One of the main subjects…

that critics of Doctor Faustus like to discuss is why Faustus enters the contract with Lucifer/Beelzebub knowing that he is damning himself for the act.  After thinking it over for the past three days, and writing copious circular paragraphs on the matter, I’ve decided on the following (elegant) argument:

He just does.

I’m not certain Faustus’s motivation for his decision to write the contract and to (continually) refuse to repent his rejection of God is the most interesting or important part of the play.  Having made up his theological mind, however, Faustus does set up some interesting generic, historiographical, apocalyptic, and meta-dramatic problems.

This is the last bit of my argument I’ve had to work through.  I’m submitting this paper tomorrow.  Pending hours of editing.

28 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

A brief return to Kermode.

I’m in the midst of my apocalypse paper (the end, quite apocalyptically, being ever deferred), and keep finding myself returning to Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending.  Though my own paper does not directly respond to any one lecture in this collection, the book has been useful in raising questions about the way narrative (history, apocalypse, and literature are all narratives for Kermode) and temporal structures interact with each other.

The book is also interesting the way it appears at a transitional moment in literary criticism.  Kermode’s approaches are often reflective of  postmodernist theory (he particularly draws on Jameson) when diagnosing apocalyptic assumptions of narrative origins and unity, and in his rejection of Frye’s literalising of narratives into myth (narratives are assumed to be historically true).  Kermode also draws heavily on Sartre, abandoning, however, Jameson’s  interrogative response to existentialist thought.

Kermode’s means of addressing the relationship between reality-fiction is also staunchly modernist: drawing on Wallace Stevens, Kermode proposes that fictions are ways of combating the “real” world (though, less optimistically than Stevens, Kermode also suggests that if words can make sense of the agony of living, such relief is temporary).

There is also an odd moment where Kermode sidesteps the fascist, anti-feminist, and anti-Semitic politics of modernist writings: specifically in the works of Pound, Joyce, Eliot, and Wyndham Lewis.  The moment occurs in a chapter titled “The Modern Apocalypse,” and after briefly identifying these problems, Kermode demurs:

[Lewis] changed these opinions, and in any case it isn’t my business to condemn them.  It is sufficient to say that the radical thinking of the early modernists about the arts implied, in other spheres, opinions of a sort not normally associated with the word radical. (110)

It may not be Kermode’s business, in a piece of literary criticism, to make moral judgments of these writers’ personal beliefs.  Given, however, that Kermode elsewhere identifies these anti-feminist and anti-Semitic politics as a part of modernist writing, and that he reads these writings as a response to the “Sex, time, and liberal thought” in the culture of the modernist period, which threaten the “paradigmatic reality” (110) of Pound, Joyce, Eliot, and Lewis’s apocalyptic narratives, the observation seems rather important to the subject of Kermode’s writing.  I wonder, if the book had appeared at a later date in the theoretical timeline, whether Kermode would have been more willing to address these problems.

23 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

We’re taking on Lacan.

Gaurav, Andrew and I have decided that this summer’s collective reading will be selections from Lacan’s Écrits.

The three of us have a history of failing to make it all the way through texts.  Two years ago we read (almost) half of The Birth of Tragedy; last year witnessed our naive and futile attempt at Dante’s Inferno (we may have read five cantos). This year, however, we’re determined to remain faithful to our reading project.

We might even succeed, given that: many of the essays in Écrits are short (dense, but short), Andrew is studying Zizek and has realised he needs to read Lacan to understand him better, Gaurav and I just finished a course on psychoanalysis and early modern drama (and so we like to pretend that we understand Lacan — more than Nietzsche, anyways), and I’ve somehow managed to work Lacan into my readings of Shakespeare and Jonson for my apocalypse paper (a very odd combination that).

We’re also going to hold discussions online, which should allow for ongoing discussions (rather than working around work schedules all the time).  This medium will also subject us to the influence of the public gaze.

We just might learn something.

20 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s…

Superman as Hamlet.

I don’t understand Superman’s logic here, but then, I’ve never thought Superman was all that smart.

19 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

Lawyers, leave Shakespeare at the bar.

A nigh-headline story in the books section of The Wall Street Journal today announces: “Justice Stevens Renders an Opinion on Who Wrote Shakespeare’s Plays.”

I’ve excerpted my favourite part of the article below:

Justice Stevens can indulge his love of the Bard at the Folger Shakespeare Library, a block from the Supreme Court. He says he had a particular brainstorm after learning the library held a Bible that once belonged to de Vere.

“In two of the plays Shakespeare has an incident using the bed trick, in which the man is not aware of the identity of the woman he’s sleeping with,” Justice Stevens says, referring to “All’s Well That Ends Well” and “Measure for Measure.” “And there’s an incident in the Old Testament where the same event allegedly occurred.”

Justice Stevens says he reasoned that if de Vere had borrowed the escapade from his Bible, “he would have underlined those portions of it. So I went over once to ask them to dig out the Bible.”

Leaving aside the question of the author (sorry Foucault), I will at least observe that the bed trick is a (hackneyed) convention used by numerous early modern dramatists (last year I wrote about Middleton and Marston’s use of it in The Changeling and The Insatiate Countess, respectively), and  also that it’s possible to reference a text without first underlining the original. (Stevens himself seems to realise this possibility when it turns out “the passage involving the substitution of Leah for Rachel in Jacob’s bed, Genesis 29:23, was not marked.” This lack of evidence, however, does not change Steven’s opinion on Shakespeare).

What most annoys me, however, is not the argument itself[i], but the source. One certainly doesn’t have to be a critic, reviewer, publisher, or writer to read and discuss Shakespeare, but I do question why a casual after-court pub discussion receives top billing in the literary section of a national newspaper.

More fie.

End Notes:

[i] the argument itself. The article redeems itself somewhat by including Coppelia Kahn’s delightful response: “Oh my [...]Nobody gives any credence to these arguments”.

19 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

Maybe Ben should have had his portrait painted with a puppy.

News articles related to Associated Press’s article on the Obama dog (for today): 1898.

News articles related to Ben Jonson: 36 (and not all of them are about an early modern English dramatist).

Fie.

13 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

Genetic perfection.

REPO! the Genetic Opera is both a screen musical and a dystopia: two conditions which promised to invite my dissatisfaction.  Despite its generic dispositions (and a role with Paris Hilton), however, REPO! is among the funniest and most intelligent films I’ve seen this year.

REPO!’s  dystopia is characterised by an organ-destroying pandemic. “Geneco” and its founder Rotti Largo counter the pandemic by developing a system of transplant financing for the genetically modified organs they harvest from the increasing corpses (with a rather gruesome proviso: “Say that you once bought a heart, or new corneas / But somehow never managed to square away your debts/ [The Repo man] won’t bother to write or to phone you, /He’ll just rip the still beating heart from your chest.”)  To tranquilise the fears of their unethical practices, Geneco also popularises “surgery as a fashion statement,” the accompanying painkiller Zydrate, and  the “Genetic Opera,” a cross between an evangelist sermon and a bread and circus entertainment.

Writer-composers Darren Smith and Terrance Zdunich have subordinated the dystopian environment, however, to the family drama (with all the lost love, betrayal of friendship, revenge, competition over inheritence, and revealed family secrets typical of opera) between Rotti Largo, his Repoman Nathan Wallace, and Nathan’s daughter Shilo.  The arrangement allows Smith and Zdunich to imagine how the dystopian problems influence familial relationships without making the environment itself the (tiresome) point of the story.

It helps, too, that REPO! relies on dark comic satire rather than the earnest lyrics of typical musicals, and that Anthony Stewart Head has an excellent voice, and the ability to shift semlessly from devoted father to heart-stealing repoman (the voice change is somewhat terrifying).

It’s disturbing fun.

12 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

Painful papers.

I recently finished my final paper for Psychoanalysis and Early Modern Drama and, well, the final results were not what I intended them to be.  Being far over the word limit, and not giving myself enough time to edit, I think I excised any interesting Lacanian analysis I might have produced of Jonson’s The Alchemist (the final paper is now lacking discussion of both history and Jonson’s poetics in the play).

More than a week later I’m still moping about it; if the following recollections are any indication, I’m not likely to forget the experience anytime soon.  Here are some of the more painful essays I’ve written in the last five years. Read the texts; enjoy the trauma!

For GBLS 2P94 (“Epics and Ethics”).  On the Aeneid, The Tempest, and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

About three-quarters of the way through this paper, my laptop failed on me.  Of course it was the day before the paper was due, and of course I had forgotten to save a back up copy on an external drive.  I rewrote the paper from memory the next day on my old PC that froze and needed to be restarted every hour or so.

Oddly enough, I’m looking back at the experience with some fondness, as it seems to have seared these works into my memory (as I’m presently writing a paper on The Tempest, this memory is proving quite helpful).

For ENGL 3P22 (“The Literature of Milton’s Time”). On Richard Lovelace’s and Abraham Cowley’s grasshopper poems.

This turned out to be a fairly decent little essay, but was terribly frustrating to write as it was a replacement for an essay I’d already written (on the wrong poems) and submitted.  It was probably the most humiliating way to learn that early modern poets generally did not number their own poems (and that the Norton and Oxford editors have not yet reached a consensus on the order of Milton’s sonnets).

For GBLS 3V95 (“Banned Books”). On Milton’s Areopagitica and Marvell’s “Mr Smirk, or the Divine in Mode.”

One quarter through writing this essay, I realised that while it may be terribly fun to read about Andrew Marvell’s antagonism of the English clergy, early modern pamphlets themselves can be fairly dull to read (and more dull to write on).  Finishing this essay was a test of patience.

For ENGL 3P45 (“Poetry and Poetics”).  On Stein’s  Stanza 83 from her “Stanzas in Meditation” and Michael Palmer’s “This Time.”

Every time I write on Gertrude Stein I get into mental trouble.  This essay proved particulary frustrating: I think I decided to write on temporal and linguistic confusion in the poems, using Derridean theory as a means of analysis (the first essay in which I used Derrida!).

I vividly remember sitting on the floor, surrounded by articles and drafts of my paper, which I had printed out, in a vain attempt to edit and reorganise.  The essay wasn’t bad in the end, but only after I erased it — completely — twice.

For POLI 2P90 (“Introduction to Political Theory”).  On Plato’s Republic.

By the time I took this course in my fourth year I had read the Republic, either excerpted or in its entirety, once per term.  After seven terms of reading the same text, writing a ten page paper was a tedious and irritating task (which I, of course, made worse by procrastinating until eight o’ clock the night before it was due).

For 4P20 (“Contemporary Literary Theory”).  On Jameson’s The Political Unconscious and Ondaatje’s The Collected Works of Billy the Kid.

My professor told me my writing in this paper was “extremely lucid,” a description I still find odd given that I was feeling fairly ill (and, consequently, not at all lucid) while writing it.  If the paper is any good, I think it’s owing mostly to how much fun the texts (both Jameson’s theory and Ondaatje’s poems) are to read.  It’s unfortunate I couldn’t enjoy the writing process to the same extent.

For ENGL 4P71 (“Contemporary Theoretical Approaches”).  On Baudrillard’s “Precession of the Simulacra,” Deleuze and Guattari’s Anti-Oedipus and Baudelaire’s “Black Bile” or “Spleen” series from Les fleurs du mal.

I wrote this paper under similar conditions as the one for 4P70, but produced an entirely opposite result.  The professor kindly commented: “at times the clarity of your argument is obscured by poor grammar.”  I read this comment as “your entire paper demonstrates no knowledge of syntax: it’s a good thing you wrote another paper prior to this one, or I might have to question how you made it to fourth year.”  Re-reading the paper over now, I think I was right to interpret the comment this way.

The experience did help me understand Deleuze and Guattari better, however (which proved useful for my seminar paper for psychoanalysis), and reminded me that Baudrillard might be a useful theorist for the first chapter of  my 4P99 paper.

Sometimes good things can come from dross.  I’ll have to reminisce about some of those better paper-writing experiences tomorrow.

12 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

We only just met…

I was buying coffee earlier today, collected Marlowe in hand, and ended up having a brief conversation with the barista about the dramatist.  I told her about Kit’s death in a pub brawl (in response to her question about why he only wrote seven plays), and, ultimately, found myself describing the end of Edward II (where Edward is implicitly murdered in mock-sodimitical fashion).  She seemed unfazed by this turn in the conversation (“who wouldn’t want to read that?”), but I couldn’t help thinking that three years ago I probably wouldn’t have had a conversation about monarchs being mortally skewered in their nether regions (and with a stranger, no less).

Studying early modern drama has made my life very odd.

11 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

Stylish and functional.

bookashatThis photo was taken earlier last week while Gaurav and I were out writing essays. (That’s Ben’s The Alchemist I’m sporting.)

He pointed me to this photo this morning.

I think I need to read one Marquez’s works now.  Clearly we share the same brilliance.  Or the same madness.

~

The book-as-hat look: “It’s not just [for] silly people who have lost their minds, but Nobel laureates too!” [Gaurav's endorsement]

8 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines

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