Austen: Romance without Words

Firth and Ehle in 1995 Pride and Prejudice

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Friday – Valentine’s Day

I find it fascinating that the author of England’s most beloved courtship novels never shows us directly the moment her works have been building up to, which is the heroine saying “yes” or “I do” to a proposal. We occasionally see heroines saying “no,” most notably Elizabeth to Darcy’s first proposal. But never the opposite.

We have to wonder whether Jane Austen is teasing us, taking us up to the pinnacle moment and then dropping us. Maybe she feels the moment is too private to be revealed. Or maybe she believes that her heroine’s heart is so full that language can’t do it justice. Perhaps her silence on the subject only makes the moment more intense as we are forced to imagine it.

One last theory given there’s comedy in a number of the non-revealed answers: by using humor to deflect from deep emotion, Austen may feel safe from too much sentimentality. Stiff upper British lip and all that.

I provide all the implied yeses below, ordering the relationships by romantic intensity. I begin with the relationship we most desire and are happiest with when it occurs:

Elizabeth-Darcy in Pride and Prejudice
Anne Elliot-Wentworth in Persuasion
Elinor Dashwood-Edward Ferrars in Sense and Sensibility
Emma Woodhouse-Mr. Knightley in Emma
Catherine Morland-Mr. Tilney in Northanger Abbey
Fanny Price-Edmund Bertram in Mansfield Park
Marianne Dashwood-Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility

Now for the indirect report of the heroines’ responses:

Elizabeth to Darcy’s proposal:

Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. 

Anne to Wentworth’s:

In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. 

Elinor to Edward’s:

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told [my bold]. This only need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at four o’clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. 

Emma to Mr. Knightley’s (Jane Austen at her best):

She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself.

Catherine Morland to Henry Tilney

…but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine’s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own.

Fanny Price-Edmund Bertram

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that everyone may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.

Marianne Dashwood-Colonel Brandon

With such a confederacy against her—with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness—with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else—burst on her—what could she do?

The best Jane Austen movies are aware of her strategy and come up with their own indirect articulations. My favorite is the 1995 Persuasion, where we see neither proposal nor response. Instead, we see Anne and Wentworth leave center stage and go down a side street, where the business is done. Rather than follow them, the camera stays in place and watches a street carnival passing through. The carnival music swells and then subsides, at which point the couple returns to view, leaving us to believe that the music has captured first their own intense joy and then quiet contentment.

The runner-up award goes to Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility: there we see young sister Margaret in her treehouse spying on Elinor and Edward and reporting on proposal and acceptance to Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood.

What to take away from all of this? Well, if you’re having trouble expressing your Valentine’s Day love to your sweetheart, knoq that one of Britain’s greatest prose writers sometimes avoided direct expression herself.

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Our Round of Austen-Like Visitations

Goth, Taylor-Joy as Harriet, Emma in Emma


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Thursday

Julia and I have been on the road for the past two days, and because I wrote today’s essay in a hotel without internet access, it’s off the top of my head and short. During the trip I (1) gave a reading from Better Living through Literature at my old college; (2) taught a Chaucer class while there; (3) gave a film talk about Goodbye, Lenin to my college roommate’s church in Greenbelt, MD; and (4) saw many friends and my eldest son’s family It’s these friend visits that I want to talk about today.

I felt like I was in a Jane Austen novel as we moved from friend to friend. If you’ve read her novels, you know that her characters spend a lot of time visiting. I’m thinking especially of Elinor and Marianne in Sensibility, the Bennet sisters in Pride and Prejudice, and Emma in Emma. These are the three novels set in small towns, in contrast to a country estate (Mansfield Park) or Bath (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion). Although even in Persuasion, some of Anne Elliot’s best moments are spent visiting her friend Harriet Smith.

There are two kinds of visits in these novels. The town visits are relatively short and are basically used to exchange news/gossip and to knit together the social fabric. Some of the other visits, because they require long journey, can last weeks or even months, as in Catherine visiting Northanger Abbey, the Dashwoods visiting Mrs, Jennings in London, Elizabeth visiting Charlotte Lucas Collins, the Crawfords visiting Mrs. Grantly, and Anne visiting the Musgroves.

Our visits were a combination of these—which is to say, short visits requiring long journeys. In those short visits, however, there was so much richness that we wished they could have been extended. I saw students who I hadn’t seen for years (including one, featured in my book, who came down especially from Baltimore to hear my talk); colleagues who I hadn’t seen since before Covid, even though our collective efforts helped sustain the college; an Ethiopian refugee who lived with us for four years in order to attend St. Mary’s who now works in the patents office (and who, because Julia and I attended Carleton College, now has a daughter there); the widower of a former colleague who talked of how they used poetry to cope with her final weeks; my 13-year-old grandson, who is now only an inch shorter than I am and who is a superlative violinist; and on and on.

Reflecting on how they had impacted our lives and we theirs, Julia and I agreed that such relationships are essential to psychic health. I know several lives worth living,” Mary Oliver writes of people who have witnessed humpback whales in action, and we came away feeling that we had lived such lives by having deep and abiding friendships. Although these relationships are not based on growing up in a common locality or belonging to large family networks, as they are in Austen novels, they are nonetheless foundational to living a meaningful life.

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Is Rousseau Ruining Today’s Youth?

Jean Jacques Rousseau

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Wednesday

A close childhood friend, artist Tony Winters, gifted me a Wall Street Journal article that speaks to a number of my interests. Although I’m not convinced by Emily Finley’s claim that we should blame Jean Jacques Rousseau and Romanticism for a mental health crisis among today’s youth, I certainly subscribe to her belief that reading the classics can do some good. Here’s her argument:

She begins by citing Greg Lukianoff and Jonath Haidt’s Coddling of the American Mind, which contends that a culture of “safetyism” has made young people “less resilient and more anxiety-prone.” Haidt then argues, in The Anxious Generation, that “the widespread use of technology and social media is ‘rewriting’ childhood.”

Finley counters that parental coddling and technology addiction are symptoms, not causes, and that the real culprit is “the romantic corruption of imagination.”  While she is as enthusiastic about the imagination as Rousseau and the Romantic poets–she regards it as “far more powerful than logic or reason” and a force that “colors our entire view of life and life’s possibilities”–she appears to hold Romanticism responsible for giving us a skewed vision of the world:

A malformed imagination is romantic. It is unbalanced and lacks proportion. It is oriented by an unrealistic, even utopian, vision of progress and a world altogether changed through human effort. This dreamy vision of a New Earth is made possible by the belief that “man is a naturally good being,” as the archromantic Jean-Jacques Rousseau declared in the 18th century. We must clear away the traditional religious and social norms hindering prosperity and instead heed the “cry of nature,” Rousseau argued.

The worldview Rousseau helped create, Finley says, “has played no small part in today’s mental-health crisis.” She bolsters her argument with a couple of ad hominem attacks, noting that the French philosophe placed five of his illegitimate children in orphanages—a particularly egregious move for a man who wrote one of the foundational texts on educating children—and that he was himself almost insane.

Instead of Rousseau-type imagination, Finley says, we need “a well-formed imagination” that is “properly adjusted to reality” and that “can adapt to life’s vicissitudes and see life steady and see it whole.”

So how does a malformed imagination contribute to the current crisis amongst young people. Finley says that it gives young people unrealistic expectations that are then dashed, leading to “melancholic despair”:

Having been told romantic tales from birth about their natural perfection and endless potential, young people can hardly be blamed for their unrealistic expectations. The modern childhood education is one great building up of the idea that, without any special effort, every child is going to be something extraordinary, and with their help, the world will be a better place. This is the romantic imagination’s manic side.

As these young people discover that they are, in fact, nothing very special, and that the world doesn’t appear to be improving despite their political crusading, they enter a period of melancholic despair. This is the romantic imagination’s depressive side.

So what should be guiding their imaginations? Finley cites religious beliefs, traditions, and standards, which would connect them with permanent things. And then—this is where we get to stories and poems—they need “good literature or history that would furnish their imaginations with examples of heroism, or even ordinary men and women overcoming the ordinary challenges of life.”

If modernity is not to be an Eliotian wasteland, Finley contends, what is required is

an immediate and total detox of the imagination. Instead of romantic lies and technological distractions, children must be nourished on works of imagination that provide concrete standards of what is worthy.

Finley is engaging here in the old classicism-romanticism debate—a version of the conservatism-liberalism debate—and coming down firmly on the side of the former. In actuality, however, there always needs to be a balance. Classicism without romanticism can be stultifying whereas romanticism without classicism can be (as she observes) ungrounded. It’s why every country needs conservative and liberal parties.

What it doesn’t need is a radically reactionary party in place of the conservatives, which is what we have currently.

With regard to literature, Finley recommends “old literature—written before about 1940,” implying that it is automatically superior. These old books, she says,

tell the extraordinary tale, to paraphrase G.K. Chesterton, of ordinary men and ordinary women and their ordinary children. Stories of family life, hardships, joys, challenges and the quotidian are the stuff that best orients young minds.

Far be in from me to critique the books that she mentions since they include some of my favorites. I don’t know Farmer’s Boy, but the others—I’m assuming she has in mind A Child’s Garden of Verses for Stevenson’s poetry—all sustained me as a child. I agree that this “feast of the imagination” teaches children “to have a realistic sense of what truly is possible in this life and wherein lie life’s boundaries” and that is helps us see “goodness and beauty, evil and ugliness for what they are”:

Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Farmer Boy” shows children that in this life, reward comes after long, hard work. Frances Hodgson Burnett’s “The Secret Garden” illustrates what resilience looks like. C.S. Lewis’s “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” portrays the good and evil that lurk within each one of us. Greek myths teach children proportion. Robert Louis Stevenson introduces children to beauty in lyrical form.

At this point, however, Finley slips in a fast one, however. Apparently something—books written after 1940? the lingering effects of Rousseau and Romanticism?—is prompting young people to forsake “the ordinary duties of marriage and parenthood.” Instead, the focus is supposedly all about finding oneself and living as “an expressive individual.” She holds up Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary as examples of individual brought to misery by such romantic escapism.

To blame Rousseau for Anna Karenina’s behavior is a fairly one-dimensional view of her character. It’s not as though passionate, marriage-busting love is a Romantic invention. Are we to hold the French philosophe to account for Guinevere and Lancelot’s affair in the Malory’s Morte D’Arthur (1485). Or for Antony and Cleopatra’s ruinous engagement in Shakespeare’s 1606 play.

As for Emma Bovary, yes she is led astray by sentimental dreck: Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s Paul and Virginia is essentially an 18th century Harlequin romance. Here’s Flaubert’s description of its impact:

Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought, have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so beautiful in books.

To give you a sense of what she’s reading, Flaubert mentions Emma dreaming of “the little bamboo-house, the Black slave Domingo, the dog Fidele, but above all of the sweet friendship of some dear little brother, who seeks red fruit for you on trees taller than steeples, or who runs barefoot over the sand, bringing you a bird’s nest.”

But the great Romantics, including some holding a utopian vision of progress, were highly critical of such shallow sentimentality. I’m particularly thinking of Percy Shelley who, revolutionary though he was, critiques Rousseau in The Triumph of Life for being trapped in his emotions and goes after shallow idealism in The Revolt of Idealism.

And as far as characterizing children’s book written after 1940 as all about finding and expressing oneself, has she read any of these books? Sure, there’s bad stuff, but that’s always been the case. It so happens, however, that we are living in a golden age of young adult literature featuring works that do indeed grapple with “family life, hardships, joys, challenges and the quotidian.” In fact, often they look more closely at married life than either Secret Garden or Narnia.

To say, categorically, that contemporary children’s literature fails to “separate the fruitless romantic dream from reality” is to reveal that one hasn’t read much contemporary children’s literature. With regard to parental upbringing, meanwhile, one could argue that children today are as likely to be ruined by hidebound traditionalists as by permissive progressives.

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The Darkness at the Heart of Whiteness

Marlon Brando as Kurtz in Heart of Darkness

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Monday

Greg Olear of the Substack blog Prevail has written another fine essay, this one on Heart of Darkness. While acknowledging the legitimacy of Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe’s critique—that the novella does a lousy job of depicting Africans—Olear doesn’t want us to overlook Conrad’s main target: white greed.

Olear points out that Conrad makes a point of emphasizing Kurtz’s whiteness:

Kurtz is a full seven feet of skeletal whiteness, topped off by a shiny white cueball of a pate. He is ivory incarnate. He is, in short (kurzum in German), the whitest white man in all of Africa—and also the most evil. Conrad equates the two qualities deliberately. [Kurtz’s fiancé] talks about Kurtz’s “goodness,” and no doubt Kurtz had that in some supply before he left. But by the time we meet him, all of that has evaporated. What remains is a bleached-out husk of pure horrific evil.

White greed, Olear then notes, is currently attempting to ruin America as it once ruined Africa:

Reading the book in 2025, I think only of our current iteration of this kind of white man, brilliant but misguided and irreparably damaged, in this imperial nation vaster and more powerful than Belgium could ever have dreamt of being. Like Kurtz they are white supremacists. Like Kurtz they are men of talent. Like Kurtz they engage in unspeakable acts….Like Kurtz they enjoy the undeserved protection of corporations and governments. And like Kurtz they are driven mad with greed. The accumulation of assets is more important to them than anything: love, sex, art, creativity, fame, faith, hope, charity, decency, respect, community, God, the future of humanity—anything.

Then, in a passage referencing South Africa born-and-raised Elon Musk, Olear asks,

How can we read Heart of Darkness today and not think of the disgustingly wealthy white men from Africa hellbent on destroying our country and the world for their own material gain?

Olear makes one other unsettling application: the novel begins with an allusion to the sun setting on the British Empire, which in Conrad’s day was the most powerful nation on earth.

[T]he dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

In response to this scene Marlow reflects, “And this also has been one of the dark places of the earth.”

Perhaps thinking of the Pax Americana that has held since World War II, Olear concludes,

Conrad is trying to warn us: We live in the flicker. Darkness was here yesterday. There’s no guarantee it won’t return tomorrow.

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On Losing One of the Musketeers

Charles, Cabrera, Burke, Pasqualino in The Musketeers

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Monday

When I was growing up, we Bates boys sometimes regarded ourselves as Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and  D’Artagnan. As the eldest, I identified with Athos, the wily old veteran. Now that we have lost our Aramis, no longer can we say–as we once did– “All for one and one for all.”

Sons of a French professor who read us The Three Musketeers as children, we were such fans that we went on to read the sequels as well, Twenty Years After and The Man in the Iron Mask. In these later works, each of the four companions goes his own way, experiencing various adventures and sometimes even finding himself at odds with the others. But the feeling of inseparable unity, forged in their early acquaintance, subsists in spite of all differences. It is this sacred four that D’Artagnan invokes with his dying words at the end of Iron Mask. Here’s the scene:

Leaning upon the arms held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the baton, ornamented with its fleurs-de-lis, he cast on it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards Heaven, and fell back, murmuring strange words, which appeared to the soldiers cabalistic—words which had formerly represented so many things on earth, and which none but the dying man any longer comprehended…

While those words are not in fact cabalistic, they do invoke the special unity. So even though they don’t match our current configuration—three of us are still alive—they point to a mystical number that we all experienced as such. I therefore offer them up here in the spirit with which D’Artagnan delivers them, homage to a band of brothers whose roots sink deep:

“Athos—Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu forever!”

To which Dumas adds:

Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now remained but one. Heaven had taken to itself three noble souls. 

One noble soul in our case.

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Jesus, Fishing, and Everlasting Life

Peter Paul Rubens, Miraculous Fishing

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Sunday

In today’s Gospel Luke tells us that Jesus told Peter, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people” (5:11). In “The Fish” Mary Oliver also uses fishing as a metaphor to grapple with Jesus’s promise of life after death, and she does so in a way that speaks to me as I grapple with the death of my brother.

Oliver describes eating a fish she has caught in a way that invokes the Eucharist. Through symbolically consuming Jesus’s body and blood in the ritual of Holy Communion, Christians see themselves becoming one with Christ and therefore “heirs of his eternal kingdom.” If one sees this kingdom as all of creation, as Oliver and I both do, then she engages in her own version of this sacred ritual following her own fishing expedition:

The Fish

The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.

Oliver here is invoking the pain of the crucifixion, and having just seen my brother endure “pain, and pain, and more pain” before dying, I do not take the fish’s death lightly. With all the flailing and sucking, the fish does not go gentle into that good night. The “slow pouring off of rainbows” is a powerful way of describing the transformation of a beautiful creature into inanimate flesh.

But if one looks past one’s separate self, death does not get the last word. (As Dylan Thomas puts it, “Death shall have no dominion.”) Life is everlasting because we are all “tangled together” in God’s creation, with life and death feeding upon each other. The power of Oliver’s poem lies, in part, in her big-eyed wonder at the process. She imagines surrendering one’s self to become part of a bigger self.

Oliver describes this process elsewhere. In her poem “In Blackwater Woods” Oliver concludes,

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

First there is this fierce love of life, along with the struggle to hold on to it. Then there is the letting go. And then there is that rising up that constitutes the cycle of life. This is the feverish plot that has us all in its grip but that can nourish us if we embrace the mystery.

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A Woman 600 Years Ahead of Her Time

Chaucer’s Wife of Bath

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Friday

Yesterday I visited St. Mary’s College of Maryland, where I taught for 36 years, sharing sections of my book in a public reading and also visiting an early British Literature class. In that class I talked about Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, one of my favorite characters in all of literature. As I told the students, I think Chaucer’s three-dimensional creation helped make Shakespeare possible.

In making the claim, I drew on Harold Bloom’s book Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human to explain what I meant. Tu quote from my book,

Bloom contends that Shakespeare “pragmatically reinvented” us,[i] changing the way we see others and ourselves and even how we experience feelings. Whereas fellow playwrights Marlowe produced “cartoons” and Ben Johnson “ideograms,” Shakespeare created characters like Hamlet and Falstaff, thereby inventing “human inwardness.” Personality as we understand it, Bloom explains, is “a Shakespearean invention…Insofar as we ourselves value, and deplore, our own personalities, we are the heirs of Falstaff and of Hamlet, and of all the other persons who throng Shakespeare’s theater…”

The class had just read Beowulf so I noted that, while the epic is psychologically complex, Beowulf himself is not three-dimensional. The same can be said about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: it offers us a profound exploration into the psychology of confronting death through plot, imagery, and setting, not through complex characters. But the Wife of Bath, written around the time of Sir Gawain and 200 years before Shakespeare’s great creations, is another matter. She is a woman whose depths we still haven’t fully plumbed after 600 years.

The key drama in the Wife’s Prologue and Tale, I told the students, is a woman attempting to honor her essential self in the face of a society that tells she should be a different kind of woman—and that condemns her for being who she is. A vibrant character who wants to be loved and respected, Alisoun is instead condemned as a black widow, dominatrix shrew who violates church injunctions to be like the Virgin Mary (i.e., meek, mild, and submissive). Rather than surrender quietly to this social pressure, Alisoun tries to defend herself before  29 judgmental pilgrims, comprised of 29 men and one woman (a prioress).

Confused about who she is—given the social pressures, how could she not be?—she tells a fairy tale that poses the question, “What is it that women really want? (“moost desire”). That answer, I believe, is not “sovereignty” or “mastery”—although that is the answer she comes up with. Rather, she wants women to be listened to and respected, Given the gender dynamics of her day, however, Alisoun thinks that “sovereignty” is the only way to get such respect, which is why that is the answer she gives.

In other words, Alisoun, with her vision of marriage based on mutual respect and power-sharing is centuries ahead of her time. But she can articulate this only through a fairy tale because nothing in Chaucer’s England supports such a vision.

In my presentation I concluded that Chaucer and Shakespeare’s greatness lies in part in how they listen to their creations. Canterbury Tales is a work about listening, and if we listen—really listen—to the tales the pilgrims tell, vast worlds open up, just as they open up when we listen to Hamlet or Macbeth or Viola or Brutus.

And because Chaucer and Shakespeare both believe that women are worth listening to, they have created characters that transcend their time. Whatever the two men were like in their daily lives—I’m sure both men had their gender biases—when they were in the grip of their creations, they saw deeply into who we are.

Or as Shelley says of such literary creations,

All high poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks potentially. Veil after veil may be undrawn, and the inmost naked beauty of the meaning never exposed. A great poem is a fountain forever overflowing with the waters of wisdom and delight; and after one person and one age has exhausted all its divine effluence which their peculiar relations enable them to share, another and yet another succeeds, and new relations are ever developed, the source of an unforeseen and an unconceived delight.

Or in other words, great literature is timeless, with each age discovering something new in it.

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Good Night, Dear Heart

Vincent van Gogh, At Eternity’s Gate

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Thursday

Yesterday my brother died of cancer. I have no words of my own, but this Mark Twain lyric gets at some of what I’m feeling:

Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.

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Trump Doth Murder Sleep

Robert Dudley, illus. from Macbeth

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Wednesday

Macbeth’s murder of Duncan is going through my mind as I watch Donald Trump and Elon Musk attempt to murder democracy. Like Macbeth, they believe that a quick and overwhelming strike will do the business and appear to think they can handle any consequences. Or as Macbeth puts it,

If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly. If th’ assassination
Could trammel up the consequence and catch
With his [Duncan’s] surcease success, that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here.

The difference between Trump and Macbeth, as I’ve noted in the past, is that Macbeth has a conscience and is far more reflective. Even though he is a monster, he’s far more interesting than Trump. Unlike the president, he actually worries that he is unleashing unstoppable violence upon the world, and that this violence will one day rebound against him:

                                    But in these cases
We still have judgment here, that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends th’ ingredience of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips. 

In other words, with this action he is teaching others to use the same tactics, which he foresees will “return to plague th’ inventor.” He himself will ultimately drink the poison he is administering to others.

And so it happens in Shakespeare’s tragedy as Birnam Hill does in fact rise up and advance upon Dunsinane. Dare we hope that this will occur here as well, with those who still believe in the American Constitution serving as our avenging Macduff and Malcolm? Even with a happy ending, however, a lot of good people died first, including Duncan, Duncan’s servants, Banquo, and Macduff’s wife and son.

One consoling thought is that the same paranoia that prompts Macbeth to turn against a former ally (Banquo) might be at work in our own situation. Musk might want to watch his back—or Trump his.  But I don’t imagine that either man has enough of a conscience to see the other’s ghost rising up to chastise him. Nor, if Melania were to die, do I imagine Trump mourning her death as Macbeth mourns his spouse.

While I once derided Trump as a wannabe Macbeth, he’s a lot closer to pulling off a Macbeth coup than I ever thought possible. It appears that I suffered from Duncan complacency.

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