![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyfalconHey Humans,
Got a letter from RWU saying they've gotten my first deposits. So I'm really going there. So excuse me while Idance my ass off get roaring drunk celebrate in a totally non-provocative and legal manner.
We finished 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern' in Lit class. I'm quite disappointed by the lack of approval, even, not to talk about the lack of understanding or love or whatever. It's horrible. I have trouble defining just how I love this play and why in a way that isn't garbled, but I'm willing to give it a shot.
First off, the principle message of the play, that after a certain point circumstances are uncontrollable and the meaning of life is always unknowable, I have to reject as a fallacy. It reminds me of the time a psychologist Leah had introduced me to online as the father of one of her friends tried to convince me that absolutely all human's motivations stem more or less directly from the desire for food and sex. Not being one to ever pay too much attention to the skyscrapers-as-phallic-symbols theory, I needed more proof than he could provide, and eventually got too annoyed with him to continue the conversation. That's the way I feel about most existential philosophy: Proove to me that this isn't just YOU who feels set adrift and bewildered, because I sure don't. (This also, incidentally, reminds me of the Rumi poem 'Spring Giddiness', which begins, "Today, like every other day, we wake up empty/ and frightened" which I'm sure is just him, but I'm trying to keep my sidenotes to a minimum so, onward.)
The existance of that particular message in the play doesn't bother me so much, however, because in the long tradition of most academics, I have perfected the fine art of ignoring that which does not fit my theories. I don't spend too much time thinking about it, and I don't believe Stoppard did, either, beyond a point. What this play runs on, for me, is a combination of three things: Characters, relationships, and language, and by the level of sophistication lent to these aspects as compared to the other, I have to judge that the author considered these of primary importance as well.
You've got Rosencrantz, who is, essentially, a very silly man who occassionally stumbles upon brilliance, or, alternatively, has brilliance stumble upon him. He's frightened but more afraid to show it, so he goes along, doing the best he can, and trying to take Guildenstern's advice and not let everything get to him.
And Guildenstern, who is sarcastic, has a very high opinion of himself and is as a consequence a closet Sophist. His normal state is to be confident, so when things start spinning out of control, he clings to that with the tenacity of a pit bull. I feel for him most, because I really do think that he's trying very hard to be objective in a world that simply won't allow it (see his repeated references to the need to be logical, and, most telling, his line: "I prefer art to mirror life.") His struggle isn't only caused by outside circumstances, though, because often he just relapses into illogic on his own ("Rationalism? Is that all you have to offer?").
Now, another aspect that people have attributed to this play, that may or may not actually be there, is that Ros and Guil aren't nearly as multifaceted as real people, that they're flat characters with no real humanity. I'm not sure how much credence I give to that. Personally, I think they're very real. And that could tie into Stoppard's point that in the theatre, people are shown as more "real" than real. The point is made repeatedly when Guildenstern shows his disgust over actors and their dying scenes. To point:
"That isn't death. You scream and choke and sink to your knees, but it doesn't bring death home to anyone - it doesn't catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says - "One day you are going to die".... you can't act death. The fact of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen - it's not gasps and blood and falling about - that isn't what makes it death. It's just a man failing to reappear, that's all - now you see him, now you don't, that's the only thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back - an exit, unobtrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on until, finally, it is heavy with death."
See, real people aren't LIKE actors. In the attempt to make real people, fiction writers often give their characters far more layers than any real person ever had. I'm not saying that we've only got the two-layer food/sex dichotomy to work with, here, I'm just saying that not everyone has deep hidden inner meanings for what they do. So maybe Ros and Guil are "flat" characters. They're still more real, in their little lives, than most other fictional characters. (Which is something that distances this piece of art from Objectivist art: this isn't Romantic Realism, where men are shown as the best of what some people can be. To me, these characters are just Realist, that is, showing what most people are.)
Their relationship is the second thing that fascinates me. Guildenstern is willing to put up with Rosencrantz's foolishness, but through his own hardheadedness, never gets to reap the benefits when his friend eventually says something truly profound. And Rosencrantz puts up with Guil's incessant yammering and occasional meanness, though he never seems to really listen, anyway, until the point where Guil is so tangled in his own wordplay that he's making less sense than usual.
And yet, they still genuinely care about each other. How many times do Guil's line directions read "(wry, gentle)", as he tries his best to be comforting? And Rosencrantz still turns to Guildenstern when things start to go downhill, still trusts him, for all his sophism, to be able to handle things, still tries to be brave. Sure, they've really only got one another, but how often, really, does necessity breed actual closeness? And of this depth? I truly believe that, had Rosencrantz not disappeared at the end of the play, Guildenstern would have found a way to go on, too, and keep Ros with him. The point where he realizes he's been left alone breaks my heart. I know that it's the loss of that final certainty that makes Guildenstern give up, too, that finally breaks his stubbornness and leads to his own disappearance.
And then there's the language. Stoppard uses language the way only a non-native English speaker can. One technique I particularly admire is that when two seperate things happening independantly of one another somehow answer each other. It's particularly noticable in comic books (Alan Moore's 'Watchmen', anyone?), where the pictures and words don't necessarily have to correspond, but the action in one can still remark on that of the other. It's even more rare to see it used, and work, in a medium that perforce makes the two lines harder to distinguish. I've always wanted to be able to write dialogue like that, and the fact that I can't yet only makes me admire the technique more.
And all this - all this - is completely ignored by my classmates, and even with this wealth of humanity right bloody there, they still say "I'm sorry, but it's dumb."
(I would also like to point out that not since my age could be counted in single digets have I used the word "dumb" to describe something, as it shows a lack of familiarity with the wealth of spectacularly insulting adjectives this language provides.)
Maybe it's really not that important. Maybe the reason I like it all so much is as simple as the fact that I see a lot of Guildenstern in myself. (And don't be offended, Leah, when I say you're my Rosencrantz, because, believe me, a lot of people would be much improved by achieving brilliance even half so much as him or you.) Certainly, if nothing else, I've just proven that I can talk incessantly on a small point. But I still wish I could share some part of how amazing it all is with my classmates.
To close, mercifully cut to make this already-long entry a little more managable, my 'Hamlet' essay that got the '9', as always unedited because it defeats the purpose to edit an in-class essay for viewing, can be found
The topic: Novels and plays often include scenes of weddings, funerals, parties, and other social occasions. Such scenes may reveal the values of the characters and the society in which they live. Select a novel or play that includes such a scene and, in a focused essay, discuss the contribution the scene makes to the meaning of the work as a whole. (Choose 'Hamlet'). You have 50 minutes.
I wrote:
The funeral scene in 'Hamlet' acts as a doorway from our culture into that of Elizabethan Denmark. There have been many changes since Hamlet's day, particularly in the way people view God, that are brought into sharp relief when institutionalized ceremonies are shown us, to be compared with the way those same ceremonies are performed today. The beginning of the scene, which shows two clownish gravediggers clearing a grave, is one of the first indicators that cultural norms in the world of the play are very changed today, when the idea of removing one person's remains for those of another is almost unthinkable. Then, Laertes' concern over the lack of pomp for his sister's funeral shows the different conceptions people had about God, who, tho their view, would not suffer the body of a suicide to be laid in concecrated ground. This validates Hamlet's earlier concern about his own wish that he could commit suicide, though he doesn't dare for fear of punishment in the Afterlife. What is eventually made clear through these examples is what happens to a cultural conciousness when a very real fear of God is mixed with added closeness to death. The result is a fervent belief touched with a tinge of cynicism about the processes of religion. Tit seems that everyone in Hamlet's culture has a little bit of the gravedigger's irreverent spirit in him.
This crucial dichotomy between belief and cynicism is shown clearly in the exchanges made between the two gravediggers at the beginning of Act 5. The conversation begins with the first digger expressing disbelief that the Church would allow Ophelia to be buried in sacred ground when there is a rumor that she drowned herself. This is a very different view from that common today, where suicides are more to be pitied than scorned. The diggers act to show the mind of the general public, and they reveal a people who take a very strict interpretation of God's law. Contrast this, then, with the casual nonchalance they use while flinging about the mortal remains of the already-buried to clear a spot for Ophelia. The act in itself is strange to us, but the cavalier attitude borders on vulgar. Even Hamlet seems initially shocked at suck callous behavior. There is no single line in the play more ironic than that of the gravedigger's riddle, the punchline of which runs: "The next time you are asked which builds stronger than either the carpenter, the shipwright, or the mason, answer at once, 'a grave-digger'. The house they build will last till Doomsday." That is true, technically, although the physical "house" is apparently just for rent and must be given over shortly to a new tenant.
Another show of this dichotomy is the Church's reaction to Ophelia's death. Laertes is incensed that his sister is being laid to rest without proper celebration. The Priest replies, in short, that they have already stretched the sacraments as far as they can, that to do more would negate the sanctity of the ceremony as a whole. This, today, seems a very odd view. The Priest obviously has reason to believe that Ophelia killed herself, and that if she did, by rights she should be given no part of a Christian burial, since she has disobeyed God's law. Yet the Priest is willing to provide a small part of the ceremony in order to appease the royal family. This shows several things: first, that Hamlet was, given his culture, absolutely justified in the concerns voiced in his first soliloquy and after, about the effects of the act of suicide on his soul. Second, that the gravediggers are not alone in their reverence of God coupled with nonchalance about the earthly trappings of religion, as even the priest is willing to push the bonds of his own morality regarding the sacraments.
Where does this cultural attitude, so strange to us now, come from? There is evidence that it is the result of a strong religious education about a strong, angry God, along with living in close proximity with death that can spring without warning. The three characters who strongly show this trait, the Priest, the gravedigger, and eventually Hamlet, all live in extraordinary closeness with death, either by profession or chosen association. While they are cultural barometers, their reactions are likely slightly overstated in order to show strong, clear cause-and-effect. Likely, Shakespeare only used such technique to lend veracity to his characters when seen by an audience in the 1600's, but now it serves as a convenient way to understand the zietgiest of a culture far removed from ours.
Responding to which, the teacher wrote:
Focuses on Opheliea's burial scene as "a doorway from our culture into that of Elizabethan Denmark"; connects Laertes's concerns about Ophelia not getting a full funeral service (because of her "suicide") with Hamlet's own concerns about going against God's laws and what could happen in the afterlife; very interesting thesis about the mixture of religious conservatism and musings about death; paragraph on the gravedigger scene is interesting and well written, but this is not a social occasion; at the same time, this is SO well written, so carefully and specifically argued, and so complex an interpretation that it can't help win top score; excellent response.
So. I'm pleased.
But, I do natter on for ages, don't I? Even the original Guildenstern would struggle to speak such long paragraphs, to form such perfectly run-on sentences. Good night, all.
Erin
Got a letter from RWU saying they've gotten my first deposits. So I'm really going there. So excuse me while I
We finished 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern' in Lit class. I'm quite disappointed by the lack of approval, even, not to talk about the lack of understanding or love or whatever. It's horrible. I have trouble defining just how I love this play and why in a way that isn't garbled, but I'm willing to give it a shot.
First off, the principle message of the play, that after a certain point circumstances are uncontrollable and the meaning of life is always unknowable, I have to reject as a fallacy. It reminds me of the time a psychologist Leah had introduced me to online as the father of one of her friends tried to convince me that absolutely all human's motivations stem more or less directly from the desire for food and sex. Not being one to ever pay too much attention to the skyscrapers-as-phallic-symbols theory, I needed more proof than he could provide, and eventually got too annoyed with him to continue the conversation. That's the way I feel about most existential philosophy: Proove to me that this isn't just YOU who feels set adrift and bewildered, because I sure don't. (This also, incidentally, reminds me of the Rumi poem 'Spring Giddiness', which begins, "Today, like every other day, we wake up empty/ and frightened" which I'm sure is just him, but I'm trying to keep my sidenotes to a minimum so, onward.)
The existance of that particular message in the play doesn't bother me so much, however, because in the long tradition of most academics, I have perfected the fine art of ignoring that which does not fit my theories. I don't spend too much time thinking about it, and I don't believe Stoppard did, either, beyond a point. What this play runs on, for me, is a combination of three things: Characters, relationships, and language, and by the level of sophistication lent to these aspects as compared to the other, I have to judge that the author considered these of primary importance as well.
You've got Rosencrantz, who is, essentially, a very silly man who occassionally stumbles upon brilliance, or, alternatively, has brilliance stumble upon him. He's frightened but more afraid to show it, so he goes along, doing the best he can, and trying to take Guildenstern's advice and not let everything get to him.
And Guildenstern, who is sarcastic, has a very high opinion of himself and is as a consequence a closet Sophist. His normal state is to be confident, so when things start spinning out of control, he clings to that with the tenacity of a pit bull. I feel for him most, because I really do think that he's trying very hard to be objective in a world that simply won't allow it (see his repeated references to the need to be logical, and, most telling, his line: "I prefer art to mirror life.") His struggle isn't only caused by outside circumstances, though, because often he just relapses into illogic on his own ("Rationalism? Is that all you have to offer?").
Now, another aspect that people have attributed to this play, that may or may not actually be there, is that Ros and Guil aren't nearly as multifaceted as real people, that they're flat characters with no real humanity. I'm not sure how much credence I give to that. Personally, I think they're very real. And that could tie into Stoppard's point that in the theatre, people are shown as more "real" than real. The point is made repeatedly when Guildenstern shows his disgust over actors and their dying scenes. To point:
"That isn't death. You scream and choke and sink to your knees, but it doesn't bring death home to anyone - it doesn't catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says - "One day you are going to die".... you can't act death. The fact of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen - it's not gasps and blood and falling about - that isn't what makes it death. It's just a man failing to reappear, that's all - now you see him, now you don't, that's the only thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back - an exit, unobtrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on until, finally, it is heavy with death."
See, real people aren't LIKE actors. In the attempt to make real people, fiction writers often give their characters far more layers than any real person ever had. I'm not saying that we've only got the two-layer food/sex dichotomy to work with, here, I'm just saying that not everyone has deep hidden inner meanings for what they do. So maybe Ros and Guil are "flat" characters. They're still more real, in their little lives, than most other fictional characters. (Which is something that distances this piece of art from Objectivist art: this isn't Romantic Realism, where men are shown as the best of what some people can be. To me, these characters are just Realist, that is, showing what most people are.)
Their relationship is the second thing that fascinates me. Guildenstern is willing to put up with Rosencrantz's foolishness, but through his own hardheadedness, never gets to reap the benefits when his friend eventually says something truly profound. And Rosencrantz puts up with Guil's incessant yammering and occasional meanness, though he never seems to really listen, anyway, until the point where Guil is so tangled in his own wordplay that he's making less sense than usual.
And yet, they still genuinely care about each other. How many times do Guil's line directions read "(wry, gentle)", as he tries his best to be comforting? And Rosencrantz still turns to Guildenstern when things start to go downhill, still trusts him, for all his sophism, to be able to handle things, still tries to be brave. Sure, they've really only got one another, but how often, really, does necessity breed actual closeness? And of this depth? I truly believe that, had Rosencrantz not disappeared at the end of the play, Guildenstern would have found a way to go on, too, and keep Ros with him. The point where he realizes he's been left alone breaks my heart. I know that it's the loss of that final certainty that makes Guildenstern give up, too, that finally breaks his stubbornness and leads to his own disappearance.
And then there's the language. Stoppard uses language the way only a non-native English speaker can. One technique I particularly admire is that when two seperate things happening independantly of one another somehow answer each other. It's particularly noticable in comic books (Alan Moore's 'Watchmen', anyone?), where the pictures and words don't necessarily have to correspond, but the action in one can still remark on that of the other. It's even more rare to see it used, and work, in a medium that perforce makes the two lines harder to distinguish. I've always wanted to be able to write dialogue like that, and the fact that I can't yet only makes me admire the technique more.
And all this - all this - is completely ignored by my classmates, and even with this wealth of humanity right bloody there, they still say "I'm sorry, but it's dumb."
(I would also like to point out that not since my age could be counted in single digets have I used the word "dumb" to describe something, as it shows a lack of familiarity with the wealth of spectacularly insulting adjectives this language provides.)
Maybe it's really not that important. Maybe the reason I like it all so much is as simple as the fact that I see a lot of Guildenstern in myself. (And don't be offended, Leah, when I say you're my Rosencrantz, because, believe me, a lot of people would be much improved by achieving brilliance even half so much as him or you.) Certainly, if nothing else, I've just proven that I can talk incessantly on a small point. But I still wish I could share some part of how amazing it all is with my classmates.
To close, mercifully cut to make this already-long entry a little more managable, my 'Hamlet' essay that got the '9', as always unedited because it defeats the purpose to edit an in-class essay for viewing, can be found
The topic: Novels and plays often include scenes of weddings, funerals, parties, and other social occasions. Such scenes may reveal the values of the characters and the society in which they live. Select a novel or play that includes such a scene and, in a focused essay, discuss the contribution the scene makes to the meaning of the work as a whole. (Choose 'Hamlet'). You have 50 minutes.
I wrote:
The funeral scene in 'Hamlet' acts as a doorway from our culture into that of Elizabethan Denmark. There have been many changes since Hamlet's day, particularly in the way people view God, that are brought into sharp relief when institutionalized ceremonies are shown us, to be compared with the way those same ceremonies are performed today. The beginning of the scene, which shows two clownish gravediggers clearing a grave, is one of the first indicators that cultural norms in the world of the play are very changed today, when the idea of removing one person's remains for those of another is almost unthinkable. Then, Laertes' concern over the lack of pomp for his sister's funeral shows the different conceptions people had about God, who, tho their view, would not suffer the body of a suicide to be laid in concecrated ground. This validates Hamlet's earlier concern about his own wish that he could commit suicide, though he doesn't dare for fear of punishment in the Afterlife. What is eventually made clear through these examples is what happens to a cultural conciousness when a very real fear of God is mixed with added closeness to death. The result is a fervent belief touched with a tinge of cynicism about the processes of religion. Tit seems that everyone in Hamlet's culture has a little bit of the gravedigger's irreverent spirit in him.
This crucial dichotomy between belief and cynicism is shown clearly in the exchanges made between the two gravediggers at the beginning of Act 5. The conversation begins with the first digger expressing disbelief that the Church would allow Ophelia to be buried in sacred ground when there is a rumor that she drowned herself. This is a very different view from that common today, where suicides are more to be pitied than scorned. The diggers act to show the mind of the general public, and they reveal a people who take a very strict interpretation of God's law. Contrast this, then, with the casual nonchalance they use while flinging about the mortal remains of the already-buried to clear a spot for Ophelia. The act in itself is strange to us, but the cavalier attitude borders on vulgar. Even Hamlet seems initially shocked at suck callous behavior. There is no single line in the play more ironic than that of the gravedigger's riddle, the punchline of which runs: "The next time you are asked which builds stronger than either the carpenter, the shipwright, or the mason, answer at once, 'a grave-digger'. The house they build will last till Doomsday." That is true, technically, although the physical "house" is apparently just for rent and must be given over shortly to a new tenant.
Another show of this dichotomy is the Church's reaction to Ophelia's death. Laertes is incensed that his sister is being laid to rest without proper celebration. The Priest replies, in short, that they have already stretched the sacraments as far as they can, that to do more would negate the sanctity of the ceremony as a whole. This, today, seems a very odd view. The Priest obviously has reason to believe that Ophelia killed herself, and that if she did, by rights she should be given no part of a Christian burial, since she has disobeyed God's law. Yet the Priest is willing to provide a small part of the ceremony in order to appease the royal family. This shows several things: first, that Hamlet was, given his culture, absolutely justified in the concerns voiced in his first soliloquy and after, about the effects of the act of suicide on his soul. Second, that the gravediggers are not alone in their reverence of God coupled with nonchalance about the earthly trappings of religion, as even the priest is willing to push the bonds of his own morality regarding the sacraments.
Where does this cultural attitude, so strange to us now, come from? There is evidence that it is the result of a strong religious education about a strong, angry God, along with living in close proximity with death that can spring without warning. The three characters who strongly show this trait, the Priest, the gravedigger, and eventually Hamlet, all live in extraordinary closeness with death, either by profession or chosen association. While they are cultural barometers, their reactions are likely slightly overstated in order to show strong, clear cause-and-effect. Likely, Shakespeare only used such technique to lend veracity to his characters when seen by an audience in the 1600's, but now it serves as a convenient way to understand the zietgiest of a culture far removed from ours.
Responding to which, the teacher wrote:
Focuses on Opheliea's burial scene as "a doorway from our culture into that of Elizabethan Denmark"; connects Laertes's concerns about Ophelia not getting a full funeral service (because of her "suicide") with Hamlet's own concerns about going against God's laws and what could happen in the afterlife; very interesting thesis about the mixture of religious conservatism and musings about death; paragraph on the gravedigger scene is interesting and well written, but this is not a social occasion; at the same time, this is SO well written, so carefully and specifically argued, and so complex an interpretation that it can't help win top score; excellent response.
So. I'm pleased.
But, I do natter on for ages, don't I? Even the original Guildenstern would struggle to speak such long paragraphs, to form such perfectly run-on sentences. Good night, all.
Erin
