A Sonnet to My Bookcase

Professor Sexson has told us to write a sonnet to a significant other, so naturally, I wrote one to my bookcase, about my bookcase.

A Sonnet to My Bookcase
When melted hearts spill down collapsing walls,
A reservoir's waiting to pool the drip.
It gathers tears of bygone, former falls
And currents them on a diversion trip.
Soft streaming eyes open to blurry lines
That streak together into tides of black.
These riverings aid in deluging times
The age-old vessel heartbreak whales attack.
For waves of words harbor stories of old
And bays of books are ceaselessly waiting.
Oceans of notions seek to unfold
To the seafarer ready for sailing.
Along the coast of my bookcase resides
A sea of stories waiting for reprise.

My Hamletian Tendencies

A professor once told me that Hamlet was the Shakespearean equivalent of a lazy English Literature grad student. This struck me as quite true and also simultaneously managed to frighten me considerably because I've noticed some rather Hamletian tendencies in my personality. Please do not mistake this comparison as hubris, for when I say I have Hamletian tendencies, I am not referring to the abilities to produce sweepingly insightful monologues and run verbal circles of wit around my peers (although I have been known to drop a witticism or two in my time). I am referring to Hamlet's tendency to remain fundamentally inactive through most of the play. Hamlet is the greatest procrastinator of all time, and as one who claims to have mastered the art, I can only look upon him in appreciation an awe for his ability to do nothing until the last possible moment.

On another Hamletian note, Professor Sexson has given us an assignment to make others' lives as entertaining as possible by being as Hamlet-like as possible. I'm afraid that I've been carrying out this assignment far too successfully for many years now, and that my goal should be to make my life less entertaining for others. This was exemplified for me during the past week when I was making a mad dash to the McDonald's drive through at 10:25 in the morning. Now, any true McDonald's customer knows that the restaurant stops selling their signature breakfast foods at 10:30 AM, so even though my car was running on empty, I had to eek out every last bit of fuel to obtain my primary goal of a Sausage Mcmuffin meal. Right as I pull up to voice my order, my car shutters to a halt and refuses to start. With a line of seven cars behind me, I had to get out of my vehicle and kindly ask the two gentleman behind me to push my car out of the McDonald's drive thru, subsequently depriving myself and all seven cars behind me of McDonald's breakfast. Refusing to let this set back keep me from McDonald's food all together, I mustered up my courage, walked inside the restaurant, placed my order "for here", and waited for a friend to bring a tank of gas to rescue my poor abused car from the clutches of the McDonald's parking lot. I've included a picture of the incident below as proof this story took place. Anyways, this incident is not an isolated one. Such humorous occurrences seem to take place in my life rather frequently, and as one who enjoys entertaining others, I'm not shy about sharing them. Yes, I've realized we have ventured away from discussing comedy in this class, but I think we can all agree that the death of my vehicle in the Mcdonald's drive thru is a pretty tragic Hamletian incident.

Benjamin Franklin

Alright Professor Sexson, you demanded proof and here it is. A 10 year old, grey-haired Nicole starring as Benjamin Franklin in Valley View Elementary School's colonial play.

The Masque of the Theatre

If I remember correctly, I believe it was Jill who was interested in exploring masks and their Shakespearean utilization. Upon reading her blog, I came across a quote that struck quite the chord;

"Theater is more than than the mask, it is the expression of the space where the body ends and the mask begins." I took this to mean that theatre is not wholly realistic, nor a costume-ish representation of the real, but an adjoining of the two. This extremely provocative and interesting line brought to mind theatre's connection to the microcosm and macrocosm. The theme that has reverberated throughout the short duration of this Shakespeare class is that life imitates art and art imitates life, the microcosm attempts to reflect the macrocosm, and good theatre is a microcosmic sampling of the macrocosmic whole.  These contemplations subsequently reminded me of a short story that utilizes microcosms, macrocosms, masks, and mimicry; an Edgar Allan Poe tale entitled The Mask of the Red Death.

I've included the full text below in a link, but for those unfamiliar, The Masque of the Red Death features a prince who shares the same name of Shakespeare's title character in The Tempest, Prince Prospero. Everyone around Prospero is dropping dead of a plague known as the Red Death, so he decides to gather up all of his friends, barricade them in his palace, hole up till the plague is over, and let all the peasants die off. Around 600 aristocrats hang out and party in Prospero's palace for a while, until Prospero decides to spice up the party theme and throw a Masquerade ball. This masquerade features seven meaningfully decorated rooms, an ebony clock, and a mysterious masked party guest whose appearance is described as such: "...tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat." I won't reveal the identity of the masked figure for those unknowing readers (although this description, coupled with the title of the short story, may have made it obvious to some).

I read Poe's story in terms of the macro and micro. Prospero, in barricading himself and his friends inside the palace, attempts to shield the microcosm from the macrocosm. The macrocosm, in the form of the masked figure, invades the microcosm, and destroys it. At the conclusion, Prospero's microcosm reflects the macrocosm of the outside world; his guests and him have all died from the Red Death. The masks of the theatre do not protect us from the macrocosm. Instead, they allow it to pass among us unnoticed until its presence becomes too overwhelmingly truthful to ignore. 

Full Text of Poe's The Masque of the Red Death

The Despairing Romantic

In an urge to deepen my Shakespearean understanding (an understanding which resides mostly on faint and vague-ish memories of reading Hamlet and Julius Caesar), I ventured to a place that despises me for my inability to return a book on time as well as my frequent breaking of the no food or drink rule; the Montana State Library.  Within its literary criticism section, I happened across a book that compiled a variety of critical writings on Shakespeare's work by the playwright Bernard Shaw entitled Shaw on Shakespeare. Expecting another journey along the path of Shakespeare's genius to the final destination of awe and fascination many critics of the Bard lead readers along, I was surprised to find that Shaw was highly critical of Shakespeare, elucidated in the prologue with quotes such as ; "We are idolaters of Shakespeare, born and bred. Our sin is not indifference, but superstition-which is another kind of ignorance," and, "I could write a better play than As You Like It...I actually have written much better ones, and in fact, never wrote anything and never intend to write anything, half so bad in matter". The change in critical tone was refreshing; my fellow lit students and I have been raised upon the bread and butter of Shakespeare. We all gather around his pedestal of literary genius and marvel at its grandiosity and seemingly unparalleled brilliance, so it is rather pleasing to see someone attempt to, if not kick this pedestal over, shake it a bit. 

Of course I'm still deeply enamored of Shakespeare's genius, but Shaw's criticisms resonated, particularly his views of romanticism. Shaw had Shakespeare in mind when he wrote, "the lot of the man who sees life truly and thinks about it romantically is despair." Romance lies at the epicenter of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and despair seems to gravitate around it, hovering at its edges whilst conjoining itself with a large dose of comedy to take the edge off. Helena is the epitome of romantic despair, illustrated in her interactions with Demetrius when she begs to him;

"I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,

The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, 

Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,"

She understands this love is not reciprocated, and, without the help of a little misplaced magic, never will be, but this despair does not intercede with her passions. The despairing romantic is born when his love is spurned or cannot be returned, and yet, he is unable to relinquish his love, catalyzing feelings of despondency and anguish. Another example of a despairing lover is the rebuffed Ophelia;

Hamlet: I did love you once.

Ophelia: Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

Hamlet: You should not have believ'd me, for virtue cannot so

inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I lov'd you not.

Ophelia: I was the more deceived.

Hamlet: Get thee to a nunn'ry, why woulds't thou be a breeder of

Romantic despair, is of course, a romantic notion, and reveals a significant aspect of Shakespeare's influence. He himself seems to be a despairing romantic (if one needs an example of this, one simply has to investigate Shakespeare's sonnets, particularly sonnet 138).  He sees life truly, writes about it romantically, and yet his lot, as Shaw would say, is the lot of despair.

SONNET 138

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,

And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.