Catching Shakespeare

Technology fascinates me, in part because I know relatively little about how it works, and I want to know more. The potential for responsible use of technology as a supplement to literary study is particularly interesting. The challenge, as I see it, is to keep technology in its proper place as a supplement, not a replacement for genuine thought.

That’s one reason I’ve chosen Plagiarism Software Finds a New Shakespeare Play by Gaelle Fauer in Time Magazine for the next ProfoundNet. Here’s a snippet:

Plagiarism-detection software was created with lazy, sneaky college students in mind — not the likes of William Shakespeare. Yet the software may have settled a centuries-old mystery over the authorship of an unattributed play from the late 1500s called The Reign of Edward III…. With a program called Pl@giarism, [Sir Brian Vickers, a literature professor at the University of London] detected 200 strings of three or more words in Edward III that matched phrases in Shakespeare’s other works.

As Vickers reminds readers, computers can’t do the work alone – human knowledge, skill, and judgment are still an integral part of the process. He says what he is hoping to do is “bring about a marriage between human reading and machine reading. If you distrust computers, you won’t advance at all; if you have just computers and know nothing about literature, you’re likely to go wrong as well.”

To me, this is a great example of using technology to advance the work of humans, rather than allowing technology to assume the role of primary agent and in the process rendering humans the subject of a passive sentence.

Thanks, Gaelle , for a thought-provoking article.

Easy Button for the Bard

Bt w8, wuz dat lyt n d wndw ovr der?
Itz d east, n Juliet S d sun.

Shakespeare in Text-Speak.

That day has come.

Shakespeare in text-speak may be funny. It may be a clever nod to pop culture. It may be a reminder that 16th century language is no stranger than 21st century language. But it is not Shakespeare.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all in favor of new ways to get students interested in great literature.  And as I’ve written before, I thoroughly enjoy a good parody or clever application of new technology to literature.

I do…as long as the point is still to draw students in to the original literature, to spark interest and encourage them to delve deeper. You might start a prospective chef-in-training with a boxed cake mix, but you certainly don’t stop there.

The subtitle of the original article is, “Bard’s language poses challenge for teachers.” Though I agree with some of the article’s points, I have to ask, when did “challenge” become a dirty word?

Yes, the language is unfamiliar and can be difficult. Yes, Shakespeare wrote for performance, not reading (another false step in the way the Bard is often taught). But is it impossible for a ninth or tenth grader to understand Romeo and Juliet as written? No. Is it hard work? Yes.

The easy button has become a familiar icon since its appearance in commercials for Staples. Perhaps too familiar. Though we laugh at the ad, we also act as though its logic is true. In doing so, we forget that there is no easy button for learning.

In the midst of widespread emphasis on self-esteem and self-help, we treat students as if they are helpless and incapable of meeting high expectations.

The same problem holds true in other subjects, not just literature, but when Shakespeare is reduced to “bt w8, wuz dat lyt n d wndw ovr der,” the effects of reductionism in education become a little clearer.

Must be all the light coming in d wndw.

Twitter, Wit, and Elizabeth

To many, Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Sidney seem as far removed from modern society as crème brûlée is from peanut butter and jelly.

A few conventions of modern society convince me to argue otherwise.

Like Twitter. Bear with me.

England in the late sixteenth century enjoyed “an impressive, widespread growth in literacy; an educational system that trained its students to be highly sensitive to rhetorical effects; a social and political taste for elaborate display…and a vibrant, restless intellectual culture” (Will in the World, Greenblatt).

What are the characteristics of the United States in the twenty-first century? More and more young adults attend college, creating if not a vibrant, then certainly a restless intellectual culture, particularly as more and more college graduates find themselves without a job that uses ingenuity or creativity.

One side effect, I think, is a re-awakening taste for wit in the social realm. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the newest social networking phenomenon is called tWITter.

The exchange of brief, one-sided dialogues has progressed from instant messenger to Facebook to texting and Twitter. Humor and wit are the name of the game. And it is a game. These media are ideally suited for banter: light, quick-witted one-upmanship.

One difference is the skill for which Elizabethan courtiers were known. “Courtiers were highly gifted at crafting and deciphering graceful words with double or triple meanings” (Norton Anthology of English Literature, vol.1) Their wordplay was born of cultural necessity. The upper classes were classically trained in rhetorical devices, and court intrigue demanded careful speech.

Perhaps the United States lacks both of those spurs to rhetorical training. Perhaps social networking is becoming more attention-seeking and self-serving. Perhaps, though, we are also returning to a simple enjoyment of language’s subtleties and possibilities.

And lest we fall too deeply in love with the PB&J to the exclusion of fine cuisine, I think we have to ask the question, are these phenomena unique to our society?

My answer? Not a bit.

Or should I say, not a whit.

Or a twhit.

Shakespeare on Moving

Just for fun, I like to imagine how Shakespeare would add to the commentary of pop culture on unpleasant phenomena…like tax day. And moving.

If the Bard had decided to give a treatise on moving to one of his characters, my bet is on the Duke in Measure for Measure (Act 3, Scene 1) and I think it would probably run something like this:

Be absolute for loss.
Ev’ry box thus found shall thereby be the sweeter.
Reason thus with things: if I do lose thee,
I do lose a thing that none but fools would keep.
When moved, thou art servile to all the molding influences
that dost this habitation, where thou keep’st, hourly afflict.
Merely, thou art loss’s fool. For him, thou labour’st
by thy move to shun, yet runn’st toward him still.
Thou art not noble, for all th’literary books that thou bear’st
are nursed from yard sales. Thou art by no means valiant,
for thou dost fear the sharp and biting edge of broken glass.
Thy best of rest is cleaning, and that thou oft provok’st,
yet grossly fear’st thy move, which is no more.
Thou art not thyself, for thou exist’st
on many a thousand bags that issue
out of dust. Happy, thou art not,
for what thou hast not, still thou strive’st to get,
and what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not well-packed,
for thy possessions shift to strange effects on the highway.
When thou art rich, thou art poor,
for like a truck whose bed with boxes bows,
thou bear’st thy heavy burdens but a journey,
and wind unloads thee. Friend, hast thou none,
for thine own fellows, who do call for help,
at mere repayment of thy proper aid
do curse the stairs, back-breaking, and the heat
for ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor space, nor bed,
but as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep, dreaming on both.
For all thy dancing floor is covered up
and doth beg the work of clearing space.
And when thou art old and rich,
thou hast neither grace, energy, friend, nor timing
to make thy spaces pleasant.
What’s yet in this that brings out fear of loss?
Yet in that loss lie hid more free square feet.
Yet moves, we fear, that makes these losses happen.

At least, that’s how I think it would go. The irony is that I wrote this piece before moving, packed the little slips of paper with it written down, and since moving, have entirely failed to relocate them. I’m sure the first draft was much more brilliant, but this is the best I can do for a re-write. Weep, literati, for what has been lost to mankind.

Shakespeare Goes to Court

This ProfoundNet may not seem, well, profound, but it illustrates perfectly that literary questions are not far removed from public debate. That’s one reason, besides pure humor, I’ve chosen The Court, Led by Stevens, (Mostly) Rules Against Shakespeare by Ashby Jones of the Wall Street Journal. Here’s a snippet:

Turns out the justices of the Supreme Court debate over more than just the outcome of high-profile legal cases: They argue Shakespeare as well.

Specifically, it seems that a handful of justices have gotten serious over the so-called Shakespeare authorship question—uncovering the true identity of the writer of Hamlet, Macbeth and Titus Andronicus…

You who are literati are probably familiar with the Shakespearean authorship question. Did William Shakespeare actually write the plays attributed to him? (For a brief summary of the debate, see Wikipedia).

According to this report, if the Supreme Court tried Shakespeare v. Edward de Vere, classic book publishers would have a lot of re-titling to do, as would curriculum writers, theatre companies, and programmers of robot teachers. Call in the MiniTrue!

The story doesn’t end there. A little over a week later, Jones wrote another blog post called More on Souter…And Specter and Shakespeare. Here’s a snippet:

When asked his views of the Shakespeare authorship question, Justice David Souter recalled the comment of the late Harvard professor George Lyman Kittredge, who in his day faced claims that Sir Francis Bacon was the true genius behind the Bard. “I’ll agree that Bacon wrote Shakespeare if you’ll tell me who wrote Bacon,” Kittredge liked to say, Justice Souter said.

As far as his own position, Justice Souter was far less decisive than he has been on recent cases involving the Fourth Amendment and punitive damages. “I have no idea who wrote the plays, but I’m glad someone did,” he said.

Well put.

Whether as a mind-sharpening activity, evidence of well-rounded interests, or simply a desire to seek truth in all matters, it’s refreshing to see  members of the United States’ most powerful court taking an interest in literary studies.

Nonetheless, since the outcome of Shakespeare v. Vere will not construct precedent for any pending Supreme Court cases, it’s also encouraging to see at least one justice keeping the debate in its proper perspective.

Thanks, Ashby, for a thought-provoking post. (For the original WSJ article, see Justice Stevens Renders an Opinion on Who Wrote Shakespeare’s Plays). 

Send Hamlet Some Flair

I couldn’t resist posting a link to this circulating (genius) adaptation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet to new media. 

Behold, *drum roll please,* the story of Hamlet, prince of Denmark, as it unfolded on Facebook: Hamlet (Facebook News Feed Edition) by Sarah Schmelling. 

A few of my favorite sequences include,

“The king poked the queen.”

“The queen poked the king back.”

“Hamlet and the queen are no longer friends.”

…and…

“Polonius thinks this curtain looks like a good thing to hide behind.”

“Polonius is no longer online.” 

Check it out for a good laugh.

A Shakespearean Valentine

Turning to the lighter side, in honor of that paragon of holidays, Valentines Day (known on the black market as Singles Awareness Day, Hallmark Appreciation Day, and other such pseudonyms), I’ve decided to spend a few days/posts invoking the Bard in less-than-typical ways (i.e. NO Romeo and Juliet in sight).  

My philosophy has always been, what’s the use of memorizing something if you can’t creatively tweak it later? So, (see “Brain Work” at the top of the page) the monologues I’ve memorized in the last few years are about to get a V-Day makeover. 

What do Hamlet, the color red, and hair have in common?  You’re about to find out. With no further ado (about nothing), welcome to the pre-Valentines special at Hamlet’s beauty parlor!

(Stayed tuned for the next installment.)

* – * – * -* -* – * – * – * – * – * – * – *

To Dye or Not to Dye

To dye, or not to dye: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to dodge
Brave cupid’s arrows aimed with such misfortune,
Or to close the purse against the sea of hair products,
And by resisting, stay blond? To dye: to change;
Once more; and by a change to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand breakup shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To dye, to change;
To change: perchance to hate: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that change of dye what hate may come
When we have rinsed off this natural shade,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of too permanent tone;
For who would bear the jokes and scorns of time,
The brunette’s wrong, the Monroe comparisons,
The pangs of despised roots, the shower’s delay,
The insolence of office workers and the static
That patient brushing of the fresh-washed makes,
When she herself might her quietus make
With a dye bottle? Who would split ends bear,
To highlight and trim under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after dye,
The undiscovered redness from whose bourn
No gold color returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus permanence doth make cowards of us all;
And thus the chosen hue of sun-kissed pomegranate
Is set aside by the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great style and fashion
With this regard, their customers turn awry,
And lose the name of business.

We No Longer Go Gentle

Death is an uncomfortable, disorienting subject for many. The words are insufficient when talking to someone who has lost a loved one. Perhaps that is why the topic is chosen so often by poets, who use words to approach emotion. Perhaps that is also why Americans turn to poetry when they confront death.

For this reason I have chosen The Dying of the Light, an article by Craig Bowron recently published in the Washington Post, for the next ProfoundNet.  In it, the author discusses the “calamity of so long life” (to quote Hamlet) that Americans face, alleviated, but also sometimes prolonged by modern science. The article professes to give no answers, but it challenges readers to think about the American obsession with immortality. 

The title is taken from a well-known and oft-quoted poem by Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, called “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night,” written just after World War II. Here’s the first stanza of the poem:

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.

In the poem, good men, wise men, wild men, and grave men all must face the reality of death. In a bleak postwar era, the poet urges men to resist sinking easily toward death. Today, the opposite trend exists, and it is no longer called “that good night.” 

Bowron’s article poetically describes the dilemma facing Americans:

“Everyone wants to grow old and die in his or her sleep, but the truth is that most of us will die in pieces. Most will be nibbled to death by piranhas, and the piranhas of senescence are wearing some very dull dentures. [...] This isn’t about euthanasia. It’s not about spiraling health care costs. It’s about the gift of life — and death. It is about living life and death with dignity, and letting go.”

Citing illness, discontent, and the frail quality of life, a character in Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure makes a poignant observation: “What’s yet in this that bears the name of life? Yet in that life lie hid more thousand deaths. Yet death, we fear.” Shakespeare’s Hamlet wrestles with the same incongruency. 

I am left with a lingering question. If, as poets and authors for centuries have recognized, we fear death, why is it so much easier to throw energy into fighting the inevitable than to consider the underlying reasons for our fear? 

Thanks, Craig, for your thought-provoking article.

Literature for…Psychology

The community of famous literary characters (here’s one designation of the top 10 – incidentally written by a psychologist specializing in the arts) includes suicidal introverts, individuals disassociated from reality, incestuous fathers, and drug addicts. Most of them seem like prime candidates for the oft-stereotyped psychiatrist’s couch.

The gap between literary studies and psychology should be thin. And yet  in psychology, the study of books may be entertaining, but it does not begin to approach the utility of psychological studies and research papers. So how can the literati emphasize the crossover skills literature has to offer?

The simplest route is for students to anyalyze literary characters as if they were real people. Hamlet has been used (and, some could say, abused) in this role for decades: this page offers a good overview. But I think another route exists, a subtler and more realistic meeting point of the two disciplines. 

One of the most basic premises of a book report is that the student (a reader, an individual) will like or dislike the assigned book. What makes writing the judgment element of the paper so difficult is the need to give a reason.

• “Why did you hate reading Moby Dick and love reading Harry Potter? – they’re almost the same length!” 
• “Why did you sympathize with Hester Prynne and not with Roger Chillingworth?”
• “I thought you hated Brothers Karamazov!” … “I did – at first.”

In psychology (and communication studies), students learn to look beyond instinctive reactions to the triggers that cause or invite them.

A new way to approach literature would be to evaluate the motivators that inspire like or dislike on the part of readers.  One method would be to establish a scale for like/dislike (say 1-10, with one being strong dislike, 5 being apathy, and 10 being strong enjoyment).  At the end of each chapter, students would rate their impression of the book, without looking back to see previous rankings.

After finishing the book, students would look for chapters that marked turning points in their attitude toward the book, return to those chapters, and look for variables that changed – a new character, a shift in style, or the onset of action, for example. 

To make it more interesting, students could compare notes to see if any parts of the book inspired universal distaste or admiration among their classmates. Those sections would be excellent fodder for a discussion on shared preferences among people in the students’ demographics, or even on Jungian archetypes. 

As I have said in previous posts, if this topic swerves from traditional literary criticism, bear in mind that the skills or principles are the same, just framed in different vocabulary.  In order to learn the skills, the student may need to complete more traditional analysis of literature.  In order to instill the drive and enthusiasm, the teacher may need to be willing to speak in terms the student can appreciate.

The Lady Lives

“The queen, my lord, is dead.”  

Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5, abruptly announced the death of Macbeth’s nefarious queen with these words spoken by Seyton.  But is she really dead?  

In the context of the play, yes.  In the context of literary and popular history, the answer is not so straightforward.  The spirit of Lady Macbeth continues to be a powerful image of ambition, subtle evil, and mental turmoil.

Allusions to Shakespeare’s Lady are widespread in popular culture and literature alike.  

For an example of the fascination of this character, check out the book Lady Macbeth by Susan Frasier King (2007). Read a review here.   

“Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t” (Act I, Scene 5) has become a catchphrase for treachery and seemingly innocuous evils.  The allusions range in topic from salary inequality in sports (see this forum thread) to book titles.  Consider the 1973 murder mystery The Serpent Under It, by Edith Taylor and The Serpent Under, published in South Africa by Rob Marsh.

Then there is the sleepwalking scene, with Lady Macbeth’s fixation on the blood she thinks she sees on her hands: “Out, damn’d spot! out, I say!” (5.1).  Apparently, she was not seeing age spots.  I might not have made that connection but for this article about skin treatments published in the Houston Chronicle.  This scene can also represent the idea of obsessive compulsive behavior, or simply seeing something that is not there.  A blog on the American Civil War battle of Bull Run uses this metaphor. 

The issue of gender is powerfully portrayed in the speech in Act 1, Scene 5 when Lady Macbeth begs the spirits “that tend on mortal thoughts” to “unsex me here” in order to allow her cruelty to run unhindered.  This article in The Harvard Crimson uses the image of Lady Macbeth to discuss the (non)role of gender in leadership.  In the U.K., to call a political figure a “Lady Macbeth” is a controversial act, at once labeling the individual strong and potentially “fiendlike”.

“The milk of human kindness” that Macbeth possesses in too great quantities (Act 1, Scene 5) has gone on to appear in dozens of places.  

It is nearly always used in a positive context, rather than that in which it originally appeared in Macbeth.  In the Albert Finney film Scrooge, based on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, the Ghost of Christmas Present forces Scrooge to drink it.  Charitable projects around the world have also used the phrase (see Google News). 

The list could go on.  Whether as a cautionary tale or an example of strength directed wrongly, Lady Macbeth’s brief, five-act life remains potent as a cultural phenomenon.  John Mullan of The Guardian says it well: “Subtle as well as baleful, Shakespeare’s Scottish queen is no cardboard character.”  Instead, she is a reminder that evil always leaves its mark, on the hand or on the mind, or on the heart.

[EDIT - 9/25/08] See? Once again, the age spots…