Reading the Bible: Judges, Ruth

1/ Judges and Ruth precede the Books of Samuel—I’ve been reading the Bible in the wrong order, I know, but then I don’t think Christians read the Bible from cover to cover, so…

Like the Books of Kings, the Book of Judges is drearily repetitive: the clause “And the children of Israel did evil in the sight of the LORD” appears over and over again. The narrative is a cycle of the children of Israel betraying God and being punished and getting saved and again betraying God, over and over again. One interesting thing I’ve noted however is the use of the phrase “went a whoring”—nothing to do with whoredom/ prostitution/ promiscuity—to mean betraying God (Yahweh) and worshipping Baal/ Baalim. 

There are some violent images. 

“Then Jael Heber’s wife took a nail of the tent, and took an hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him, and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it into the ground: for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died.” (Judges 4:21) 

That’s disturbing, no? 

“She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workmen’s hammer; and with the hammer she smote Sisera, she smote off his head, when she had pierced and stricken through his temples.

At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed, there he fell down dead.” (Judges 5:26-27) 

Christians probably won’t like that I say this, but reading the Bible out of interest in its influence on Western culture and literature means that one has to wade through lots of tedious stuff and violent stuff. 

“And a certain woman cast a piece of a millstone upon Abimelech’s head, and all to brake his skull.

[…] Thus God rendered the wickedness of Abimelech, which he did unto his father, in slaying his seventy brethren:

And all the evil of the men of Shechem did God render upon their heads: and upon them came the curse of Jotham the son of Jerubbaal.” (Judges 9:53-57) 

2/ The highlight of the Book of Judges—so people say—is the story of Samson. I can see that there are striking and iconic images—Samson killing a young lion with his bare hands and eating honey from its carcass, Samson killing 1000 men with an ass’s jawbone, Samson pulling down the pillars and killing the Philistines together with himself, and so on—but the story of him and Delilah is plain silly. Look at it: three times Delilah asks about his weakness; three times she tries it and delivers him to the Philistines; and yet he not only stays with her but also tells her the truth so that he loses his superhuman strength and falls into the hands of the Philistines? It’s on him, I’m afraid. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; etc. 

This is not a story about a woman’s treachery, but about a man who thinks with his other head. My complaint is that the Bible doesn’t depict his passion and doesn’t give us their thoughts—I don’t know what goes through Samson’s (stupid) mind when he decides to tell Delilah his weakness after all she has done.  

3/ The Book of Judges also contains the story of the Levite’s concubine, which is brutal and horrific—from the gang rape of the concubine, to the war afterwards between the children of Israel and the children of Benjamin. 

This is especially disturbing: 

“But the men would not hearken to him: so the man took his concubine, and brought her forth unto them; and they knew her, and abused her all the night until the morning: and when the day began to spring, they let her go.

[…] And when he was come into his house, he took a knife, and laid hold on his concubine, and divided her, together with her bones, into twelve pieces, and sent her into all the coasts of Israel.” (Judges 19:25-29) 

It’s odd though that the Levite and his concubine aren’t named; it’s also odd that the Bible doesn’t quite explain why the concubine leaves him at the beginning of the story and returns to her father.  

4/ The Book of Ruth I do like much better, as it’s about the relationship between Naomi and her daughter-in-law Ruth. Naomi, having lost her husband and then both her sons, decides to return home and urges the daughters-in-law to go back to their own parents, but Ruth refuses. 

“And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God:

Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the LORD do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.” (Ruth 1:16-17)

It is so moving.  

This is also moving, when Naomi returns to Bethlehem: 

“And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.

I went out full, and the LORD hath brought me home again empty: why then call ye me Naomi, seeing the LORD hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted me?” (Ruth 1:20-21) 

I didn’t know the meanings of Naomi (pleasant, sweet, delightful) and Mara (bitter), but I could guess—I could feel her anguish in the lines. 

5/ I must thank Himadri (Argumentative Old Git) for reminding me of these lines in “Ode to a Nightingale” by John Keats: 

“Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

                She stood in tears amid the alien corn…” 

I have always liked Keats. Must read more. 

Reading the Bible: Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon, Lamentations

1/ One of the joys of reading the Bible is going “So that’s where it came from!”. Ecclesiastes is full of phrases and lines I recognise: 

“Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 1:2) 

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9) 

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2) 

“All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” (Ecclesiastes 3:20) 

“He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver; nor he that loveth abundance with increase: this is also vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 5:10)

This image is also familiar: 

“As he came forth of his mother’s womb, naked shall he return to go as he came, and shall take nothing of his labour, which he may carry away in his hand.” (Ecclesiastes 5:15)

But I think this phrasing is quoted more: 

“And said, Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.” (Job 1:21) 

It’s also cool to realise that the title of Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth comes from “The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.” (Ecclesiastes 7:4) 

2/ Compare: 

“All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” (Ecclesiastes 3:20) 

And Hamlet: 

“We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service—two dishes but to one table. That’s the end.” (Act 4 scene 3) 

“Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to dust…” (Act 5 scene 1)

Hamlet also calls man “this quintessence of dust”. 

Compare: 

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9) 

And Shakespeare’s Sonnet 59: 

“If there be nothing new, but that which is

Hath been before, how are our brains beguil’d,

Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss

The second burthen of a former child!

O, that record could with a backward look,

Even of five hundred courses of the sun,

Show me your image in some antique book,

Since mind at first in character was done!...” 

The Ecclesiastes is my favourite of these three books, something I imagine I can read and reread. 

3/ I read Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon so long ago that I remember nothing and have no idea how the book in the Bible relates to it. 

Can’t say much about the Song of Solomon in the Bible either. 

“Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.

Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.

Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men.

Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” (Song of Solomon 4:2-5) 

The similes are strange. 

“His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.

His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh.

His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires.

His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.” (Song of Solomon 5:12-15) 

Very strange. 

The Song of Solomon is (apparently) meant to celebrate human love, narrating an intense love story between a woman and her lover, but to me, the imagery is utterly strange and alienating.  

4/ The Book of Lamentations is a collection of poetic laments for the destruction of Jerusalem. 

This is an interesting sentence: 

“He hath filled me with bitterness, he hath made me drunken with wormwood.” (Lamentations 3:15) 

Some of you might like these verses: 

“Remember, O LORD, what is come upon us: consider, and behold our reproach.

Our inheritance is turned to strangers, our houses to aliens.” (Lamentations 5:1-2)

Reading the Bible: Job

1/ Does anyone read the Book of Job without feeling disturbed by the cruelty and callousness of God? Why does God, for no reason, take everything away from “one that feared God, and eschewed evil” and make him suffer? 

But the writing—on the sentence level—is magnificent.

“Why died I not from the womb? why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly?

Why did the knees prevent me? or why the breasts that I should suck?

For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept: then had I been at rest,

With kings and counsellors of the earth, which built desolate places for themselves;

Or with princes that had gold, who filled their houses with silver:

Or as an hidden untimely birth I had not been; as infants which never saw light.

There the wicked cease from troubling; and there the weary be at rest.

There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor.

The small and great are there; and the servant is free from his master.

Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul;

Which long for death, but it cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures;

Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave?

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?

For my sighing cometh before I eat, and my roarings are poured out like the waters.

For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me.

I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.” (Job 3:11-26) 

I can see how the Book of Job resonates with Christians who are going through a tough time and longing for death and finding God unjust. 

“Am I a sea, or a whale, that thou settest a watch over me?

When I say, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint;

Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions:

So that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than my life.

I loathe it; I would not live alway: let me alone; for my days are vanity.

What is man, that thou shouldest magnify him? and that thou shouldest set thine heart upon him?

And that thou shouldest visit him every morning, and try him every moment?

How long wilt thou not depart from me, nor let me alone till I swallow down my spittle?

I have sinned; what shall I do unto thee, O thou preserver of men? why hast thou set me as a mark against thee, so that I am a burden to myself?

And why dost thou not pardon my transgression, and take away mine iniquity? for now shall I sleep in the dust; and thou shalt seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.” (Job 7:12-21) 

The Book of Job is very quotable, and depicts well the bitterness of a man who suffers and can’t understand why he has to suffer. 

“The earth is given into the hand of the wicked: he covereth the faces of the judges thereof; if not, where, and who is he?” (Job 9:24)

This reminds me of The Brothers Karamazov, especially Ivan’s talk about returning the ticket and rejecting God—the rereading is going to be a very different experience when I have known the Bible.

Like some other parts of the Bible, the Book of Job could be repetitive, but it doesn’t matter because I love the prose, the rhythm of the prose: 

“I put on righteousness, and it clothed me: my judgment was as a robe and a diadem.

I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame.

I was a father to the poor: and the cause which I knew not I searched out.

And I brake the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth.

Then I said, I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply my days as the sand.

My root was spread out by the waters, and the dew lay all night upon my branch.

My glory was fresh in me, and my bow was renewed in my hand.” (Job 29:14-20)

2/ I don’t have a lot to say, so I’m just poking at it from different angles. 

“He putteth my feet in the stocks, he marketh all my paths.” (Job 33:11)

Was that line in Shakespeare’s mind when he had Cornwall place Kent in the stocks in King Lear?

Job and Lear both lose everything. Job and Lear both experience extreme suffering. Job and Lear both question existence. 

“How much less man, that is a worm? and the son of man, which is a worm?” (Job 25:6) 

That reminds me of: 

“Is man no more than this? Consider him well.—Thou ow’st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha, here’s three on’s are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.” (King Lear, Act 3 scene 4) 

Not only King Lear, Job also makes me think of Timon of Athens: together with the change in his fortunes is the change in others’ attitudes. Timon and Lear however are much angrier, and the gods are absent. 

“As flies to wanton boys are we to th’ gods;

They kill us for their sport.” 

(King Lear, Act 4 scene 1) 

Funnily enough, in the Book of Job, God does appear and restore Job’s fortunes but doesn’t answer the questions. 

3/ Ingmar Bergman, who made a few films about human suffering and the silence of God and a crisis of faith, must have loved the Book of Job. 

“But where shall wisdom be found? and where is the place of understanding?

Man knoweth not the price thereof; neither is it found in the land of the living.” (Job 28:12-13) 

The entire chapter is magnificent. For someone who reads the Bible as a literary—rather than religious—text, the Book of Job is a great read, because of the prose and because of the depiction of someone in great suffering who’s questioning God. It’s more literary than some other parts of the Bible I have read, and in the form of a dialogue between Job and his accusing friends. 

4/ Moby-Dick begins and ends with the Book of Job. 

The second quote in Extracts is “Leviathan maketh a path to shine after him; One would think the deep to be hoary,” which comes from Job 41:32. 

The Epilogue quotes “I only am escaped alone to tell thee”, which recurs 4 times in the first chapter. 

I suppose Melville wants to contrast the humility and patience of Job with the hate and anger of Ahab. 

“There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness.” (Moby-Dick, ch.96) 

Can’t help wondering if Melville, when he wrote that sentence, was thinking of the poem on wisdom in the Book of Job. 

Reading Lovers’ Vows as a fan of Mansfield Park

Here I am again reading something nobody reads, but it seemed amiss, did it not, that I never read Lovers’ Vows before when Mansfield Park is my favourite Austen novel?

Let’s see what the fuss is about. 

Lovers’ Vows 

An adaptation of August von Kotzebue’s Das Kind der Liebe, the play was first performed at Covent Garden in 1798, about 2 decades after Sheridan’s most celebrated plays. Jane Austen was 23 (if she saw it onstage, though she might have just read the text).

The first thing I’m going to say is that I’m not surprised the play was a hit: it’s got premarital sex and a son born out of wedlock and star-crossed lovers, etc. The second thing is that I’m not surprised it’s rarely read or staged today and mostly known as the play featured in Jane Austen’s novel. It’s not a great play—sometimes even ridiculous (luckily it’s quite short). 

Lovers’ Vows has two plotlines that aren’t entirely separate. In one plot, a soldier named Frederick returns home to find his mother Agatha ill, penniless, and on the streets, and then he discovers himself to be the result of an affair between her and Baron Wildenhaim, who long ago left the country. 

In the other plot, Baron Wildenhaim, recently back in Germany after his wife’s death, is trying to find out if his daughter Amelia wants to accept the marriage proposal from the affected Count Cassel. She however is in love with her tutor, poor Mr Anhalt. 

At some point, the desperate Frederick, tired of begging, tries to rob two rich men and gets imprisoned, but one of the two men turns out to be the Baron. This is the stuff of romance! The play is full of coincidences and nonsense and melodrama. The idea that things are not as they seem—a favourite theme of Jane Austen and Shakespeare—is not to be found here: the characters are quite straightforward. A greater playwright may have increased the stakes or made things a bit difficult: here the knots are quickly untied. 

However, to be fair, Lovers’ Vows is not without a few things of interest. Amelia is very forward, for a young lady in the 18th century. 

“MR ANHALT […] The subject I came to you upon was marriage.

AMELIA A very proper subject from the man who has taught me love, and I accept the proposal [curtsying].

MR ANHALT Again you misconceive and confound me.

AMELIA Ay, I see how it is—You have no inclination to experience with me “the good part of matrimony:” I am not the female with whom you would like to go “hand in hand up hills, and through labyrinths”—with whom you would like to “root up thorns; and with whom you would delight to plant lilies and roses.” No, you had rather call out, “O liberty, dear liberty.”” 

(Act 3 scene 2)

Amelia alludes to—and confesses—her feelings first. None of Jane Austen’s heroines would speak in such a way. 

The class issues—both the depiction of the lower class as noble and the upper class as base, and the unequal marriages—are interesting. Elizabeth Inchbald (and perhaps von Kotzebue in the original?) had clear messages about marrying for love, treating women properly, and atoning for past mistakes, which Jane Austen must have liked. Dramatically, the confrontation scene between Baron Wildenhaim and Count Cassel is interesting: the Count acknowledges his own villainy and turns it against the Baron, forcing him to examine himself. 

Now you’re going to ask if there are parallels between Lovers’ Vows and Mansfield Park. There are a few. Mr Anhalt is a clergyman, like Edmund Bertram’s going to be. Agatha is taken from her poor family and placed with a rich family, like Fanny Price. Count Cassel is a cad, like Henry Crawford. Agatha is seduced and has sex outside marriage, like Maria Bertram. But these similarities only emphasise the startling differences between the play and Mansfield Park: Jane Austen’s novel is much deeper, subtler, and more sophisticated.  

Lovers’ Vows in Mansfield Park 

Look at the scene in Mansfield Park where the characters argue about which play to perform: 

“All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively dismissed with yet warmer objections.” (Ch.14) 

I only just read The School for Scandal—imagine if the characters picked Sheridan’s play! 

One must ask, does Jane Austen pick Lovers’ Vows because she likes it, or because she thinks it’s a stupid play that demonstrates the bad taste of Mr Yates and emphasises the impropriety of staging such a play in Sir Thomas’s absence? I don’t think there’s anything to indicate that Jane Austen personally thinks it’s a great play. Either way, many (obtuse) readers complain about Mansfield Park and call Fanny Price a priggish bore partly because they impose modern thinking on the novel (saying what’s wrong with staging a play at home?), but mainly because they don’t know Lovers’ Vows. Fanny isn’t fond of the plan to act when Sir Thomas’s away, but she becomes strongly opposed to the play only when she reads it: 

“Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home representation—the situation of one, and the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.” (ibid.) 

Read the play and you’ll see why. 

Apart from that, rereading the theatrical episode in Mansfield Park is now much more interesting when I know the characters they’re playing. It’s quite a joke that the dim-witted Mr Rushworth plays Count Cassel, who is a cad, though they’re both foppish. There’s also something rather funny about the way Maria and Julia Bertram fight to play Agatha, when Henry Crawford plays Frederick, her son, and the role of Agatha’s former lover, Baron Wildenhaim, goes to Mr Yates—Henry and Maria flirt with each other whilst playing mother and son (hello, Jane?). But of course the way Austen sets it up is perfect: Agatha and Baron Wildenhaim only have a couple of lines together at the end whereas she and Frederick have relatively long scenes together—scenes that involve touching. As Mary Crawford says to Fanny: 

“… I looked in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the times when they were trying not to embrace, and Mr Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look a little queer…” (Ch.18) 

Funnily enough: 

“As far as [Fanny] could judge, Mr Crawford was considerably the best actor of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste than Mr Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who differed from her.” (ibid.)

I wonder if Jane Austen’s suspicious of actors—ironically, it’s whilst being an actor that Henry drops his act towards Julia and makes obvious his preference for her sister. 

So what about Edmund and Mary Crawford? Edmund plays Mr Anhalt and Mary plays Amelia. Now when I have read Lovers’ Vows, I can see better Fanny’s pain as she watches Edmund and Mary Crawford rehearse the love scene, especially when Fanny has grown up with Edmund the way (I think) Amelia has grown up with Mr Anhalt. 

Regardless of Jane Austen’s judgement of the literary merit of Lovers’ Vows, she uses it to great effect in Mansfield Park, moves the plot forward, and reveals a lot about every single character in her novel—knowing Elizabeth Inchbald’s play deepens my understanding and appreciation of the novel. 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan: The Critic and The School for Scandal

This is a bit of a jump: Sheridan’s the most successful playwright in English theatre in the 18th century—The Critic premiered in 1779 and The School for Scandal in 1777. For context, Frances Burney published Evelina anonymously in 1778; the other 18th century novels I read (Defoe, Fielding, Swift, Charlotte Lennox) were all decades earlier. 

The Critic 

Don’t we all love plays within plays? The Critic is a comedy about the rehearsal of a tragedy by Puff (who likes to—wait for this—write puff pieces about himself). The rehearsal is attended by theatre critics Dangle and Sneer. 

It’s very funny. 

“SNEER Pray, Mr Puff, how came Sir Christopher Hatton never to ask that question before?

PUFF What, before the play began? How the plague could he?” 

(At 2 scene 2) 

Sheridan makes fun of terrible playwrights. 

“DANGLE Mr Puff, as he knows all this, why does Sir Walter go on telling him?

PUFF But the audience are not supposed to know anything of the matter, are they?” 

(ibid.) 

Even if the kind of tragedies Sheridan satirises is no longer in vogue, his mockery of awkward exposition—as well as vanity and puffing and plagiarism—never gets outdated. 

“BEEFEATER Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee.

SNEER Haven’t I heard that line before?

PUFF No, I fancy not.—Where, pray?

DANGLE Yes, I think there is something like it in Othello.

PUFF Gad! now you put me in mind on’t, I believe there is—but that’s of no consequence—all that can be said is, that two people happened to hit upon the same thought—and Shakespeare made use of it first, that’s all.” 

(Act 3 scene 1) 

Shakespeare is everywhere! There are also two other Shakespeare references in the play. 

One of the funny things in The Critic—presumably Sheridan’s deliberate joke—is that he creates a character named Sir Fretful Plagiary but it’s Puff who’s the plagiarist. 

Entertaining play. 

The School for Scandal 

I was wondering why The School for Scandal, performed earlier, was placed after The Critic in the Penguin collection (of three plays), then I understood: The School for Scandal is longer, more substantial, more biting. 

Sheridan must have been familiar with the plays of Molière—The School for Husbands, The School for Wives—but I would say he doesn’t quite have the warmth of Molière. 

“MRS CANDOUR They’ll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to be handsome.

LADY SNEERWELL Oh, surely she is a pretty woman…

CRABTREE I am very glad you think so, ma’am.

MRS CANDOUR She has a charming fresh colour.

CRABTREE Yes, when it is fresh put on. 

LADY TEAZLE O fie! I’ll swear her colour is natural: I have seen it come and go. 

CRABTREE I dare swear you have, ma’am: it goes of a night, and comes again in the morning.

SIR BENJAMIN True, uncle, it not only comes and goes but what’s more, egad—her maid can fetch and carry it—” 

(Act 2 scene 2)

What a malicious and vindictive world. 

The play has at its centre two contrasting brothers who are under Sir Peter Teazle’s informal guardianship: Joseph Surface (a socially respectable but calculating and duplicitous man) and Charles Surface (a profligate who nevertheless has a good and open nature). Both desire Maria (Sir Peter’s ward) but she seems to prefer Charles and Lady Sneerwell has the hots for Charles, so she and Joseph shake hands in their scandalmongering plots to separate Charles and Maria.   

Maria is the “good and intelligent heroine” type, similar to Angelica in Congreve’s Love for Love or Millamant in The Way of the World. 

“JOSEPH [rising with Maria] Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this society.

MARIA How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be the province of wit or humour, Heaven grant me a double portion of dullness!

JOSEPH Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are—they have no malice at heart—

MARIA Then is their conduct still more contemptible, for, in my opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues but a natural and ungovernable bitterness of mind.” 

(ibid.) 

She’s not a priggish bore though—she is witty: 

“MRS CANDOUR Ah, Maria, child! What, is the whole affair of between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume? The town talks of nothing else. 

MARIA Indeed! I am very sorry, ma’am, the town is not better employed.” 

(Act 1 scene 1) 

There’s also a storyline about Sir Peter Teazle and his wilful young wife—though it’s not quite detached to be a subplot.

In terms of plotting, The School for Scandal is (more or less) perfect, with all the schemes and counter-schemes and overhearing and discoveries. It’s interesting to note that the contrast between the two brothers is at the centre of the play but we don’t see Charles till Act 3, which means that Sheridan makes us put the pieces together from what other characters have said and form some preconceptions about Charles before we see him, as Sir Oliver, the uncle and benefactor of the brothers, also does. And when we meet him, we see him get tested by Sir Oliver. The contrast of the brothers is the contrast of values at the heart of the play, and Sir Oliver is the voice of the play when he says “if Charles has done nothing false or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance.” 

It’s a funny, delightful play. Sheridan doesn’t come across as cynical as William Congreve: he depicts several malicious and conniving and cruel characters, but he also gives us Charles and Maria and Sir Oliver and Rowley. And Sir Peter Teazle and his wife finally reconcile with each other.  

PS: I like that there are constant allusions to Shakespeare in both plays. 

The Golden Ass and bowdlerisation

Having learnt that I read a bowdlerised translation of The Golden Ass (William Adlington), I got hold of the Penguin translation by E. J. Kenney and checked out a few chapters and have now realised that Apuleius’s original novel is much more graphic, much more sexual and brutal than the version I read. 

If people think Shakespeare’s plays*—compared to classical plays—are lowbrow because they have silly puns and sexual innuendos and filthy jokes, The Golden Ass is much more vulgar. In fact, it may be the crudest, most vulgar of the classic literary works I’ve read. But I never would have known, because I read the 1924 edition—not only was The Golden Ass tamed down by William Adlington in 1566, it was further expurgated by the editor F. J. Harvey Darton. 

Let me give you an example, from the story of the lascivious and evil woman who desires her stepson: 

“For by and by she sent a messenger after her husband to tell him the great misfortune which happened after his departure. And when he came home the wicked woman declared that his son had poisoned his brother because he would not consent to his will, and told him divers other leasings, adding in the end that he threatened to kill her likewise because she discovered the fact.

Then the unhappy father was stricken with double dolour of the death of his two children, for on the one side he saw his younger son slain before his eyes, on the other side he seemed to see the elder condemned to die for his offence.” (Adlington and Darton) 

Versus: 

“She immediately sent a courier to find her husband and announce to him the ruin of his house; and when he returned, which he did at once, she put on a breathtakingly bold front and charged her stepson with the crime of poisoning her son. This was not totally untrue, in so far as the one boy had anticipated the death meant for the other; but she pretended that her stepson had made away with his younger brother because she had refused to yield to his criminal lust and resisted his attempt to rape her. Even these monstrous lies did not satisfy her: she added that he had also threatened her with his sword for denouncing his crime. The wretched father, reeling from the loss of two sons, was tossed to and fro on a stormy sea of suffering. His younger son he had to see buried before his eyes, and the elder must inevitably, it seemed, be condemned to death for incest and fratricide.” (Kenney) 

By censoring the rape accusation (why?), they’re cutting what is a clear reference to the Phaedra and Hippolytus myth. 

Lots of things are removed: a stepmother’s accusation that her stepson, whom she unrequitedly desired, attempted to rape her is cut; a husband’s punishment of his wife’s lover by raping him is scrubbed; the scene of the fake priests having a romp with a “robust young peasant, finely equipped in loin and groin” (Kenney’s translation) is expurgated, etc. I compared the 1639 text (on Gutenberg, presumably not much different from the first edition in 1566) and the 1924 text against Kenney’s 2004 text (revised from his own translation in 1998).  

With the double censorship, the entire bestiality episode is thrown out of the window, but all the passages about the master’s spectacle plan and the story of the woman condemned to be thrown to the beasts are removed. The bowdlerisation presents The Golden Ass as a very different book! Apuleius depicts all the hardships and suffering experienced by a donkey, which range from physical abuse (such as exploitation and starvation and beatings and torture) to sexual abuse—the 1924 edition gets rid of the sexual abuse. It also removes some brutal passages, but they are part of Apuleius’s depiction of the world, part of his vision of humanity. 

But don’t think that I only picked up Kenney’s translation to look for the smutty passages (all right, you caught me)—I also reread the final chapter and now see the conversion in a different light. Now I see why Robert Graves calls The Golden Ass a religious novel, as the entire story is about how “in the unsteadiness of [his] green youth [Lucius] lowered [himself] to servile pleasures and reaped a bitter reward for [his] ill-starred curiosity” (Kenney), about how Lucius grows spiritually—through suffering and through witnessing the depravity and cruelty of mankind—and finally turns to the goddess of Isis. The final chapter is in a different tone, even if Lucius hesitates at first. 

And yet, I agree with Kenney when he writes in the introduction: 

“That glory of revelation and rebirth tails off into a workaday account of successive initiations and the shifts to which Lucius has to resort to meet the necessary expenses.” 

And: 

“Will he fare any better as a devotee of Isis than he did as a devotee of witchcraft?”

That is also my question. 

“Is he as much of an ass as ever?” 

How effective is The Golden Ass as a religious novel? I’m rather curious about the contemporary reception. To modern readers, the main moral messages that resonate are probably about the treatment of animals and the conditions of workers and servants. The Golden Ass has survived since the 2nd century because it’s a delight, because it’s funny** and inventive and captivating. 

*: isn’t it funny that the word “bowdlerise” we now use—to remove or change words from a book/ play/ film that are considered vulgar or offensive—come from Thomas Bowdler, who was doing that with Shakespeare? 

**: I should add a few good words about William Adlington. Despite the expurgations, it’s a funny and charming translation. His phrasing is funnier than Kenney’s. 

The Golden Ass: “I had seen the experience of many things, and was become more wise” [updated]

1/ I generally read classic literature in modern translations (for obvious reasons), so one fascinating thing about reading William Adlington’s 1566 translation of The Golden Ass (when Shakespeare was 2 years old) is coming across many phrases that I thought were just the language of the King James Bible: “it comes to pass”, “play the harlot”, “yield/ give up the ghost”, etc. 

2/ As written in the previous blog post, at roughly mid-point, Apuleius interrupts the main story to tell the story of Cupid and Psyche, which is about 50 pages or so. 

I’m surely not the only one who read that story and thought Psyche’s biggest problem was that she’s overly curious and couldn’t obey orders—I understand wanting to find out the husband’s identity, but why on earth does she have to open Persephone’s box for Venus? 

That however is something she shares with Lucius, the narrator of the main plot: both are overly curious; both must endure many trials; both are transformed at the end. 

3/ Apuleius’s novel and Ovid’s narrative poem are both named Metamorphoses—the name Asinus aureus (The Golden Ass) came from Augustine of Hippo and Apuleius’s novel is known by that name to this day. 

I don’t read Latin and can’t tell who’s better on the sentence level, but Apuleius’s Metamorphoses is more like my thing for multiple reasons. 

Firstly, as Ovid moves from one myth to another—over 250 myths in the book—there is no sense of forward movement and sometimes it drags (probably doesn’t help that I read it in translation). This is not a problem with Apuleius: he meanders; he digresses; he once interrupts the story for about 50 pages or so; but there is one character in the centre of the book and the story moves forward, with a clear goal that Lucius must transform back to being a human. 

Secondly, it’s funnier and bawdier (though I’m going to have to reread it in a different translation, as I suspect our Elizabethan translator to have bowdlerised it a bit). 

Thirdly, Ovid retells Greek/ Roman mythology and depicts many types of transformations (generally gods putting on disguises, or human beings getting turned into things, bodies of water, trees, animals, the other sex, or gods) and there are physical metamorphoses in The Golden Ass (witches changing shape, hapless Lucius getting accidentally transformed into a donkey, some animal hides getting turned into men through enchantment, and so on), but more importantly, the novel depicts a spiritual metamorphosis. As a donkey, Lucius experiences the suffering of animals and also meets many kinds of people that he otherwise may not have met—he meets thieves and murderers and charlatans and adulterers and sadists, etc.—and changes as a person. 

(The quote in the headline comes from B.9, ch.39) 

As I have written before, every single Shakespeare play features some kind of disguise and transformation: it could be literal (women disguising as men, kings pretending to be commoners…) but it could also be figurative (Iago acting like an honest and concerned friend as he poisons Othello’s ear, Richard III putting on various masks, Edmund playing a role and deceiving his brother and his father…)—the latter interests me more, because I’m interested in human nature. And The Golden Ass also has both.   

4/ The Golden Ass has a rather strange and puzzling ending: is it a genuine religious conversion, or does Lucius, having escaped the servitude of a donkey, now enter another servitude as a priest for the goddess Isis? I do not know—it’s hard to tell about a literary work written in the 2nd century.

However, (I can’t help that) I am modern, so I’m going to note that: a) Lucius hesitates and doesn’t seem particularly religious (to me) in the final part of the book; b) we see lots of witches and enchantresses throughout the story but the gods seem absent for the large part; c) when Lucius accidentally turns into a donkey (instead of a bird as he wishes), Fotis already says roses are the antidote, and there’s no indication that he wouldn’t be able to transform back to his human shape by eating the roses, without any intervention from Isis. 

I’m going to have to think some more about it, but The Golden Ass is probably my favourite work so far that was originally written in Latin. 

Addendum on 19/8: Now that I’ve finished reading Apuleius’s novel, I’ve realised that it was bowdlerised. How irritating! Gonna have to find another translation. 

The Golden Ass: “I will tell thee a pleasant tale to put away all thy sorrow and to revive thy spirits”

1/ Officially titled Metamorphoses by Lucius Apuleius but now mostly known as The Golden Ass (Asinus aureus), this novel is interesting to me for multiple reasons. Firstly, I keep hearing people call The Tale of Genji the first novel but that’s obviously not true—The Tale of Genji was written in the 11th century—The Golden Ass was from the 2nd century, and there were other ancient novels. But what are the differences between ancient novels and novels since Don Quixote? 

Secondly, it’s one of the books that inspired or influenced Shakespeare (most obviously in A Midsummer Night’s Dream). In fact, I’m reading the translation by William Adlington (1566), the first English translation and the one that Shakespeare (must have) read. 

 “You perhaps are of an obstinate mind and gross ears, mock and contemn those things which are reported for truth; but know you not that a thing which is accounted untrue by the wild opinion of men, which either is rarely seen, seldom heard, or passes the capacity of man’s reason, will, if it be more narrowly scanned, you shall not only find it evident and plain, but also very easy to be brought to pass.” (B.1, ch.1) 

The copy I’ve got from the library is a 1924 edition, edited (and helpfully modernised) by F. J. Harvey Darton. 

2/ There’s a sequence in The Golden Ass in which Lucius attacks and kills some thieves, who later turn out to be animal hides—“blown bladders” or “blown goat skins” in Adlington’s translation but apparently “wineskins” in some other translations—it must be an allusion to this scene when Cervantes depicts Don Quixote stabbing some wineskins, thinking they’re giants. It also helps me understand Don Quixote’s “logic”: the goatskins in The Golden Ass are transformed into men through a witch’s enchantment. 

The Golden Ass makes me think of Don Quixote often: it has witchcraft and enchantments and metamorphoses; it has digressions, stories-within-the-story; it is episodic, a picaresque novel. Did Cervantes have the novel of Apuleius in mind, or did The Golden Ass heavily influence the romances mocked and parodied by Don Quixote?

The central difference between The Tale of Genji, Don Quixote, etc. and The Golden Ass—to go back to the question previously raised—is that The Tale of Genji and Don Quixote are realistic—depicting the real world—whereas The Golden Ass depicts a world in which a man sneaks into a witch’s room and tries to turn into a bird but ends up transforming into a donkey. That probably makes it close to the romances that were popular in the medieval period, but then I have never read romances and don’t know the differences between them and modern non-realistic novels (allegory novels, fantasy novels, monster smut, etc). As far as I know, the definition of the novel says nothing about realism (“an invented prose narrative of considerable length and a certain complexity that deals imaginatively with human experience, usually through a connected sequence of events involving a group of persons in a specific setting” in Britannica; “an invented prose narrative that is usually long and complex and deals especially with human experience through a usually connected sequence of events” in Merriam-Webster…): there’s no reason to reject the novel label for The Golden Ass. 

However, it’s obvious that Don Quixote marked something different, hence the “first modern novel” (as well as “first postmodern novel”). It’s fascinating to read Don Quixote, then the novels influenced by it (Joseph Andrews, The Female Quixote…), and now the novel that influenced it (at least indirectly). 

3/ I’m fascinated by literary development and influence. Novels all trace back to The Golden Ass, the only ancient Roman novel to survive in its entirety. Picaresque novels in the West (Don Quixote, Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones…) all trace back to The Golden Ass. Literary works depicting society through the perspective of an animal (“Kholstomer”, The Heart of a Dog, I am a Cat…) all trace back to The Golden Ass. 

I’m aware of two films that tell the story through the eyes of a donkey—Au Hasard Balthazar (1966) and EO (2022)—and now will have to watch them (even though it’s probably unlikely that they allude to Apuleius).   

It’s also interesting that Apuleius’s not Italian: he was born in the Roman province of Numidia, which is now Algeria; he’s North African. However, he studied in Athens and travelled widely, and the book is full of references to Greek/ Roman mythology. There’s even a Socrates, who becomes a witch’s sex slave. 

4/ As a fan of War and Peace and Moby-Dick, I am used to digressions and this is not a complaint, but it’s rather curious that at roughly midpoint, The Golden Ass has a rather long interruption: the story of Cupid and Psyche—by my calculation—takes up about 15% of the novel! I also didn’t know that the myth of Cupid and Psyche was from here, whether it originated here or Apuleius was retelling the myth and it’s the earliest extant version.  

The story is about Psyche, who is so beautiful that people worship her and neglect Venus. That enrages Venus, as one would expect, so she goes to her son Cupid and wants her revenge: 

““I pray thee” (quoth she), “my dear child, by motherly bond of love, by the sweet wounds of thy piercing darts, by the pleasant heat of thy fire, revenge the injury which is done to thy mother, by the false and disobedient beauty of a mortal maiden, and I pray thee without delay, that she may fall in love with the most miserable creature living, the most poor, the most crooked, and the most vile, that there may be none found in all the world of like wretchedness.”” (B.4, ch.12) 

Cupid doesn’t obey her, but let’s leave that for now—what does that make you think of? Oberon taking petty revenge on Titania by using love potion on her: 

“OBERON […] The next thing then she waking looks upon, 

Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, 

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,

She shall pursue it with the soul of love…” 

(A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 2 scene 1) 

Titania falls in love with Bottom, who has now got an ass’s head. In other words, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare gets inspiration not only from the main plot of The Golden Ass, but also from the framed narrative: there are obvious allusions (Oberon mentioning “young Cupid’s fiery shaft” and “the bolt of Cupid) and, more importantly, the entire play is about love, the unpredictability and almost randomness of love, jealousy, etc. 

5/ A few fairytales seem to trace back to the Cupid and Psyche story in The Golden Ass, especially “Beauty and the Beast” and “Cinderella”. I see the similarities. 

The quote in the headline comes from the old woman who’s part of the gang of thieves, as she begins telling the story of Cupid and Psyche to Lucius (now a donkey) and a captive maiden. 

Reading the Bible: the Books of Kings

1/ The Books of Kings immediately follow the Books of Samuel: as David is old and stricken in years, his son Adonijah assumes the throne; however, David gets told about it and gives the throne instead to Solomon, his son with Bathsheba.

“And he had seven hundred wives, princesses, and three hundred concubines: and his wives turned away his heart.” (1 Kings 11:3) 

Even worse than Genji. Much worse. 

(Where does Solomon get the energy?) 

As “his wives turned away his heart after other gods: and his heart was not perfect with the LORD his God”, God is angry and rends the kingdom away from Solomon. After his death, his son Rehoboam becomes king but the people depart him, all except the tribe of Judah, so Rehoboam is king of Judah; Jeroboam, a servant of Solomon, becomes the king of Israel and rules over ten tribes, though after a while he also displeases God. The narrative then tells us about various kings of Judah and kings of Israel—how they worship false idols and break the commandments and anger God—it must be no surprise to you, considering what I wrote in the previous blog post, that I find most of 1 Kings rather repetitive and tedious. 

2/ The book however has my interest with the appearance of king Ahab. 

“And Ahab the son of Omri did evil in the sight of the LORD above all that were before him.

And it came to pass, as if it had been a light thing for him to walk in the sins of Jeroboam the son of Nebat, that he took to wife Jezebel the daughter of Ethbaal king of the Zidonians, and went and served Baal, and worshipped him.

And he reared up an altar for Baal in the house of Baal, which he had built in Samaria.

And Ahab made a grove; and Ahab did more to provoke the LORD God of Israel to anger than all the kings of Israel that were before him.” (1 Kings 16:30-33) 

Melville gives the name Ahab to the captain of Pequod, the madman who sees all evil personified in a white whale and drives the whole crew to their deaths in pursuit of a dumb brute, the heretic who hangs out with a fire worshipper and tempers his harpoon in human blood, the one who says “Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me” (Moby-Dick, chapter 36). Knowing the biblical story of king Ahab helps me see another layer of meaning in Moby-Dick. 

Not only so, Melville gives the name Elijah—the man of God who tries to warn king Ahab in the Bible—to the sailor who tries to warn the narrator and Queequeg about Ahab and the expedition. Chapter 19 “The Prophet”. Both fail.

The biblical story of Ahab isn’t particularly interesting on its own though: we don’t know Ahab’s thoughts; we don’t know the thoughts of his wife Jezebel. The Bible tells us that David is a good king who keeps the commandments (and only displeases God in one thing), and Ahab is a bad king who “did more to provoke the LORD God of Israel to anger than all the kings of Israel that were before him”, but when Jezebel sets up a trial and gets false witnesses to have Naboth killed so that Ahab can have his vineyard, that to me isn’t particularly different from David arranging the death of Uriah so that he can possess his wife Bathsheba. 

3/ The end of 1 Kings and the beginning of 2 Kings talk about many miracles of God/ Elijah the prophet/ Elisha the prophet: bringing back the dead, making fire appear in wet wood, making poisonous food harmless, curing a leper, striking the Syrians blind when they invade, and so on. Quite fun to read.

My favourite image is possibly at the end of the leper story—Naaman offers gifts to Elisha for curing him of leprosy and the prophet refuses, but his servant Gehazi gets greedy and runs after Naaman and lies to him and receives gifts in Elisha’s name, and Elisha knows. 

“The leprosy therefore of Naaman shall cleave unto thee, and unto thy seed for ever. And he went out from his presence a leper as white as snow.” (2 Kings 5:27) 

Striking image. And strange. 

4/ After narrating the miracles, the Bible returns to telling us about the kings and I’m sorry to say that I couldn’t care less about any of them. All these names are blurred together—Jeroboam and Rehoboam and Jehoram and Joram and Jehu and Joash and Jehoahaz and Jehoash and so on—after a while, I don’t know and don’t care who’s who, who’s related to whom, who does what.  

The Books of Kings are also very repetitive, the same phrases used over and over again: “and he did that which was evil/ right in the sight of the LORD”, “and [king’s name] slept with his fathers” … over and over again, which I suppose is to reinforce and emphasise the point. Then once in a while, the Bible breaks the monotony with some shocking violence. 

For instance, Jehu, appointed king of Israel, kills Ahaziah, the king of Judah. 

“So Jehu slew all that remained of the house of Ahab in Jezreel, and all his great men, and his kinsfolks, and his priests, until he left him none remaining.

[…] Jehu met with the brethren of Ahaziah king of Judah, and said, Who are ye? And they answered, We are the brethren of Ahaziah; and we go down to salute the children of the king and the children of the queen.

And he said, Take them alive. And they took them alive, and slew them at the pit of the shearing house, even two and forty men; neither left he any of them.” (2 Kings 10-11-14)

But no, he doesn’t stop there: he lays a trap to kill all the Baal worshippers. 

“And the LORD said unto Jehu, Because thou hast done well in executing that which is right in mine eyes, and hast done unto the house of Ahab according to all that was in mine heart, thy children of the fourth generation shall sit on the throne of Israel.” (2 Kings 10-30) 

That’s very disturbing, is it not? 

I’m going to take a break from the Bible and read something else for a while.  

Reading the Bible: the Books of Samuel

I suppose one day I will read the whole of the King James Bible, but at the moment I’m prioritising the parts that I think have had the most influence on Western literature and culture. 

1/ This is how the first book begins: 

“Now there was a certain man of Ramathaimzophim, of mount Ephraim, and his name was Elkanah, the son of Jeroham, the son of Elihu, the son of Tohu, the son of Zuph, an Ephrathite:

And he had two wives; the name of the one was Hannah, and the name of the other Peninnah: and Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children.” (1 Samuel 1:1-2)

Hannah is barren, like Sarai (Abram’s wife) and Rachel (Jacob’s wife), until God grants their wishes: Sarai has Isaac, Rachel has Joseph and some more children, Hannah now has Samuel. Do women all have the same affliction in the Bible? 

2/ God punishes Eli the priest, because “his sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not.” 

The first sentence of 1 Samuel 2:25 is interesting: 

“If one man sin against another, the judge shall judge him: but if a man sin against the LORD, who shall intreat for him?”

Whatever you think about the Bible, the writing in the King James Bible—on the sentence level—is beautiful. 

3/ Samuel makes his sons judges over Israel (nepotism!) but they walk not in his ways, so the people of Israel demand a king. 

“And the LORD said unto Samuel, Hearken unto the voice of the people in all that they say unto thee: for they have not rejected thee, but they have rejected me, that I should not reign over them.

According to all the works which they have done since the day that I brought them up out of Egypt even unto this day, wherewith they have forsaken me, and served other gods, so do they also unto thee.

Now therefore hearken unto their voice: howbeit yet protest solemnly unto them, and shew them the manner of the king that shall reign over them.” (1 Samuel 8:7-9)

Quite a strange response when the judges are corrupt, but okay. God, through Samuel, appoints Saul as the king (I didn’t realise that “God save the king” came from this book!).  

One of my troubles with the Bible is that we don’t often know the characters’ thoughts—I know the Bible is a religious text, not a novel, but there are narratives and there are people—I want to know their thoughts. How does Saul feel about going around looking for his donkeys then suddenly being made the king of Israel, for example? We’re not told. How does Isaac feel about his father Abram’s willingness to sacrifice him to God? We’re not told. What do Leah and Rachel think about the way their father Laban tricks Jacob into sleeping with Leah and making her his first wife, when he only wants Rachel? Again, we’re not told.  

Saul becomes king, but after some time, falls out of favour with God. 

“Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.” (1 Samuel 15:3)

Saul and the people don’t go so far. 

“But Saul and the people spared Agag, and the best of the sheep, and of the oxen, and of the fatlings, and the lambs, and all that was good, and would not utterly destroy them: but every thing that was vile and refuse, that they destroyed utterly.” (1 Samuel 15:9) 

And that angers God: 

“And Samuel said, Hath the LORD as great delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the LORD? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams.

For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the LORD, he hath also rejected thee from being king.” (1 Samuel 15:22-23)

Is this not a violent God, a bloodthirsty God, a tyrannical God? 

The story of Saul however becomes interesting when David appears, as it’s a story of obsessive envy and blind hatred. 

“And David fled from Naioth in Ramah, and came and said before Jonathan, What have I done? what is mine iniquity? and what is my sin before thy father, that he seeketh my life?” (1 Samuel 20:1) 

Stories of God speaking to someone and giving them aid, or punishing someone for sinning against the Lord, don’t personally appeal to me; but this is drama, this is a human story. Has David not been loyal to Saul? Has he not killed Goliath and saved Israel? Has he not been a good friend to Saul’s son Jonathan? Wherefore is this intense hatred that Saul wants David dead? I can’t help thinking that this story must have also fascinated Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky, as Dostoyevsky constantly writes about spite, and Shakespeare also likes to explore the kind of violent hatred that seems to appear out of nowhere—the best example of “motiveless malignity” in Shakespeare is Iago, but we also see that in Leontes in The Winter’s Tale, Don John in Much Ado About Nothing, Oliver in As You Like It, and perhaps some others.   

On another note, David feigning madness to protect himself reminds me of two characters in Shakespeare: Hamlet and Edgar. 

4/ The beginning of the second book is quite tedious—Saul dying, David becoming the king of Judah and then the king of the whole of Israel, David waging wars and conquering Jerusalem, David having multiple wives and numerous children, etc.—but the story becomes interesting again when king David, who so far has been a good man, takes Bathsheba and arranges the death of her husband Uriah so he can have her. Is it rape? Coercion? Or just adultery? It isn’t clear—of course I know Bathsheba isn’t in the position to say no to a king—but the Bible doesn’t give us her thoughts the way it later gives us a glimpse of Tamar’s suffering, after she’s raped by her half-brother Amnon. 

One of my favourite parts is when David speaks to Nathan the prophet, and God, through Nathan, tells him a parable about a rich man and a poor man: 

“And David’s anger was greatly kindled against the man; and he said to Nathan, As the LORD liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely die:

[…] And Nathan said to David, Thou art the man…” (2 Samuel 12:5-7) 

Good one. 

David has to pay for his sin though, and the stories of his children are tragic: the loss of David’s child with Bathsheba; his eldest son Amnon’s rape of Tamar; Amnon’s death by Absalom, Tamar’s brother and another son of David; Absalom’s revolt, even when he has been forgiven by David, etc. All these stories are great material for retellings. 

This line is particularly moving: 

“And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!” (2 Samuel 18:33) 

It is heartrending (and I’m always in tears) when Lear cries over the dead body of Cordelia, but I don’t think there’s anything in Shakespeare like this moment in the Bible—a father weeps over the death of a son who turned against him. 

I’m starting to see why some people see the Bible as their favourite book, or the greatest book: not just religious ideas and messages, the book contains so many great stories—stories that have shaped (Western) literature and culture. 

5/ Christians won’t like that I’m saying this, but so far, apart from the long lists of laws, my least favourite parts of the Bible are the parts that involve God (except God’s first appearance to Moses in Exodus). 

“And again the anger of the LORD was kindled against Israel, and he moved David against them to say, Go, number Israel and Judah.” (2 Samuel 24:1) 

The census angers God. 

“And David’s heart smote him after that he had numbered the people. And David said unto the LORD, I have sinned greatly in that I have done: and now, I beseech thee, O LORD, take away the iniquity of thy servant; for I have done very foolishly.

[…] So Gad came to David, and told him, and said unto him, Shall seven years of famine come unto thee in thy land? or wilt thou flee three months before thine enemies, while they pursue thee? or that there be three days’ pestilence in thy land? now advise, and see what answer I shall return to him that sent me.

[…] So the LORD sent a pestilence upon Israel from the morning even to the time appointed: and there died of the people from Dan even to Beersheba seventy thousand men.” (2 Samuel 10-15) 

Isn’t that horrific? I don’t get it. 

My favourite parts of the Bible so far are the human stories—the stories showing human nature and human conflict—especially the one about Saul and David, and about David and his children.