The Shakespeare Wars: Clashing Scholars, Public Fiascoes, Palace Coups - Hardcover

Rosenbaum, Ron

 
9780375503399: The Shakespeare Wars: Clashing Scholars, Public Fiascoes, Palace Coups
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0375503390 ISBN 13: 9780375503399
Verlag: Random House Inc, 2006

Inhaltsangabe

The best-selling author of Explaining Hitler offers a critical analysis of the vast array of Shakespearean scholarship and stage practice to discuss the various ways in which we view, read, interpret, and perform the Bard and to explore the diverse controversies and questions about the playwright and his work. 50,000 first printing.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Ron Rosenbaum studied Shakespeare at Yale. His bestselling work of cultural history, Explaining Hitler, has been translated into ten languages. His work has appeared in The New York Times, Harper’s, The Atlantic, and The New Yorker. He writes a column for The New York Observer and lives in New York City.

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Chapter One

The Dream Induction

On the last evening of the summer of 1970 in the vil- lage of Stratford-on-Avon, birthplace of Shakespeare, I had an experience that changed my life and has haunted me ever since. One that left me, ever after, with a question I’ve been trying to answer: What was that about?

An improbable chain of circumstances had resulted in my witnessing one of the first performances of a now-legendary production of A Mid- summer Night’s Dream, one that I subsequently learned changed more lives than mine: it changed the lives of an entire generation of Shakespearean players and directors, changed the way Shakespeare has been played ever since.

But for me, that Dream—a Royal Shakespeare Company production directed by Peter Brook—was a kind of initiation into a new realm, a realm I’ve sought with mixed success to return to ever after. It was the experience that, for me, gave a lifelong urgency to the conflicts over Shakespearean questions examined in the ensuing chapters.

Perhaps I should introduce the conflicted, divided person I was back then when I piloted my rented Austin Mini into Stratford by introducing the forbidden question that led me to flee graduate school, and indirectly set me on the path to that life-changing experience at Stratford.

Just two years before that I had begun what seemed like a promising academic career at Yale Graduate School’s Department of English Literature. As an undergraduate at Yale, I had studied primarily pre-seventeenth-century literature and had been granted a Carnegie Teaching Fellowship to Yale Graduate School, a fellowship designed to spur those undecided about an academic career to spend a year tasting the supposed fruits of such a career without many onerous responsibilities. I was only required to take one graduate seminar and teach one undergraduate class per semester, in return for which I was given an official-sounding appointment to the Yale faculty and named a Junior Fellow of Jonathan Edwards (residential) College.

The latter made me briefly a colleague of Stephen Greenblatt, also a Junior Fellow there that year. Greenblatt would go on to found the most influential new school of Shakespeare scholarship in America—New Historicism—and like many original thinkers develop a cultlike following. He would of course end up as star of the Harvard English department and the author of a best-selling Shakespeare biography. I’ll never forget an argument Greenblatt and I had that year about the Black Panthers and historical truth, which oddly foreshadowed, in transposed form, our subsequent positions on New Historicism and Shakespeare. (I discuss it further in chapter 4.)

At first things went swimmingly: I was thrilled to find I’d been admitted to a select seminar with Richard Ellmann, the acclaimed biographer of Yeats and Joyce, masterminds of modernism, and felt quite vain when Ellmann singled out a paper I’d read at the seminar, a critique of the determinism of Yeats’s muddleheaded mystical cosmology.

But sometime in the second semester, although enjoying a Shakespeare seminar with Howard Felperin, I lost heart, or maybe it was more that my heart was broken. In point of fact, my heart was broken by a question I asked—and an answer I got—about love.

The occasion was a special, ad hoc, invitation-only seminar I’d been asked to, a presentation by one of the English department’s favorite wunderkind scholars. A paper on Chaucer’s lesser-known love-vision poems, including the Book of the Duchess and The Parliament of Fowles.

Unlike the wild digressive fabliaux of The Canterbury Tales, Chaucer’s love-vision poems are exquisite and mysterious shorter works, and I was looking forward to the occasion, although by this time my disillusion with graduate school life had already begun to undermine the pleasure I felt from the study of literature. The faculty sherry parties had a lot to do with it: watching my fellow graduate students assiduously sucking up to Harold Bloom and other stars of the department, their sherry-flushed faces perspiring from the damp mothball-mildew warmth of their tweeds. While the world outside—it was 1968!—was exploding with fearful, thrilling events.

I’d gotten a taste of the adrenaline-fueled rush of reporting when I’d gotten press credentials to cover the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention for a local daily newspaper. And to return from that history-changing riot to the shallow cynicism of graduate school culture was intensely dismaying. What was wrong with these people? I asked at first. Then: What was wrong with me? Why was I staying there?

The love-vision seminar moment crystallized my doubts. It wasn’t Chaucer who was the problem. Nor was it the wunderkind scholar himself, whose paper I recall to be an intelligent if somewhat overwrought examination of the way in which the narrators of Chaucer’s dream visions consciously re-envision their visions as poetry. Something like that.

No, it was his response to a question about love. It was a question I asked in the discussion period after his presentation. A question about the vision of love in the love-vision poems. I forget exactly what the offending question I asked was, something along the lines of whether love was more than human delusion in Chaucer’s work.

A shocked silence ensued among the other grad students and faculty, and I realized I had committed a terrible solecism, a faux pas of Richter-scale proportions, in asking such a naïve question. I had expressed interest in the ostensible subject matter of the poem!

With a wan, disdainful smile and dismissive wave of his nicotine-stained fingers, the wunderkind scholar informed me that “Love is such an uninteresting question.” The truly interesting questions raised by the love-vision poems, he said, were not about love but about “the making of poetry.” This meta-poetical question, newly fashionable at the time, was far more significant than something as trivial as the nature of love.

All the other acolytes nodded and chuckled. Of course! How naïve! The making of poetry, yes!

“Sez who?” I muttered to myself—one of my father’s favorite Brooklynisms—as I slunk off.

What am I doing here, I thought to myself as I drove back out to the house on the Sound I’d rented with some friends. That night I stayed up late, desperately searching the classified job sections of the papers for something, anything, even a traveling salesman job that would get me out of the sherry parties and on the road.

Two years later, through a couple of lucky breaks, which began with reading the classified ads that night, I was on the road, heading for Stratford-on-Avon. I’d become not a traveling salesman but something analogous: a journalist. A journalist who wanted to write about cops and criminals, under- world and undercover types. I wanted to live life among Falstaffian rogues rather than read about them. But I was still under the spell of literature, a spell graduate school had not broken. So in September 1970 I found myself driving through the English Midlands having decided to undertake a reverse pilgrimage, a pilgrimage from Chaucer’s Canterbury to some of the icons of my academic literary past, my abandoned academic self.

I headed north toward my first stop, Winchester, where I went to some effort to locate the ridge in the rolling countryside where Keats stood on September 19, 1819, and gazed at the sunset vista on the penultimate day of summer, a...

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Verlag
Random House Inc
Erscheinungsdatum
2006
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0375503390
ISBN 13 
9780375503399
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
512
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Harder
https://www.edel.com

Neum�hlen 17
Hamburg
Hamburg
22763
Deutschland

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