Tag Archives: William Shakespeare

Shakespeare’s Restless World

Remember that class artefact-oriented BBC series from a few years back, A History of the World in 100 Objects? Sure, we all do. Well Neil MacGregor, the director of the British Museum and the guy who was responsible for that, did a similar series on Shakespeare, and it’s ace.

Maybe a bit too into finding modern-day parallels, but expert analysis, well-acted excerpts and does a great job of bringing in the whole of society, rather than just royal fracas.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b017gm45/episodes/downloads

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Eimear McBride’s ‘The Lesser Bohemians’ and The Ride in Contemporary Letters

the-lesser-bohemians***Content warning: Things get racy***

The Bad Sex Award is a literary prize awarded to the author who writes the most cringeworthy scene in which sex happens in a particular year. A survey of past nominees suggest that the judges have more in mind then the ding an sich, and are more attentive to column inches; bad sex awards tend to follow the trendy novelists de nos jours, and probably marks a tipping point in any writer’s career when they move from middle-aged gravitas-endowed male author to punching bag, see Jonathan Franzen, John Banville. The John Banville parody twitter accounts, incidentally, marked the occasion of Banville’s nomination rather well:

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In one of my college tutorials, the conversation turned to the ways in which literature is a fairly paltry medium when it comes to the depiction of sex, especially in our age of spectacle or image capitalism; the extent to which sexual materials are available, distributed, makes ink on a page seem somewhat retrograde. Nevertheless, I might contest that with the next couple of examples. The sex scene in Don DeLillo’s Underworld, reads as follows:

Then they were everywhere at once again, looped about the other, everything new for the second time, and she closed her eyes to see them together, which she could almost do, which she could do for the sheerest time, bodies turned and edged and sidled, one way and the other, this and that concurrent, here by as there, like back-fronted Picasso lovers.

This paragraph does what DeLillo does best, in moving aqueously through a never stable milieu, with an attention to things moving in and out of shape(s), the reality inflected by the partiality of the lover’s perspectives, particularly in the barest suggestion that Klara Sax can see more of the occasion with her eyes closed. There is also the hint of Hamlet’s beast with two backs, cleverly hybridised with the cubist reference; the beast with four backs, as it were.

Anne Enright’s The Gathering treats if not quite ‘carnal intercourse, with ejaculation of semen within the natural female organ,’ the act of fellatio in terms as follows:

‘Where were you?’ he says, and I’d love to say I was out, like he is out all the time. Doing, making, being — or even shagging. I’d love to say, ‘I was just out shagging,’ in a debonair sort of voice…I put my hand gently against his shirt front and the gesture is so graceful, even as I watch it, that it leads me, quite easily, to the buckle of the belt, which I tug with my other hand, and so, by softly pushing him away while pulling him forward, I contrive to blow my husband, in our own kitchen. On a school day.

This is real, I think. This is real.

Though I am not sure that it is, actually. When we are done, Tom plants a dry, thoughtful kiss in the middle of my forehead. He can not claim that he has been fobbed off — not after his official, all-time favourite thing — but he knows that he has been fobbed off, all the same. And it makes him angry.

‘I just don’t know where you’re coming from,’ he says. A corporate phrase from my corporate boy.

This is a very unsettling, and of course, very funny paragraph. Veronica is coming to terms with, according herself to the fragments of her selfhood in the aftermath of her brother Liam’s suicide, and this is just one example of a behaviour she adopts in its aftermath, as a way of construing herself in the event’s wake, indicated by her jealousy in her husband’s seemingly effortless capacity to Be. Her husband exhibits concern for her behaviour, the prevailing domestic codes of behaviour in their household; the rules implied in the stand-alone clause ‘On a school day,’ means that this is not a regular occurrence, and that Veronica is shaking things up. Her ambivalence towards her husband in this scene, as well as her dominance, are expressed in her pushing him in two directions at once. Ultimately, the event is a failure. Veronica is uncertain as to whether what has just happened is real or not, unreality being an ongoing thematic concern in The Gathering. The bland sum-up from her husband deepens the uncanniness, and gestures towards the impossibility of accessing Veronica as a character in the conventional sense.

Both paragraphs are very different in their approaches, but there is a definite similarity in their approaches, and that is, primarily, their avoidance. Very little detail is given about who puts what where and for how long. This is why I have difficulties with the premise of the bad sex award, as it is one of the rare forays that the non-literary press makes into contemporary literature, to make fun of the conceptual apparatus of prose. And it is, often, very silly, but it is silly for a reason that writing itself is silly. Bald statements of all that is the case don’t read well, literary writing is decidedly ambiguous, elliptical, and at its best when (apologies for using a creative writing workshop phrase) showing, not telling. So it is also for representations of The Ride. Say things too directly, and it becomes monotonous, but go too far with the figurative language, and journalists will mock you publicly.

We see similar methods of elision in Eimear McBride’s second novel, The Lesser Bohemians, which probably devotes more pages to sex than any other novel I can remember, let alone a self-consciously experimental one:

Alright. He wets his lips then goes to the words at a similar lick

Nowisthewinterofourdisconte

ntmadeglorioussummerbythissonofyork

and allthecloudsthatloured upon our hours…hs right I’m right there I’m. I pull back quick. He presses it onto me as his body gives up. Wet on my chest, ends of my hair and my breast and the heat. Goes everywhere and him smearing it all down me as I, touching the threat of bruise on my lip, lay my head on his knee.

The most significant absence here, is the word semen, or come, or whatever word you want to substitute over ‘it.’ Sex in The Lesser Bohemians generally observes this rule, interior monologue emphasising immediate sensory perception over systematic apprehension, interspersed with erratic formatting, punctuation, etc. Though the above is unique in that it is one of the few occasions in which Shakespeare is channeled directly. It’s never totally cringeworthy, it’s relatively interesting and not at all sexy. McBride’s methodology is however, drained of some of its vitality by its overuse; there is an awful lot of riding in the book.

It’s peculiar then, that McBride, having demonstrated her commitment to showing, not telling, then spends quite of the novel doing the latter. About halfway through the text, the novel’s love interest, Stephen, outlines his personal history, over the course of fifty or so pages. This soliloquy is interrupted about seven times, as Claire Lowdon points out, solely in order to remind us that the main character, Eily, is there. The endless references to Stephen’s tic, repetitions of howlers such as ‘the irony wasn’t lost on me when,’ just emphasise the strings and incongruous presence of what seems to be a first-draft of a screenplay based on an Edna O’Brien novel within an Edna O’Brien novel. Stephen’s Miserable Irish Childhood™ (complete with alcoholic father, suffocating mother, sexual abuse, etc. etc.) manages to disperse any mystique that might have imbued the character, and it escalates to such an absurd level by what is not even his early adolescence that I lack the ability to do justice to the exorbitant heights of its ridiculous hamminess.

Further, the self-hatred fuelled drug vortex into which both characters fall into at various points are singularly unconvincing. Choosing just one example is difficult, but I might have to go for the one wherein Eily, after having injected herself with one marijuana too many, begins to argue with Stephen, (who has just taken her back for having sex with someone else) and then dares him and her flatmate, named Flatmate, to have a threesome with her. The rage that she manages to sustain after having smoked weed is one level of ridiculousness, the blows to which Stephen and Flatmate nearly come is another, but all this is trumped by the next morning, when Stephen, all strife forgotten, begins assisting Flatmate in converting the flat into a squat to fend of some meddling bailiffs. Knowing what McBride is capable of from the undeniable virtuosity and power of A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing and even some of The Lesser Bohemians’ more successful moments make these lapses from form all the more baffling.

Who is mediating Ernest Hemmingway’s ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls?’

ErnestHemingway.jpgErnest Hemmingway’s 1940 novel For Whom the Bell Tolls, is a peculiar text for a number of reasons. First among which is the tension residing in the novel’s style. Hemmingway’s prose is among the most identifiable of the twentieth century, not just because he’s a canonical mainstay, but because of his commitment to shearing his works of all ‘unnecessary’ verbiage. His work is easily parodied as a result, just avoid adverbs, sub-clauses and never use a poly-syllabic word when a mono- will do.

Hemmingway’s sparse approach is the reason why websites such as http://www.hemingwayapp.com/ exist, which allow you to ‘write like’ Hemmingway, by highlighting complicating phrases that you should trim. We all await the first Booker-prize winning novel written with the help of this tool, I am sure.

It might sound strange to posit that For Whom the Bell Tolls, a novel about an American, Robert Jordan, volunteering to fight a leftist guerilla war against the Spanish fascists, is a novel about its own stylistic restraint, but this is my blog and I’ll say what I damn well please.

But I see your point, Hemmingway does permit himself occasional exuberances, or at least exuberances by his standard. These occasionalities cluster around moments of physical contact between Jordan and his Spanish lover, Maria:

Now as they lay all that before had been shielded was unshielded. Where there had been roughness of fabric all was smooth with a smoothness and firm rounded pressing and a long warm coolness, cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happy-making, young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, chest-aching, tight-held loneliness that was such that Robert Jordan felt he could not stand it

The Hemmingway app, incidentally, doesn’t like this sentence. It’s easy to see why. The pronouns repeat and clump together, (‘closely,’ ‘closely,’ ‘lonely,’) though perhaps repetition is inaccurate or insufficiently nuanced, they sort of rhyme, rather than repeat, ‘smooth/smoothness’ ‘coolness/cool,’ ‘warm/warmly,’ almost as if the words are working through their various grammatical permutations rather than changing into something more apposite. This results in some hyphenated neologisms that could summon up a Montessori Finnegans Wake, i.e., “happy-making.” So within this veritable explosion of linguistic energy, Hemmingway is still restraining himself by limiting his vocabulary.

The fact that it is at these points, the points at which Jordan is particularly botheredly hot-making is significant, as almost all of Jordan’s time, when in solitude, represents him as tussling with his doubts, subduing his panic about his outward presentation of stoic restraint. His self-recriminations power the narrative’s quieter moments, and make a poignant contrast with the admirably suspenseful shoot-outs that come towards the novel’s end. Therefore, restraint, both in emotion and in prose style serve a coterminous goal, and are mutually raised to the level of a moral imperative.

The elevation of a plain style to a moral realm comes into play also in the novel’s use of language. The dialogue is rendered as clunky and old-fashioned style, making use of ‘thou’ and ‘thee,’ which I think serves at least two purposes. First, it imbues the novel with a old-world grandeur. One’s mind immediately goes to the early modern English of William Shakespeare’s plays, an association that no novelist, however bare they wish their works to be, would resist. Second, Hemmingway wishes to preserve the spirit of demotic Spanish in which the dialogue is putatively being spoken, and therefore has them speak as if their words are being translated literally, which is strange, since the Spanish words which crop up, Inglés, qué va, are italicised, and are written as they are spoken. I wonder if the Spanish translation of the novel reads more naturally.

But it is the treatment of ‘bad’ language that sticks out the most. Rather than having his characters say ‘fuck,’ ‘damn,’ or their continental equivalents, they will say things like ‘I obscenity in the milk of thy shame’ or the narrator will intrude: ‘He said unprintable.’

I confess to ignorance on how difficult or easy it was to print cuss words in novels in the early twentieth century, but this does seem like a particularly convoluted solution, if they did indeed present a problem. I’d rather think of it as another instance of Hemmingway keeping his character’s on a leash, letting the moments in which physical desire and emotion intertwine be the only ones allowed to run rampant on the page, and open up an aspect to Hemmingway’s writng we wouldn’t normally see.

And that’s why a bleedin’ app isn’t the only thing you need to be a good writer.

William Shakespeare’s Jubilee

An account of the Shakespeare Jubilee held in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1769, organised by David Garrick and attended by the culture vultures of the time. It was a washout, by the bye, with a massive downpour pretty well overshadowing the event. Interesting to hear of a time when Shakespeare was only on his way to being canonised as the Great Bard.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p03r2q3d

Professor James Shapiro on Equivocation

Professor James Shapiro, author of 1599: A Year in the life of William Shakespeare, speaks in Trinity College Dublin on anti-Catholic laws, Jacobean attitudes to torture and the role of equivocation in William Shakespeare’s play Macbeth.

Anne Enright in conversation with Fintan O’Toole

Anne Enright in an extended, great conversation with Fintan O’Toole, giving interesting info on the structural aspects of her 2015 novel The Green Road, how it moved from a King Lear re-write to what it is and how she grappled with its geographical wide-rangingness. She does a couple of readings also, and they’re class.

http://www.podcastchart.com/podcasts/irish-arts-center-podcast/episodes/anne-enright-in-conversation-with-fintan-o-toole

Sound and Fury in William Faulkner’s ‘The Sound and the Fury’

The title of William Faulkner’s novel The Sound and the Fury has its origin in a somewhat obscure soliloquy given by Macbeth in William Shakespeare’s play, Macbeth. It reads:

There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

In Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, the phrase comes under some pressure. ‘Sound’ and ‘fury’ are not, in Faulkner’s usage at least, abstractions of which the tale of life is full. The double-use of the definite article suggests a more particularising motivation; it is The Sound and The Fury. With this in mind, I control effed the text for uses of sound and fury, because what turned up presumably means something to somebody.

April Seventh, 1928

Sound Count: 3

Fury Count: 0

As the chapter that Benjy narrates is the first one, one could argue that The Sound of the title is the moaning noise that Benjy makes, the moaning bellow that serves as the clearest indication to those of us capable of restraining ourselves from Sparknotes or Wikipedia summaries despite how adrift they may feel in this novel, that Benjy is neurologically impaired. In a way that is, again, presumably significant, he is often unaware that he makes this sound at all, the reader is only capable of coming to the understanding that he is when putting Jason’s complaints about Benjy’s constant ‘bellering,’ next to how often other characters instruct Benjy to hush.

June Second 1910

Sound Count: 12

Fury Count: 1

The Sound, for Quentin, is almost certainly the ticking of clocks, the ringing of bells and markers of time’s passing in general. Like Benjy’s The Sound, it passes in and out of his awareness: “You can be oblivious to the sound for a long while, then in a second of ticking it can create in the mind unbroken the long diminishing parade of time you didn’t hear.”

Unfortunately for Quentin, even when this sound terminates, he gains no respite from interminable clock-ticking/bell-ringing. Even the absence of sound evokes violence and despair: “The bird whistled again, invisible, a sound meaningless and profound, inflexionless, ceasing as though cut off with the blow of a knife.”

Quentin’s The Fury appears in one of his extended degenerating mélange of voices, within which it is very difficult to situate oneself. Again, what emerges is Quentin’s overwhelming fatalism and desperation: “until someday in very disgust he risks everything on a single blind turn of a card no man ever does that under the first fury of despair or remorse or bereavement he does it only when he has realised that even the despair or remorse or bereavement is not particularly important to the dark diceman and i temporary.”

April Sixth 1928

Sound Count: 2

Fury Count: 0

Its perhaps only fitting that Jason’s The Sound, is the ‘hollow sound’ that soil makes as Quentin is being buried, its low sound’s reverberation subverting Mrs. Compson’s remark which appoints Jason her only hope, a son who is resentful enough of the opportunities that Quentin received to fleece maintenance money intended for her.  Even the hollow sound fades, it re-surfaces later as ‘no sound’ from upstairs.

April Eighth 1928

Sound Count: 16

Fury Count: 1

Fury receives a rather bathetic treatment in the final chapter of the book. Jason, finding that his stolen money has been stolen in turn, holds the travelling show in town responsible and assaults the first member of it he comes across. Their struggle is awkward and ungainly, neither are triumphant: “Jason tried to grasp him in both arms, trying to prison the puny fury of him.” The anti-climax chimes with Jason’s failure to, 1) get his money back and 2) successfully carry out some sort of gesture, no matter how pointless, which might redeem the Compson’s from their over-determined misery. The Puny conclusively defuses all the potential rawness and hazard of The Fury.