Talking with ghosts

Love this quote from an interview with editors M. H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt in the New York Times about the Norton Anthology's anniversary:

Has the Norton Anthology then lost its relevance?

Greenblatt: Not at all. The Norton Anthology was based on the idea that it actually matters to plunge into a comic masterpiece written in the 1300s or to weep at a tragedy performed in the 1700s. What would it mean for a culture to give up on its past? It is vitally important to remind people that the humanities carry the experience, the life-forms of those who came before us, into the present and into the future. Through reading literature we can make ghosts speak to us, and we can speak back to them. Besides — as many studies have shown — cultural knowledge turns out to be good for your career.

And so I continue to stumble through Sophocles and Shakespeare with my students at the community college, even though I'm sure they wonder whether they are getting their money's worth from this class.

Actually, I have been very happy with the way the literature class has been going. It's a smaller group than last semester, and about half of the students are older than I am, so they are happy to sit around and talk about the relationships in these plays.  Last week we had a great discussion about whether it would have been better for Oedipus to live in ignorance than to find out his sins.  The class was pretty well split in opinion.  They may have had a hard time with the language, but they picked up on the themes. They were able to weep at this masterpiece from thousands of years ago.

There seems to be a good rapport among the lit students, and one lady really brought the class to life last week by bringing in warm bunelos. I was only going to eat a bite of one to be polite, but the donut melted away too quickly, reminding me of the donuts from a bakery near where my dad used to work. He could polish off a dozen in no time because they were so airy and sugary when warm that they seemed to evaporate. Only thing missing was coffee, which I'm afraid to drink because this class starts at 8 pm.

We are going to read "Fences" by August Wilson next, because the university next door is staging it in a few weeks.   I just read it for the first time myself, and although the language may strike some students as a bit rough (it was a bit jarring to me, at least - it had crossed my mind to take my kids to the play because I'm always looking for ways to sneak some culture in them, but it's definitely too mature for the youngers), I think the students will really enjoy discussing the family dynamics.  They've enjoyed talking about how the lovers in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" fall into familiar patterns; in "Fences" I hope they'll listen to the ghosts speaking about the next phase of life: marriage and parenting - and how the songs sung by Troy and Lyons and Gabe (like the stories in the anthology) keep the characters waking up in the morning, even when it seems like they've cut themselves off from all their reasons for living.

Now if I could just figure out how to get the same energy to enliven my composition class.  I get a lot of blank stares when I ask for volunteers to read or discuss.  Maybe it's time to bring in hot donuts.

Shakespeare: always timely

On the docket for tonight’s class: A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  I’ve asked the students to bring in lyrics to a love song of their choosing to compare to the theme that the course of true love never did run smooth.  I mentioned it to a friend, who warned me that I may get some undesirable language.  We may have to do some bowdlerizing.

While searching around for fun ideas, I came across this video:

 From the article at The Guardian:

The danger – if there is one – in such an approach, is that it might be seen as both patronising and naff to use hip-hop as a backdoor to introducing young people to what is often viewed as "high culture". Is turning Sonnet 18 into a rap the equivalent of turning children's food into funny animal shapes in order to get them to swallow something unpalatable? Keith Saha runs the innovative 20 Stories High theatre group in Liverpool and he thinks it can be if it's handled wrongly. "All sorts of industries use hip-hop as a branding tool to sell to a yoof market that they don't understand and can't connect with," he says. "Unfortunately, the arts, and theatre in particular, is one of them. Akala is a great example of a genuine artist who has a passion for both hip-hop and Shakespeare and what he does really works. But a lot of the time big arts organisations are clueless in how to attract young people to their venues; they have boxes to tick in terms of attracting new audiences and the results can be embarrassing, misguided and often offensive."

I may be one of the "clueless," but I'm not opposed to trying to make Shakespeare more accessible.   

Akala says the aim isn't that limited: "It's about showing them what's attainable. And if Shakespeare is presented as the most unattainable, highbrow entity, but then it's made relevant to them, what else might be? It's part of a wider effort to open kids up to what they wouldn't traditionally be interested in." Chanelle Newman, project manager for the Hip-Hop Shakespeare company, is already seeing the effects. "By the end of the workshops you get to see that it opens their mind up to other things such as theatre acting or going to see more Shakespeare plays. "

Too bad the classroom doesn’t have wi-fi.

Ironically, or not, this theme ties in nicely with our life lately. My husband and I spent about a few days last week at cross purposes.  Miscommunications, perceived slights, wrongs resurrected – the typical angsts of marriage.  So it’s not surprising that the sparring between Oberon and Titania caught my attention.  When lovers are at odds, all else in the world seems disordered.  Thankfully, our quibbles have nought to do with infidelity, but it would be nice if we could argue as eloquently as this :

          O: Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

          T: What jealous Oberon? Fairies, skip hence.

            I have foresworn his bed and company.

          O: Tarry, rash wanton. Am not I thy lord?

          T: Then I must be thy lady; but I know when thou hast stolen away from Fairyland

Fortunately, like Oberon and Titania, our moods are as inconstant as the moon, and after a decent sleep, all is reconciled and right with the world:

       O: Come, my queen, take hands with me,

         And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

         Now thou and I are new in amity,

         And will tomorrow midnight solemnly

         Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly

     T: Come, my lord, and in our flight

        Tell me how it came this night

        That I sleeping here was found

        With these mortals on the ground.

Providentially, one morning I opened up Benedictus (recycling through) to this quote from Pope Benedict:

 “No one can arrive at knowledge of himself just by looking within himself and trying to build up his personality from what he finds there. Man as a being is so constructed for relationships that he grows in relation to others. So that his own meaning, his task in life, his advancement in life, and his potential are unlocked in his meetings with others. From the starting point of this basic structure of human existence we can understand faith and our meeting with Jesus.”

Growing in relation to others is sometimes painful, but always fruitful. Does literature count as a meeting place with others? Can this class become a meeting place to grow in knowledge of self? Reminds me of this article: Can Tolstoy Change Your Marriage?

from http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lu82zpVNoc1qdrwy3o1_500.jpg

Sometimes it's best to let the master speak for you

In honor of the Bard's blessed birth, a sonnet - or two or seven - for my absent love:

XCVIII
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.


This one also applies:

XLVII

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thy self away, art present still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart, to heart's and eyes' delight.
 
 
So many good choices:
 
XXVII

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
 
Too many to choose from:
 
XXIX

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
 
 
A promise of a passionate reunion:
 
 
LI


Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know,
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace.
Therefore desire, (of perfect'st love being made)
Shall neigh, no dull flesh, in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade-
Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

Good thing these are short:


II


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.


and finally, expectedly:

CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

What are seven months in the course of timeless love?