, and it definitely won't go as quickly when we aren't "paying to survive" as one girl put it. The enormous unfairness of it all has yet to really hit me. I just hope we can be practically reimbursed.
6:15am, 3.19.07
Landing in the UK! At last we are over London (Heathrow) after a seven hour (sleepless) flight. But after breakfast and coffee, I am excited and ready to be in a new country. This morning we saw the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean--except all we could see was a pink horizon line and a sea of billowing grey clouds. Down we go!
1:00 3.19.07
Dublin! Heathrow was an appalling mess. We were so so excruciatingly tired and there were hundreds of people yelling in all different languages. Then only six of us got on one flight--the rest are coming in a couple of hours. Now we are riding the bus to our hotel with Matt--out tour guide! Ireland is beautiful, and we now know where our luggage is. I have mine--I nearly cried when it came around the conveyor belt. Surely this trip will finally be good.
10:09, 3.19.07
This has been a day of intense ups and downs. D, B, E, and I were set loose in Dublin on our own, We went to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, then the Long Room (most unbelievable library, high vaulted ceilings and floor to ceiling ancient leather bound books. The long hall was lined with marble busts of literary figures, and the room smelt of knowledge. It was heaven.) We then shopped for souvenirs and all was glorious (if painfully cold). But then we were picked up by our bus only to find that the group left in London had split again.
Only five of them got to Dublin, the rest would be stranded for the night. It is disgusting. This journal has been positive for the most part, glossing over the reality that this trip has been terrible in so many ways. We put so much money and so many dreams into it, and it gave us heartache in return, as melodramatic as that sounds. I have now been awake for over two days, isn't that strange to think about? We ate a "traditional" (meat and potatoes) dinner and went to the famous Temple Bar for some lovely cider and not-quite-so-lovely Guinness. I need to crash, but we have a 5:45 wake up call, and we're taking an early ferry to Wales tomorrow where everyone else will meet us. We hope.
I think I will divide this into two more posts, Wales/Stratford and London. Think lots has happened already? Are you in for a roller coaster or what? Seriously, I don't know what we did in former lives, but the universe has had her vengeance in triplicate.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The Travel Journal (part one)
This is the (slightly edited and refined) journal I kept on my trip to Ireland, Wales, and England. Ie: The Worst Trip Ever. Literary references will flow throughout...ish.
10pm, 3.16.07
After spending almost eight hours in the Birmingham Airport waiting for our delayed plane, we finally are in the air. I feel I've bonded with my fellow travelers in our treacherous journey thus far. I am exhausted and hungry and slightly ill, but we are on the way to Chicago now. From then, who knows? We may have to spend the night--whether in a hotel or airport is uncertain. Even though it isn't Europe, it's still further from home than I've ever been. I'm dreamy right now, from the whir of the plane and the popping of my ears. I want to rest, but know I'll be woken soon. How full life is of surprises. My horoscope today said that plans would unexpectedly change with spectacular results. I'm feeling optimistic.
12am. 3.17.07
The descent into Chicago was like falling into something unbelievable--one of Gatsby's wildly exploding parties. As the lights grew bigger, I wondered why there were spots that were light less--only to recognize them as grey clouds suspended in the air below us. It felt like a secret sight, like the chimney sweep scene in Mary Poppins--something mystic and serene and utterly surprising. Now we sit in a clump in the O'Hare baggage claim waiting for luggage that will never come.
It seems that we will be missing out in Ireland entirely. We will spend some time in Chicago. We've officially nicknamed the baggage claim conveyor belt the River Styx. The airport? The Waste Land. Ah, life. I feel like a Beat poet, a vagrant, lurking and jiving through America.
10am. 3.17.07
After sinking deeply into the throes of despair last night in baggage claim, we checked into a Motel 6 for the "night" at about four in the morning. At nine we got up, thinking that we had to go back to the airport--they told us if we weren't all there with our passports we couldn't even discuss moving up our flight. They lied, only our chaperon had to be present. Now we're sitting at Denny's eating breakfast and preparing to spend the day in Chicago, as well as most of tomorrow.
Another night in the smoky Motel 6, but what can you do? It's almost romantically seedy. Our flights are at six tomorrow--so they're telling us we'll have a full day in Dublin. Life looks up.
12pm. 3.17.07
We're about to go shopping and to the art institute. We're bundling up as best we can and feeling pretty happy. At least Chicago has a fairly big St. Patrick's Day celebration--they dye the river green!
1pm. 3.17.07
After walking a literal mile into the 30 degree wind, I am writing this on the El train as we head downtown.
9:40pm. 3.17.07
The Cezanne to Picasso, Vollard exhibit was incredible. I love the Institute of Art, I could have spent days there. Favorite hands down was Derain's Big Ben. Then shopping and back to our motel home. Tomorrow we will sleep in and then go to the airport for our 6 o'clock flight. Finally we'll leave the US!
10pm, 3.16.07
After spending almost eight hours in the Birmingham Airport waiting for our delayed plane, we finally are in the air. I feel I've bonded with my fellow travelers in our treacherous journey thus far. I am exhausted and hungry and slightly ill, but we are on the way to Chicago now. From then, who knows? We may have to spend the night--whether in a hotel or airport is uncertain. Even though it isn't Europe, it's still further from home than I've ever been. I'm dreamy right now, from the whir of the plane and the popping of my ears. I want to rest, but know I'll be woken soon. How full life is of surprises. My horoscope today said that plans would unexpectedly change with spectacular results. I'm feeling optimistic.
12am. 3.17.07
The descent into Chicago was like falling into something unbelievable--one of Gatsby's wildly exploding parties. As the lights grew bigger, I wondered why there were spots that were light less--only to recognize them as grey clouds suspended in the air below us. It felt like a secret sight, like the chimney sweep scene in Mary Poppins--something mystic and serene and utterly surprising. Now we sit in a clump in the O'Hare baggage claim waiting for luggage that will never come.
It seems that we will be missing out in Ireland entirely. We will spend some time in Chicago. We've officially nicknamed the baggage claim conveyor belt the River Styx. The airport? The Waste Land. Ah, life. I feel like a Beat poet, a vagrant, lurking and jiving through America.
10am. 3.17.07
After sinking deeply into the throes of despair last night in baggage claim, we checked into a Motel 6 for the "night" at about four in the morning. At nine we got up, thinking that we had to go back to the airport--they told us if we weren't all there with our passports we couldn't even discuss moving up our flight. They lied, only our chaperon had to be present. Now we're sitting at Denny's eating breakfast and preparing to spend the day in Chicago, as well as most of tomorrow.
Another night in the smoky Motel 6, but what can you do? It's almost romantically seedy. Our flights are at six tomorrow--so they're telling us we'll have a full day in Dublin. Life looks up.
12pm. 3.17.07
We're about to go shopping and to the art institute. We're bundling up as best we can and feeling pretty happy. At least Chicago has a fairly big St. Patrick's Day celebration--they dye the river green!
1pm. 3.17.07
After walking a literal mile into the 30 degree wind, I am writing this on the El train as we head downtown.
9:40pm. 3.17.07
The Cezanne to Picasso, Vollard exhibit was incredible. I love the Institute of Art, I could have spent days there. Favorite hands down was Derain's Big Ben. Then shopping and back to our motel home. Tomorrow we will sleep in and then go to the airport for our 6 o'clock flight. Finally we'll leave the US!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
A picture is worth 1,000 words
So, yesterday I started The Picture of Dorian Gray by the fab Oscar Wilde. I'm about halfway through, and wishing I was reading rather than blogging. This book is great stuff. The story is enthralling, twisty, etc, the wit is...witty. However, I don't really like any of the characters. I mean, the painter guy is probably the coolest, but he's a little drippy for my tastes--takes everything lying down. The author seems to want to portray this as him being deeply engrossed in his art. Maybe.
Lord Henry what's-his-name speaks entirely in aphorisms of his own slightly twisted creation. He wildly influences the title character, and not in a good way. I abhor cynicism and pessimism in both people and characters. He is the picture of decadant reclining ennui. While this is a picturesque thing in the short term, and he is certainly the soul of the style in which the book is written...it gets old.
As far as Dorian, I have to say I don't have a good feeling as to where this is going. Due entirely to Lord-freaking-Henry's influence, he is devolving from a magical child beauty to a cruel and hard young man astonishingly quickly.
Although I'm not really feeling the characters (except for the tragic and beautiful Sybil...oh how I love her) I have to applaud the artistry of Wilde--I still want to read about and know what is going to happen to them, even though I can easily predict it will only go downhill from here. I know that Dorian will make the choice for eternal youth...I mean, duh. And of course with that choice will come tragedy and downfall. But hey, I'm so in for the ride.
As the trip nears, and Dublin beckons-- I will not only see Oscar Wilde's birthplace, but also I will go on the BRAM STOKER DRACULA TOUR. Florence Balcombe would be having a field day. Plus a visit to their alma mater, Trinity College. I just love seats of knowledge and literature.
Maybe I'll see a fairy ring.
Molly
Lord Henry what's-his-name speaks entirely in aphorisms of his own slightly twisted creation. He wildly influences the title character, and not in a good way. I abhor cynicism and pessimism in both people and characters. He is the picture of decadant reclining ennui. While this is a picturesque thing in the short term, and he is certainly the soul of the style in which the book is written...it gets old.
As far as Dorian, I have to say I don't have a good feeling as to where this is going. Due entirely to Lord-freaking-Henry's influence, he is devolving from a magical child beauty to a cruel and hard young man astonishingly quickly.
Although I'm not really feeling the characters (except for the tragic and beautiful Sybil...oh how I love her) I have to applaud the artistry of Wilde--I still want to read about and know what is going to happen to them, even though I can easily predict it will only go downhill from here. I know that Dorian will make the choice for eternal youth...I mean, duh. And of course with that choice will come tragedy and downfall. But hey, I'm so in for the ride.
As the trip nears, and Dublin beckons-- I will not only see Oscar Wilde's birthplace, but also I will go on the BRAM STOKER DRACULA TOUR. Florence Balcombe would be having a field day. Plus a visit to their alma mater, Trinity College. I just love seats of knowledge and literature.
Maybe I'll see a fairy ring.
Molly
Monday, March 12, 2007
So close!
It is only four days now until the trip, and I don't think my mind has begun to realize how excited I am--it doesn't feel real, and I don't think it will until the plane lands. This update is not going to be about literature, I haven't had much time for reading lately, what with all of the intense homework and preparations for leaving the country (many more than I expected). I have never left the South East before, the furthest North I've been is Washington D.C. back in fifth grade.
I have heard all these wonderful thigns about travel, how it broadens the mind, etc, and I am ready, metaphorically, to be broadened. Apparently there's a great big world out there, with no fences around it, and I'm ready to seek it out.
I've also recently (the past few weeks really have been a whirlwind) been invited to participate in a summer study program at Oxford. We went through phases of seeking scholarships, and back and forth, yes nos and maybes, but it seems like now it is really going to happen. So, in addition to some Shakespeare, you can expect a few alums. That would include...everyone brilliant, ever?
It's all happening so suddenly--I have to just try and be ready.
Molly
I have heard all these wonderful thigns about travel, how it broadens the mind, etc, and I am ready, metaphorically, to be broadened. Apparently there's a great big world out there, with no fences around it, and I'm ready to seek it out.
I've also recently (the past few weeks really have been a whirlwind) been invited to participate in a summer study program at Oxford. We went through phases of seeking scholarships, and back and forth, yes nos and maybes, but it seems like now it is really going to happen. So, in addition to some Shakespeare, you can expect a few alums. That would include...everyone brilliant, ever?
It's all happening so suddenly--I have to just try and be ready.
Molly
Sunday, March 4, 2007
A mini post
I have yet to read Hamlet, but after going to this website, I am more than a little bit excited about it. Go check it out! http://www.jasperfforde.com/hamlet.html
Molly
Molly
Thursday, March 1, 2007
A New Love...
though I know there's no such thing as true love. Once, before it's time to bid adieu, love, one sweet chance to prove the cynics wrong!
Okay, the above quote from Jekyll and Hyde: The Musical, has next to nothing to do with Oscar Wilde, but get me started on a show tune, and I can do nothing but finish the phrase.
I am about halfway through Wilde's Complete Short Fiction (loaned by a friend who assured me that The Picture of Dorian Gray was one of the five books essential to life) and loving every minute of it. Its satirical didacticism reminds me strongly of my beloved Lewis Carroll, an association that may mean little to most folks, but to me is the highest recommendation.
There are, perhaps, five writers in this world who I can barely comment on except to say that I like them so much there is nothing else I can say. Lewis Carroll is among these ranks, along with Russell Edson and Virginia Woolf. Similarly, there are books about which I can do little more than ooze affection. Among these: I Capture the Castle, The Secret History, and The Once and Future King. For me, these books and authors are absolutely essential to life.
Oscar Wilde has yet to ascend the ranks of those I can't breathe without, but I have already accumulated a great affection for him, mostly based on his children's stories and his odd little piece, "A Portrait of Mr. W. H."
Of his stories, well, if I were a repressed Victorian child, constantly berated and punished, forced to read book after book with heavy-handed morals and characters of the most boring Aesop's Fables variety, I would long to read his witty stories. They tell of delusional fireworks, self sacrificing nightingales, poor overly generous Hans, and many more paradigms of virtue and sin. I can see how parents would mistake his stories for the typical morality tales widely published at the time--and how greedily the children would hoard them, keeping the secret of his sarcasm for themselves.
I went to learn more about Oscar Wilde, and I found a bewildering number of accounts. Something I find very interesting, in light of my soon-to-be trip to Dublin, is his loss of his first love, famed beauty Florence Balcombe, to the far more successful writer, Bram Stoker (author of Dracula, who attended Trinity College around the same time as Wilde)
Something else that (only in a purely Academic and Scholarly way, I assure you) interested me was Wilde's description of his sexual orientation as pederastic, a very interesting tradition, which I will have you research for yourself. I believe the term he personally used was Socratic--oh, those aesthetes.
But back, briefly, to Wilde's work. I loved "The Portrait of Mr. W. H.", a passionate portrayal of a scholar and his utter devotion to a literary theory, namely that Shakespeare's Sonnets were all addressed to a young boy in his theater company, for whom he wrote Juliet, Desdemona, Imogen, Ophelia, etc. He created this theory in a way that made it inscrutable, impossible to deny, except for one loophole--there was no such actor. It is a fascinating, darkly funny story, and I must only entreat that everyone read it.
Well, we've Wilde enough time away here... (I know, terrible.)
Molly
Okay, the above quote from Jekyll and Hyde: The Musical, has next to nothing to do with Oscar Wilde, but get me started on a show tune, and I can do nothing but finish the phrase.
I am about halfway through Wilde's Complete Short Fiction (loaned by a friend who assured me that The Picture of Dorian Gray was one of the five books essential to life) and loving every minute of it. Its satirical didacticism reminds me strongly of my beloved Lewis Carroll, an association that may mean little to most folks, but to me is the highest recommendation.
There are, perhaps, five writers in this world who I can barely comment on except to say that I like them so much there is nothing else I can say. Lewis Carroll is among these ranks, along with Russell Edson and Virginia Woolf. Similarly, there are books about which I can do little more than ooze affection. Among these: I Capture the Castle, The Secret History, and The Once and Future King. For me, these books and authors are absolutely essential to life.
Oscar Wilde has yet to ascend the ranks of those I can't breathe without, but I have already accumulated a great affection for him, mostly based on his children's stories and his odd little piece, "A Portrait of Mr. W. H."
Of his stories, well, if I were a repressed Victorian child, constantly berated and punished, forced to read book after book with heavy-handed morals and characters of the most boring Aesop's Fables variety, I would long to read his witty stories. They tell of delusional fireworks, self sacrificing nightingales, poor overly generous Hans, and many more paradigms of virtue and sin. I can see how parents would mistake his stories for the typical morality tales widely published at the time--and how greedily the children would hoard them, keeping the secret of his sarcasm for themselves.
I went to learn more about Oscar Wilde, and I found a bewildering number of accounts. Something I find very interesting, in light of my soon-to-be trip to Dublin, is his loss of his first love, famed beauty Florence Balcombe, to the far more successful writer, Bram Stoker (author of Dracula, who attended Trinity College around the same time as Wilde)
Something else that (only in a purely Academic and Scholarly way, I assure you) interested me was Wilde's description of his sexual orientation as pederastic, a very interesting tradition, which I will have you research for yourself. I believe the term he personally used was Socratic--oh, those aesthetes.
But back, briefly, to Wilde's work. I loved "The Portrait of Mr. W. H.", a passionate portrayal of a scholar and his utter devotion to a literary theory, namely that Shakespeare's Sonnets were all addressed to a young boy in his theater company, for whom he wrote Juliet, Desdemona, Imogen, Ophelia, etc. He created this theory in a way that made it inscrutable, impossible to deny, except for one loophole--there was no such actor. It is a fascinating, darkly funny story, and I must only entreat that everyone read it.
Well, we've Wilde enough time away here... (I know, terrible.)
Molly
Thursday, February 22, 2007
The Second Cop-Out
Well, there are only 22 days until I leave on my big ole UK trip. To be honest, yes, I could spend all the time faithfully reading Shakespeare and fulfill my original goal. But, to quote the Bard himself, I feel as though I have sucked the sweets of sweet philosophy, and to be frank, it's getting a little old.
Now, I am not giving up on ole' Willy. Far from it! But I am going to take the rest of the plays at a more leisurely pace, making my NEW AND REVISED goal to finish them before the end of the semester. In the upcoming 22 days, besides school and my various theatrical commitments, I am going to devote myself to my neglected Celtic fellows.
After all, we are spending the first four days of the trip in Dublin, and my readings of Wilde and Joyce are sadly lacking. Also I have this big book of Irish folktales that I dismissed in fifth grade as "boring" (code for: these are really hard to get through, but I don't want to admit that anything is beyond my reading capabilities). So I'm going to drag that back out.
Besides, the Celts are awesome. I mean, woad, you guys. Woad.
Wanna be as hooked on the Celts as I am? Check out this incedible website. It will change your life. It's all about the woad, druids, and singing severed heads. Yep, you heard me right. Its awesomeness almost makes up for the fact that we don't get to see Stonehenge on this trip. Almost.
So, I'll keep you posted on my new discoveries over the next few weeks and, of course, the trip itself. Then we'll return to ze Bard. I promise.
Molly
Now, I am not giving up on ole' Willy. Far from it! But I am going to take the rest of the plays at a more leisurely pace, making my NEW AND REVISED goal to finish them before the end of the semester. In the upcoming 22 days, besides school and my various theatrical commitments, I am going to devote myself to my neglected Celtic fellows.
After all, we are spending the first four days of the trip in Dublin, and my readings of Wilde and Joyce are sadly lacking. Also I have this big book of Irish folktales that I dismissed in fifth grade as "boring" (code for: these are really hard to get through, but I don't want to admit that anything is beyond my reading capabilities). So I'm going to drag that back out.
Besides, the Celts are awesome. I mean, woad, you guys. Woad.
Wanna be as hooked on the Celts as I am? Check out this incedible website. It will change your life. It's all about the woad, druids, and singing severed heads. Yep, you heard me right. Its awesomeness almost makes up for the fact that we don't get to see Stonehenge on this trip. Almost.
So, I'll keep you posted on my new discoveries over the next few weeks and, of course, the trip itself. Then we'll return to ze Bard. I promise.
Molly
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Perfect Storm
The Tempest was (arguably) the last play Shakespeare alone ever wrote, his "swan song" according to the back cover of my copy. It is unlike any other play he wrote in that it played by the rules. Aristotle's Three Unities from the Poetics, about how plays should be written:
The unity of action: a play should have one main action that it follows, with no or few subplots.
The unity of place: a play should cover a single physical space and should not attempt to compress geography, nor should the stage represent more than one place.
The unity of time: the action in a play should take place over no more than 24 hours.
Shakespeare had grown famous writing shows with multitudes of subplots taking place all over the continent, over weeks and months of time. I guess he wanted to have a go at something more traditional. Regardless, at the time it was written, the Tempest was viewed as universally unimportant. Now everybody loves it.
The storyline is pretty well known, from the shipwrecks to the innocent young daughter who has never seen a man other than her father falling in love, games of chess being played, etc, etc.
What interests me however, is the fact that on this happy-go-lucky Gilligan-esque island, we have a heckuva lot of supernatural stuff that Maryann never had to deal with.
The play prominently features two spirits, Ariel, the sprite, and Caliban the demon.
Caliban has an interesting backstory--he was once a deformed monster, the only inhabitant of the island before Prospero and Miranda shipwreck. When they arrived, the "adopted" him, teaching him their language and religion, while he helped them learn to survive on the island. However, all good things must come to an end, and as Miranda grows up into the ravishing beauty that she is, Caliban can't help but notice and be entranced. Yep, you guessed it, he attempts to rape her. Not a good idea, considering that her father is a powerful sorcerer--BOOM--now Caliban is their demon slave. Pretty sad stuff.
Ariel is another story entirely. Her spirit was trapped in a tree on the island by an African witch. She dies long before Prospero and wee Miranda arrive. But when they do, Prospero divines Ariel's presence, and releases her from the tree in exchange for eternal servitude--sort of a genie in a bottle deal. He continually postpones the date of her freedom from servitude, but at the end of the play everyone gets to leave the island except she (although Ariel is asexual, she appears as nymphs and harpies, female mythological figures, throughout the show, and has some pretty awesome innuendo with various male characters) and Caliban.
Reading this play, I just can't bring myself to like Prospero. It seems to be the trend of those with power (in this case magic) that they cannot keep themselves from ordering the lives of those around them. Prospero dictates the events of the play like the proverbial man behind the curtain, and sure, everything turns out okay, but there is a certain bitterness left behind. This is a good example of Shakespeare's insight into human character. In life, humans are not meant to play God, even for the convenience of plot.
Current Play Count: 19/37
Days Till Trip: 25
I'm trying to reconcile myself with the idea I may have to finish up after the trip. Then again, I will need things to read to keep myself from exploding from excitement!
Till next time,
Molly
The unity of action: a play should have one main action that it follows, with no or few subplots.
The unity of place: a play should cover a single physical space and should not attempt to compress geography, nor should the stage represent more than one place.
The unity of time: the action in a play should take place over no more than 24 hours.
Shakespeare had grown famous writing shows with multitudes of subplots taking place all over the continent, over weeks and months of time. I guess he wanted to have a go at something more traditional. Regardless, at the time it was written, the Tempest was viewed as universally unimportant. Now everybody loves it.
The storyline is pretty well known, from the shipwrecks to the innocent young daughter who has never seen a man other than her father falling in love, games of chess being played, etc, etc.
What interests me however, is the fact that on this happy-go-lucky Gilligan-esque island, we have a heckuva lot of supernatural stuff that Maryann never had to deal with.
The play prominently features two spirits, Ariel, the sprite, and Caliban the demon.
Caliban has an interesting backstory--he was once a deformed monster, the only inhabitant of the island before Prospero and Miranda shipwreck. When they arrived, the "adopted" him, teaching him their language and religion, while he helped them learn to survive on the island. However, all good things must come to an end, and as Miranda grows up into the ravishing beauty that she is, Caliban can't help but notice and be entranced. Yep, you guessed it, he attempts to rape her. Not a good idea, considering that her father is a powerful sorcerer--BOOM--now Caliban is their demon slave. Pretty sad stuff.
Ariel is another story entirely. Her spirit was trapped in a tree on the island by an African witch. She dies long before Prospero and wee Miranda arrive. But when they do, Prospero divines Ariel's presence, and releases her from the tree in exchange for eternal servitude--sort of a genie in a bottle deal. He continually postpones the date of her freedom from servitude, but at the end of the play everyone gets to leave the island except she (although Ariel is asexual, she appears as nymphs and harpies, female mythological figures, throughout the show, and has some pretty awesome innuendo with various male characters) and Caliban.
Reading this play, I just can't bring myself to like Prospero. It seems to be the trend of those with power (in this case magic) that they cannot keep themselves from ordering the lives of those around them. Prospero dictates the events of the play like the proverbial man behind the curtain, and sure, everything turns out okay, but there is a certain bitterness left behind. This is a good example of Shakespeare's insight into human character. In life, humans are not meant to play God, even for the convenience of plot.
Current Play Count: 19/37
Days Till Trip: 25
I'm trying to reconcile myself with the idea I may have to finish up after the trip. Then again, I will need things to read to keep myself from exploding from excitement!
Till next time,
Molly
Saturday, February 10, 2007
ding ding ding! And the winner is...
Cymbeline as Molly's favorite Shakespearean play as of yet. This is one I would totally buy on DVD, for the record. While not critically acclaimed, it had a plot and ending that I could genuinely buy and care about. Plus, finally a fabulously strong female lead (unfortunately named Imogen) who is neither dumb nor insane and carries the bulk of lines in the entire show.
We begin the play by finding out that Imogen (the king's daughter and only heir--due to his sons being stolen away when they were but tots) has married a poor man when it was widely known she was intended for the queen's son Cloten (yep, her stepbrother). Her husband is banished and she is imprisoned, so really her little act of rebellion didn't pan out so well.
Plus now the queen is pissed off because the poor guy (hysterically named Posthumus) was preferred over her darling Cloten. Cloten sucks, by the way, very self absorbed Adonis type, and Imogen quite rightfully scorns him. But unfortunately he won't take no for an answer.
Meanwhile, Imogen's beloved makes a bet that she is the most pure woman EVA, and sends his new buddy back to Imogen's kingdom to try and seduce her. He fails, but in typical fashion he can't admit this, so he hides in her room until she falls asleep and then "observes" her body so he knows details of moles and such to prove to Posthumus that he did bag her--so to speak.
Then there's the whole subplot about the king's sons being raised by a shepard and discovered by Imogen, and them decapitating Prince Cloten. There are misunderstandings galore, and the Queen partially poisons Imogen...yada yada yada.
But all of these intrigues pale in comparison to Act V Scene IV. This, I think, it my favorite bit in all of Shakespeare, thrown in completely randomly in a dream sequence:
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Apparitions fall on their knees.
Jupiter: No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,
Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents opprest;
No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine:
and so, away: no further with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
Ascends
Sicilius Leonatus: He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop'd as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleased.
All: Thanks, Jupiter!
So, basically, Zeus, the big man himself, flies in and tells them how to work out all their problems for a happy ending in the next scene. This is as literal as the deus ex machina gets, my friends. And I like it.
Molly
We begin the play by finding out that Imogen (the king's daughter and only heir--due to his sons being stolen away when they were but tots) has married a poor man when it was widely known she was intended for the queen's son Cloten (yep, her stepbrother). Her husband is banished and she is imprisoned, so really her little act of rebellion didn't pan out so well.
Plus now the queen is pissed off because the poor guy (hysterically named Posthumus) was preferred over her darling Cloten. Cloten sucks, by the way, very self absorbed Adonis type, and Imogen quite rightfully scorns him. But unfortunately he won't take no for an answer.
Meanwhile, Imogen's beloved makes a bet that she is the most pure woman EVA, and sends his new buddy back to Imogen's kingdom to try and seduce her. He fails, but in typical fashion he can't admit this, so he hides in her room until she falls asleep and then "observes" her body so he knows details of moles and such to prove to Posthumus that he did bag her--so to speak.
Then there's the whole subplot about the king's sons being raised by a shepard and discovered by Imogen, and them decapitating Prince Cloten. There are misunderstandings galore, and the Queen partially poisons Imogen...yada yada yada.
But all of these intrigues pale in comparison to Act V Scene IV. This, I think, it my favorite bit in all of Shakespeare, thrown in completely randomly in a dream sequence:
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Apparitions fall on their knees.
Jupiter: No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,
Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents opprest;
No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine:
and so, away: no further with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
Ascends
Sicilius Leonatus: He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop'd as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleased.
All: Thanks, Jupiter!
So, basically, Zeus, the big man himself, flies in and tells them how to work out all their problems for a happy ending in the next scene. This is as literal as the deus ex machina gets, my friends. And I like it.
Molly
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The First Cop-Out
Okay, so I took the SAT yesterday, and as my brain currently completely drained of anything remotely resembling cleverness or wit, I am postponing my clever remarks on the wonderful Cymbeline until a bit later. Instead, I am celebrating the fact that I only have twenty plays left to go, by listing the ones I've read thus far with a few summarizing remarks.
Two Gentlemen of Verona: way too sad to be considered a comedy.
Love Labour's Lost: I was also lost by about page four. Too many characters, too much wordplay, does not translate well to today's ear.
The Comedy of Errors: Twins are funny--this one has two sets of 'em!
Romeo and Juliet: Just wanted to get it on....I mean, classic tragedy. First ever celebration of teen angst. (I'm mostly kidding. This is one of my favorites, and the 1960s movie is great slumber party fare.)
The Taming of the Shrew: Questionable morals. Kiss Me, Kate was better.
A Midsummer Night's Dream: I like Puck an awful lot, and I kind of want to be Titania. I really like this one.
The Merchant of Venice: See comments on Love Labour's Lost. Add in an astonishing amount of anti-Semitism.
Much Ado About Nothing: I beg to differ--it was definitely about something. When I remember what exactly, I'll let you know.
12th Night: Again with the too sad to be a comedy. I've seen two different productions of this--one traditional and one set in 1960s sitcom world. Not gonna lie--I had more fun when the jesters were cheerleaders.
Henry VIII: Anne Boleyn is unbelievable. As in, everything she said was jaw droppingly full of innuendo and irony. I adored her. (Too bad most of the play is Catherine of Aragon whining. What's she got to whine about? Wait till he sends you to the Tower of London for beheading. Then you can whine.)
The Tempest: I will have to revisit this one. It was so good that it merits its own entry.
Julius Caesar: Tons of fun. I like Cassius--too bad he's doomed for the Inferno.
Macbeth: Is awesome. I love that there is a character named McDuffy.
Antony and Cleopatra: Is an example of why really beautiful people make for bad monarchs. I really like all of Cleopatra's rants though.
Titus Andronicus: Ewwwwwwwwww.
Cymbeline: probably one of my favorites yet. It'll get an entry soon.
Up next for the reading is Richard III. Maybe I'll just rent the movie...
Two Gentlemen of Verona: way too sad to be considered a comedy.
Love Labour's Lost: I was also lost by about page four. Too many characters, too much wordplay, does not translate well to today's ear.
The Comedy of Errors: Twins are funny--this one has two sets of 'em!
Romeo and Juliet: Just wanted to get it on....I mean, classic tragedy. First ever celebration of teen angst. (I'm mostly kidding. This is one of my favorites, and the 1960s movie is great slumber party fare.)
The Taming of the Shrew: Questionable morals. Kiss Me, Kate was better.
A Midsummer Night's Dream: I like Puck an awful lot, and I kind of want to be Titania. I really like this one.
The Merchant of Venice: See comments on Love Labour's Lost. Add in an astonishing amount of anti-Semitism.
Much Ado About Nothing: I beg to differ--it was definitely about something. When I remember what exactly, I'll let you know.
12th Night: Again with the too sad to be a comedy. I've seen two different productions of this--one traditional and one set in 1960s sitcom world. Not gonna lie--I had more fun when the jesters were cheerleaders.
Henry VIII: Anne Boleyn is unbelievable. As in, everything she said was jaw droppingly full of innuendo and irony. I adored her. (Too bad most of the play is Catherine of Aragon whining. What's she got to whine about? Wait till he sends you to the Tower of London for beheading. Then you can whine.)
The Tempest: I will have to revisit this one. It was so good that it merits its own entry.
Julius Caesar: Tons of fun. I like Cassius--too bad he's doomed for the Inferno.
Macbeth: Is awesome. I love that there is a character named McDuffy.
Antony and Cleopatra: Is an example of why really beautiful people make for bad monarchs. I really like all of Cleopatra's rants though.
Titus Andronicus: Ewwwwwwwwww.
Cymbeline: probably one of my favorites yet. It'll get an entry soon.
Up next for the reading is Richard III. Maybe I'll just rent the movie...
Thursday, January 18, 2007
If Titus Andronicus...
...were a movie, I would either have walked out sometime during the third act, or sat quavering in my seat and cursing the day I shelled out eight fifty to see it.
I don't like horror movies. I don't like injustices. I don't like unnecessary violence and bloodshed. These are not things I look for in my entertainment. However, if Titus Andronicus were a movie, I bet it'd be a box office smash, especially with a Halloween release date and a splashy ad campaign.
But seriously, to give you the highlights:
We begin with an emperor dying, and the country arguing over who will replace him. Things seem to work out, although for some reason we inaugurate the new ruler with a human sacrifice. But later, the two princes Titus's daughter, Lavinia, and cut out her tongue so she can't tell anyone, and the queen gives birth to biracial child, fathered by her slave-lover, who immediately kills the nurse who birthed the child, and kidnaps it. Too bad his efforts are in vain--they will all die before the play ends.
My personal favorite monstrosity is when Titus is told his sons' lives will be spared if he cuts off his own hand. He does so, and gives it to the messenger. The messenger returns with his sons' heads on a platter. Poor Bloody Stump Titus.
Actually, no, I don't feel that badly for him. After all, he figures out that the princes raped Lavinia, kills them and cooks them into a pie, which he serves to their mother, the Queen. Then he asks the emperor if a father should kill his daughter if she was raped. The emperor says, in general terms, "Hell yeah!" and so Titus proceeds to kill Lavinia and the Queen all at one nightmarish dinner party.
I can't say that I'm a fan of a play in which every major character is killed in sundry horrible ways, but I know that many people are. Much like sex, blood sells. It's just a little distressing to see that this was as true back in the 1580s as it is now in 2007. But there is something to the madness. I read Titus in one sitting, whereas it has taken me three days to wade myself through the comedic banter of All's Well that Ends Well. There is something to be said for sitting on the edge of one's seat.
Ah well, to keep you posted, the current play count is 16/37. I'm working on it!
Molly
I don't like horror movies. I don't like injustices. I don't like unnecessary violence and bloodshed. These are not things I look for in my entertainment. However, if Titus Andronicus were a movie, I bet it'd be a box office smash, especially with a Halloween release date and a splashy ad campaign.
But seriously, to give you the highlights:
We begin with an emperor dying, and the country arguing over who will replace him. Things seem to work out, although for some reason we inaugurate the new ruler with a human sacrifice. But later, the two princes Titus's daughter, Lavinia, and cut out her tongue so she can't tell anyone, and the queen gives birth to biracial child, fathered by her slave-lover, who immediately kills the nurse who birthed the child, and kidnaps it. Too bad his efforts are in vain--they will all die before the play ends.
My personal favorite monstrosity is when Titus is told his sons' lives will be spared if he cuts off his own hand. He does so, and gives it to the messenger. The messenger returns with his sons' heads on a platter. Poor Bloody Stump Titus.
Actually, no, I don't feel that badly for him. After all, he figures out that the princes raped Lavinia, kills them and cooks them into a pie, which he serves to their mother, the Queen. Then he asks the emperor if a father should kill his daughter if she was raped. The emperor says, in general terms, "Hell yeah!" and so Titus proceeds to kill Lavinia and the Queen all at one nightmarish dinner party.
I can't say that I'm a fan of a play in which every major character is killed in sundry horrible ways, but I know that many people are. Much like sex, blood sells. It's just a little distressing to see that this was as true back in the 1580s as it is now in 2007. But there is something to the madness. I read Titus in one sitting, whereas it has taken me three days to wade myself through the comedic banter of All's Well that Ends Well. There is something to be said for sitting on the edge of one's seat.
Ah well, to keep you posted, the current play count is 16/37. I'm working on it!
Molly
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
It's a fine, fine line.
Oh, how to begin?
So I was reading The Two Gentlemen of Verona the other day, and I started thinking about the nature of comedies and tragedies.
First of all, I would like to say that I think this play has an unfairly bad reputation. Despite having a slightly implausible plot line, the writing really affected me, and I found it much more entertaining than some of its more highly regarded fellows (*cough*Love's Labour Lost *cough* Justonelonggameofwordplaywithwaytoomanycharactersandnoplot). However, I would not have classified it as a comedy. Now, I am aware that the classic definition of comedy is a bit more inclusive than the happily ever after tale we get nowadays.
But let's lay it out here--Julia is madly in love with Proteus, he is forced by his father to go off to Milan to "expand his mind". They exchange rings, have tearful goodbyes, etc. Now Julia is stuck at home in Verona thinking about how much she misses Proteus. Meanwhile Proteus is livin' it up in Milan, falling in love with his best friend's gal, Sylvia.
Julia misses Proteus so much that she decides to dress up as a boy and travel to Milan just to see him. Bam. She gets there and he's courting someone else. So poor Julia is stuck in Milan, with no money, dangerously disguised as a boy, and desperately in love with this skeevy guy, who doesn't even recognize her when she goes to work as a page in the house where he's staying. He actually asks her to deliver the ring she gave him as a gift to Sylvia. Wanna know how Julia is revealed? She essentially "walks in on" Proteus trying to rape Sylvia and faints.
The play would be a horrible tragedy if he didn't suddenly recognize her and go, "Oh yeah, I'm actually in love with Julia" which is, basically, what happens, and because it is the sixteenth century, Julia has to be all "Yay! Proteus likes me again!" Now that's tragic.
Compare this story to Romeo and Juliet. Teenagers fall in love at a party, realize their families hate each other, so get to have lots of fun sneaking around scenes. There's some mad gossiping, a lot of she loves me she loves me not-ing, and a whole pack of comedic side characters. There's even the classic Shakespearean misunderstanding, which we are just waiting to be resolved so the kids can get together and everyone can be happy.
Except it isn't resolved. People start to die, and all of a sudden our happy-go-lucky teenagers are dealing with real grief and real anger and the real need for revenge. Turns out Mercutio is less of a party animal when he's bleeding to death in the street.
So who's to say what's a comedy or tragedy anyway? It's like life, all mixed up together.
Molly
So I was reading The Two Gentlemen of Verona the other day, and I started thinking about the nature of comedies and tragedies.
First of all, I would like to say that I think this play has an unfairly bad reputation. Despite having a slightly implausible plot line, the writing really affected me, and I found it much more entertaining than some of its more highly regarded fellows (*cough*Love's Labour Lost *cough* Justonelonggameofwordplaywithwaytoomanycharactersandnoplot). However, I would not have classified it as a comedy. Now, I am aware that the classic definition of comedy is a bit more inclusive than the happily ever after tale we get nowadays.
But let's lay it out here--Julia is madly in love with Proteus, he is forced by his father to go off to Milan to "expand his mind". They exchange rings, have tearful goodbyes, etc. Now Julia is stuck at home in Verona thinking about how much she misses Proteus. Meanwhile Proteus is livin' it up in Milan, falling in love with his best friend's gal, Sylvia.
Julia misses Proteus so much that she decides to dress up as a boy and travel to Milan just to see him. Bam. She gets there and he's courting someone else. So poor Julia is stuck in Milan, with no money, dangerously disguised as a boy, and desperately in love with this skeevy guy, who doesn't even recognize her when she goes to work as a page in the house where he's staying. He actually asks her to deliver the ring she gave him as a gift to Sylvia. Wanna know how Julia is revealed? She essentially "walks in on" Proteus trying to rape Sylvia and faints.
The play would be a horrible tragedy if he didn't suddenly recognize her and go, "Oh yeah, I'm actually in love with Julia" which is, basically, what happens, and because it is the sixteenth century, Julia has to be all "Yay! Proteus likes me again!" Now that's tragic.
Compare this story to Romeo and Juliet. Teenagers fall in love at a party, realize their families hate each other, so get to have lots of fun sneaking around scenes. There's some mad gossiping, a lot of she loves me she loves me not-ing, and a whole pack of comedic side characters. There's even the classic Shakespearean misunderstanding, which we are just waiting to be resolved so the kids can get together and everyone can be happy.
Except it isn't resolved. People start to die, and all of a sudden our happy-go-lucky teenagers are dealing with real grief and real anger and the real need for revenge. Turns out Mercutio is less of a party animal when he's bleeding to death in the street.
So who's to say what's a comedy or tragedy anyway? It's like life, all mixed up together.
Molly
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Simply play on and "Lay on, Macduffy!"
Well, I just finished reading Macbeth. Wowee. I certainly wasn't sure what I was getting into with this one. You see, my immediate association with Macbeth was an old and strong theater superstition, which has filtered down and is still present, even in the community theaters where I practice the craft. It is simply that you cannot say the word Macbeth in a theater. Not in the audience, not on stage, not in the lobby, not anywhere. There is supposedly a strong curse connected to "the Scottish play" (as it is referred to by all theater type folks), and saying the title will bring accidents, ill-fortune, and all around bad vibes to your production.
There are many proposed sources of this superstition (see: http://www.angelfire.com/fl3/Defymcbeth/Super2.html) but I personally like the idea of the Weird Sisters and Hecate releasing their wrath on all thespians.
So basically I didn't know much about the actual play, except for the vague sense of dread that comes with the name. After reading it, I have the same sense, but for more substantial reasons. This play, my friends, is Shakespeare done Alfred Hitchcock-style. A murder has gone down, and the suspense is rising. Add in a background war and political power struggle, as well as some crazy potion brewing, and you have the best Halloween movie EVER.
But seriously, after Macbeth murders the king (a guest in his own house), he grow paranoid, and starts killing off everyone who might be suspicious. He sees ghosts, and if that weren't enough, his wife goes crazy. I actually read somewhere that Lady Mac is a predecessor to modern obsessive-compulsive disorder, with her constant hand washing. She's convinced that the blood from the murder is still visible--that she will never be clean. It's rather like "The Tell-tale Heart", but with sword fights.
Personally, my favorite bit is the witches song:
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
And there's more where that comes from, ladies and gentlemen. Actually there are rumors that the witch's songs and parts were enlarged substantially in the printing of Macbeth, and not by Shakespeare. Of course, all of his plays are surrounded by a veritable fog of...unveritifiable-ness. But I want to just imagine William Shakespeare, regular guy, sitting in the Globe, or in Stratford, scratching out play after play. I don't like conspiracy theories, and feel that in relentless searching for the honest-to-God-Discovery-Channel-truth, people tend to forget the real point, the reason why they like these plays in the first place.
Well, that's all for now.
Molly
(PS: The subject line is a quote from a rather hysterical song from the Broadway musical Kiss Me, Kate, called "Brush Up Your Shakespeare." For some of the most far fetched rhymes you will ever read, check it out at http://www.guntheranderson.com/v/data/brushupy.htm)
There are many proposed sources of this superstition (see: http://www.angelfire.com/fl3/Defymcbeth/Super2.html) but I personally like the idea of the Weird Sisters and Hecate releasing their wrath on all thespians.
So basically I didn't know much about the actual play, except for the vague sense of dread that comes with the name. After reading it, I have the same sense, but for more substantial reasons. This play, my friends, is Shakespeare done Alfred Hitchcock-style. A murder has gone down, and the suspense is rising. Add in a background war and political power struggle, as well as some crazy potion brewing, and you have the best Halloween movie EVER.
But seriously, after Macbeth murders the king (a guest in his own house), he grow paranoid, and starts killing off everyone who might be suspicious. He sees ghosts, and if that weren't enough, his wife goes crazy. I actually read somewhere that Lady Mac is a predecessor to modern obsessive-compulsive disorder, with her constant hand washing. She's convinced that the blood from the murder is still visible--that she will never be clean. It's rather like "The Tell-tale Heart", but with sword fights.
Personally, my favorite bit is the witches song:
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
And there's more where that comes from, ladies and gentlemen. Actually there are rumors that the witch's songs and parts were enlarged substantially in the printing of Macbeth, and not by Shakespeare. Of course, all of his plays are surrounded by a veritable fog of...unveritifiable-ness. But I want to just imagine William Shakespeare, regular guy, sitting in the Globe, or in Stratford, scratching out play after play. I don't like conspiracy theories, and feel that in relentless searching for the honest-to-God-Discovery-Channel-truth, people tend to forget the real point, the reason why they like these plays in the first place.
Well, that's all for now.
Molly
(PS: The subject line is a quote from a rather hysterical song from the Broadway musical Kiss Me, Kate, called "Brush Up Your Shakespeare." For some of the most far fetched rhymes you will ever read, check it out at http://www.guntheranderson.com/v/data/brushupy.htm)
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Trial by Fire
Well, here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the inaugural post of my lovely lovely blog.
Today we returned to school from our "winter break," and it was comforting in a way. I like the order of schedules and classes (even those that just entail scheduled goofing off). However, sometimes I fear that I may be a bit too embedded in the need for guidelines, especially when I begin setting up arbitrary schedules and goals for myself on my time off. What can I say, just call me Type A, I guess.
But it's a natural thing to do at New Years--setting goals. 2007's starring event will be a school sponsored trip to the UK (I will fly into Dublin on St. Patrick's Day!) and many of my resolutions centered around this (hopefully) life-changing trip.
I've always had the desire to be an extremely well-read person, but the proximity of this trip has given me something specific to reach for. You see, we will be visiting Stratford-on-Avon, and thus I have decided to take on the Bard. The master poet Himself.
So here it is, the challenge: I will read all of Shakespeare's plays before March 16th, when we depart for jolly old England. I would say I am off to a very good start, having read five plays over the last week or so, bringing my total up to 13 out of 37. We'll see how it goes from here.
Molly
Today we returned to school from our "winter break," and it was comforting in a way. I like the order of schedules and classes (even those that just entail scheduled goofing off). However, sometimes I fear that I may be a bit too embedded in the need for guidelines, especially when I begin setting up arbitrary schedules and goals for myself on my time off. What can I say, just call me Type A, I guess.
But it's a natural thing to do at New Years--setting goals. 2007's starring event will be a school sponsored trip to the UK (I will fly into Dublin on St. Patrick's Day!) and many of my resolutions centered around this (hopefully) life-changing trip.
I've always had the desire to be an extremely well-read person, but the proximity of this trip has given me something specific to reach for. You see, we will be visiting Stratford-on-Avon, and thus I have decided to take on the Bard. The master poet Himself.
So here it is, the challenge: I will read all of Shakespeare's plays before March 16th, when we depart for jolly old England. I would say I am off to a very good start, having read five plays over the last week or so, bringing my total up to 13 out of 37. We'll see how it goes from here.
Molly
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