My personal library

1/ As I consider buying a Muriel Spark omnibus, I’m idly thinking about the books I own. We all know reading and book buying are two different hobbies. As I’m not able to buy books often, most of the books I read I do not own—they’re usually copies from the libraries or ebooks from Gutenberg. Most books aren’t read more than once. Great books written in other languages should be read in multiple translations. 

So what books do I own? Shakespeare, of course: all the plays in 7 volumes, plus an Oxford book containing the sonnets and narrative poems (I’m a fanatic, of course, but does any English-speaking household not own any Shakespeare?). Jane Austen: 7 novels in one volume (great for anyone who wants to combine reading with weight-lifting). Moby-Dick, my Bible. The King James Bible. The Oxford Book of English Verse (my attempt to get into poetry beyond Shakespeare and Keats). No Charlotte, no Anne, but I do have Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. No George Eliot, if we talk about the books in my place right now and ignore the ones stored at my mum’s house in Leeds. No Dickens except David Copperfield, a rescue, though I sometimes feel an urge to buy Bleak House (but when am I going to reread it? I’m also unlikely to occasionally pick it up and reread chapters as I do with Moby-Dick). No Henry Fielding. No Edith Wharton. No Henry James. The books I own, I suppose, indicate my obsessions, especially if they’re right here with me. I have three books by Nabokov (Lolita, Pnin, and Speak, Memory) for instance, but they’re stored away in Leeds. No Alice Munro (I gave away my copy), but I have Flannery O’Connor. 

Beyond English? Tolstoy, of course: I read Anna Karenina and War and Peace twice, each time in a different translation, but a Tolstoy fan must have their own copies to revisit chapters (Anna Karenina by Rosamund Bartlett, War and Peace by Aylmer and Louise Maude, revised by Amy Mandelker); sometimes I feel an urge to buy Hadji Murad and the short stories. Chekhov: 2 collections in Constance Garnett’s translation (how many times have I read “The Bishop” or “The Lady with the Little Dog”?). Homer: next time I reread the Iliad or the Odyssey from cover to cover, it’s going to be another translation, but I need my own copies (Robert Fitzgerald) so as to easily revisit Akhilleus or Odysseus.

Clearly a lot of this is about how often I pick up the books. Value for money and all that, which doesn’t sound very romantic. But one needs to be practical and I need to stop buying books. Next time I move house, Don Quixote (Tom Lathrop) and The Brothers Karamazov (Ignat Avsey) might have to go despite my enjoyment, but Metamorphoses (A. D. Melville) might stay despite my indifference, because it’s more useful to keep a collection of myths (especially when it influenced my boy Shakespeare). Practical, practical. 

Then why do I own copies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides? I’m contradicting myself. And I own Truyện Kiều mainly because I’m Vietnamese, the same way English speakers must all own some Shakespeare (I’d also love Nguyễn Du to improve my Vietnamese writings but isn’t it foolish, I don’t really pick it up). 

(I’m leaving non-fiction out of this blog post). 

2/ What do our favourite books say about us? 

Sometimes I try to find some pattern behind the writers who speak the most to me, but can’t find any. I like both sane writers (Jane Austen, Chekhov, Tolstoy…) and mad writers (Emily Bronte, Melville, Akutagawa…); both warm writers (Chekhov, Molière, Dickens…) and cold writers (Jane Austen, Flannery O’Connor, Muriel Spark…). I think I like writers preoccupied with the subject of death, but Jane Austen leaves it offstage. I think I like writers with a sense of humour, but does Tolstoy make anyone laugh? (Maybe twice in War and Peace). I think I like writers who see some goodness and nobility in humanity and don’t just depict us all as base and bestial, but why do I like Flannery O’Connor? 

3/ Russian literature ruined my life. 

In my younger and more vulnerable years, reading Tolstoy made me want to have compassion and seek to understand other human beings. In such foolishness, I put up with lots of things and lots of people I shouldn’t have tolerated. It’s Jane Austen who taught me to have more discernment, to look at things with detachment, to be more judgemental. 

I don’t read literature for self-improvement, but we love a book more than others not only because it’s masterfully crafted, not only because it’s enjoyable, but also because it speaks to us and stays with us over the years. Austen is a good guide because, whereas many 19th century writers tend to focus on compassion and empathy, Austen emphasises the importance of discernment, self-reflection, and balance or moderation (we know what happens when one has excessive empathy). 

Later on, during that difficult period of my life, I found solace in Chekhov and found myself moving away from Austen—she didn’t write about the subjects that were preoccupying me. But now looking back, I can’t help wondering if I was making a mess of things because I absorbed Chekhov’s pessimism and accepted that human relationships were messy and my life was over and there’s no happiness on earth. I was going through volumes and volumes of Chekhov—how many stories did I read?—Chekhov saved me but also ruined me. 

(Of course I exaggerate for dramatic effect: some of it is true, but I’m doing fine and more judgemental than ever). 

Interesting that now both my favourite male and female writers are English. 

If This Be Magic and Shakespeare in translation: some further thoughts

 1/ When asked whether we know a writer if we only read them in translation, I suppose most people would say either yes or no. I think it depends: I think some but not too much is lost if we’re talking about Jane Austen, Trollope, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Fielding, Balzac, Zola, Molière…; but Nguyễn Du in translation is no longer Nguyễn Du and I’d say the same about Shakespeare, Melville, or Wodehouse; and I can’t help feeling that I don’t really know Homer, Sophocles, Virgil, or Ovid. 

There’s a reason that non-Russians name Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, or Chekhov as the greatest Russian writer, whereas Russians say Pushkin. 

That doesn’t mean we reject everything in translation. We look at different translations; we do what we can. Am I going to learn ancient Greek? No, I have no gift for languages. To read as widely as I aim to do, I need translators, for whom I’m forever grateful. I’m just saying that sometimes we do lose a lot: Wodehouse’s comic genius is in the phrasing, so what do we have when his sentences are now rephrased by someone else? It’s something to keep in mind. 

2/ In my previous blog post about Daniel Hahn’s If This Be Magic: The Unlikely Art of Shakespeare in Translation, I wrote: 

“When people read or watch Shakespeare in translation, his poetry is lost but his other qualities—his metaphors, his range, his characterisation and psychological insight, his examination of power and politics, his understanding of human nature, his sense of pacing and understanding of drama, and so on—are still there. When I read Racine, I suspected that much of his greatness was in the French alexandrine verse that got lost in translation.” 

Glad to later find Hahn making the same point in his book: 

“… Jean-Michel cited this distinction to explain why we see so few plays by Racine staged in English—he’s a writer for whom language is everything. A play like Bérénice has very little plot— ‘it’s all music, it’s all language.’ It’s a beautiful literary play, but Racine never wrote anything as generously, theatrically user-friendly as A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” (ch.32) 

The plays of Racine are all talk talk talk. 

If we leave aside the ancient Greek plays (different tradition of drama, with lots of singing), I have noticed that sometimes a long speech in someone else’s play is just the author writing poetry, whereas long speeches in Shakespeare are usually either rhetoric (a character trying to persuade another, which moves the plot forward), or a soliloquy (which depicts a character’s stream of thoughts). Spanish Golden Age playwrights, except for Lope de Vega, very often write those long speeches which neither move the plot forward nor do anything for characterisation (I’m looking at you, Tirso de Molina—what’s the point of that four-page speech about Lisbon?). The closet plays of Seneca, or Goethe’s Faust, have many passages and scenes that I know wouldn’t work well onstage. 

Shakespeare and Molière are performed widely around the world—in translation—because they understand theatre so well, having such a great sense of pacing and tension and pitch and dramatic effects (I once saw a bad production of Othello which still managed to make me tear up at the end).  

I’ve also noted that some of the playwrights who do well onstage in translation wrote in prose: Chekhov, Ibsen (except for some early plays)… Different beast, then. 

3/ Daniel Hahn’s book makes me have immense respect for translators of Shakespeare into other languages, and I do think many of the examples—the choices, the solutions to the problems inherent in translating Shakespeare—are brilliant. But at the same time, the book reinforces my view that Shakespeare is best appreciated in English, that I’m glad to read and watch his works in the original, and that it’s silly to call for a translation of his plays into today’s English. 

(Yep, over the years I’ve encountered lots of philistines who think readers of Shakespeare in translation have an advantage over us). 

When a translator finds a clever solution for a joke or a pun in Shakespeare, it might be funny (and the translator deserves an applause), but that joke or that pun is not Shakespeare’s. Hahn also explores many other problems and not everything gets a neat solution. What do you do when Shakespeare plays with the coexistence of Latinate/ Romance and Germanic words in the English language? Or when he marks an accent or regional dialect? Or when he includes words from another language? Or when he includes words from the target language itself (i.e. what does a French translator do with the French passages in the plays)? And if you make a choice between domestication and foreignisation, how far do you go and where do you draw the line? 

The translator is thus the second author. 

Hahn raises a million questions—sometimes there’s a brilliant answer, sometimes there’s no neat solution—and the book gets one to think more deeply about Shakespeare and about the art of translation. One aspect I’ve never considered, for example, is that a translator of Shakespeare tries to think about beats, rhythm, and rhyme, which is challenging enough if some languages (such as Italian or Greek) have longer words than English does, but things could be even further complicated by accents: a play translated by a Brazilian might end up losing some effects in the mouth of a Portuguese actor, as they pronounce syllables differently.

4/ This is interesting: 

“Just as everyday English carries idioms drawn from our own greatest canonical translation, the 1611 King James Bible (and its more quietly influential predecessors), so translated Shakespeare looms large in other languages, phrases from his work inflecting people’s speech.” (ch.37) 

I like that. 

(Does this happen in Vietnamese? I have no idea). 

“We readers can become attached to [translations] in just the same way, and it’s hard to imagine the validity of alternative interchangeable versions. Just recall the stories that mattered most to you as a kid, when some of the strongest bonds were formed. For me, those books included classics that were definitely not called ‘Gretel and Hansel’ or ‘Cindergirl’, Lindgren’s Pippi Longsocks, Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘Small Mermaid’.” 

In Vietnam, some titles of classics—Giấc mộng đêm hè (A Midsummer Night’s Dream), Bắt trẻ đồng xanh (The Catcher in the Rye), Đỉnh gió hú (Wuthering Heights), Cuốn theo chiều gió (Gone with the Wind), Tội ác và trừng phạt (Crime and Punishment), and so on—have become so iconic that retranslated titles would flop, or new translators don’t bother. It’s like Dostoyevsky’s Братья Карамазовы: since Constance Garnett, everyone has called it The Brothers Karamazov even though some later translators (such as Ignat Avsey) translated it as The Karamazov Brothers. 

We become attached to translations: I love Constance Garnett’s translations of Chekhov (still going through the 13 volumes); Aylmer and Louise Maude’s versions of Tolstoy are dear friends, including their War and Peace (revised by Amy Mandelker), though now the Anna Karenina copy I keep is by Rosamund Bartlett; I suspect I’m also attached to Robert Fitzgerald’s translations of Homer, which is why I (unreasonably) stick to Akhilleus when everyone else says Achilles, and so on. 

If This Be Magic is a very good book—a celebration of Shakespeare and a celebration of translators—and it’s certainly one of the books I’ve enjoyed most this year. 

Shakespeare in translation [updated]

1/ A Shakespeare fan never runs out of things to read. 

I’ve been enjoying If This Be Magic: The Unlikely Art of Shakespeare in Translation by Daniel Hahn. 

When the Royal Shakespeare Company commemorated the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death, they had a sketch in which a bunch of (famous) Shakespearean actors argued about where to put the emphasis in “To be or not to be, that is the question”—the first “be”? the second “be”? “or”? “not”? “to”? “that”? “is”? “question”? In one chapter of If This Be Magic, Hahn listed (and briefly discussed) 15 different translations of the line into Spanish. 

A translator has to think about meaning, double meaning, ambiguity, tone, register, the constraints of language, the choice to make when a word in the source language is ambiguous but has to be one or the other in the target language, etc.; a translator of Shakespeare also has to think about verse form, rhyme, rhythm, metre, sound, speed, emphasis, performance, dramatic effects, puns, jokes, wordplay, homophones, etc. Much is lost in translation but also much is gained, Hahn argues (though of course he would say that, as he’s a translator himself). It’s a thought-provoking and fascinating book, and I like that he’s funny. 

(My only regret is that the book doesn’t discuss Vietnamese; it also doesn’t include Norwegian, but I’d make do with Danish).  

A similar book about translations of Homer (into English) would also be interesting, though of course I would understand it less as I can’t read Homer in the original.

If you like Shakespeare and/or language and translation, read If This Be Magic. 

2/ Is Shakespeare in translation still Shakespeare? I tend to think not. But it’s a fact—an interesting fact—that Shakespeare is one of the few playwrights who hold the global stage very well in translation. If we compare French dramatists, Molière is performed widely in many languages around the world—I have read Molière as translated by 5-6 different people and he’s always a hoot—but Racine doesn’t have the same appeal. When people read or watch Shakespeare in translation, his poetry is lost but his other qualities—his metaphors, his range, his characterisation and psychological insight, his examination of power and politics, his understanding of human nature, his sense of pacing and understanding of drama, and so on—are still there. When I read Racine, I suspected that much of his greatness was in the French alexandrine verse that got lost in translation.

Shakespeare in Swahililand by Edward Wilson-Lee is also an interesting read by the way. 

3/ I suppose I don’t need to tell you what I think about translating Shakespeare from English into (today’s) English. 

Have you heard of Shakespeare’s Sonnets: Retold by James Anthony? Let me ruin your evening/ morning. 

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29: 

When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes

I all alone beweep my out-cast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate.

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

(Like to the Lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth) sings hymns at Heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,

That then I scorn to change my state with Kings.

James Anthony’s rewriting: 

What awful luck! I’ve been humiliated,

And so I sob alone for no one cares;

Not even God hears I’m infuriated;

Only my mirror duplicates my swears.

I wish I could be far more optimistic,

With ample friends who’ve got so much to say,

Like writers, thinkers, anyone artistic

Who’d help me look on life a different way.

Yet when I’m in despair, with self-made scorn,

I fondly think of you, then thoughts deploy,

Just like a warbling songbird marking dawn,

Alleviating pain with songs of joy.

For when I dream of you, my heart grows rich;

If offered wealth, I would decline to switch.

Ugh. 

Addendum: I suppose I could (and should) say that Daniel Hahn’s book is less about Shakespeare—whether Shakespeare is still Shakespeare in translation, why he has held the world stage so well for hundreds of years, and so on—than about the art of translation and the creativity of translators. The idea is essentially, this is what Shakespeare wrote and what he was doing, and these are the constraints of the language, so what do the translators do with it? 

Reading the Bible: Daniel, Jonah

1/ My summary of the second chapter of the Book of Daniel: 

The king: Interpret my dream.

People: What’s the dream?

The king: I don’t remember, interpret it.

People: Tell us the dream, we will. 

The king: Can’t remember. Fuck you! Interpret my dream. 

It’s a good story, though, about the tyranny of the king: this is Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon, who besieges Jerusalem. He later orders his people to throw some Israelites into a burning furnace, for not worshipping the same god. 

“Then Nebuchadnezzar came near to the mouth of the burning fiery furnace, and spake, and said, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, ye servants of the most high God, come forth, and come hither. Then Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, came forth of the midst of the fire.

And the princes, governors, and captains, and the king’s counsellors, being gathered together, saw these men, upon whose bodies the fire had no power, nor was an hair of their head singed, neither were their coats changed, nor the smell of fire had passed on them.” (Daniel 3:26-27) 

It’s a story about how the God of the Israelites is more powerful than the god of Babylon. I am however more interested in the depiction of a tyrant. 

2/ Daniel is one of the Israelites raised and educated in the palace. Having insight into visions and dreams, Daniel interprets dreams and foretells the future and lives through different kings of Babylon—over and over again, the Book of Daniel depicts the God of Daniel and the Israelites (Yahweh) as stronger and more powerful than the god of Babylon. I suppose it’s meaningful to people of faith; it doesn’t mean much to me. Reading the Book of Daniel is mainly useful for me to know about the fiery furnace, the writings on the wall, Daniel in the lions’ den, the dream of the four beasts, etc.

There are some strange images, such as Daniel’s vision of the four beasts that come up from the sea: 

“The first was like a lion, and had eagle’s wings: I beheld till the wings thereof were plucked, and it was lifted up from the earth, and made stand upon the feet as a man, and a man’s heart was given to it.

And behold another beast, a second, like to a bear, and it raised up itself on one side, and it had three ribs in the mouth of it between the teeth of it: and they said thus unto it, Arise, devour much flesh.

After this I beheld, and lo another, like a leopard, which had upon the back of it four wings of a fowl; the beast had also four heads; and dominion was given to it.

After this I saw in the night visions, and behold a fourth beast, dreadful and terrible, and strong exceedingly; and it had great iron teeth: it devoured and brake in pieces, and stamped the residue with the feet of it: and it was diverse from all the beasts that were before it; and it had ten horns.

I considered the horns, and, behold, there came up among them another little horn, before whom there were three of the first horns plucked up by the roots: and, behold, in this horn were eyes like the eyes of man, and a mouth speaking great things.” (Daniel 7:4-8) 

Ten horns sounds very crowded.

If only the whole of the Bible were as good as the Book of Job, or the Books of Samuel, though. I’d like to think of myself as an Appreciationist and often see literary merit even in classics I don’t personally enjoy, but the Bible can be tough. 

3/ The Book of Jonah is important because of the iconic image of Jonah in the belly of a big fish (a whale?), but my interest is mainly because of its influence on Moby-Dick: it’s quoted in Extracts; chapter 9 “The Sermon” is about the Book of Jonah; chapter 83 is titled “Jonah Historically Regarded”; there are numerous other references throughout the novel. 

“‘With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at God, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men will carry him into countries where God does not reign, but only the Captains of this earth. […] See ye not then, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee world-wide from God?’” (Moby-Dick, ch.9) 

Father Mapple tells the story of Jonah to preach about defiance and sin and repentance. There are some parallels between Jonah at the beginning and Captain Ahab: Ahab also defies Heaven, defies God, but does not repent—even to the last. 

“‘I turn my body from the sun. […] Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale!...’” (ch.135) 

Ahab may be seen as a kind of anti-Jonah. 

Is it not interesting though that something like Moby-Dick was written by someone not religious, someone who’s not a believer? 

4/ There are echoes of Jonah in Hamlet: Hamlet boards a ship to England and escapes death and returns a different man. 

“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, 

Rough-hew them how we will.” 

(Act 5 scene 2) 

He is calmer, but more fatalistic.

I’m going to take a break from the Bible to read other stuff, then I’ll decide whether to read Psalms or go straight to the New Testament. 

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. 

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 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.  

Reading the Bible: Genesis

1/ Not only did I not grow up in a (culturally) Christian country, I grew up in Vietnam, a communist and thus anti-religious country—I only knew about Adam, Eve, Noah, and Jesus—all the biblical references in classic literature and art flew over my head. It’s a big hole, I know. That’s why I’m now reading the King James Bible. 

Honestly if you’re a Christian, you might want to skip all these Bible posts so as not to read the thoughts of a bumbling idiot. 

2/ Is it not fascinating that multiple ancient texts mention a great flood that destroys civilisation, as an act of divine retribution, or purifying humanity of corruption? We all know about the Great Flood in Genesis and I’ve now read it, but there’s also one in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and, as I’ve been told, in some other ancient texts. 

3/ I’ve finally encountered Ishmael! 

Abram (later Abraham) has a son with his Egyptian slave Hagar, named Ishmael, and a son with his wife Sarai (later Sarah), called Isaac. Isaac has two sons with his wife Rebekah, named Esau and Jacob (later renamed Israel). Ishmael has I don’t even know how many children. 

“And he will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man’s hand against him; and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.” (Genesis 16:12)

Hagar and Ishmael are cast out when Sarai has her own son. Is that how the narrator of Moby-Dick sees himself? 

My next revisit of the novel is going to be interesting when I have known the Bible (and hopefully Paradise Lost), the way my second reading last year was more enriched when I had several years immersed myself in the works of Shakespeare. 

4/ A lot of stories in Genesis are quite disturbing: Abram being wiling to sacrifice his own son Isaac; Jacob deceiving his father Isaac and stealing the blessing meant for his brother Esau; Jacob getting tricked by Laban into sleeping with Leah when he only wants Rachel; God’s interference into Jacob’s family “And when the Lord saw that Leah was hated, he opened her womb: but Rachel was barren” (Genesis 29:31); Jacob’s other sons selling Joseph (son of Jacob and Rachel) to merchants; Judah (son of Jacob and Leah) having sex with Tamar, his daughter-in-law… 

Thanks to Himadri for sharing this poem though: 

“The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young”

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

And took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,

Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,

Behold the preparations, fire and iron,

But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?

Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,

And builded parapets and trenches there,

And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.

When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him, thy son.

Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,

A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,

And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

(Wilfred Owen) 

5/ The story of Jacob and Laban is referenced in The Merchant of Venice, when Shylock tells the story to justify usury.  

“ANTONIO This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for, 

A thing not in his power to bring to pass, 

But swayed and fashioned by the hand of heaven. 

Was this inserted to make interest good? 

Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? 

SHYLOCK I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. 

But note me, signior—

ANTONIO Mark you this, Bassanio, 

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose…” 

(Act 1 scene 3) 

People can argue about these characters’ interpretations of the story, but the interesting thing to me is that Jacob cheats Laban but Laban has been trying to trick and exploit him, not different from the way Shylock tries to trick the Christian characters who have been using and abusing him; it’s also interesting to see that Jacob is not a morally good and passive character, but a trickster.

Let’s hope I’ll have some more interesting thoughts later on. 

Oedipus by John Dryden and Nathaniel Lee

1/ This is a retelling of Sophocles’s play but, you know what, I see Shakespeare’s stamp all over it. 

“ALCANDER Methinks we stand on ruins; nature shakes

About us; and the universal frame

So loose, that it but wants another push,

To leap from off its hinges.

DIOCLES No sun to cheer us; but a bloody globe,

That rolls above, a bald and beamless fire,

His face o’er-grown with scurf: The sun’s sick, too;

Shortly he’ll be an earth.

PYRACMON Therefore the seasons

Lie all confused; and, by the heavens neglected,

Forget themselves: Blind winter meets the summer

In his mid-way, and, seeing not his livery,

Has driven him headlong back; and the raw damps,

With flaggy wings, fly heavily about,

Scattering their pestilential colds and rheums

Through all the lazy air.” 

(Act 1) 

Does that not make you think of those passages about strange weathers and omens in Julius Caesar? And Macbeth? 

“CASCA Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth 

Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, 

I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds 

Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen 

Th’ ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, 

To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds; 

But never till tonight, never till now, 

Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 

Either there is a civil strife in heaven, 

Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 

Incenses them to send destruction.” 

(Julius Caesar, Act 1 scene 3) 

And: 

“LENNOX The night has been unruly. Where we lay, 

Our chimneys were blown down, and, as they say, 

Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, 

And prophesying with accents terrible 

Of dire combustion and confused events 

New hatched to th’ woeful time: the obscure bird 

Clamored the livelong night. Some say, the earth 

Was feverous and did shake.” 

(Macbeth, Act 2 scene 3)

In Sophocles’s play, a plague has been unleashed on the people of Thebes as a punishment for Oedipus’s sins. Here the author (is this Lee or Dryden?) pushes further, depicting the world as ending, as on the verge of an apocalypse. This is clearly Shakespeare’s influence. 

“HAEMON Sure ‘tis the end of all things! fate has torn

The lock of time off, and his head is now

The ghastly ball of round eternity!

Call you these peals of thunder, but the yawn

Of bellowing clouds? By Jove, they seem to me

The world’s last groans; and those vast sheets of flame

Are its last blaze. The tapers of the gods,

The sun and moon, run down like waxen-globes;

The shooting stars end all in purple jellies,

And chaos is at hand.

[…] PYRACMON Clusters of golden stars hang o’er their heads,

And seem so crowded, that they burst upon them:

All dart at once their baleful influence,

In leaking fire.” 

(Act 2) 

I like that. 

As this play is a collaboration, I don’t know if it’s Dryden or Nathaniel Lee who wrote all those passages (they don’t sound particularly like Dryden, but I’m new and unsure), but note the similar image here:  

“ANTONY Die? Rather let me perish! Loosened Nature 

Leap from its hinges; sink the props of Heaven, 

And fall the skies to crush the nether world! 

My eyes, my soul, my all!—” 

(Dryden’s All for Love, Act 2) 

“ALCANDER Methinks we stand on ruins; nature shakes

About us; and the universal frame

So loose, that it but wants another push,

To leap from off its hinges.” 

(Oedipus, Act 1) 

And another: 

“OEDIPUS […] Yes, cruel gods,

Though vultures, eagles, dragons tear my heart,

I'll snatch celestial flames, fire all your dwellings,

Melt down your golden roofs, and make your doors

Of crystal fly from off their diamond hinges;

Drive you all out from your ambrosial hives,

To swarm like bees about the field of heaven…” 

(Act 5) 

2/ But that’s not all. Dryden and Lee change the character of Creon, giving him “an ill-shaped body” with a “mountain back” and “distorted legs”, and turning him into a villain who wants to usurp the throne. What is this, if not Shakespeare’s Richard III?

There are other similarities: the play has a few scenes of the crowd being stupid and easily swayed, reminiscent of Coriolanus; there’s a sleepwalking scene, evoking Macbeth, etc. 

3/ As we all know the story of Oedipus, there are a few lines clearly written for a laugh.

“OEDIPUS […] So well I love, words cannot speak how well.

No pious son e’er loved his mother more,

Than I my dear Jocasta.” 

(Act 1)

That’s a wink-wink at the audience.  

“JOCASTA […] All I can wish for now, is your consent

To make my brother happy.

OEDIPUS How, Jocasta?

JOCASTA By marriage with his niece, Eurydice.

OEDIPUS Uncle and niece! they are too near, my love;

’Tis too like incest…” 

(ibid.)

4/ As Dryden and Lee retell the Oedipus myth, they make a few changes. I don’t particularly mind that they create the character of Eurydice as a daughter of Laius and Locasta, which creates a red herring and adds tension; I also don’t mind that Creon is now a villain aiming for the throne; but it’s rather ridiculous that Eurydice as a child is promised to her uncle Creon and he loves (or lusts for) her—is the Oedipus myth not weird enough? Does it not have enough incest? I know 17th century plays are generally much longer than ancient Greek plays, but Sophocles’s play, which I just now reread in H. D. F. Kitto’s translation, is perfect in its simplicity—Lee and Dryden complicate the plot and turn it into a hodgepodge of nonsense.  

The entire of Sophocles’s play is the finding of the truth and it’s about a few hours—Lee and Dryden extend it, drag it out and (in my opinion) reduce the dramatic impact—they also lift from Seneca’s version the stupid scene of the ghost of Laius appearing and accusing Oedipus. They then double the stupidity by bringing back the ghost at the end of the play, and create a bloody finale—for both the main plot and the subplot. The play is clearly made to appeal to the audience’s strong taste for spectacle, visual effects, and excessive violence. It’s almost as ridiculous as Seneca’s version. 

The thing is, Sophocles’s play is about fate and human agency, and also about the cost of pursuing the truth or the pain of learning the truth. I’m not quite sure what Dryden and Lee’s play is about. And yet it’s apparently a huge success onstage at the time (which I suppose reflects rather badly on the audience). 

Now I’m curious about Corneille’s version (which Dryden knew).