Tag: writing (page 1 of 1)

It was in Dr. Frank Fabry’s “Introduction to Shakespeare” class that I first “met” the Brit of all Lit and fell hardest in love with the Mother Tongue. Ah, William, and oh Frank!

Dr. Fabry was, as my friend Rachel would say, easy on the eyes. All the college freshmen were crushed out out him. Once, in class, he uncased a violin and began to play, serenading one of the girls so that her finance could propose in style. Frank was a true Romantic. When he taught, he did lecture, giving us the necessary background on Shakespeare’s life and work, but it was when he read aloud (I was lucky to have great teachers) that we all swooned. He read with spirit and fire. He was mesmerizing. He insisted that we read aloud with equal conviction, and if we slacked at all, he’d pound on the desk and demand a re-read.

Frank suggested that we drink as part of our homework, so we did. One of my classmates hosted a “Drink Beer, Read Lear” party. If any play needs alcohol to wash it down easier, it’s “King Lear.” It’s true that many of Shakespeare’s plays involve some scary themes, but I don’t think he wrote to display humanity as rosy. We are scary, and we tell our scary stories again and again. For me, the lovely, poetic rhythm of Shakespeare’s language, the imbedded humor, even in some of the creepiest passages, balances some of the frighting themes.

In Dr. Fabry’s class we covered the histories, tragedies, and comedies. Three of my favorites remain as one tragedy, “Othello,” and then the comedies, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and “Twelfth Night.” Later, when I became a teacher, I worked with 7th graders on productions of “Midsummer.” It was a lot of work, but it was also entertaining and rewarding to see how young people enjoyed and interpreted Shakespeare. They loved how “totally random” this play felt. The boys loved that they could carry fake swords and do some fake gambling, and the girls loved dressing up like ladies and dancing like fairies. “Midsummer” is the perfect play for this age group, and it was the perfect play to see being rehearsed on our visit to The Globe.

We opted for the tour, not something we usually do when we travel, but I wanted details, and I’m very glad we chose this. Our guide was a lovely young woman whose knowledge and admiration of the bard literally twinkled in her eyes. Of course, she gave us what we paid for, the history, details, and anecdotes about the building itself…how the acoustics worked so well that the actors did not need microphones, it felt so intimate you could hear their breathing… how there was no electricity needed either for the lightning, and how the roof was genuinely thatched, with a slight, modern exception. Years ago, the roof of the original Globe caught fire, so to prevent this from happening again, the roof of this convincingly authentic replica was equipped with a sprinkler system.

As our guide spoke, some of the actors came out from back stage to stretch and practice vocal exercises. The actor, whom I guessed would be playing Puck, did hand stands and made guttural noises. The actor, whom I imagined would play Titania, did yoga and sang softly.

Hearing these details, and seeing the actors stroll out onto the stage added to the charm of the experience, but again, it was when our guide recited Shakespeare’s words aloud that I completely melted. Tickets for that show were sold out, but our sparkly young English woman made up for this when she spoke:

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

I teared up with all the corny joy of a dorky English major. Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Along with the melancholy literature of England, I loved the lighter wit too, from books and movies, modern and medieval. I learned the powers of satire and irony from British writers. I learned that when things in the world seem too horrid to be true, too imbalanced or unjust, one option is to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. I learned that maybe, making fun of the truly obscene diffuses the power of it for a moment, or reminds us, hopefully, not to repeat the same behavior.

My brothers and I watched every Monty Python film, memorizing lines and mimicking the actors’ accents. We loved the campiness, all the goofy knights. We loved the scenery, all the castles, bridges, and forests.

We were brought up Catholic, and like many (though not all) Catholics, we questioned and joked about our religion and culture. I don’t look at this as irreverence. I think it’s healthy to keep yourself humble. Arrogance leads to scary things. I learned from my British friends that it is part of their culture to poke fun lovingly. The expression is to “take the piss out of someone.” Graham Chapman, John Cleese, Terry Gilliam, Eric Idle, Terry Jones, and Michael Palin, I tip my imaginary top hat to you, funny sirs. You have certainly nudged us well. Thank you for your smart humor.

And to Geoffrey Chaucer, thank you for The Canterbury Tales. When I read the Wife of Bath’s story in high school, it resonated with me on all kinds of levels. I did not yet call myself a feminist, but I was walking around talking about Mary Magdalen and Hester Prynne as my heroines. So when I found another unapologetic, whip-smart woman in literature, and another man writing a character this way, I paid attention.

Rather than summarize the Wife’s story here, I will instead mention how my favorite high school English teacher hooked us to actually like a fourteenth century writer. It was simple, and as I recall, she did this a lot. She read aloud. Ah…reading aloud…such a pretty thing. Mrs. Gordon had a beautiful Southern accent, and combined with Middle English, this produced a memorable music for me. She sang:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour

…and I was hooked. The language was familiar, yet foreign, a beautiful puzzle for me to put together.

As a young adult, I thought of England as stately and tailored, but I also imagined it as a wild, tangled place, like the moors that Ms. Emily Bronte describes in Wuthering Heights. Oh that book! And oh the song that inspired me to read it!

I am a firm believer that certain song writers compose like poets, and Kate Bush is one of these artists for me. Several of her songs are narrative. Some are playful, others are truly disturbing. Her song, “Wuthering Heights,” is haunting and passionate, just like the characters Heathcliff and Catherine.

I listened to Kate and read Emily’s book during the summer between my junior and senior year in high school. I lived in Florida then, and I was in and out of a tumultuous relationship. The combination of Florida’s steamiest season and my own romance woes made both the song and the book perfect mirrors for me. Maybe it’s strange to say that literature about a jealous ghost who haunts her lover offered comfort for me, but it did. I could relate to Catherine’s passion, and if I am to be completely honest, her anger.

During the same year, I read Sylvia Plath’s poetry. Volumes have already been written about her life, her marriage, and her decision to take her own life, so I will not write about any of that here. It was her work, her poetic voice that struck me. She has been called confessional, and yes, she turns herself inside out on the page, but she does not rant or whine. There is a reserve, a sophistication, and I have to say, a somewhat supernatural quality to her poems. She is scholarly, yes. She was an educated woman, so why wouldn’t her poems have some high brow to them? But there is a different kind of knowledge or awareness in her poems. I heard this when I first read her, and I still hear it whenever I pick her up. Perhaps the best way to describe this is to say that Sylvia reads like she understood her own ghost. As strange as it may sound, she wrote like she knew she was out of place and needed to return somewhere.

I visited the apartment where she composed her last poems. There is no marker for her. There is a blue plaque to honor Yeats, but nothing for her. So I left a small offering of her picture and lines from her poems to let her know I admired her still. I sat on the steps outside her building quietly thinking of the sound of her voice, how she may have looked out the window while she wrote. Then, I walked with my love in the park nearby, thought of how she may have strolled there too, and I said goodbye to one of my favorite heroines.