The Enigmatic Bard: Bill Bryson's Shakespeare

One of my New Year's resolutions was to make time in my reading schedule for some author biographies; Shakespeare: The World as Stage by humourist Bill Bryson was a fantastic place to start. What impressed me most in this book on Shakespeare is how little we actually know about Shakespeare. He remains an enigmatic and mysterious figure. Most likely he always will. Renaissance documentation being what it was -- and in the distant past -- the remaining accounts of him are few and far between. Hold your horses, authorship conspiracy theorists, we don't know much about any playwright from that era. In fact, Bryson informs us that scrupulous research has yielded more insight into The Bard than the majority of Elizabethan and Jacobean personas such as Thomas Dekker, Inigo Jones and even Ben Jonson. 

To make up for this lack of biographical detail, Bryson contextualizes this work of non-fiction with an amusing yet educational portrait of life in Renaissance England, particularly that burgeoning and putrid metropolis London. If we can't confirm what precisely Shakespeare was doing, we can at least make conjectures about what his day-to-day life as an urban player must have been like.

And what a life it was! Bryson provides enough detail about the period to satisfy my ardent curiosity. I loved learning about the strict codes of Renaissance dress. Rain apparently caused mass panic; people rain for cover to protect the delicate dyes of their clothing. Early Modern England conveyed an indifference for spelling and grammar -- nobody could even be bothered to adhere to consistency in signing their own name, Shakespeare included. None of Shakespeare's signatures on record conform to the spelling that has universally been assigned to him. The growing metropolis was plague-ridden and filthy. Londoners paid a great price for urban life, as life expectancy was short. Bryson notes that making it to one's early thirties was 'a reasonable age for a dying Londoner.' What a fascinating time period!

At approximately 200 pages, this biography is by no means exhaustive. Those seeking a more scholarly approach to Shakespeare should look elsewhere. Nevertheless, I found Bryson's contribution to our cumulative knowledge on The Bard to be adequately educational. For someone like me who knows little about the period in question, Shakespeare: The World as Stage was precisely the introduction to Renaissance biography I needed. The dry humour for which Bill Bryson is noted was apparent throughout, infusing each chapter of the biography. Being a novel addict, I was worried that I would struggle through this text. I needn't have. Bryson captivated my attention from the opening pages. Indeed, his enthusiasm for the subject was contagious, causing me to spew Renaissance 'fun facts' to my family without the slightest provocation. And now I'll adding a few of these fascinating tidbits to this blog post. I just can't help myself. If you're the least big interested, please read on...

* Those attending Early Modern theatre could expect a fair degree of gore. Animal organs were used as props in violent death scenes. Swords were dipped in sheep's blood for a touch of violent realism during staged fights. Additional blood and fake limbs were strewn around to set the stage.

* The history of Shakespeare scholarship is almost as intriguing as the plays themselves. Charles and Hulda Wallace took it upon themselves to sift through Early Modern records in the hopes of locating information about Shakespeare -- to considerable success. Unfortunately, Charles became rather paranoid as a result of his obsession and even 'believed that the British government was secretly employing large numbers of students to uncover Shakespeare records before he could get to them' (p. 15). Other critics have suggested, due to two minor allusions to lameness in the Sonnets, that Shakespeare must have been crippled. Naturally.

* The violence on the stage could, and did, extend to the audience. Bryson reports that real bullets were used in theatrical fights -- why, neither Bryson nor I can imagine -- and we know that a cannon was responsible for the fire that resulted in The Globe's destruction. Theatre-goers could even procure seating on the stage at some venues for an additional fee. 'The practice was lucrative; but it contained an obvious risk of distraction. Stephen Greenblatt relates an occasion in which a nobleman who had secured a perch on the stage spied a friend entering across the way and strode through the performance to greet him. When rebuked by an actor for his thoughtlessness, the nobleman slapped the impertinent fellow and the audience rioted' (p. 139). Can you imagine if fights broke out at the cinema today? Saying that, I can imagine Team Edward and Team Jacob fans fighting to the death at a Twilight showing...

* James I was, according to Bryson, an uncouth gentleman. He was known back then (which is saying something) for his bad hygiene. Leftovers from his meals stained his clothing, and he frequently indulged in the bad habit of playing with his codpiece in public. How charming.

* 1592 marks the first recorded mention of Shakespeare as a playwright, in a decidedly unflattering pamphlet called Greene's Groat's-Worth of Wit. Bryson is not a fan of its author, Robert Greene, calling him 'a wastrel and cad' (p. 83). Indeed, he manages to sneak in an insult or two aimed at Greene who, in turn, insulted Shakespeare in his pamphlet. One example of such a dig: 'Only two copies of Greene's Goat's-Worth survive, and there would not be much call for either were it not for a single arresting sentence [referring to Shakespeare] tucked into ones of its many discursive passages' (p. 84). Needless to say, Bryson's shrewd commentary delighted to me.

* I had no idea that spelling and grammar was so universally inconsistent in Early Modern England. This information astounded me! More than eighty spelling of William Shakespeare's name, for instance, have been recorded. I'll turn over to Bryson for further elucidation: 'People could be extraordinarily casual even with their own names. Christopher Marlowe signed himself "Cristofer Marley" in his one surviving autograph and was registered at Cambridge as "Christopher Marlen." Elsewhere he is recorded as "Morley" and "Merlin," among others. In like manner the impresario Philip Henslowe indifferently wrote "Henslowe" or "Hensley" when signing his name, and others made it Hinshley, Hinchlow, Hensclow, Hynchlowes, Inclow, Hinchloe, and a half dozen more' (p. 111).

I'll put an end to these fun facts now, before I bore anybody to tears -- if anyone has even managed to make it this far! In short, Shakespeare: The World as Stage was a pure delight. It makes me eager to read more Renaissance authors (I've got Marlow and Jonson on my list), as well as further my Shakespeare education. Have you read any Shakespeare biographies? Did you enjoy them? I'd love to hear!

Literary Love: Favourite Fictional Couples

The story that started it all...

Ever since I read Jane Austen's quintessential tale of Regency courtship Pride and Prejudice during my teenage years I have been fairly obsessed with classic love stories. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy started a habit that has continued well into adulthood -- nor does it show any signs of abating in the future. In honour of Valentine's Day, I would like to share a list of the beloved couples that comprise my favourite narratives. These appear in no particular order, because I didn't think I could bear the stress of ranking them in addition to narrowing the list down to one (long) post...

 Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe

From the moment he called her carrots I was hooked! When he told her, on what seemed to be his deathbed, that 'there would never be anyone for me but you' I was a goner. A favourite of mine from my days in high school, I'm still quite taken with Anne's overactive imagination.

Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy

I'm generally not a fan of Jane Austen sequels, modernizations and what not, but I have to make an exception for Helen Fielding's Bridget Jone's Diary. I relate to Bridget because she's an older single woman who is reminded of her marital status on an annoyingly regular basis, and she constantly puts her foot in her mouth. I often say the most thoughtless things, only I can't attribute it to inebriation like Bridget does. If Ms. Jones managed to snag herself a Darcy, then there's hope for the rest of us awkward single girls, right?

Helen Huntingdon and Gilbert Markham

The inclusion of this pair from Anne's The Tenant of Wildfell Hall may spark controversy. I know many who maintain that Gilbert is a bit dumb and Helen, therefore, deserves better. But I love that Gilbert can see Helen is outspoken, independent and far more intelligent than he is -- yet he's not intimidated by it. That's rather forward thinking on Anne's part. When Helen and Gilbert undergo a separation midway through the novel, I was so moved I cried to the point where I could no longer see the page.

Margaret Hale and John Thornton

Oh, the tension! The tension between these two in Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South is so palpable you could cut it with a knife, proverbially speaking. Watching Margaret and Mr. Thornton overcome preconceptions and misunderstandings (much like Darcy and Elizabeth) as they slowly come together is a complete joy! Thornton gets bonus points for carrying around a flower from Margaret's childhood home. I know some were disappointed when the book didn't have the epic kiss the adaptation portrays. If you look closely at the final pages of the novel, it's there. What else could Gaskell have meant by 'some time of delicious silence'? I ask you!

Margeurite St. Just and Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet

They seek him here, they seek him there. I certainly did seek him everywhere, rabidly consuming the novel, the film and the musical. Set against the dramatic events of the French Revolution, I almost wished I was a French aristocrat at risk of losing her head -- just so I could have the privilege of being rescued by the enigmatic Sir Percy. Instead, I named my dog after him. 

Beatrice and Benedick

The witty banter of this dynamic duo has officially made Much Ado About Nothing my favourite Shakespeare play. This is quite a distinction, because anyone who's anyone knows that choosing a favourite Shakespeare play is virtually impossible. In addition to the comical, playful insults they pass back and forth at lightning speed, these two also have their sweet moments. Refer, for instance, to the line in which Benedick first confesses his love for Beatrice: 'I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is that not strange?'

Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth

As much as I adore my beloved P&P, there's something about the quiet maturity of Persuasion that makes Jane Austen's final novel utterly enchanting. I love the way Anne blossoms before the reader's eyes, the poignant discussion of constancy in relationships, how Wentworth notices and appreciates our heroine in a way no other character does and the theme of getting a second chance at love. Captain Wentworth, for the record, writes what is possibly the best letter in literary history. 'You pierce my soul.' How can that be beaten? If by chance you are unacquainted with this wondrous epistle, do yourself a favour and read it now. You may want to read it sitting down though. I myself some women have been known to swoon.

Jane Eyre and Edward Rochester

Again, this can be seen a controversial choice. I'm sorry Heathcliff fans, but Rochester is the clear winner for me. As I have remarked before, Rochester would not kill my dog. Percy wouldn't fare so well as the hands of Heathcliff. But seriously, this novel kills me. I reread the good bits all the time once in a blue moon. The passion, the celestial telegrams, Rochester's attempted seduction, their eventual reunion, the brilliant simplicity of 'Reader, I married him.' I. Can't. Get. Enough. I don't even mind that he has a wife hidden in the attic. Observe the following passage where Rochester is speaking to Jane (p. 291 of the Penguin edition):

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you -- especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

How can that not win a reader over? I ask you!

And while this last selection isn't a literary couple, I had to give a little shout out to...

The Ladies of Cranford

I love that Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford validates the lives of Spinsters, particularly since nineteenth-century society consistently exhibited a propensity to write these women off. Masked behind an amusing veneer of Victorian propriety, these ladies are unbelievably kind and loving. Watching them take care of one another (even at great personal cost) moves me to tears. That's love.

P.S. My Halloween-themed favourites!

Button, oh Button!

I carry around what many would term a grandma bag, mostly because I insist on carrying certain items with me at all times.  A book, sunglasses, hand sanitizer, and my camera are must-haves without which I rarely leave home.  While there are lots of chic, over-sized bags out there, I can't pull myself away from the bookstore long enough to shell out for one.  Over the past year in England I accrued a small collection of literary buttons from various museums that spice it up a bit.  It's wonderful to have these little reminders of past travels that pay homage to some of my favourite books and authors.  I think I need to start a proper collection.

 It's abundantly clear where I picked this one up.

It was the first little button I purchased.

'Hail to thee blithe spirit'

Courtesy of the Keats Shelley House in Rome

This 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' button 

from the RSC in Stratford was a gift from Ana

Thank you, I will take that as a compliment!

Finally, the world's coolest address

from the Sherlock Holmes Museum on Baker Street, London

P.S. The title of this post is an allusion to the Potter Puppet Pals video, Snape's Diary.  When Snape tragically loses a button on his cloak, he conjures the following 'Ode to a Button' (that's not the title, but this one just came to me):

Button, oh button! Oh, where hath thou fled?

Did thee tarry too long amongst fabric and thread?

Did thee roll off my bosom and cease to exist?

How I wish I could follow thee into the mist.

There are many, many recitations of this Ode at my house. 

Happy National Poetry Day!

I have another confession to make: I don't love poetry the way I love a nineteenth-century novel.  My motivation to read novels far exceeds my desire to dig into poetry.  Yet when I make the effort to get into it, I am always amply rewarded.  I need to redouble my poetic exertions.  In the meantime, I would like to share a few favourite poems to honor the many great poets who have contributed to the literary canon.

My favourite poem of all time comes from The Bard, but I suppose that's hardly surprising.  It's 'Sonnet 116.'  I think it's a fantastic representation of what a fierce love should be.  Here's a testament to my geekiness: one day during my high school years I decided I should know my favourite poem, so I sat down and spent a chunk of time memorizing it.  (Like I said, geeky.)  I've been able to recite it ever since.

I am a fan of anything that can make me laugh, and poetry is no exception.  For that I turn to mock epic poems of the eighteenth century.  They're such a hoot!  I love the mock epic style so much that I write mock epic prose in emails to my friends.  This is yet another instance of my literary nerdiness -- I'm on a roll today!  Alexander Pope's The Rape of the Lock is the mock epic I find myself turning to again and again.

Here's a hilarious passage from Canto IV in which Belinda laments the loss of her perfect curl of hair:

'O wretched Maid! she spread her Hands, and cry'd,
(While Hampton's Ecchoes, wretched Maid! reply'd)
Was it for this you took such constant Care
The Bodkin, Comb and Essence to prepare;
For this your Locks in Paper-Durance bound,
For this with tort'ring Irons wreath'd around!
For this with Fillets strain'd your tender Head,
And bravely bore the double Loads of Lead?
Gods! shall the Ravisher display your Hair,
While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!
Honour forbid!'

 The fatal deed

If you're interested, you can read the poem in its entirety here.

Finally, I always dig some John Keats.  I prefer him to all other Romantic poets and was fortunate enough to visit his grave this past April.  I remember when I saw the Keats biopic Bright Star.  The part of the film that struck me the most was, quite unexpectedly, the credits.  Lead actors Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw recited Keats' words accompanied by instrumental music as the credits rolled.  It sure did lift the soul and all that.  Can we say music to my ears? (Music to my ears.)  

Since we are getting deeper into the fabulous month of October and the best of all seasons (fall), I thought it would be appropriate to highlight his 'Ode to Autumn.'  I can practically smell the crisp Autumn air as I read it:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Who are your favourite poets?  What are your beloved poems?

A Percy Post: The Green-Eyed Monster

I have a firm conviction that this is the image Shakespeare had in his mind when he wrote of the green-eyed monster:

How could Iago have been thinking of anything but this Percy Beast when he said:

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on.

I know I am most envious of those who have a puppy to curl up with tonight; monster or not.