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
Monday, March 12, 2007
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...
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