Posts Tagged ‘youth’

So for this week’s biographical tidbit… Shakespeare’s life and lifestyle are so blurred by time that now, four centuries later, very few details about him are without controversy.  Some Shakespeare “scholars,” both genuine and self-acclaimed, seem to delight in questioning common beliefs about the Bard. 

I must confess, I am no exception.  Although I don’t call myself a Shakespeare scholar, I still enjoy finding interpretations of his sonnets that don’t completely mesh with the mainstream.

Even the very idea that he wrote the plays attributed to him is sometimes questioned.

To quote from the Wikipedia article on the “Shakespeare authorship question“:

The Shakespeare authorship question is the ongoing debate, first recorded in the early 18th century, about whether the works attributed to William Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon were actually written by another writer, or a group of writers.  Among the numerous alternative candidates that have been proposed, major claimants have included Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, and William Stanley (6th Earl of Derby).  The most popular [alternate-author] theory of the 20th century was that Shakespeare’s works were written by Edward de Vere (17th Earl of Oxford).

Personally, I think the notion of an “alternate author” is ridiculous.  Common justifications given for these theories range from “he couldn’t have been smart enough to write those plays” to “there’s not enough evidence that he actually wrote them.”  Considering how few records we have from four hundred years ago — especially about Shakespeare’s intelligence and education — both of these arguments (and most others) seem pretty shaky… or so it seems to me.

Sonnet 23

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
      O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
      To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

What I get out of it

An unperfect actor?

How ironic it seems to us, in the twenty-first century, to think that Shakespeare was sometimes at a loss for words.  However, this is exactly the message he tries to communicate in Sonnet 23:  sometimes, even the great bard is silenced by intensity of emotion.

Like “an unperfect actor on the stage,” whose stage fright prevents him from slipping into his role… or like a “fierce thing” whose “too much rage” proves his undoing… Shakespeare’s poetic persona finds that his overflowing love makes it hard to express his affection with the “perfect ceremony” that love deserves.

His “love’s strength” makes Shakespeare’s composure “decay” – he is “o’ercharg’d” or overwhelmed with the heavy “burthen” of communicating how strongly he feels.

In desperation, Shakespeare pleads that his lover let his “looks,” or facial expression and body language, “be then the eloquence” that he cannot put into words.  His body language and “speaking breast,” which I take to mean his pounding heart, must “plead for love” instead of “that tongue” that he usually uses to express his feelings.

The closing couplet sums up his plea nicely:  “learn to read” the body language that “silent love” has written into his expression and pose; “to hear with eyes” is an appropriate skill for a lover’s “fine wit.”

Is it relevant?

I would say so.  In fact, this might be the first sonnet I’ve discussed that genuinely struck me as being rather sweet.  Sonnets like “shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” is so often quoted, it has become more of a cliché than a romantic expression.  Many of Shakespeare’s other poems, such as Sonnet 22, contain a hint of warning cynicism within their lines.

The sonnet above, on the other hand, expresses a sweetly innocent love that we can all recall… the moment of being left speechless, hearts pounding, staring into the face of our adoration and having absolutely nothing coherent to say.  I felt this way many times as my wife and I began dating.

You know what?  I often still do.

[T]hou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. — Song of Solomon 4:9

(Coat of arms credit and license)

Good things come...

Patience is not a virtue I often witness in people these days.  Our instant-gratification culture has eliminated the need for patience in so many ways that we rarely practice it at all; combine our impatience with our increasing selfishness and the results can be devastating.

In my college classes we sometimes discussed a method of studying the ability to delay gratification.  A child would be placed in a room, sitting at a table.  On the table were a handful of M&Ms.  The child was told by the researcher that he would be left alone for several minutes, and if the M&Ms were still on the table when the researcher returned, the child would be rewarded with more.  If the child grabbed the M&Ms while the researcher was gone, there would be no reward. 

Once the researcher left the room, hidden cameras recorded the child’s actions.  Some children were grabbers; some were waiters. 

Most of the students I teach, I feel certain, would be grabbers. 

So. 

I must have been about ten years old when my grandmother waved me over to the easy chair where she had lately spent all of her time. 

“Take this,” she whispered.  I had to strain to hear her, but I knew that she was speaking as loudly as she could.  She handed me a twenty-dollar bill with one shaking hand.  “This is for your graduation.”  She looked at me.  I was obviously confused.  “I won’t be able to see you graduate,” she explained, leaning back and closing her eyes. 

When I got home, I put the bill in the top drawer of the chest in my bedroom… the same drawer where I kept bicentennial quarters, the occasional Canadian coin that a distracted shopkeeper might give in change, and my favorite pirate ring. 

I didn’t touch it again for three years. 

When I was thirteen, I came home from school one day to find that my mother had locked herself in the bedroom.  Dad was in the kitchen, sipping coffee — rare for a man who almost never drinks it.  He placed his mug on the table with the patient care he uses for every action.  “Your grandmother passed away today,” he said, making direct eye contact. 

I think my mouth fell open at the blunt statement.  After a moment, I found my voice.  “Which one?” I asked. 

“Your mother’s mother.”  He cleared his throat.  “We’ll be going up there tomorrow night for visitation.” 

That was all that needed to be said.  He returned to his coffee, and I went back to my room.  I opened the top drawer of my chest and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill — the one my grandmother had given me years before.  I sat on my bed, looking at the bill, for several minutes before returning it to the drawer. 

When I was eighteen, I graduated from high school.  On graduation night, after I got home, I pulled out the twenty-dollar bill and put it with the checks, gift cards, and other gifts of congratulations my relatives had sent.  After eight years of waiting, my grandmother’s gift had finally fulfilled its purpose.

We shall sooner have the fowl by hatching the egg than by smashing it. — Abraham Lincoln

We could ask him, but...

What a week this has been… “devouring time” has indeed seemed to feast on the hours and minutes of the last seven days.  So, here we are once again with Shakespeare Saturday.

One constant source of heated debate and controversy regarding Shakespeare is speculation about his love life.  It is known that he was married, probably to legitimize his bride’s pregnancy (their first child was born about six months after vows were exchanged).  He probably also took another woman as mistress for some time later in his life.

Some of Shakespeare’s poetry suggests an additional liaison.  Many modern readers and critics believe that the Bard had a romantic relationship with another male, and Sonnet 19 is one of a number of sonnets which apparently indicate this.  Another school of thought argues that Shakespeare may merely have been expressing strong but friendly affection; another argues that the sonnets’ speaker (their “I” and “me”) might not represent Shakespeare himself; yet another leans toward the familial-love interpretation I briefly mentioned when I discussed Sonnet 18.  As any one person’s opinion is potentially as well-founded as any other, given the few clues available, I invite you to decide for yourself as you read:

Sonnet 19

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-liv’d phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.
    Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
    My love shall in my verse ever live young.

What I get out of it

The God of Passing Time

Shakespeare’s poetic speaker addresses him- (or her-) self to an animated and malicious “Time.”  Time works destruction on everything in the universe.  It “blunt[s] the lion’s paws” and “pluck[s] the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,” rendering these fearsome predators ineffective in their old age.  It brings an end even to the ever-renewing life of the “phoenix.”  It forces the “sweet brood” of living creatures to be devoured by — figuratively, buried in –”the earth” that spawned them.  The seasons themselves are born (made “glad”) but then die (make “sorry”) as Time touches them.

Shakespeare’s speaker acknowledges this and accepts it — but one act is unacceptable and unforgivable.  Time must not ever commit the “heinous crime” of bringing age and ruin to the young man about whom the poem is written.  Fearing that Time will “carve” wrinkles into ”my love’s fair brow,” the poem’s speaker pleads for Time’s mercy.  “Draw no lines,” the speaker begs, in the young man’s face; ”allow” his “untainted” beauty to be appreciated by others.

The sonnet’s closing couplet, however, turns defiant.  “Do thy worst,” the speaker sneers, “my love shall in my verse ever live young.”  As with Sonnet 18, the poem is a memorial, a way for the poem’s object to live eternally young and attractive, thanks to the poet’s homage.

Is it relevant?

The short answer is, “yes.”  The long answer depends on your decision regarding Shakespeare’s intentions when writing this sonnet.

If Shakespeare is writing this to a romantic interest (either a real one, or an imagined interest of the poem’s speaker), the relevance lies in the fact that we always want our lovers (and ourselves) to remain as young, fit, and attractive as they were when first we met them (even though age may not lessen the love or desire).

If Shakespeare is writing this to a close friend, he may be empathizing with the young man’s fears of growing old, either because Shakespeare shared those fears or had already realized them.

Finally, if Shakespeare writes Sonnet 19 to his son or another relative, he may simply be echoing every father’s desire for his young descendants to remain children forever.

For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by number of years.  But wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age. — Wisdom of Solomon 4:8-9

(Grave: Photo Credit and License; Statue: Public Domain)

First Edition

A friend gave me a book of Shakespeare’s Sonnets as a wedding gift last week (along with books of poetry by two of my other favorites, T.S. Eliot and Langston Hughes).  Gifts that are both thoughtful and personal are quite difficult for me to pick out… so I try to always give kudos when someone else gives me one.  Thanks!

After discussing the repetitive themes of Sonnets 1-3, I decided to skip ahead a bit.  My good friend, a Mr. Wiki Pedia, informs me that the first 17 or so sonnets share a common message… so, in my search for variety, I hereby skip to:

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

What I get out of it

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Home of Anne Hathaway

I should call it “Shakespeare Saturday.” My readings of Shakespeare’s sonnets continue with Sonnet 3.

But first, a little biographical information that you may or may not have known about Shakespeare:

• He was married to Anne Hathaway, possibly because he’d gotten her pregnant.
• He had three children in all, Susanna (the eldest) and fraternal twins Hamnet and Judith.
• When Shakespeare died at the ripe old age of 52, he bequeathed to Anne his “second-best bed.”  How… sweet.

Sonnet 3

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
    But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
    Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

What I get out of it

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