Miscellaneous

Chiaroscuro

Sunday, October 16th, 2005

picture gallery

After another night of coughing, insomnia and work at the computer, I woke Jan at 6:30 and insisted on leaving the hotel room where I was feeling imprisoned. She agreed and we walked slowly hand in hand down down to the Arno through quiet streets freshly washed by street sweepers, the only noise that of garbage trucks. The city is active and loud until 3 AM but then remains quiet till 7:30. We went to the middle of the Ponte Vecchio, usually a furious hubbub, with only the company of a man with a broom and a walkie talkie, and watched the light come up over the river. Seeing streets by now familiar, we appreciated more of the architectural details evident at every turn and took delicious cappucino and apple pastries at the brightly lit “New York Café,” served by a tall elegant man in a black vest, white shirt and yellow silk tie.

Back in the room around 8, we rested and showered and then set out again in pursuit of the neoplatonic beauty which the city offers to its lovers. But this time I wanted to see it pagan form, feeling a bit satiated with crucifixions and madonnas. We walked to the Uffizi to see if there was a chance of getting in, but the line was endless at 9:30 a.m. so we went around a couple of corners to the Bargello, which the green guide and Ricksteves said was underrated. The turreted palace, police station and jail was another civic museum, and provided just what I wanted: tits, asses, penises attached to beautiful bodies in three dimensions. There were marbles and bronzes and ceramics, many of them images of the God Bacchus, including Michaelangelo’s famous early work, and there were splendid sculptures of birds of many feathers produced by an artist I never heard of named Giovanni di Bologna. The building was uncrowded for the first hour we were there, and in most galleries one could take pictures, though not with flash and not in the ones containing the Donatellos and Michaelangelo.

We had a kind of quiche in a cafe and decided to head for more Michaelangelo in the Medici Chapel of San Lorenzo, passing along the back of the Duomo on the way and appreciating its immense size through the web of scaffolding that covers most of it. Passing building after building branded with the ubiquitous Medici coat of arms, we paid a hefty fee to enter the Chapel of the Princes, which was also largely covered by scaffolding inside and out. Entering the tomb felt like entering a pyramid of the Pharaohs”overwhelming in grandeur but more in arrogance and morbidity. The chamber is not wide but hundreds of feet tall, lined in black marble inlaid with multicolored stone panels and illuminated only from the dome on top. Eight huge sarcophagi upon which stand 30 foot figures of their inhabitants are set into the octagonal walls. The whole things smacks of Darth Vader or the Lord of Mordor, and I found it more disturbing than tacky–an expression of dynastic wealth not humbled by but appropriating the power of Death. Ironic to have this all in a church where you worship a God of humility and compassion whose central mission was to cleanse the church in his time of materialism. Now I sound like the Florentine Savonarola, who left no monuments.

The adjoining New Sacristy designed by Michaelangelo and contains several of his sculptures. After the hugeness of the Chapel of the Princes, its more modest scale and muted gray and white colors were less impressive, and for me disappointing. I had studied this room in art history and been told how great were the sculptures by many authorities, but by this time I was less than sympathetic to the Medici family, and it looked to me that Giulio’s neck was too long, the figure of Dusk’s head was placed at the wrong place on his shoulders, Night’s feminine body looked like a male with breasts, and Day was unfinished. Compared with the many other Renaissance interiors I ‘d been admiring in Florence, the architecture of this chamber was overcluttered with familiar ornamental devices.

We had a nice lunch of pasta and a sliced beef urugula salad and then returned to the Fiorentino room for another rest. But despite the lack of sleep the night before and my continuing occasional cough, I was restless and Jan decided we should go to the Brancacci chapel on the other side of the river. We arrived at 4:30 and were allowed to remain 15 minutes by a beautiful young woman with a Maria Callas look. I seemed to remember seeing it when we had visited Florence in 1969, but the restoration and new lighting made the small chapel radiant with color and lively portraiture. The most famous image of Adam and Eve’s despairing departure from Paradise is a small unobtrusive panel, and the bright pink of the punishing angel’s cloak brightens up even this tragic episode with what seems to have been the young artist’s favorite color.

Since it was nearby, neither of us were flagging, and they were open later than any museums, we decided to head over to the Boboli gardens to get a view of the city and spend some time in a more natural setting. Fortified by gelato we passed through the gargantuan fortress of the Pitti Palace and climbed the terraced mountainside as the light got richer and more angled. The gardens are not as well maintained as they would have been under their owners, with unmowed lawns and untrimmed trees in many areas. The Neptune fountain with splashing water, artificial grotto and genuine mallards and carp, caught the changing late afternoon light and as we climbed higher grand prospects of the city of Florence came into view. Just as we were about to head back down, I noticed a terrace at the end of the path, and at the top of the stairs a splendid new prospect opened before us”the hills to the south of the city, including the Church of San Mineato, a crenellated tower on the horizon and a green expanse of olive groves and conical cypresses that looked like the typical Tuscan landscape we look forward to entering after returning from Venice.

We walked back through narrow streets filled with small opulent storefronts displaying original renaissance and ancient treasures for sale, and watched the sunset on the Ponte, where Jan arranged for us to exchange picture taking with a romantic young Asian couple. By the time we got back to the room there was just time to shower before Brenda showed up for our evening dinner engagement. I was tired and ravishingly hungry. It took quite a while to figure out dinner plans and Brenda wanted to show us a café that’s a famous poet’s hangout, but by the time we reached there at 8:15, I almost passed out, so she got me some leftover bits of bruschetta, and then we hiked on to our rendezvous point with her partner Don in ZaZa café in the Mercado square. Over a meal with mixed reviews, we enjoyed conversation covering 35 years of our pasts.

The Plague in Florence

Sunday, October 16th, 2005

picture gallery

Monday morning brought relief from the sore throat. Jan negotiated with the concierge to give us two more nights in Florence, to delay our arrival in Venice and to postpone our visit with Brenda. We found some lovely coffee and brioche and panini in the square and stood in line to pay admission to Santa Maria Novella, the cathedral 20 feet from our window.

Those who come to pray can enter a special chapel free of charge, said the sign, and photography is forbidden. The side entrance, only recently reopened after having been closed off for several centuries, led us into an immense, light airy space, illuminated by stained glass and circular clear windows, the walls painted white, ornamented with widely spaced paintings and sculptures.

Opposite the door, a Massaccio fresco seemed to make the space grow deeper with its pronounced perspectival rendering of God presenting the crucified Jesus to his wealthy patrons in front of a hugely receding nave. To the right was a twenty foot crucifixion in bright yellows oranges, reds and blacks, hanging from a rod 25 feet above the floor and 150 from the ceiling. I averted my eyes in order to save the full impact of what I recognized as Giotto’s work, dazzlingly restored, for later, and looked down the nave to the rainbow colors of the floor-to-ceiling frescoes surrounding the central altar. Like the city itself, this church offered more than we could absorb. With help of our Green guide, we focused first on a raised chapel with early frescoes of the Divine Comedy–one wall Inferno, the other Paradiso, gaining orientation by identifying places and people we recognized from our memory of the poem. Then we descended to the Sacristy whose doorway was a combination of classical architectural stability, melted into an organic flower-like entry. Inside were huge wooden cabinets with dozens of large drawers to hold vestments, more paintings and a della Robia relief, all in late Renaissance style.

After two hours we decided to take a break from the church and walk to the central market for lunch, and return in the late afternoon. The mercado is a two story temple of food, just closing as we got there. We bought beautiful muscat grapes, olives, bread and “gorgonzola dolce,” (a soft luscious cheese), and ate on the steps of the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, bothered by pigeons who wanted our food and blew ash into when we sushed them off. Instead of going inside we decided to come back for the free concert advertised to start at 9: 00 that night, and took an adjoining doorway into the courtyard of the Laurentian library, whose arcade we circled entranced.

Then we walked back to Santa Maria Novella and spent another two hours feasting on the art. First a chapel decorated by Duccio, which was, Jan noted in the guidebook just for this church that we had bought, the location of the start of Boccaccio’s Decameron where a group of young aristocrats meet to plan their escape from the plague in Florence. What sort of portent?

Then Fillipino Lippi, and Ghirlandaio frescos, a Brunelleschi Crucifix and the Giotto Christ. The wealth of beauty and of history in this randomly adopted church of ours is unbelievable. It in itself merits a trip to Europe.

Back in our room at 5:00, I started feeling bad again and Jan offered me the Z pack antibiotic she had gotten from the doctor in case she got sick. It was clear we wouldn’t attend the nine oclock concert. We went for a quick pizza meal in the square, and I tried to get to sleep.

Tuesday morning, I awoke and realized I was really sick. My cough felt like a rattle in the lungs, and I had sweaty fever. Jan met Brenda and her friend Kiki and went to the Pharmacia and many other places while I slept most of the day.She brought the two visitors back to the room and I made pleasantries for a few minutes, but I was so sick I asked them to leave. I took the second Z pack pill, along with vitamin C and the herbal remedy Jan bought at the Pharmacia, slept all afternoon, and went out with her to the square for dinner and a short walk. I couldnt get to sleep because of the cough so have stayed up till 3:00 A.M. writing this entry.


Il Fiorentino

Sunday, October 16th, 2005

picture gallery

After 24 hours in transit we arrived at the Hotel Fiorentino Sunday afternoon. It was the lowest price place I could find on the internet. The guidebook said it was in a high crime neighborhood, the entrance looked seedy, the hotel clerk at first said he couldn’t find our reservation. But after we climbed three narrow flights of stairs and mastered the old lock and key, we gasped. The ceiling was fifteen feet and two corner windows gave out on the vast complex of the Cathedral of Santa Maria Novella and the railroad station. The stone balustraded balcony could have been where Mussolini harangued the crowds. It felt like standing on a rock in the middle of a fast flowing river of buses, cars, and pedestrians.

Despite jetlag and fatigue we were driven by hunger and curiosity to go out. We bought some bad sandwiches for a picnic in the adjoining square in front of the 14th century cathedral façade where a small band played in the warm and surprisingly quiet late afternoon, and then we started wandering toward the center. The city was full of people”mostly goodlooking and stylish Italians”but didn’t feel overcrowded. Some divine gelato made up for the sandwiches, and soon we were in front of the Duomo. We sauntered from piazza to piazza”each of which could be the center of a great city– admired the clothing on sale in shops and stalls, bought a new guide book, and came back to our little palazzo to shower and rest. Then we set out for dinner at the square near the central mercado, mixing with pedestrians, bicyclists, scooters, and people pushing their market stalls through the winding streets. We came out on a large square between the market and the dome of San Lorenzo full of lights, music and buzzing outdoor restaurants on platforms roofed with tents. It was 8:00 p.m.”time to celebrate dinner! The salad of urugula, fresh corn tomatos cucumbers and carrots and mozzarella, with bottles of vinegar and oil on the table was a fine overture. During the two hour meal, we drank a liter of wine, joked with the amiable waiter, and had an animated conversation with two young people from London at the adjoining table. We seemed to have the city in our pocket.

6:00 A.M. Monday September 26.

Still dark out but the noise of streetcleaners is deafening. I got up at 5:00 after an uncomfortable night of sore throat and insomnia. Once I rose from horizontal, took some vitamin C and started processing pictures, I felt better, but still apprehensive about the coming day: will I get sicker? Will we connect with our old friend Brenda who’s invited us to stay at her place outside the city for the next two nights or will we be forced to find a different hotel here in town? Will my digestion return? Such perils provide spice to the pleasures of travel.

Technotravel

Sunday, October 16th, 2005

Saturday September 24. Sitting on the floor in LAX international terminal next to the only electric outlet on a mile of concourse. Many wall receptacles have been removed and the holes spackled over. There’s no wireless internet connection here, so I will try to simulate the Blogger interface in Microsoft Word.

Here’s Jan in a chair across the carpet as this area fills with passengers waiting for a JAL jumbojet. I took her picture, downloaded it to the laptop, put it in here. With a camera phone I could have snapped and sent it directly to the blogger server. Once again I’m technically behind. A good consumer of technology, I find the new tools inspire creative play. How does this mesh with a primitivist preference of the simple and natural”in gardening, eating, economic exchange, and child rearing? How can I teach Ecoliterature as a web based class in which we exchange journal entries and photos about wilderness experience online?

Last night was insomniac again”I got up at 1:20 and at 4:00 and wrote emails. There was plenty of time to load up and lock down the house this morning before we left, but once we got to the airport I realized I’d forgotten the computer power supply chord. Between flights, we took a short cab ride to Fry’s, a huge L.A. electronics supply house near the airport where we found a replacement that would work with my Mac. Without it I’d have been unable to keep this journal.

Words on a Page

Tuesday, September 20th, 2005

Fossils in rock
Footprints in sand
Paths in a chamber of cloud.

To mark the beginning of early retirement, I’ve spent the summer clearing out shelves and file cabinets at home and in my office at the university. On a table in the hallway I left dozens of books bequeathed to me by my retiring predecessor in 1989–hardcover volumes of Shakespeare criticism he longed to have someone take off his hands, only one of which I ever read. This morning I said goodbye to a multivolume German gothic print history of European art packed into their lift van by my parents when they fled Berlin in 1937 and a 75 pound 1955 edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica that I asked for as a Bar Mitzvah present. Our second hand bookstore proprietor had no use for them and told me that unlike junkmail, you cant recycle books, they have to go to the landfill.

I’ve written three books. When the first one–Youth against Age–went out of print, the publisher sold me the last 40 copies for five dollars each. Thirty five are still in the closet. Yesterday I went to the local Borders to try to get them to carry the two books that are still in print. The young store manager looked at me mockingly and told me to get in touch with his assistant, who would need to see hard copies before making the decision whether or not to order one of each.

A friend died of lung cancer a few years ago. He was my digital mentor. I was delegated to clean out his office to make room for a replacement. I filled a dumpster with stuff, and saved what I could on a website called Legacies When another friend was stricken with mesothelioma and given about a year to live, I said in his situation I would spend part of the time assembling an electronic archive of my life. Six months after he died, the college secretary gave me a CD which contained his memoir, easily uploaded. I expect to maintain this site until I become part of it.

Though disposing of the past has become a preoccupation since I turned 60, passing into a new stage of the life cycle excites me about the future and prods me to produce more. I take alot of pictures, especially of my grandsons. Not having a captive audience of students for six months of the year makes me look for other listeners. Prosperity and health send me on new adventures. And the end is always nearer.

In four days my wife and I will embark on a trip we have planned for a year–our Italienreise to Florence, Venice and Siena. At first I thought I’d leave my laptop home, save photos in a portable hard drive, and write in a journal. But instead I’m trying something different.

The Day My Mother Died

Wednesday, January 19th, 2005

Louise Marx: September 6 1910”January 19 2005

I wake up at 3:30 am  praying for Lise’s smooth passage, knowing the end is near.  When the alarm goes off at 5:30 I feel weak and vulnerable from a lingering cold that  I suspect results from teaching anxiety,  stage fright about two presentations last week,  and unconscious stress from the impending end.  Instead of my regular swim,  I  take a hot bath to relax tense muscles and  reduce sinus pressure.  I decide to wear a white shirt, tie and sport jacket and carry a cell phone to work in case the call should come today.  My morning meditation brings a burst of tears when I think of Jan and the transiency of life.

I give my all to the morning composition class and a lecture on Shakespearean  tragedy. When it’s over at noon, I’m drained but exhilirated.  As students leave the room, the phone rings in my pocket.  A person at the nursing home reports that Lise has just died.  I say I’ll be there soon.  I phone Jan while walking to my office; she’s just pulling up to Cabrillo to check on Oma on her way to the gym.  I tell her the news and she comes to get me.  I reluctantly decide not to try to get back in time for my 1:30 class and ask the secretary to run a videotape of Othello for the students to watch.

We enter Cabrillo for what may be the last time, the odor more pungent than usual.  Josephine, the reserved  nurse’s assistant who tended my father Henry in 1995 and who has been with my mother for the last four years,  is tearful and gives me a hug.  Curtains are closed around Lise’s bed.  She lies flat, skin silken smooth, facial bone structure,  nose and closed eyes in fine relief: a perfected mask.  There is still color in her cheeks and warmth  on her brow.   She feels receptive to my stroking and comfortable with my presence for the first time in many years, the ever- thickening wall between us now departed along with her spirit.  I feel free to start replacing the resistant body and resentful soul that it irked me to call Mom with  memories of the delight I enjoyed in her presence as a young boy”the one she called “Schlumbie.” Those memories have been recalled lately when  I am with  Ian,  our three year old grandson.

We sort through the closet and nightstand, selecting the few items to keep, the rest to leave in the communal  pool of nursing home laundry, hearing aids and spectacles.  Long ago we’d liquidated Lise’s condo and then her unit in the Assisted Living facility at Garden Creek. While Jan takes a load to the car, I go to the storeroom to find the scissors I used to cut the stem bottoms off the flowers I brought every week.  I clip a lock of her white  hair, which is still thick and wavy.  The empty hearing aid box I place it in slips into my pocket.  By 1:15 we  leave  through the main lobby making no eye contact with  those remaining.

At home,  I collapse on the bed, sleep for an hour and then walk to Cal Poly for my 2:50 office hour.  Thankfully nobody shows up, and I meet Jan at the Benefits Office at 4:00 for a long planned conference with the retirement  counselor.  We spend an hour figuring out how to maximize the monthly sum we will receive until our deaths.  Neither of us mentions that we have just come into an inheritance.  Right now,  loss means gain.  May it be so too for Lise.

We walk home and I nap again,  then call our son Joe.  He knew this was coming,  and finds words to amplify the positive that  we  no longer need to think of her as the presence in the nursing home, the wraith awaiting transport across the river, but as someone we can remember fondly.  There will be no funeral or memorial,  though he’d be willing to come  for one.  He suggests a scattering of ashes on a mountain  in the Rockies, which she and Henry made their own, when we visit in March.

I phone our daughter Claire, who has asked about Oma at one of our infrequent encounters.  I leave a message suggesting this might be an occasion for her and Jan and me to get together for the first time in a year.

As evening comes on I feel briefly energized for the task of remaking Mother,  of undoing some of her last ten years.  It was at the memorial for Henry in November 1995 that she said her life was over.  A year before that she concluded her autobiography, “My Story.”  I will go back to it, add some scanned photos and print a second edition.

Jan and I go to Tsurugi’s for Sushi dinner and walk in the dark along the creek downtown.   We share our sense of the solemnity of the day, of our own mortality,  of the awareness that gain also means loss. Recent long-needed rainstorms have caused the creek to crest and wipe out a large chunk of the bank.  The fence protecting the natural riparian vegetation will have to be moved  back.

When we  get home there is a voice message: Ethan, our two year old grandson in Idaho, warbles  “Hello Boppa, Hello Boppa, I love you.” It’s the first time he’s spoken to me on the phone.  This is followed by expressions of sympathy from Amy his mom.  A few minutes later,  Claire calls and agrees that we three should meet.  We are,  as always during these conversations,  halting, guarded, over polite.

I open the packet that had arrived in the morning from British Columbia.  It’s Steve and Juliet’s Christmas letter and photo calendar loaded with pictures of  Lund folk– including three generations of Marxes–and news of deaths and grandparenthood among our contemporaries.

I dig in the closet and find the pictures that Jan had put together for Lise and Henry’s sixtieth anniversary showing them in their twenties and eighties,  radiant in both pairs.  I set them on the bureau and get into bed with “My Story,” which I havent  looked at since editing and typing it with her.  For an hour, I read and marvel  and pity and laugh.

Cal Poly Land: A Field Guide

Tuesday, February 11th, 2003

[To view full book, scroll to bottom of this graphic and click on successive pages]

The Towers: Reflection on September 11

Monday, September 24th, 2001

 

Cal Poly University San Luis Obispo

September 24 2001

These images flash through my mind in alternation with images of September 11. They come from the Tarot, a deck of cards used for meditation and fortune-telling throughout the world. The earliest decks in existence date to the fourteenth century, and the Tarot’s origin is variously attributed to ancient Egyptians, Indians and Chinese. The captions are from one traditional interpretation of their meanings.

What has happened is so shocking, so disruptive of our sense of reality before September 11, that even sceptics are prompted to think of the attack in terms of the timeless–the apocalyptic, the archetypal, the symbolic, the religious, the occult.

Such mythologizing can be dangerous. The perpetrators themselves invoke the myth of America as the Great Satan to justify their attack, and our homegrown fanatics interpreted it as God’s righteous judgment on the ACLU, homosexuals and liberals. In the first flush of reaction, even our national leaders identified themselves with Christian Crusaders extracting Infinite Justice from infidels, but thankfully they have retreated from that route.

I look for other meanings in this cosmic spectacle.

At a time of unparalleled economic expansion, the center of world trade, housed in New York’s tallest buildings, comes tumbling down, followed by the Dow-Jones index.

At a time of unparalleled military dominance, the center of American armed forces, housed in the largest building in the world, a Pentagon shape that stands for war itself, is set aflame.

With these symbols of American wealth and power demolished or harmed, it makes sense for many people to identify themselves with the less grandiose symbol of the stars and stripes, the red, white and blue.

I believe rallying around the flag is a good thing now. It can show the enemies of this country our unity and strength under attack. It can motivate the effort to seek them out and bring them to justice, and it can warrant the sacrifice of convenience, money and freedom required for better “homeland security.”

But while rebuilding shaken confidence in our defense and our economy is vital, we also need to pay more attention to the symbolism of the attacks as a challenge to America’s conscience. As Michael Lerner has put it:

We may tell ourselves that the current violence has “nothing to do” with the way that we’ve learned to close our ears when told that one out of every three people on this planet does not have enough food, and that one billion are literally starving. We may reassure ourselves that the hoarding of the world’s resources by the richest society in world history, and our frantic attempts to accelerate globalization with its attendant inequalities of wealth, has nothing to do with the resentment that others feel toward us… If the U.S. turns its back on global agreements to preserve the environment, unilaterally cancels its treaties to not build a missile defense, accelerates the processes by which a global economy has made some people in the third world richer but many poorer, shows that it cares nothing for the fate of refugees who have been homeless for decades, and otherwise turns its back on ethical norms, it becomes far easier for the haters and the fundamentalists to recruit people who are willing to kill themselves in strikes against what they perceive to be an evil American empire represented by the Pentagon and the World Trade Center.”

Another timeless image popped into my mind on September 11: that of the Wheel of Fortune, on which heroes are bound to rise and then fall. This is a traditional icon for Tragedy–the woeful spectacle known in the middle ages as De Casibus–the downfall of the great.

 

 

The terrorist attack deepens my sense of what Tragedy is all about.

First of all it is the revelation of suffering–suffering that shatters the lives of six thousand victims and their families, suffering that furrows the brows of our elected leaders assembled at the capitol, suffering that permeates the daily comings and goings of the three million American Muslims, suffering that invades the daydreams and nightmares of us all with fears of chemical, biological and nuclear warfare, suffering that shadows the excitement of a new school year in a new century of this University’s history, suffering that brings us together at this occasion.

Then there is the tragedy of malicious, devious, cruelty–always present somewhere, but now manifest in our midst–cruelty forcing us to question with no answer like Shakespeare’s King Lear: “Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?”

And there is the tragedy of hybris–the Greek dramatist’s word for pride, arrogance, delusions of power in a situation where one has none, excessive self-confidence, especially toward the gods.

And there is the tragedy of unfairness–those stockbrokers, bankers, currency speculators, soldiers, pilots and passengers, in Shakespeare’s words, “more sinned against than sinning.”

And finally there is the tragedy of bad things getting worse, of one disaster leading to greater ones–whether it be more terrorist acts that this one encourages, or a spiralling exchange of revenge, or a losing military strategy, or an economic depression. “The worst is not,” says another character in that play, “So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.'”

And yet tragedy also, like a funeral, is a kind of celebration, an occasion for creating heroes and martyrs, for understanding and memorializing, for purging not only pity and fear, but folly and self-indulgence. “The Helmsman lays it down” says the chorus in a play by Aeschylus, the first Greek tragedian, “the helmsman lays it down as law/ that we must suffer/suffer into truth.” In that respect the image of the Tower can have a positive outcome, a meaning that inspires: “When this happens we must react with hope, letting go of our fears. The highest truths can now be realised.”

I find proof of this movement in our communal consciousness every morning with my coffee. It used to take five minutes to go through the newspaper because there was so little truth, so much trivia and trash. Since September 11, it takes almost an hour to read what’s in front of me, and though it brings sadness and anxiety, it provides sustenance–factual information about current events and their backgrounds, varied and changing editorial opinions, an outpouring of letters from my fellow citizens that lets me know how deeply we feel, how widely we disagree and how profoundly we depend upon one another.

I’ll conclude by quoting someone named Beverly Engel, who wrote one of those letters that appeared in last Friday’s Tribune:

“Last week our heroes weren’t movie stars or football players, they were firefighters and cops and healthcare workers

Last week MTV didn’t spew out songs about hate or violence or bitches and “hos.” They played songs about love and loss, warned against hate crimes and ran the emails of mourning kids.

Last week we didn’t frequent strip joints or pornographic movies, we went to churches and synagogues and mosques

Last week we didn’t spill our blood with gang warfare or drive-by shootings, we donated our blood to the Red Cross.

Last week we didn’t argue or scream at our families, we held our loved ones close and felt grateful they were alive.

Last week we didn’t focus on how much money we were going to make, we thought about how much money we could donate.

Last week we didn’t rush around as much, we took the time to feel and to grieve and to comfort one another

They say that the events of Tuesday, September 11 2001 changed everything.

In some ways I hope they’re right.”

 

Essay by the Translator of Shakespeare and the Bible, Kazumi Yamagata

Thursday, July 26th, 2001

This book is a complete translation into Japanese of Steven Marx, Shakespeare and the Bible (Oxford University Press, 2000). The original book is a title of the Oxford Shakespeare Topics series with Peter Holland and Stanley Wells as General Editors

Steven Marx is a literary scholar and critic. He was born in 1942. He is currently professor in English literature, English Department of Cal Poly University, California. He graduated from Columbia University, Phi Beta Kappa, magna cum laude in 1963, and acquired his Ph.D. in English from Stanford University in 1981. Steven Marx, after graduation from Stanford University, became assistant Professor of English, Columbia University (1967-1970). From 1970 to 1984 he taught English and English literature at various colleges, and in 1984 he was appointed as a lecturer in English and Western Culture in Stanford University. Up to 1988 he also held seminar in Shakespeare. From 1988 to the present Marx has been acting as assistant professor, associate professor, and full professor, teaching both at literary department level and at graduate school level Shakespeare, Classical, Medieval, and Renaissance Literatures, the Bible as Literature, Blake, Ethnic Literature.

Among his works are the following: Youth Against Age: Generational Strife in Renaissance Poetry (1985)(2) “Teaching in the School of Donne: Metaphysical Poetry and English Composition” (1990)(3) “Shakespeare’s Pacifism” (1992)(4) “The Prophet Disarmed: Milton and the Quakers” (1992)(5) “A Problem in Rhetoric: Teaching Writing with Western Culture” (1993)(6) “Northrop Frye’s Bible” (1994)(7) “Holy War in Henry V” (1995) (8) “Progeny: Prospero’s Books, Genesis, and The Tempest” (1996)(9) “Moses and Machiavellism” (1997) In book form he has published (1), and of course, to it Shakespeare and the Bible should be now added. It may be evident that the articles (8)and (9)have much to do with his recent book. And article (6) presents serious explication and interpretation of Northrop Frye’s last major work Words with Power (the Japanese translation of this work was done by the present writer, published by Hosei University Press in 2001).

I have found intense interest in “Literature and Christianity” as one of my research subjects. When I came to know of Marx’s new book, curiousity was instantly aroused. Soon I acquired it and read through it. And I thought that my translation would attract not only those who are interested in Shakespeare, but also Christian readers. As for the relation of Shakespeare and the Bible, I was already familiar with the critical comments by Harold Bloom of Yale University. He says that “There are only three significant literary influences upon Shakespeare: Marlowe, Chaucer, and the English Bible” (Ruin the Sacred Truths: Poetry and Belieffrom the Bible to the Present, Harvard University Press, 1989, p. 53). Milton of the next age was fully influenced by the Bible, and created a really great epic poem on the subject of “The Fall of Man”, the most important item of the Bible.

But the effect Shakespeare had from the English Bible was “ambiguous”, Bloom says. Shakespeare has been the only rival of the English Bible in “forming the rhetoric and vision” of the coming world of English. But this does not necessarily mean that by this Shakespeare intended at the same time to return to belief. Let us quote from Bloom: “Shakespeare’s use of the Geneva and Bishops’ Bibles, and of biblical portions of the Book of Common Prayer, is a resort not to belief but to poetry. We have learned much more from Shakespeare than we generally realize. One of the many truths he goes on teaching us is that belief is a weak misreading of literature, even as poetry depends upon a strong or creative misreading of prior poetic strength. (Ibid., p.53)

The point these sentences involve is that as Bloom himself has always distinctly separated literature from belief, so Shakespeare excluded every element of belief from his own art. We must not forget that as the reason for this artistic attitude Bloom was thinking of his own now famous poetics: unless a poet can’strongly’ exclude preceding poetry by misreading it, he cannot create his own poetry. What we feel uneasy about is that Bloom here makes us feel as if his own poetics was Shakespeare’s own poetics. According to Bloom, what induces a weak attitude on the side of a poet is belief, and Shakespeare, only by eliminating such belief, succeeded in creating his own world nobody else could have created.

When we have gone over Bloom like this, we have already brought within our shot the problem of “Shakespeare and Christianity” or, and, “Shakespeare and the Bible”, that is, we have already caught the core of the problem which Marx has proposed to clarify. Can we deal with Shakespeare as curtly as Bloom? Of course, not. I do not think that Shakespeare was completely free from all the problems Christianity or, and, the Bible imposed, and I do strongly propose that all the elements or traces of the encounters between Shakespeare and the Bible are hidden somewhere within the world of Shakespearean canon in such forms as are extremely indiscenible especially to the novices. Thus, we cant point to the direction Marx has propounded and the mode of the discernment he has shown in the treatment of his proposed subject.

Readers may feel that the construction of this book is well-balanced, too much well-balanced. That is, the mode of writing of the book gives us a strong feeling that the canon of Shakespeare and the text structure of the Bible are very conveniently matched with each other.

First, the four genres of Shakespeare’s work are taken into account. From the genre of Romance The Tempest, from the genre of History Henry V, from the genre of Tragedy King Lear, from the genre of Comedy Measurefor Measure and The Merchant of Venice are respectively chosen, and finally, to conclude the vision, again The Tempest is taken up (needless to say, not only these chosen plays are good plays of Shakespeare). Each of these plays is associated with a particular book, a particular topic, or particular places of the Bible. It is not clear whether these Shakespearean plays have come first, and then these particular items of the Bible are drawn out, or the opposite. Anyway, we have the impression that this is deliberately not made clear, which shows something of the author’s adroit technique.

The Tempest which comes first is connected with Genesis, the second Henry V is discussed as a historical type in connection with Moses and David, King Lear is squarely compared with The Book of Job, Measure for Measure is discussed in parellel with the Gospels, and The Merchant of Venice is read on the basis of The Epistle to the Romans. But just as the Bible begins with Genesis and end with Revelation, so in Marx’s book The Tempest, which is put in parallel with Genesis, is at the final stage accreted as ‘apocalypse’ with Revelation for further explication.

Thus,- Marx’s Shakespearean exposition is structured as if the whole canon of Shakespeare had its own beginning and end just as the whole canon of the Bible has. Not only that. Readers are even induced to feel as if the Shakespearean plays taken up here had been created on the basis of the Bible. This is, of course, an illusion the exquisite working by Marx has produced. Needless to say, Shakespeare did not create his plays just in the way as the author here has laboriously developed. This kind of work was not done from the illusion on the side of the author; it is indeed a fact that there is something in Shakespearean texts which permit, or induce, such readings in connection with the text of the Bible.

The fact we can point out with perfect certainty is that, as has been so far clearly shown by the research scholars, Shakespeare has alluded in his whole canon of plays to about one thousand and two hundred places of the Bible including Apocryphal documents (cf. 1. D. E. Thomas, William Shakespeare and His Bible, Hearthstone Publishings, 2000, p. 58). This fact inevitably invites us to an attracting work which should promise a rich result in the problem of Shakespeare and the Bible. But if this kind of work merely continues to enumerate only related items, phrases and words, and compare them like a form of catalogue, it would produce nothing valuable or illuminating

In order to make both Shakespeare and the Bible alive, as circumspectly and opulently done by this author, it will be essential, by making ‘close readings’ in concrete contexts, not only to speculate carefully both Shakespeare and the Bible, but to fuse ‘dialectically’ both of them into each other, to re-unite them, and finally to create, as it were, a third vision out of them. And I am quite sure that Marx’s circumspect procedure has attained this stage of result.

It is because Marx has cultivated an exceedingly rich knowledge and penetrating vision of both the world of Shakespeare and the world of the Bible that he has

succeeded in accomplishing such a work, and moreover we must not forget that in order to do such a work properly at the end of the 20th century (and looking into the 21st century) significantly Marx found such critics as Northrop Frye, Robert Alter, Frank Kermode, and Harold Bloom very encouraging: in their respective study they distinctly have shown the core of the literary criticism which analyses the structures of biblical texts. But what he has learned from them may be merely courage and sophistication of a critic, but I can say with conviction that Marx has learned much from Northrop Frye as a genuine leader, or a guide, in this field of criticism, particularly from Frye of Words with Power (re. Marx’s paper “Northrop Frye’s Bible” mentioned above).

There are two principles which Marx has set up as facilitating the research of the relation of Shakespeare and the Bible. They are Typology and Midrash, which are traditional principles for the Biblical interpretation. Of course, these principles are not what the author learns from Alter, Kermode, and Bloom. But Marx was already well aware these principles were effective ones in Frye Typology deals with the fateful relation between the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Bible. Let me quote from Marx “Typology is a method of noting similarities and correspondences between texts. On the basis of those similarities, one thing or event is claimed to stand for or represent another …. typology … was used by later biblical writers commentators to point out how an early event or passage … the type … prefigured and thereby explained and validated a later one … the antitype. (Shakespeare and the Bible, pp. 14-15

The author mentions as an example of typology in his context the relation between the underdog victory of the Israelite forces over Pharaoh’s at the Red Sea (Exodus) and the underdog victory of the English forces against the French at the battle of Agincourt (Henry V). In this way, typology shows the influence of the Bible on Shakespeare.

On the other hand, Shakespeare’s commentary on the Bible can be called midrash. According to Marx’s explanation, “generically, midrash refers to a technique of interpretation that expands and elaborates the biblical narrative”(p. 15). ‘Midrash’ comes from the verb ‘to study’ or ‘to search out.’ It means ” a way of delving more deeply than the literal meaning … an instrument for imparting contemporary relevance to biblical events.” “Midrash unfolds symbolic meanings latent in the scriptural texts with analytical techniques ‘linking the various part of the Bible together by the discovery of typological patterns, verbal echoes, and rhythms of repetition” (ibid). As is understood by the event in Henry V to which we referred above, if we try either by typology or midrash to surface on a big base the latent meanings of the two texts concerned, a certain degree of arbitrariness cannot be evaded, but it would be quite irrelevant to argue thereby that such an armament with theory should be from the beginning unnecessary.

It will be no more necessary to expound in many words that the theme of “Shakespeare and the Bible” by any means needed such a frame of principle. Without typological vantage-point and midrashic vantage-point, Marx could not have involved such a big perspective (extending from Genesis to Revelation), have fitted Shakespeare in there, and have tried a “new” reading of Shakespeare in the relation with the Bible.

A natural problem which becomes concrete after having affirmed the above is what is the working procedure which the theme of “Shakespeare and the Bible” actually means. Like Bloom we have already seen, if we think the influence Shakespeare received from the Bible is negative, we have a relation between the two items, which is not “The Bible in Shakespeare”. But if we can make “The Bible in Shakespeare” our problem, we must answer the two questions. First, How consciously Shakespeare has incorporated the Bible into his work, making the Bible the beginning and, or, end of the work’s vision. Second, with what degree of confidence readers can make the presence of the Bible in Shakespeare the ultimate positivity of his work.

Perhaps on this Marx writes: “Two inferences follow from the hypothesis that Shakespeare was influenced by the Bible and that he interpreted it freely. One is that understanding the play’s references requires a thorough familiarity with the Scriptures. A second is that these references generate what Bloom calls ‘strong’ readings that is, they illuminate fresh and surprising meanings in the biblical texts” (p. 13). And then he definitely states like this: “By writing new stories that elaborate and comment playfully on the Bible’s, Shakespeare himself took up the invitation to ‘kiss the book’ (p. 16). As everybody knows by this time, Bloom’s ‘strong’ readings are recommended in order to exclude preceding poetry for maintaining one’s own territory of poetry making. If my understanding is correct, I might say that here for Shakespeare Marx proposes a different way of ‘strong’ readings from Bloom’s. Of course, by saying this I will not negate Marx’s way of statement: rather he is thinking of a very positive way of ‘strong’ readings in Shakespeare.

But we must not fail to remember Shakespeare’s influence from the Bible and his free interpretation of the Bible is presented as a’hypothesis’by Marx. By the way, Leland Ryken, in his rather sharp review of Marx’s book in Literature and Christianity, when he quotes the same passage, purposely (so it seems) omits the word ‘hypothesis’. Did Ryken think that Marx actually regards Shakespeare’s influence from the Bible and his free interpretation of the Bible as a Fact’? Reading through Marx, we are apt to be convinced that Marx has believed this as a Fact’. As the situation of the relation of Shakespeare to the Bible are understood just like that, the principle on which Marx is to stand should be a ‘hypothesis’, but the actual procedure of dealing with this problem Marx has accomplished is so splendid and so superb that this ‘hypothesis’ has almost changed into a ‘fact’, or has completely disappeared, and what remains is a solid ‘fact’.

It seems that surely the mind of Marx was swinging around this very important basis of his whole argument. We might say as a fact that Shakespeare was greatly influenced by the Bible and was driven by the Bible to create some of his plays, but traces of this influence and drive by the Bible do not appear in the surface so clearly as we, or in that matter Marx, hope to see. Therefore, it seems that Marx must have staked his procedure on surfacing the biblical images and visions Shakespeare’s plays so tactfully conceal. We might say that thus Marx has succeeded in getting to the limit possible in the problem of the relation of Shakespeare and the Bible.

What has always driven Marx is not the ‘evidence’ of the textual surface, but the vision he caught in the depth of the work. Even if this working goes on the ‘hypothesis’, the results of the working have strangely proven to be indestructible by the ‘hypothesis’. This is indeed strange; eventually, this may have been owing to the discrimination and adroit handling of Marx.

In so far as this is concerned, Marx’s understandings both of Shakespeare and of the Bible are outstanding. His vision, working, and superb understanding have come to shed a new light of the Bible on Shakespeare, and at the same time the Bible is given a new, rare illumination by the context of this new Shakespeare. “The twisting path among meanings that the Bible points to in Shakespeare and that Shakespeare points to in the bible is marked by allusion,” the author says (p. 13). This sentence seems to sum up ingeniously what I have been saying so far. It is most important to be reminded here that the main working motif of Fryes ‘s Words with Power is ‘allusion’ and’metaphor’ which connect literature and the Bible.

But, is Shakespeare, who permits of such treatment, a pious, practicing Christian? As a citizen, he may have been a pious, practicing Christian, but the problem is that however true it may be that the work of Shakespeare has taken much of rich life from the Bible, the work cannot be in any sense a Christian apologetics. “Late twentieth-century critics surmise that Shakespeare, along with his contemporaries, was involved in an overall cultural movement that funnelled the energy of religious forms and expressions into various temporal replacements” (p. 7), Marx refers to the situation of the historical transitions in which Shakespeare was embedded. As a reason why the phenomena of these transitions, which are called’mythic transformations’, were possible, Marx cites Debra Shuger who observes “in Renaissance practice the Bible narratives retained a certain … flexibility … a sort of extra-dogmatic surplus of undermined meaning or meaning capable of being determined in various ways” (pp. 7-8).

But the most attractive thing which accounts for Shakespeare having willingly embedded himself in these situations of transformation is not the fact that Shakespeare cut off himself entirely from the old regime, but that he kept watching both backward and forward. As a result, Shakespeare embedded his imagination in indeterminacy in the true sense of the word, indeterminacy of belief, innate indeterminacy of metaphor, and did wish for the richness and fecundity of language, art, faith, and politics. There surely exists the context in which indeterminacy means richness. Or it might be more proper to say that nobody has understood the danger of displaying one’s true colour more instinctively than Shakespeare. To those who are ready to die for their own faith, this way of life seems to be the “via negativa”. But the “art” which Shakespeare left us is nothing but the “via positiva”.

In spite of so much knowledge about the Bible, Shakespeare refused to ‘Christianize’ his works. Is is because, Shakespeare, as Bloom claims, thought that belief weakens the power of literary imagination? If so, though he believed in the power of all languages including the language of the Bible, he must have thought it would be the defeat of the artist if he in his work gives priority to one particular image of life. At this point I am reminded of Milton. Milton was a great poet who took the initiative to choose the way which Shakespeare had refused.

This book by Marx could be put in the category of “Literature and Christianity”. I think, if I may repeat, that in writing this the author was strongly conscious of Northrop Frye’s Words with Power; Frye exerted a strong influence on Marx. Among other related worksl I may mention Frank Kermode’s Genesis of Secrecy, Robert Alter’s Pleasures ofReading, Harold Bloom’s Ruin the Sacred Truth: Poetry and Belieffrom the Bible to the Present (all of these are translated into Japanese by the present writer).

For the Japanese translations of the quotations from Shakespearean texts in this

book, I have made use of the following, for which I express thanks: The Tempest

by Yudii Odasima(Hakushisha Publishing Co.) Henry V by Shun’ichi

Ooyama(Chikumashobo Publishing Co.) King Lear by Takeshi

Saitou(Chikumashobo Publishing Co.) Measure for Measure by Maso

Hirai(Chikumashobo Publishing Co.) The Merchant of Venice by Tuneari

Fukuda(Shinchousha Publishing Co.) Except for working for the periodicals, this is

the second time for me to do work with Japan Christian Publishers. In both cases

Mr. Shouji Iseki took charge, for which many thanks. Praying for a greater

activity and prosperity of the Publishers. July 2001

 

Sleepout

Tuesday, May 15th, 2001

Awakening in darkness
I’m welcomed by the night
To a resplendent roofless hall
Too grand for my poor sight.

The handle of the dipper
Goes swiveling overhead
A warm wind gusts across my face
And grasses sweep my bed.

The silence of the valley
Breaks with a coyote’s sound
That’s followed by responses
From all the hills around.

The stars look down from heaven
The owl gives a hoot
The earth supports my body
My pillow is my boot.

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sleepout.jpg

(originally appeared in Cal Poly Land: A Field Guide, sketch by Anna Chaffin)