Carol Shields is the author of eight novels and two collections of short stories. “The Stone Diaries” won the Pulitzer Prize and was short-listed for the Booker. “Larry’s Party” won the Orange Prize.
But I’ve not read either of them. My first Carol Shields’ novel was “Unless” (2002) – the novel dealt with 44 year old Reta. A novelist by profession, Reta’s life has been easy, ordered and what on might call contented. All this falls through one day when her daughter Nora, drops out of the system to sit on the roadside with a sign “GOODNESS” around her neck. Reta’s search for what drove her daughter to this, her attempt to understand this strong statement, leads to a quest for meaning, meaning of loss, of life and of hope.
On the back-cover of the novel is this comment by the Daily Telegraph:
“Shields is about the best we have, she does not just express what oft was thought; she snags the shadows of those thoughts, the thoughts we did not know we had. The effect – at once elating and visceral – feels like a conjurer pulling a handkerchief from your heart.”
I just wrote this on Geebaby – and am not surprised that this review echoes what I felt about her writing. What appeals to me in her novels.
"The Republic of Love" (1992) is an older publication, but I laid hands on it much after “Unless.” It deals with Fay McLeod, a folklorist, and Tom Avery, a radio-jockey. Passionate about mermaids, she is strongly connected to the past – but this interferes in her acceptance of the present. She runs away from love, till she meets Tom. Tom, is a die-hard optimistic (if I may use that adjective for him), who has been married thrice and hopes to get it right the fourth time!
It sounds like a typical love story, but beneath that strand, lie other strands of human relationships, the ways families work, an attempt to understand how love eludes so many of us despite our frantic hunt for it, how so many of us don't know when we've found it even though it's staring us straight in the face and I think also an attempt to understand life in this confused world we exist in. I loved reading the novel, with its marvelous insights, use of myth, ironic style and sentimentalism.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Sybil
"Sybil", written by Flora Rheta Schreiber, is a true story of woman possessed by sixteen personalities. Sybil suffered a traumatic childhood as a victim of the most horrifying abuse inflcited on a child. She suffers mysterious black-outs and goes onto to develop sixteen personalities (male and female) as a defense against the horrifying truths of her life that she did not want and could not face...the first case of multiple personality to be psychoanalysed, this book traces her journey back to being one whole person.
I first heard about this book in FYBA when our Psychology teacher recommended it for all those interested in multiple personalities or schizophrenia...after years of trying to find it in our college library and in bookshops, I finally found it on my trip to Ahmedabad in Oct 2002. Goes without saying that I pounced on it - devoured it within days. It left me very disturbed and sickened me with the accounts of the abuse inflicted on an infant Sybil by her own mother...but I couldn't put the book down till I reached the last page.
I maintain that it's one of the most brilliant books I've read till date! The book has also been made into an Emmy award winning film starring Oscar winner Sally Field, but I've not seen that...I'm sure it must be one hell of a powerful movie! Go for the book first, then hunt down the movie!
I first heard about this book in FYBA when our Psychology teacher recommended it for all those interested in multiple personalities or schizophrenia...after years of trying to find it in our college library and in bookshops, I finally found it on my trip to Ahmedabad in Oct 2002. Goes without saying that I pounced on it - devoured it within days. It left me very disturbed and sickened me with the accounts of the abuse inflicted on an infant Sybil by her own mother...but I couldn't put the book down till I reached the last page.
I maintain that it's one of the most brilliant books I've read till date! The book has also been made into an Emmy award winning film starring Oscar winner Sally Field, but I've not seen that...I'm sure it must be one hell of a powerful movie! Go for the book first, then hunt down the movie!
Friday, April 30, 2004
Indian Ink - Tom Stoppard
Written in the vein of Postmodernist writing, Tom Stoppard's "Indian Ink " - a quietly elegant and moving drama adapted by the British playwright from an earlier radio play and turned into a modest stage hit in London in 1995 - is yet another artistic attempt to make sense of India, where Stoppard spent many years.
Flora Crewe, an unconventional English poet visits India in 1930. Her sometimes scandalous life is the subject of a biographical inquiry more than 50 years later by one of Stoppard's favourite comic targets, a pedantic academic who has a scholarly talent for misreading Flora's life. The play moves in time and space between India in 1930 and Britain in the 1980s (where Flora's sister now lives), as Stoppard introduces the arduous task of deciphering the past and piecing together a life and an era long gone.
Against a backdrop of colonialists whose civil facade masks racial intolerance and fabled maharajas the play has some dramatically convenient juxtapositions. Stoppard sketches a love story between Flora, and Nirad Das, an Indian painter.
The 1980's scenes present Nirad's son Anish Das, who is a part of the Indian Diaspora in England and now considers England as "home" - he comes to visit Flora's sister and as they put together the missing pieces on Flora's life-story, her would-be biogrpaher is shown following a dead-end trail in India. The play cheekily pokes fun of the pedagogic world, while also show-casing one of the most often used themes of post-modernism : diaspora!
Definitely an interesting play to read - it doesn't offer any challenges to the mind, for sure, but it is the kind of a play that I would like to see staged.
Flora Crewe, an unconventional English poet visits India in 1930. Her sometimes scandalous life is the subject of a biographical inquiry more than 50 years later by one of Stoppard's favourite comic targets, a pedantic academic who has a scholarly talent for misreading Flora's life. The play moves in time and space between India in 1930 and Britain in the 1980s (where Flora's sister now lives), as Stoppard introduces the arduous task of deciphering the past and piecing together a life and an era long gone.
Against a backdrop of colonialists whose civil facade masks racial intolerance and fabled maharajas the play has some dramatically convenient juxtapositions. Stoppard sketches a love story between Flora, and Nirad Das, an Indian painter.
The 1980's scenes present Nirad's son Anish Das, who is a part of the Indian Diaspora in England and now considers England as "home" - he comes to visit Flora's sister and as they put together the missing pieces on Flora's life-story, her would-be biogrpaher is shown following a dead-end trail in India. The play cheekily pokes fun of the pedagogic world, while also show-casing one of the most often used themes of post-modernism : diaspora!
Definitely an interesting play to read - it doesn't offer any challenges to the mind, for sure, but it is the kind of a play that I would like to see staged.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Henrik Ibsen
Finished reading "A Doll's House" and decided I must blog about it..so here's some gyan first :
Ibsenism = The dramatic practice or purpose characteristic of the writings of Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906), Norwegian poet and dramatist, whose best-known plays deal with conventional hypocrisies, the story in each play thus developing a definite moral problem.
"A Doll's House"exploded like a bomb into contemporary life…"It pronounced a death sentence on accepted social ethics. For whatever one's opinion of A Doll's House as a play may be, there can be no question of it's startling unconventionality." ('Flashes from the Footlights' Licensed Victuallers' Mirror, June 1889 ). Henrik Ibsen's "A Doll's House" , was unconventional in its themes and in the way in which they were presented. Ibsen questioned contemporary Norwegian society's conventional male and female roles, the morals of marriage and challenged all human beings, particularly females, to strive to be one's self and to be responsible for themselves. The play was obviously far ahead of its times and though Ibsen was never appreciated in 1879 when the play was first staged, he is hailed as one of the Fathers of Moden Drama. The play is truly remarkable in its theme, portrayal of everyday characters, which make it all the more hard-hitting.
Ibsenism = The dramatic practice or purpose characteristic of the writings of Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906), Norwegian poet and dramatist, whose best-known plays deal with conventional hypocrisies, the story in each play thus developing a definite moral problem.
"A Doll's House"exploded like a bomb into contemporary life…"It pronounced a death sentence on accepted social ethics. For whatever one's opinion of A Doll's House as a play may be, there can be no question of it's startling unconventionality." ('Flashes from the Footlights' Licensed Victuallers' Mirror, June 1889 ). Henrik Ibsen's "A Doll's House" , was unconventional in its themes and in the way in which they were presented. Ibsen questioned contemporary Norwegian society's conventional male and female roles, the morals of marriage and challenged all human beings, particularly females, to strive to be one's self and to be responsible for themselves. The play was obviously far ahead of its times and though Ibsen was never appreciated in 1879 when the play was first staged, he is hailed as one of the Fathers of Moden Drama. The play is truly remarkable in its theme, portrayal of everyday characters, which make it all the more hard-hitting.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
The Namesake
Written by Pulitzer Prize-winning Jhumpa Lahiri, the book is one of the most engrossing books I've read recently. I read the book from start to finish at a speed that I've not read at for quite a while now...I think the last novel that captured my attention in a similar fashion was Doris Lessing's "The Sweetest Dream."
In "The Namesake" Lahiri enriches the themes that made her collection of short stories "Interpreter of Maladies" an international bestseller: the immigrant experience, the clash of cultures, the conflicts of assimilation, and, most poignantly, the tangled ties between generations. I do find the depiction of the diasporic Indians a bit stereotypical but I guess when you are writing about that community you can't help but lean towards stereotypes!
"The Namesake" takes the Ganguli family from their tradition-bound life in Calcutta through their fraught transformation into Americans. On the heels of their arranged wedding, Ashoke and Ashima Ganguli settle together in Cambridge, Massachusetts. An engineer by training, Ashoke adapts far less warily than his wife, who resists all things American and pines for her family. When their son is born, the task of naming him betrays the vexed results of bringing old ways to the new world. Named for a Russian writer by his Indian parents in memory of a catastrophe years before, Gogol Ganguli knows only that he suffers the burden of his heritage as well as his odd, antic name. Lahiri brings great empathy to Gogol as he stumbles along the first-generation path, strewn with conflicting loyalties, comic detours, and wrenching love affairs. With penetrating insight, she reveals not only the defining power of the names and expectations bestowed upon us by our parents, but also the means by which we slowly, sometimes painfully, come to define ourselves.
In "The Namesake" Lahiri enriches the themes that made her collection of short stories "Interpreter of Maladies" an international bestseller: the immigrant experience, the clash of cultures, the conflicts of assimilation, and, most poignantly, the tangled ties between generations. I do find the depiction of the diasporic Indians a bit stereotypical but I guess when you are writing about that community you can't help but lean towards stereotypes!
"The Namesake" takes the Ganguli family from their tradition-bound life in Calcutta through their fraught transformation into Americans. On the heels of their arranged wedding, Ashoke and Ashima Ganguli settle together in Cambridge, Massachusetts. An engineer by training, Ashoke adapts far less warily than his wife, who resists all things American and pines for her family. When their son is born, the task of naming him betrays the vexed results of bringing old ways to the new world. Named for a Russian writer by his Indian parents in memory of a catastrophe years before, Gogol Ganguli knows only that he suffers the burden of his heritage as well as his odd, antic name. Lahiri brings great empathy to Gogol as he stumbles along the first-generation path, strewn with conflicting loyalties, comic detours, and wrenching love affairs. With penetrating insight, she reveals not only the defining power of the names and expectations bestowed upon us by our parents, but also the means by which we slowly, sometimes painfully, come to define ourselves.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Innocent England
Oh what a pity, Oh! Don't you agree
that figs aren't found in the land of the free.
Fig trees don't grow in my native land;
there's never a fig-leaf near at hand
when you want one; so I did without;
and that is all the row's about.
Virginal, pure policemen came
and hid their faces for very shame,
While they carried the shameless things away
to gaol, to be hid from the light of the day.
By D.H.Lawrence (of the infamous "Lady Chatterley's Lover")
The reason why I'm posting this poem is because I loved the satirical attack on the prudishness of the British society in the 1920s - easily applicable to our society even today, eh? Incidentally this poem was written when the Police siezed 13 of Lawrence's paintings because they were deemed too scandalous, depicting as they did, scenes of human nudity...
Here are two of those paintings :
that figs aren't found in the land of the free.
Fig trees don't grow in my native land;
there's never a fig-leaf near at hand
when you want one; so I did without;
and that is all the row's about.
Virginal, pure policemen came
and hid their faces for very shame,
While they carried the shameless things away
to gaol, to be hid from the light of the day.
By D.H.Lawrence (of the infamous "Lady Chatterley's Lover")
The reason why I'm posting this poem is because I loved the satirical attack on the prudishness of the British society in the 1920s - easily applicable to our society even today, eh? Incidentally this poem was written when the Police siezed 13 of Lawrence's paintings because they were deemed too scandalous, depicting as they did, scenes of human nudity...
Here are two of those paintings :
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Scenes from Macbeth
Having given the plot line of the play, I thought I'd also toss in the 2 most famous scenes of the play - the witches prophecy and the scene in which Lady Macbeth tries to wash off blood from the wall - a sign of her guilt. She is haunted by this and eventually dies of insanity....I've marked the most famous lines in bold - these are most oft quoted even in contemporary parlance.
ACT 1. SCENE III. A heath near Forres.
Thunder. Enter the three Witches
First Witch
Where hast thou been, sister?
Second Witch
Killing swine.
Third Witch
Sister, where thou?
First Witch
A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd:--
'Give me,' quoth I:
'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do.
Second Witch
I'll give thee a wind.
First Witch
Thou'rt kind.
Third Witch
And I another.
First Witch
I myself have all the other,
And the very ports they blow,
All the quarters that they know
I' the shipman's card.
I will drain him dry as hay:
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his pent-house lid;
He shall live a man forbid:
Weary se'nnights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine:
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tost.
Look what I have.
Second Witch
Show me, show me.
First Witch
Here I have a pilot's thumb,
Wreck'd as homeward he did come.
Drum within
Third Witch
A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come.
ALL
The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about:
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine
And thrice again, to make up nine.
Peace! the charm's wound up.
Enter MACBETH and BANQUO
MACBETH
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
BANQUO
How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these
So wither'd and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her chappy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips: you should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
MACBETH
Speak, if you can: what are you?
First Witch
All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
Second Witch
All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!
Third Witch
All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter!
BANQUO
Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner
You greet with present grace and great prediction
Of noble having and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not,
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear
Your favours nor your hate.
First Witch
Hail!
Second Witch
Hail!
Third Witch
Hail!
First Witch
Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
Second Witch
Not so happy, yet much happier.
Third Witch
Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
First Witch
Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
MACBETH
Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:
By Sinel's death I know I am thane of Glamis;
But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman; and to be king
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence
You owe this strange intelligence? or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.
Witches vanish
BANQUO
The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd?
MACBETH
Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted
As breath into the wind. Would they had stay'd!
BANQUO
Were such things here as we do speak about?
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
MACBETH
Your children shall be kings.
BANQUO
You shall be king.
MACBETH
And thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
BANQUO
To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here?
ACT 5. SCENE I. Dunsinane. Ante-room in the castle.
Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman
Doctor
I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive
no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
Gentlewoman
Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen
her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon
her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it,
write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again
return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
Doctor
A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once
the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of
watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her
walking and other actual performances, what, at any
time, have you heard her say?
Gentlewoman
That, sir, which I will not report after her.
Doctor
You may to me: and 'tis most meet you should.
Gentlewoman
Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to
confirm my speech.
Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise;
and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
Doctor
How came she by that light?
Gentlewoman
Why, it stood by her: she has light by her
continually; 'tis her command.
Doctor
You see, her eyes are open.
Gentlewoman
Ay, but their sense is shut.
Doctor
What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.
Gentlewoman
It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands: I have known her continue in
this a quarter of an hour.
LADY MACBETH
Yet here's a spot.
Doctor
Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes from
her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
LADY MACBETH
Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why,
then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?--Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.
Doctor
Do you mark that?
LADY MACBETH
The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?--
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?--No more o'
that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with
this starting.
Doctor
Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
Gentlewoman
She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of
that: heaven knows what she has known.
LADY MACBETH
Here's the smell of the blood still: all the
perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!
Doctor
What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
Gentlewoman
I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the
dignity of the whole body.
Doctor
Well, well, well,--
Gentlewoman
Pray God it be, sir.
Doctor
This disease is beyond my practise: yet I have known
those which have walked in their sleep who have died
holily in their beds.
LADY MACBETH
Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so
pale.--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he
cannot come out on's grave.
Doctor
Even so?
LADY MACBETH
To bed, to bed! there's knocking at the gate:
come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's
done cannot be undone.--To bed, to bed, to bed!
Exit
Doctor
Will she go now to bed?
Gentlewoman
Directly.
Doctor
Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets:
More needs she the divine than the physician.
God, God forgive us all! Look after her;
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night:
My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight.
I think, but dare not speak.
Gentlewoman
Good night, good doctor.
Exeunt
ACT 1. SCENE III. A heath near Forres.
Thunder. Enter the three Witches
First Witch
Where hast thou been, sister?
Second Witch
Killing swine.
Third Witch
Sister, where thou?
First Witch
A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd:--
'Give me,' quoth I:
'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries.
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do.
Second Witch
I'll give thee a wind.
First Witch
Thou'rt kind.
Third Witch
And I another.
First Witch
I myself have all the other,
And the very ports they blow,
All the quarters that they know
I' the shipman's card.
I will drain him dry as hay:
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his pent-house lid;
He shall live a man forbid:
Weary se'nnights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine:
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tost.
Look what I have.
Second Witch
Show me, show me.
First Witch
Here I have a pilot's thumb,
Wreck'd as homeward he did come.
Drum within
Third Witch
A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come.
ALL
The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about:
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine
And thrice again, to make up nine.
Peace! the charm's wound up.
Enter MACBETH and BANQUO
MACBETH
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
BANQUO
How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these
So wither'd and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? You seem to understand me,
By each at once her chappy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips: you should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
MACBETH
Speak, if you can: what are you?
First Witch
All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
Second Witch
All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!
Third Witch
All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter!
BANQUO
Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner
You greet with present grace and great prediction
Of noble having and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not,
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear
Your favours nor your hate.
First Witch
Hail!
Second Witch
Hail!
Third Witch
Hail!
First Witch
Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
Second Witch
Not so happy, yet much happier.
Third Witch
Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!
First Witch
Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!
MACBETH
Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:
By Sinel's death I know I am thane of Glamis;
But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman; and to be king
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence
You owe this strange intelligence? or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.
Witches vanish
BANQUO
The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd?
MACBETH
Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted
As breath into the wind. Would they had stay'd!
BANQUO
Were such things here as we do speak about?
Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
MACBETH
Your children shall be kings.
BANQUO
You shall be king.
MACBETH
And thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?
BANQUO
To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here?
ACT 5. SCENE I. Dunsinane. Ante-room in the castle.
Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman
Doctor
I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive
no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?
Gentlewoman
Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen
her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon
her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it,
write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again
return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
Doctor
A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once
the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of
watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her
walking and other actual performances, what, at any
time, have you heard her say?
Gentlewoman
That, sir, which I will not report after her.
Doctor
You may to me: and 'tis most meet you should.
Gentlewoman
Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to
confirm my speech.
Enter LADY MACBETH, with a taper
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise;
and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.
Doctor
How came she by that light?
Gentlewoman
Why, it stood by her: she has light by her
continually; 'tis her command.
Doctor
You see, her eyes are open.
Gentlewoman
Ay, but their sense is shut.
Doctor
What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.
Gentlewoman
It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands: I have known her continue in
this a quarter of an hour.
LADY MACBETH
Yet here's a spot.
Doctor
Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes from
her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.
LADY MACBETH
Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why,
then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?--Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.
Doctor
Do you mark that?
LADY MACBETH
The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?--
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?--No more o'
that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with
this starting.
Doctor
Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
Gentlewoman
She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of
that: heaven knows what she has known.
LADY MACBETH
Here's the smell of the blood still: all the
perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!
Doctor
What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.
Gentlewoman
I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the
dignity of the whole body.
Doctor
Well, well, well,--
Gentlewoman
Pray God it be, sir.
Doctor
This disease is beyond my practise: yet I have known
those which have walked in their sleep who have died
holily in their beds.
LADY MACBETH
Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so
pale.--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he
cannot come out on's grave.
Doctor
Even so?
LADY MACBETH
To bed, to bed! there's knocking at the gate:
come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's
done cannot be undone.--To bed, to bed, to bed!
Exit
Doctor
Will she go now to bed?
Gentlewoman
Directly.
Doctor
Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets:
More needs she the divine than the physician.
God, God forgive us all! Look after her;
Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night:
My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight.
I think, but dare not speak.
Gentlewoman
Good night, good doctor.
Exeunt
Macbeth - Shakespeare
Act 1: The play takes place in Scotland. Duncan, the king of Scotland, is at war with the king of Norway, and as the play opens, he learns of Macbeth's bravery in battle against a Scot who sided with Norway. At the same time, he hears of the treachery of the Thane of Cawdor, who was arrested. Duncan decides to give the title of Thane of Cawdor to Macbeth.
Macbeth and Banquo, traveling home from the battle, meet three witches, who predict that Macbeth will be Thane of Cawdor and king of Scotland, and that Banquo will be the father of kings. The witches disappear, and Macbeth and Banquo meet up with two nobles who inform them of Macbeth's new title. Hearing this, Macbeth begins to contemplate murdering Duncan in order to realize the witches' second prophecy.
Macbeth and Banquo meet up with Duncan, who tells them he is going to pay Macbeth a visit at his home at Inverness. Macbeth rides ahead to prepare his household. Meanwhile, Lady Macbeth receives a letter from Macbeth informing her of the witches' prophesy and Macbeth's subsequent new title. A servant appears and tells her of Duncan's approach. Energized, she invokes supernatural powers to strip her of her feminine softness and prepare her to murder Duncan. When Macbeth arrives at Inverness, Lady Macbeth tells him that she will take care of all the details of Duncan's murder.
Duncan arrives at Inverness, and Lady Macbeth greets him. Macbeth fails to appear, and Lady Macbeth goes to find him. He is in his room, contemplating the weighty and evil step of killing Duncan. Lady Macbeth taunts him, telling him he will only be a man when he kills Duncan, and that she herself has less softness in her character than he does. She then tells him her plan for the murder, and Macbeth accepts it: they will kill him while his drunken bodyguards sleep, then plant incriminating evidence on the bodyguards.
Act 2: Macbeth has a vision of a bloody dagger floating before him and leading him to Duncan's room. When he hears Lady Macbeth ring the bell to signal the completion of her preparations, Macbeth follows through with his part of the plan and leaves for Duncan's room.
Lady Macbeth waits for Macbeth to finish killing Duncan. Macbeth enters, still carrying the bloody daggers. Lady Macbeth again chastises him for his weak-mindedness and plants them on the bodyguards herself. As she does so, Macbeth imagines that he hears a voice saying "Macbeth will sleep no more." Lady Macbeth returns and assures Macbeth that "a little water clears us of this deed."
At the gate the porter pretends that he is guarding the door to hell. The thanes knock at the gate, and Macduff discovers Duncan's body when he goes in to wake him up. Macbeth kills the two bodyguards, supposedly in a fit of grief and rage, when they are discovered with the bloody daggers. Duncan's sons Malcolm and Donalbain, fearing that their lives are in danger, flee to England and Ireland; their flight brings them under suspicion of conspiring in Duncan's death, and Macbeth is crowned king of Scotland.
Act 3: Macbeth hires two murderers to kill Banquo and his son Fleance in an attempt to thwart the witches' prophesy that Banquo will father kings. Lady Macbeth does not know of his plans, and he will not tell her. A third murderer joins the other two on the heath, and the three men kill Banquo. Fleance, however, escapes.
Macbeth throws a feast on the same night that Banquo is murdered, and Banquo's ghost appears to him, sending him into a frenzy of terror. Lady Macbeth attempts to cover up for his odd behavior, but the party ends up dissolving as the thanes begin to question Macbeth's sanity. Macbeth decides that he must revisit the witches to hear more of the future.
Meanwhile, Macbeth's thanes begin to turn from him, and Macduff meets Malcolm in England to prepare an army to march on Scotland.
Act 4: The witches show Macbeth three apparitions that tell Macbeth to fear no man born of woman, and warn him that he will only fall when Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane castle. Macbeth takes this as a prophecy that he is infallible. When he asks the witches if their prophesy about Banquo will come true, they show him a procession of eight kings, all of whom look like Banquo, the last holding a mirror to signify the reign of James I, the Stuart king for whom Shakespeare wrote this play.
Malcolm tests Macduff's loyalty by confessing to multiple sins and ambitions. When Macduff proves loyal to him, the two plan the strategy they will use in attacking Macbeth. Meanwhile, Macbeth murders Macduff's wife, whom he has deserted, along with all his children.
Act 5: Lady Macbeth sleepwalks and reveals her guilt to a watching doctor as she dreams that she cannot wash the stain of blood from her hands. Macbeth is too preoccupied with battle preparations to pay much attention to her dreams, and is angry when the doctor says he cannot cure her. As the castle is attacked, Lady Macbeth dies (perhaps by her own hand). When Macbeth hears of her death, he comments that she should have died at a different time, and muses on the meaninglessness of life. However, he reassures himself by remembering the witches' predictions that he will only fall when two seemingly impossible things occur.
Meanwhile, the English army has reached Birnam Wood, and in order to disguise their numbers, Malcolm instructs each man to cut a branch from a tree and hold it in front of him as they march on Dunsinane. Witnessing this, Macbeth's servant reports that he has seen something impossible Birnam Wood seems to be moving toward the castle. Macbeth is shaken but goes out to fight nonetheless. During the battle outside the castle walls, Macbeth kills Young Siward, the English general's brave son. Macduff then challenges Macbeth. As they fight, Macduff reveals that he was not "born of woman" but was "untimely ripped" from his mother's womb. Macbeth is stunned but refuses to yield to Macduff. Macduff kills him and cuts off his head. Malcolm is proclaimed the new king of Scotland.
Macbeth and Banquo, traveling home from the battle, meet three witches, who predict that Macbeth will be Thane of Cawdor and king of Scotland, and that Banquo will be the father of kings. The witches disappear, and Macbeth and Banquo meet up with two nobles who inform them of Macbeth's new title. Hearing this, Macbeth begins to contemplate murdering Duncan in order to realize the witches' second prophecy.
Macbeth and Banquo meet up with Duncan, who tells them he is going to pay Macbeth a visit at his home at Inverness. Macbeth rides ahead to prepare his household. Meanwhile, Lady Macbeth receives a letter from Macbeth informing her of the witches' prophesy and Macbeth's subsequent new title. A servant appears and tells her of Duncan's approach. Energized, she invokes supernatural powers to strip her of her feminine softness and prepare her to murder Duncan. When Macbeth arrives at Inverness, Lady Macbeth tells him that she will take care of all the details of Duncan's murder.
Duncan arrives at Inverness, and Lady Macbeth greets him. Macbeth fails to appear, and Lady Macbeth goes to find him. He is in his room, contemplating the weighty and evil step of killing Duncan. Lady Macbeth taunts him, telling him he will only be a man when he kills Duncan, and that she herself has less softness in her character than he does. She then tells him her plan for the murder, and Macbeth accepts it: they will kill him while his drunken bodyguards sleep, then plant incriminating evidence on the bodyguards.
Act 2: Macbeth has a vision of a bloody dagger floating before him and leading him to Duncan's room. When he hears Lady Macbeth ring the bell to signal the completion of her preparations, Macbeth follows through with his part of the plan and leaves for Duncan's room.
Lady Macbeth waits for Macbeth to finish killing Duncan. Macbeth enters, still carrying the bloody daggers. Lady Macbeth again chastises him for his weak-mindedness and plants them on the bodyguards herself. As she does so, Macbeth imagines that he hears a voice saying "Macbeth will sleep no more." Lady Macbeth returns and assures Macbeth that "a little water clears us of this deed."
At the gate the porter pretends that he is guarding the door to hell. The thanes knock at the gate, and Macduff discovers Duncan's body when he goes in to wake him up. Macbeth kills the two bodyguards, supposedly in a fit of grief and rage, when they are discovered with the bloody daggers. Duncan's sons Malcolm and Donalbain, fearing that their lives are in danger, flee to England and Ireland; their flight brings them under suspicion of conspiring in Duncan's death, and Macbeth is crowned king of Scotland.
Act 3: Macbeth hires two murderers to kill Banquo and his son Fleance in an attempt to thwart the witches' prophesy that Banquo will father kings. Lady Macbeth does not know of his plans, and he will not tell her. A third murderer joins the other two on the heath, and the three men kill Banquo. Fleance, however, escapes.
Macbeth throws a feast on the same night that Banquo is murdered, and Banquo's ghost appears to him, sending him into a frenzy of terror. Lady Macbeth attempts to cover up for his odd behavior, but the party ends up dissolving as the thanes begin to question Macbeth's sanity. Macbeth decides that he must revisit the witches to hear more of the future.
Meanwhile, Macbeth's thanes begin to turn from him, and Macduff meets Malcolm in England to prepare an army to march on Scotland.
Act 4: The witches show Macbeth three apparitions that tell Macbeth to fear no man born of woman, and warn him that he will only fall when Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane castle. Macbeth takes this as a prophecy that he is infallible. When he asks the witches if their prophesy about Banquo will come true, they show him a procession of eight kings, all of whom look like Banquo, the last holding a mirror to signify the reign of James I, the Stuart king for whom Shakespeare wrote this play.
Malcolm tests Macduff's loyalty by confessing to multiple sins and ambitions. When Macduff proves loyal to him, the two plan the strategy they will use in attacking Macbeth. Meanwhile, Macbeth murders Macduff's wife, whom he has deserted, along with all his children.
Act 5: Lady Macbeth sleepwalks and reveals her guilt to a watching doctor as she dreams that she cannot wash the stain of blood from her hands. Macbeth is too preoccupied with battle preparations to pay much attention to her dreams, and is angry when the doctor says he cannot cure her. As the castle is attacked, Lady Macbeth dies (perhaps by her own hand). When Macbeth hears of her death, he comments that she should have died at a different time, and muses on the meaninglessness of life. However, he reassures himself by remembering the witches' predictions that he will only fall when two seemingly impossible things occur.
Meanwhile, the English army has reached Birnam Wood, and in order to disguise their numbers, Malcolm instructs each man to cut a branch from a tree and hold it in front of him as they march on Dunsinane. Witnessing this, Macbeth's servant reports that he has seen something impossible Birnam Wood seems to be moving toward the castle. Macbeth is shaken but goes out to fight nonetheless. During the battle outside the castle walls, Macbeth kills Young Siward, the English general's brave son. Macduff then challenges Macbeth. As they fight, Macduff reveals that he was not "born of woman" but was "untimely ripped" from his mother's womb. Macbeth is stunned but refuses to yield to Macduff. Macduff kills him and cuts off his head. Malcolm is proclaimed the new king of Scotland.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Rohinton Mistry
Rohinton Mistry was born in 1952 in Mumbai, and shifted to Canada in 1975, when the emergency was declared. In the same way that Thomas Hardy sets the action in his novels against the backdrop of fictional Wessex, Rohinton Mistry uses Bombay as a setting to explore the complexities and moral dilemmas which face his characters and their families as they struggle with poverty, questions of religion and prejudice, bringing to life the reality of what it is like to live as part of the Parsi community.
Rohinton Mistry's Swimming Lessons and Other Stories from Firozsha Baag(1987), describes the characteristics of middle class Parsi life and, in these eleven interconnected stories, the daily life of the residents of an apartment block, their relationships, the uniqueness of community living and issues of economic hardship and alienation.
Set in 1971, during the time when India went to war over what was later to become Bangladesh, Mistry's first novel, Such a Long Journey(1991), navigates issues of the public and private, as the protagonist, Gustad Noble, attempts to define himself in relation to his family and the shifting concerns of his country. It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and Trillium Award and won Canada's Governor General's Award and the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best Book of the Year and the WH Smith Books in Canada First Novel Award.
The action in A Fine Balance (1995)is based around four characters whose lives are changed by the state of emergency in India in 1975, when Indira Gandhi suspended many aspects of the constitution in order to hold on to power after being implicated in a scandal. Mistry gives a layered account of the unlikely friendships built between people in times of upheaval.
Mistry's most recent novel, Family Matters(2002), centres on a Bombay-based, modern-day Parsi family whose priorities shift when their father, a 79-year-old man suffering from Parkinson's Disease, breaks his ankle and is bed-ridden, forcing them to face the reality of his illness and their attitude towards it. Through the means of the novel, Mistry deals with a dilemma which is only too familiar, a universal morality tale filtering through the colours and smells of an overcrowded, Indian apartment block.
Rohinton Mistry's Swimming Lessons and Other Stories from Firozsha Baag(1987), describes the characteristics of middle class Parsi life and, in these eleven interconnected stories, the daily life of the residents of an apartment block, their relationships, the uniqueness of community living and issues of economic hardship and alienation.
Set in 1971, during the time when India went to war over what was later to become Bangladesh, Mistry's first novel, Such a Long Journey(1991), navigates issues of the public and private, as the protagonist, Gustad Noble, attempts to define himself in relation to his family and the shifting concerns of his country. It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and Trillium Award and won Canada's Governor General's Award and the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best Book of the Year and the WH Smith Books in Canada First Novel Award.
The action in A Fine Balance (1995)is based around four characters whose lives are changed by the state of emergency in India in 1975, when Indira Gandhi suspended many aspects of the constitution in order to hold on to power after being implicated in a scandal. Mistry gives a layered account of the unlikely friendships built between people in times of upheaval.
Mistry's most recent novel, Family Matters(2002), centres on a Bombay-based, modern-day Parsi family whose priorities shift when their father, a 79-year-old man suffering from Parkinson's Disease, breaks his ankle and is bed-ridden, forcing them to face the reality of his illness and their attitude towards it. Through the means of the novel, Mistry deals with a dilemma which is only too familiar, a universal morality tale filtering through the colours and smells of an overcrowded, Indian apartment block.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Night of the Scorpion
I remember the night my mother was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison -- flash of diabolic tail in the dark room --
he risked the rain again. The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the Name of God a hundred times to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the sun-baked walls they searched for him; he was not found.
They clicked their tongues. With every movement the scorpion made
his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said. May he sit still,
they said. May the sum of evil balanced in this unreal world
against the sum of good become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh of desire, and your spirit of ambition,
they said, and they sat around on the floor with my mother in the centre.
the peace of understanding on each face. More candles, more lanterns,
more neighbours, more insects and the endless rain.
My mother twisted through and through groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist, trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb, and hybrid. He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toes and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother. I watched the holy man
perform his rites to tame the poison with incantation.
After twenty hours it lost its sting.
My mother only said:
Thank God the scorpion picked on me and spared my children
By Nissim Ezekiel
of steady rain had driven him to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison -- flash of diabolic tail in the dark room --
he risked the rain again. The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the Name of God a hundred times to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the sun-baked walls they searched for him; he was not found.
They clicked their tongues. With every movement the scorpion made
his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said. May he sit still,
they said. May the sum of evil balanced in this unreal world
against the sum of good become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh of desire, and your spirit of ambition,
they said, and they sat around on the floor with my mother in the centre.
the peace of understanding on each face. More candles, more lanterns,
more neighbours, more insects and the endless rain.
My mother twisted through and through groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist, trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb, and hybrid. He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toes and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother. I watched the holy man
perform his rites to tame the poison with incantation.
After twenty hours it lost its sting.
My mother only said:
Thank God the scorpion picked on me and spared my children
By Nissim Ezekiel
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Recommendation
Alice Walker's The Colour Purple, published in 1982, tells the story of Celie, a Black woman in the South. Celie writes letters to God in which she tells about her life--her roles as daughter, wife, sister, and mother. In the course of her story, Celie meets a series of other Black women who shape her life: Nettie, Celie's sister, who becomes a missionary teacher in Africa; Shug Avery, the Blues singer her husband Mr. ______ is in love with, and who becomes Celie's salvation; Sofia, the strong-willed daughter-in-law whose strength and courage inspire Celie; and Squeak, who goes through awakenings of her own. Throughout the story, though, Celie is the center of this community of women, the one who knows how to survive.
Alice Walker's The Color Purple is an example of a "woman's novel." This means not just that it was written by a woman, but that it carries on an identified tradition of women's writing, in terms of narrative strategies, themes addressed, and voice. This is not to say that all women write about the same things; but there is a tradition known as women's literature, which has developed with a consciousness of women's traditions of writing as distinct from mens' ways of writing. The African-American theorist and writer bell hooks (Gloria Watkins) has argued in an essay,"Writing the Subject: Reading The Color Purple" (in Henry Louis Gates, Jr., ed., Reading Black, Reading Feminist, 1990), that >strongThe Color Purple is a parody of the tradition of the "slave narrative"--stories written by male and female former slaves about their experiences under slavery.
As you can see the book can be read on several levels (we studied not only the feminist angle but also the issue of the Blacks, slavery and the attitude towards Africans) and I strongly recommend it. It's a MUST READ, and if possible try and see the movie as well, but the book is infinitely better than the movie (but obviously!)
Alice Walker's The Color Purple is an example of a "woman's novel." This means not just that it was written by a woman, but that it carries on an identified tradition of women's writing, in terms of narrative strategies, themes addressed, and voice. This is not to say that all women write about the same things; but there is a tradition known as women's literature, which has developed with a consciousness of women's traditions of writing as distinct from mens' ways of writing. The African-American theorist and writer bell hooks (Gloria Watkins) has argued in an essay,"Writing the Subject: Reading The Color Purple" (in Henry Louis Gates, Jr., ed., Reading Black, Reading Feminist, 1990), that >strongThe Color Purple is a parody of the tradition of the "slave narrative"--stories written by male and female former slaves about their experiences under slavery.
As you can see the book can be read on several levels (we studied not only the feminist angle but also the issue of the Blacks, slavery and the attitude towards Africans) and I strongly recommend it. It's a MUST READ, and if possible try and see the movie as well, but the book is infinitely better than the movie (but obviously!)
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Ode to the West Wind
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingàd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mæand, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull’d by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem’d a vision—I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
By Percy B Shelley
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingàd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mæand, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull’d by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem’d a vision—I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d
One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own?
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,
Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
By Percy B Shelley
Ode to Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
By John Keats
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
By John Keats
Monday, September 15, 2003
Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister
GR-R-R--there go, my heart's abhorrence!
Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
God's blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
Oh, that rose has prior claims--
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
Hell dry you up with its flames!
At the meal we sit together;
Salve tibi! I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather,
Sort of season, time of year:
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:
What's the Latin name for "parsley"?
What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"?
Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,
Laid with care on our own shelf!
With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,
And a goblet for ourself,
Rinsed like something sacrificial
Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps--
Marked with L. for our initial!
(He-he! There his lily snaps!)
Saint, forsooth! While Brown Dolores
Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories,
Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
--Can't I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's?
(That is, if he'd let it show!)
When he finishes refection,
Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise, to my recollection,
As I do, in Jesu's praise.
I the Trinity illustrate,
Drinking watered orange-pulp--
In three sips the Arian frustrate;
While he drains his at one gulp!
Oh, those melons! if he's able
We're to have a feast; so nice!
One goes to the Abbot's table,
All of us get each a slice.
How go on your flowers? None double?
Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble,
Keep them close-nipped on the sly!
There's a great text in Galatians,
Once you trip on it, entails
Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
One sure, if another fails;
If I trip him just a-dying,
Sure of heaven as sure can be,
Spin him round and send him flying
Off to hell, a Manichee?
Or, my scrofulous French novel
On gray paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe;
If I double down the pages
At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages,
Ope a sieve and slip it in't?
Or, there's Satan!--one might venture
Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
As he'd miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine . . . .
'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratia
Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r--you swine!
By Robert Browning
*This was a 'hot-favourite' with all of us in FYBA - I love it for its sheer vitality, wit and honesty of expression! Check out the line : He-he There his lily snaps! - Isn't the sheer malice in the sentence completely delightful? One malicious poem I absolutely admire!
Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
God's blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
Oh, that rose has prior claims--
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
Hell dry you up with its flames!
At the meal we sit together;
Salve tibi! I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather,
Sort of season, time of year:
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:
What's the Latin name for "parsley"?
What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"?
Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,
Laid with care on our own shelf!
With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,
And a goblet for ourself,
Rinsed like something sacrificial
Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps--
Marked with L. for our initial!
(He-he! There his lily snaps!)
Saint, forsooth! While Brown Dolores
Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories,
Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
--Can't I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's?
(That is, if he'd let it show!)
When he finishes refection,
Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise, to my recollection,
As I do, in Jesu's praise.
I the Trinity illustrate,
Drinking watered orange-pulp--
In three sips the Arian frustrate;
While he drains his at one gulp!
Oh, those melons! if he's able
We're to have a feast; so nice!
One goes to the Abbot's table,
All of us get each a slice.
How go on your flowers? None double?
Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble,
Keep them close-nipped on the sly!
There's a great text in Galatians,
Once you trip on it, entails
Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
One sure, if another fails;
If I trip him just a-dying,
Sure of heaven as sure can be,
Spin him round and send him flying
Off to hell, a Manichee?
Or, my scrofulous French novel
On gray paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe;
If I double down the pages
At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages,
Ope a sieve and slip it in't?
Or, there's Satan!--one might venture
Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
As he'd miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine . . . .
'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratia
Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r--you swine!
By Robert Browning
*This was a 'hot-favourite' with all of us in FYBA - I love it for its sheer vitality, wit and honesty of expression! Check out the line : He-he There his lily snaps! - Isn't the sheer malice in the sentence completely delightful? One malicious poem I absolutely admire!
The World Is Too Much With Us
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
By William Wordsworth
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
By William Wordsworth
Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare
By W.H.Davies
*A note of Thanks to Deepak, who reminded me of the poem! I'd forgotten about it - we did it in school!
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare
By W.H.Davies
*A note of Thanks to Deepak, who reminded me of the poem! I'd forgotten about it - we did it in school!
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Feminist Fables
Bird Woman
Once there was a child who sprouted wings. They sprang from her shoulder blades, and at first they were vestigial. But they grew rapidly, and in no time at all she had a sizeable wing span. The neighbours were horrified. 'You must have them cut,' they said to her parents. 'Why?' said the parents. 'Well it's obvious,' said the neighbours. 'No,' said the parents, and this seemed so final that the neighbours left. But a few weeks later the neigbours were back. 'If you won't have them cut, atleast have them clipped.' 'Why?' said the parents. 'Well atleast it shows that you are doing something.' 'No,' said the parents and the neighbours left. Then for the third time, the neighbours appeared. 'On atleast two occasions you have sent us away,' they informed the parents, 'but think of that child. What are you doing to the poor little thing?' 'We are teaching her to fly,' said the parents quietly.
The Gods
In their extreme old age a childless couple was granted a daughter. This made them very happy, and they prayed to the gods every morning and evening to bless their child. They prayer was granted. As their daughter grew up it soon became obvious that she was a remarkable child. She could run further and faster than anyone in the village, her manners were good, she sang rather well, and she excelled in her studies. There was only one thing wrong, which spoilt everything. This was not a defect. The gods hadn't cheated. She was indeed blessed with great ability. But everyone in the village was critical of her. 'To be so damned good,' they said, 'is not womanly.'
Whore, Bitch, Slut, Sow
Once upon a time there was a wicked woman who was generally known as Whore, Bitch, Slut, Sow. Being a strong-minded woman and totally unashamed of being herself, she made a petition to the Chief Judge. She asked that the labels she bore be changed to some others that would more accurately express her wickedness as a person, rather than as they did at present, merely as a woman. The judge, as it happened was bored at the time. 'Very well,' he said, 'you can have a hearing, and the learned of the city will be asked to submit an alternative label.' The day came for alternative label, but the Eldest Scholar looked embarrassed, 'The fact is, Your Honour, we have not been able to reach agreement.' 'Really?' said the Judge, 'Well I should have expected as much. I suppose you got lost in philosophical discussion?Never mind. Sit down. I'll do the job.' 'How about "thief"?' he said turning to the woman. 'May it please you, Your Honour,' said the Eldest Scholar, '"thief" is excellent, but this woman renders service for moneys received, so unfortunately , Your Honour, that particular term is not applicable.' 'Well, how about "beggar"?' said the Chief Judge. But the Learned Scholar interpolated again, 'It is not clear, Your Honour, that being a beggar is in itself a sign of wickedness. Moreover this unfortunate woman does not beg.' 'Oh', said the Judge 'how about "bastard"? No I suppose you will find some other objection. Well, what is the problem? Why are we having so much trouble?' 'The truth is, Your Honour,' the scholar replied, ' that her wickedness consists in the fact that she is a woman.' 'Ah!' said the Learned Judge, 'That is the answer. Go away Woman, That is you name and your new label.'
By Suniti Namjoshi.
Once there was a child who sprouted wings. They sprang from her shoulder blades, and at first they were vestigial. But they grew rapidly, and in no time at all she had a sizeable wing span. The neighbours were horrified. 'You must have them cut,' they said to her parents. 'Why?' said the parents. 'Well it's obvious,' said the neighbours. 'No,' said the parents, and this seemed so final that the neighbours left. But a few weeks later the neigbours were back. 'If you won't have them cut, atleast have them clipped.' 'Why?' said the parents. 'Well atleast it shows that you are doing something.' 'No,' said the parents and the neighbours left. Then for the third time, the neighbours appeared. 'On atleast two occasions you have sent us away,' they informed the parents, 'but think of that child. What are you doing to the poor little thing?' 'We are teaching her to fly,' said the parents quietly.
The Gods
In their extreme old age a childless couple was granted a daughter. This made them very happy, and they prayed to the gods every morning and evening to bless their child. They prayer was granted. As their daughter grew up it soon became obvious that she was a remarkable child. She could run further and faster than anyone in the village, her manners were good, she sang rather well, and she excelled in her studies. There was only one thing wrong, which spoilt everything. This was not a defect. The gods hadn't cheated. She was indeed blessed with great ability. But everyone in the village was critical of her. 'To be so damned good,' they said, 'is not womanly.'
Whore, Bitch, Slut, Sow
Once upon a time there was a wicked woman who was generally known as Whore, Bitch, Slut, Sow. Being a strong-minded woman and totally unashamed of being herself, she made a petition to the Chief Judge. She asked that the labels she bore be changed to some others that would more accurately express her wickedness as a person, rather than as they did at present, merely as a woman. The judge, as it happened was bored at the time. 'Very well,' he said, 'you can have a hearing, and the learned of the city will be asked to submit an alternative label.' The day came for alternative label, but the Eldest Scholar looked embarrassed, 'The fact is, Your Honour, we have not been able to reach agreement.' 'Really?' said the Judge, 'Well I should have expected as much. I suppose you got lost in philosophical discussion?Never mind. Sit down. I'll do the job.' 'How about "thief"?' he said turning to the woman. 'May it please you, Your Honour,' said the Eldest Scholar, '"thief" is excellent, but this woman renders service for moneys received, so unfortunately , Your Honour, that particular term is not applicable.' 'Well, how about "beggar"?' said the Chief Judge. But the Learned Scholar interpolated again, 'It is not clear, Your Honour, that being a beggar is in itself a sign of wickedness. Moreover this unfortunate woman does not beg.' 'Oh', said the Judge 'how about "bastard"? No I suppose you will find some other objection. Well, what is the problem? Why are we having so much trouble?' 'The truth is, Your Honour,' the scholar replied, ' that her wickedness consists in the fact that she is a woman.' 'Ah!' said the Learned Judge, 'That is the answer. Go away Woman, That is you name and your new label.'
By Suniti Namjoshi.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lighting they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
By Dylan Thomas
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lighting they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
By Dylan Thomas
Prospice
Fear death?---to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form;
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so---one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And made me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave.
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
By Robert Browning
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form;
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so---one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And made me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave.
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
By Robert Browning
Recommendation
Looking for Maya, Atima Srivastava's second novel, is the story of Mira, a young woman fresh out of university and set to embark on a brilliant career. She is bright, ambitious, hungry for life and dangerously naive. When her boyfriend takes off for the summer Mira is left alone in London where she falls into the orbit of Amrit,older,sophisticated,a man accustomed to calling the tune. Both have a great deal to learn and to lose. Exploring themes of love, passion, friendship and the ambiguities of cultural identity,this is an acutely observed and moving novel.
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