Shaking up Shakespeare

Okay, so I've reviewed a good deal of new book in the last two years but as 2009 draws to a close I find that I don't have any books left the review. So I cracked open some of my shakespeare books. The one I haven't read in a while is Romeo and Juliet (or to be a pedant, "The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet"). In the 7 years since I last read the play I have a new perspective on the story and just what it is and I'd like to share them with you.


First things first, Romeo and Juliet is not, let me repeat that, IS NOT a love story. It occurs to me that shakespeare is laughing at the folly of young love (for love read lust).

In the second act we have the following quote "Alike bewitchèd by the charm of looks", which really does sum up the truth of the two young people. They are in love with each other's looks. Shakespeare has his character's rush around (actually it is debatable whether the characters are even shakepeares but I won't digress) and the speed with which they act, coupled with the way in which the couple rail against the established social mores, are what lead to their downfall.

It seems to me that the characters are little more that stupid children. It occurs to me that it is the way in which Romeo and Juliet were written that make them so.

Romeo is a character who is said to 'kiss by the book', which is the only real motivation that is given for Juliet falling in 'love' with him. Whilst Juliet is drawn as a girl on the cusp of maturity and immaturity. To look upon either as anything more than innocent and naive seems to be a stretch.

Shakespeare was, if nothing else, great at painting the flaws of 'the human condition' (urgh did I just write those words?) so why would he tell a story with a main theme that love leads to death. It seems to me it is far more likely that instead he was pointing out the folly of giving over to lust and physical attraction.
 
Regardless, I do wonder why it is that the idea of Romeo and Juliet as a love story has persisted. If nothing else surely the fact that so many die should be the first big sign. Let's face it when you pick up a shakespeare tragedy you know that at least half the cast don't survive!
 
Of course I am no academic (thank goodness!), but when looked at as a tragic love story the play seems like purile drivel; when looked at as a satire of 'young love' (again read lust) it is far more entertaining.
 
What do you think?

Writing by Candle-light - Part 8

The night on which Joseph wrote his account of the ephemeral woman, he slept soundly and peacefully for the first in many nights. With no spectres to cloud his mind and no stories screaming for release, Joseph felt calm. Not since his time in Berlin, sharing his thoughts and musings with artisans and philosophers had he been so serene. Had it not been for the noise below his window, Joseph might have slept for many hours.




The commotion that woke Joseph caused very little noise, but Joseph had never slept deeply. Quickly, he moved to his window to look out upon the street below. Joseph moved so fast that he did not notice the small flame from the candle on his desk. As he looked out, Joseph noticed a figure that he instantly knew. Enraptured once again, he wished that this unknown woman would turn to him so that he might know her face.



The woman was moving quickly from under Joseph’s window toward the river. Unlike the last time he had seen her, the night was crisp. On this occasion Joseph could more easily make out the woman’s figure. Though shrouded by the shadows the tenement blocks afforded the street, and the disguise of her cloak, the woman was shapely with a fine air about her. She stepped lightly and delicately along the uneven street.



Slowly the figure stopped as though her way was blocked. Turning with a grace that Joseph had seldom seen, the woman moved to face the door of Joseph’s tenement. Slowly her eyes moved upward to the very window, at which Joseph stood. It a moment, the woman was staring deeply into Joseph’s eyes. How many moments that passed whilst the two stared at each other Joseph knew not, however with each passing moment an unease built within him. It was not long before Joseph felt that if this woman below him did not release him from her stare, he would collapse.



As slowly and gracefully as she had turned to look at him, the woman turned so that she once again faced the river. Released from the woman’s stare Joseph felt cold and, as the candle burnt itself out, alone in the dark. The woman’s gaze had been enticing, bewitching and yet had offered a solace and comfort that he had not known before. Still at the window, Joseph stood wondering what power this woman possessed to enrapture him so. She was a gentle, graceful creature of that Joseph was sure, and yet he had not made her acquaintance.



After some time with his thoughts Joseph turned back into his room. A familiar smell hung in the air and yet Joseph could not identify it. Compelled by unknown reason he moved to his desk, to the candle. The candle that had been several inches tall before he had laid to rest was now burnt to naught. How this could have been Joseph knew not, but he was certain that the smell that hung in the air was that of the burnt wick.



For many nights Joseph would keep watch for the woman and wonder about her. It had seemed important for him to make this woman’s acquaintance; moreover Joseph wished to know what power she had possessed.

Writing by Candle-light - Part 7

For days Joseph had floated through the streets of Wirral, venturing over the river only to attend those lectures at the university which he felt the most fulfilling. Instead an obsession had overcome him. Joseph’s mind was filled by the vision he had seen on that night, but as each new day dawned more of the image slipped away. It was not long before he could only see the cascading chestnut locks that had flowed so bewitchingly. In vain Joseph took to his desk to sketch an image, with each attempt more of the vision he had seen slipped through his grasp.



Each night brought with it a fresh torment as he tried to lay to sleep. His mind would not let him forget that shadow in the night. Seventeen days had passed since Joseph had seen the woman and it was on the seventeenth night that Joseph leapt from his bed. Stumbling to his desk Joseph collapsed. Unable to bear the cold and dark night alone Joseph rummaged through the drawer to find a fresh candle. Removing the molten wax and burnt out wick, Joseph replaced them with the one he had retrieved from the drawer. As he lit the candle Joseph’s eyes widened, suddenly he reached for paper and ink. Like some possessed and wild animal his hand flew around the paper with a will of it’s own.


In minutes Joseph collapsed back, sinking into his chair. His desk and hands ink stained Joseph cast his eyes upon the numerous pages strewn before him. After but a moment, Joseph clutched the papers to him. He at last had his image of the woman. On these few scraps of paper was an image that no time could erode. That woman, the way she walked, and the noble flow of her hair he would hold them dear. He knew he may never catch sight of her again, but in these few pages would stay his account. “Goddess in the Mist”.


That night Joseph sat his hands on the paper and his eyes cast toward the flame of his candle. Near it’s end he reached out his fingers. Joseph smothered the flame. Smiling as he rose, Joseph took a few steps to the window to look out before retiring to his bed. His eyes adjusted to the light as he surrendered to the night. Sleep came quickly, and in place of the wild visions he had seen, a peaceful sleep with dreams full of hope.

Writing by Candlelight - Part 6

When Joseph first arrived at his rooms he was appalled by the lack of manners and intellect shown to him by his landlord. He had remembered thinking that the street was little more than an open sewer, home to some of the basest creatures that barely passed for humans. Joseph had strained to understand how such a place could have been a part of God’s creation. Even the most elaborate furnishings could not have made any great difference in the constant struggle against the decay.



On his first night in his simple accommodation, Joseph spent little time sleeping. His mind came alight with all manner of ideas which would not be silenced. That night would be the first of many that he paced back and forth trying to silence the voices that whispered to him in the dark. The voices that spoke nearly drove Joseph to the edge of madness on that first night. Caged like wild beasts he was unable to drive away the many figments and phantoms that his mind conjured.


By the little light a handful of candles offered him, Joseph sat at his desk and began to brood further. Leaning deep into the embrace of his chair Joseph stared at the candle, watching as the flame devoured the wick. In the bright yellow of the flame Joseph would have laid down an oath that he could, if he looked deeply enough, part the veil and peer into the future itself. In those short and peaceful moments Joseph saw a life of wealth and power lain before him. With the inheritance that was due to him Joseph knew that there would be few obligations upon him.


Enraptured by the small flame and the dull light it offered, Joseph did not notice the night pass away and the sun begin to rise through the autumn mists. Using his arm to steady him, Joseph noticed the chill in the air as he rose out of the chair. Reaching out his fingers Joseph smothered the flame. In haste Joseph moved to the small window to take a glimpse of the first morning in his new home.


It was then, on the street below that fate’s guiding hand presented Joseph with a new destiny. At first the figure had been little more than a shadow passing through the mist. As the figure drew closer Joseph could see something about this woman. There, below him, was someone who could not be touched by the decay of the area. Her hair, a deep chestnut waterfall, reached down below her shoulders in thick waves. Her way of walking was far finer than any of the accomplished women that had moved in his father’s society. He knew little about her and yet in that moment Joseph was shown that she was everything he could ever want.


Silently and with an unexpected air she walked below Joseph. For just a moment this unknown woman stopped, frozen below him. His heart paused, stirring a hope within him that she would just glance up at him. Joseph knew then why it was he had chosen such a wild and untamed area in which to lodge during his education. He had longed for something more than the veneer of civilisation that finer quarters would have offered. Something honest lay within the lower echelons, this he had learnt during his time in Berlin. The people of this area, the woman who had passed before him, whilst below his station knew the truths of the world.


As the woman passed out of sight Joseph continued to watch the mist into which she had disappeared. What quality had she, that none before had?

Writing by Candle-light - Part 5

As Joseph walked along the cobbled alleyway, his mind turned to all sorts of things. Though, at that moment he felt plain and boring, Joseph realised how accomplished he really was. His father had been the first born and heir to a great estate, and he as the first born would become heir to the same estate. The rules concerning his destiny had been set down by many generations prior. The first born male would inherit, the second would turn soldier and the third would enter the clergy. It was the way of all great English families, or so he had been taught. For generations beyond memory men were bound to their fate simply by order of their birth. Unlike the brothers that Joseph would never have, he would be given the finest schooling that money could buy.



Before departing for college, Joseph had been well disciplined and given every opportunity to improve himself. Prior to his long journey to Wirral, he had been a skilled musician. Joseph could play the piano and the fiddle with equal dexterity. Having learnt to speak French, German and even Italian Joseph was permitted to spend a short time in Berlin to observe the differences in society. It was his time in Berlin that lay the tiny seed that would soon become a great love of the idealists and romanticists. In a country that had initially seemed to be blunt and crass, Joseph learned of the soft and romantic nature of it’s people.


It was his time in a nation of artists and philosophers, which had opened Joseph’s eyes to the wonders to be found around him. The artisans that Joseph had come to know saw such beauty, drew their ideals and comfort from the society around them. Above all they showed Joseph that within everything there was a truth to be found. That artists saw everything and merely tried to understand and interpret, would be the truth that Joseph come to value most. It would not be until the poets and English bohemians came into his acquaintance that all this would reveal itself.


Mere months spent in Berlin had placed within Joseph the desire for far more than even he knew at the time. During the long voyage back to his homeland Joseph had written of a fictional idealist who had come from Germany to London and changed the world. The tale had been a simple one, which allowed him to order his thoughts and to meditate on all he had seen and learnt. Joseph had never thought such a simple story would be enjoyed by other people; however his tutor upon reading the tale encouraged him to continue to write.


With practise and inspiration from his time in Berlin Joseph was able to produce many poems and sagas for his own amusement. When the time came that he tried to sell his stories he was surprised to find that, despite the skill with which he wrote, no press wished to take on his tales and publish them in any way. In the autumn following his journey to Berlin, Joseph travelled to that place that would be his home for many years, Wirral.


At first Joseph had found the place uncouth and savage. With little refinement and pretentions of great stature, the collection of villages seemed far beneath him. Joseph once wrote in his journal about the people of Wirral.

“That the women of the area cheapen themselves by their dress and actions is the fault of men; their lack of respect, manners and honour force good women to see themselves as simple decorative objects rather than respectable, intelligent people.

This place is of little concern, value or decency.”


Fate would soon change his mind about some of the people of Wirral. Joseph would soon enter the under-land that was the world of the Wirral poets.

Writing by Candle-light - Part 4

Joseph walked through the back streets and alleys that, on this day, seemed unusually cold and hard. With every step he saw the women cheapening themselves, men who had given over all responsibility. Each and every face could tell a story, but they were largely the underclass to whom everyone seemed to cater. Joseph despised the way that these people who milled around the streets had forsaken all hope, all sense of pride and moreover good manners. It had often seemed to Joseph that with each new day it became more difficult to reverse the decline of manners and the devaluation of intellect.



It did not take Joseph long to walk from his abode to the park and it’s quaint coffee shop. Even though Joseph knew that he would never set foot in another meeting of poets, Joseph was not about to cut all ties to artistic under-land that existed in the county. Joseph was on his way to meet with two of the most accomplished poets in the area. Their work flowed like great rivers, changing the places they ran to. This meeting was one that would change his life; at least that was the intention of Joseph and his comrades. In the harsh midday sun Joseph, Stephan and Louis sat to discuss the plan that they had waited a year to put into action.

“The cattle-like masses look down upon us, and we get little support from centres of learning.” As often happened Joseph was the first to speak. “We cannot continue to let them forget their manners. They sit in their ivy-covered castles, self elected arbiters of literature.”

“It is true that they have dedicated themselves to controlling what is seen as right and proper with the world of literature. They control all presses and with delicate subterfuge control what the unwashed see, hear and learn to believe.” The considered response from Louis made the trio pause.


Before each man, on the table at which they sat, lay their considered proposals for change. No longer willing to accept the mores of a civilised society, the three men were meeting to discuss their proposals. One way or another the poets were determined to enact change. They would force the uncouth society that surrounded them to regain manners and pride. No longer would people cheapen themselves; the poets would bring about revolution.


The three men sat and discussed with great passion and eloquence the plans lain before them. The men sat until twilight had deepened into night, and the warm rays of the sun had been replaced with the cool evening breeze from the sea. Joseph drew in a breath, trying to comprehend the significance of the task before each man. Over 26 short days these men were going to bring about a change. They were going to do something that many men had tried to do. Something that people had died for, something good, true and right.


All three men stood, as they did so Joseph announced:

“Gentlemen, quicumque est nostri portamus nobis.” Each man nodded and bade their goodbyes. With no words left to be spoken, Joseph watched as Louis and Stephan went their own ways into the black of the night. Waiting until all trace of his comrades was gone; Joseph turned on his heel and headed back to his humble home, his chair and his duties.


In a few short weeks the sun would dawn over a new world, a world that would be changed forever.

Writing by Candle-light - Part 3

Joseph stirred as the harsh and unfeeling rays of morning sunlight breached the thin material of his curtains. He wanted to shut out that sunlight, he wanted to remain safe in bed hidden from the truth that he had left the world of poets for the last time. In his mind Joseph tried to bargain with the many spirits he was sure filled the ether that surrounded him. He would give all he could to be frozen in that one moment, safe and warm. In mere seconds the warmth and safety of his blanket were ripped from him as he stood and staggered to the window. As he had done on many occasions Joseph looked out to see the rows of dilapidated houses. Like most of the houses in the area Joseph lived in a small terraced property that was little more than a tenement block. Crossing from the window to his desk he lowered himself into the faithful companion of his chair.



In the time that had passed since the last occasion on which he had lit the candle before him, Joseph had woken everyday to edit writing that simply did not exist. The pen, whose ink had once been the very lifeblood of his soul, now laid to rest with it’s work incomplete. At first Joseph’s lack of inspiration had frustrated him more than he thought possible. Night after night he had sat at this desk, maddened by lack of words on the page before him. Likewise, each morning that followed was another stab into his heart, as his morning ritual of editing slipped away. With no words to edit, Joseph stood and paced.


Increasingly Joseph found that his days were plain and boring. Where once he had let words flow from him like great storms now, Joseph only spoke when necessary. As he stood his eyes fell on the thing that was more precious to him than his own writing, his bookcase. Contained within were one hundred and ninety reasons that Joseph was impoverished. He ran his hand over the spines of leather and cloth bound books, he knew each imperfection in them and cherished them almost as dearly as most men cherish women.


Joseph took pause as he hovered over his desk, for a brief moment he remembered the reason for coming to the peninsula. Years ago, Joseph had been a scholar. Well read, eloquent with a great intellect. Joseph’s wish that he might attend a well respected school at which to study was lost among the dilapidated wonders of Wirral. Across the river, the city had once seemed so bright and full of opportunities. Now it seemed as though the rot which infested the tenements and ramshackle houses wormed its way into the heart of the city, shattering dreams and ambition. Joseph had found the gloss of the city and its university to be hollow and of no substance. In an attempt to rail against the city, he had turned to writing in the hope that one day he might tear apart the veil that covered society. Joseph longed to expose the frivolity and decadence of a city which, like an unfeeling leech sucked the talent and hopes from its people.


To the left of his desk lay the any manuscripts that contained Joseph’s collected short stories. His every attempt lay before him in plain simplicity. In that moment that he stood, his hand upon the stack of writings, it was his father’s last words to him that rang through his head.

“When I became a man, I put aside childish things. You are a man, now it is time to forget the follies of your youth.”

At the time those words had burned through Joseph’s soul. His father, who had always been a spiritual man, could never have contemplated the situation in which Joseph currently found himself. He was a man headed to university, a man with a future. At the time Joseph had a strong sense of purpose. He would become well-respected professor of English. Every step in his life, Joseph had planned years in advance. He was to be a gentleman and a scholar.


Facing yet another empty day Joseph dressed ready to take a stroll in the bracing winter air. It took just one step away from the doorstep for Joseph to realise that today would be different.


Something would happen, something good.

Writing by Candle-light - Part Two

Weeks had passed and Joseph faced the harsh truth that he was just four short weeks away from the executioner's block that was a "normal" life. In the weeks that had passed since that night, Joseph had managed to write only a title. "Writing by Candle-light" was to be his great novel, a story that showed the great injustices of the world to which he felt he barely belonged. He knew each and every character; he knew their names, their lives and their loves far better than he knew his own family. Joseph also knew that his characters were stubborn, and refused to be put to work in the telling of a great story. Instead they floated about and added to his already tormented mind.




Joseph looked upon the public house before him. It was a place that had been around for many decades and was the haunt of the vice ridden, eccentrics that called themselves poets. Each month the poets overtook this small ale-house to share their turbulent, odd and often witty outpourings. Unlike their French bohemian cousins, who fed their minds with Absinthe, these Bards drank warm ales and inexpensive wines. Taking his usual place at the back of the room, Joseph looked around the room to see the familiar decoration of the place that had made him so welcome. Though he would see the poets again at the many varied haunts, Joseph sighed as he realised that this would be the final time that he would see this room, in this ale-house, overlooking the river that was the life-line of the area.



Taking to the lectern from which the poets delivered their considered wordings, Joseph took a look at the faces he had come to know and respect. Joseph knew well that were it not for the lack of fortune in the place and time in which they were born, these poets would have been honoured and respected by the masses. With his nervous energy growing, Joseph began to deliver his farewell. Joseph had written this poem many months prior, and though he hoped it would never be read it was to fulfil its purpose. Whether his comrades knew it or not, this poem was written to say goodbye to the life that he loved so dearly, the life of an artist. With neither flourish, nor theatrics Joseph delivered the final line.



“From this life will people cleave,

me, and so before I leave,

I say: Goodbye”



At the sound of familiar and supportive applause, Joseph sat, smiled and absorbed every last word from his fellow poets. Each word, each poet that spoke felt like a knife driven into his gut. Each one had something to say, some message to pass on, and yet locked away here the poets were looked down on by society. Despite the derision poured on them by the masses, here in this room each and every month was created a brave world. It was a world in which wrongs were righted, messages of hope and inspiration were the norm; most importantly this world was a place in which everyone had a place, and was respected.



The night drew to a close far quicker than normal and one by one people made their ways home or toward other ale-houses that would welcome them. Joseph, who was usually the first to take his leave, was, on this night the very last to leave. He wanted, no, he had needed to watch everyone else leave first. With heavy heart and having told no-one of his situation Joseph made his way in to the misty sea air. He knew the streets, alleys and entry-ways of the area well and had made his way home many times and yet on this night it took Joseph far longer than normal. As he walked Joseph’s mind was strangely quiet, no ideas or rhymes were willing to trespass on the memory of that evening.



With the icy air biting into his fingers Joseph opened the door to his ram-shackle house and moved immediately to his chair. The impressions in the chair, left by years of nocturnal writing, felt warm and safe. Easily he slipped into the chair and let his body fall into a state of peaceful relaxation. Joseph moved his eyes to the candle. He had not lit it once since that night, no word had he put on paper. Joseph knew that lighting it tonight would be as futile as trying to stop the passage of time. His creative spirits had departed on the night he last lit the candle, he had nothing to say, nothing to write. Instead Joseph simply let the black of night envelop him.



Sleep would take him soon, and the paper would stay blank.

Writing by Candle-light - Part One

Poets, ruffians, slang-speaking slackjaws. Wirral in those days was a place of eccentric artists trying to invoke the very spirit of the French Bohemia. Among the dark dismal streets of the peninsula in a run-down house, sat a man. He sat by candle-light, over a blank sheet of paper. Every night Joseph sat there, on a chair who's cushion had been worn down to naught in a fever writing. For years that chair over that desk, in a small room had been his home. Night after night Joseph had churned out poem after poem. For the most part his writing had gained little acceptance and increased his means even less. Unsatisfied with his lack of sucess, he had decided, with watery eye to sit down for the final time. It had been a promise he had made himself many years ago. He would be a writer by the age of 30 or he would become the repressed and trapped adult the world had always wanted him to become.



Deep in the pit of Joseph's stomach a knot was growing and calling out that this was the final time he would write. For so long he had fought any kind of normal existance and now it seemed that the life which made him so contented would be cleaved from him by the requirement to find a job, position and settle into a life that could be more accepted be society at large. Above the desk, old tomes of Dickens, Shakespeare and many other masters no longer lent their support and inspiration to his cause. Joseph knew every truth, every message contained within and yet could never quite do justice to the great causes and matters of the heart in his own collected fictions. Like phatoms, ideas slipped through his mind, each one dismissed for their lack of impact.



As Joseph poured himself a measure of wine, his eyes settled for a moment upon the flickering candle. His sole source of light, each candle had seen the creation of many poems and short stories that had come to nothing. When Joseph had struck the match that lit this candle he had sent up a prayer that this candle, larger than it's predecessors, would see the creation of something that would prove his worth as a writer. He drew in a large breath before sipping at the wine and once more staring at the blank paper in front of him.

"Tabula Rasa" he uttered. "I have nothing to write about, my mind is just a blank slate."

It had never occured to Joseph that it was odd to talk into the ether. Often it was this communication to the hidden spirits that helped him to release his burdens. As time slipped past him, Joseph found he was doing this more often. The blank sheet mocked him, and he needed to reply to someone, even if it was some invisible presence. The cold truth that Joseph knew he would face was that on this night, he would soon succumb to a thick blanket and deep sleep to fight off the deep cold of the winter night.


That paper would stay blank. The candle would burn out. Joseph would sleep.