Though Pablo Neruda has dabbled in Communist poetry, the Chilean is predominantly a romance poet—which is usually a sure-fire way to get me to stop reading whatever you write. One whiff of sap and I’m running the other way faster than you can cry, “Mark Twain!” But I always make an exception with Neruda’s works. There’s just something about his writing that makes me not only tolerate, but enjoy murmuring his words beneath my breath—even the Communist vocabulary! The guy wrote 100 love sonnets! He should be my worst nightmare of a poet. But, he’s not. What keeps me reading Neruda, I have come to realize, is his imagery. “One Hundred Love Sonnets (V)” is a great example of Neruda’s craftsmanship and why I devour his poems.
Neruda fertilizes “One Hundred Love Sonnets (V)” with primal images of earth and of thriving life. In the first quatrain, the speaker notes “the clay and resins” of his beloved and the “sweet water” that gives so much life to apples, they swell. “The truth of the fruit in clusters” suggests overabundance and excessive life. Neruda only supplies images that are tangible; note that in the first line of the poem, the speaker rejects considering anything intangible about his lover: “I did not touch your night, or your air, or dawn: only the earth...” The speaker, and ultimately the reader, only cares about the palpable aspects of the woman, which makes sense as his “place” is best defined and most easily recognizable by its physical appearance. In essence, the first quatrain functions to aid the audience in understanding how elemental and innate the speaker perceives his lover, his “place” to be.
In the second quatrain, the speaker begins to unveil a more personal connection with his lover. He uses imagery and possessives to insinuate a sort of ownership. He goes so far to say that “your feet were made for me” and, shortly after, “you are my dark familiar clay.” Now not only is Neruda giving images of nature but also of intimacy. He furthers the connection between personal intimacy, nature, and life with the image of touching her hips and touching “the wheat in its fields” at the same time, as wheat and hips are symbols related to giving life. With these connections made through imagery, the speaker can further the concept of his “place” in the third and fourth quatrains.
In my mind, I warp the third quatrain and the first line of the last bit of text into one group and form a couplet with the last two lines. I think it’s odd that Neruda grouped the two quatrains the way they are grouped because lines 8 - 12 are the only lines in the poem that don’t revolve around images of earth and life. The grouping may work out better in Spanish, but I don’t really know. Anyway, those lines drastically deviate from the previous images in the poem. There is nothing natural about the image of a heart remembering a mouth and the earth has very little to do with “a man wounded.” There is nothing about intimacy or thriving life in those images. But because of the first two quatrains, the audience can make what, upon inspection, seems like a leap into more of a little hop. The first two quatrains, through their imagery, give the third quatrain and line 12 meaning. The poem has become wholly personal. We the audience are taken from admiring a lover from afar to understanding the source of the speaker’s love without feeling much of a bump. The last two lines return to the predominant imagery of the poem while adding in the new personal perspective the audience has learned. Intimacy (“kisses”), earth/life (“volcanoes”), and the speaker (“my place”) are rolled into one spot.
Neruda uses imagery to take the audience step by step through a complex idea without losing it along with way. With each image, Neruda takes your arm and shuffles you just an inch or two at a time into the idea as if you were an old lady crossing a street. And, I’ll be honest, I’ve never been so happy to be an old lady.
(721)
April 16, 2008
April 13, 2008
Zombies, Zombies!
Okay. So. Mr. Coon, you may be wondering, “Why on Earth would a student want to tackle another Faulkner novel—this time on her own?” I wondered the same thing for the first couple of pages of Absalom, Absalom! “Jess, what a bad idea. What a terrible, terrible idea. What were you thinking?” I had absolutely no idea what was going on.
And then I realized that Absalom, Absalom! is a prequel, not a sequel, to The Sound and the Fury.
Things make sense now. For a quick mental breakdown and a good cry session, try reading Absalom convinced that Quentin has already committed suicide. After a few minutes trying to figure out how Quentin could be both alive AND dead, I concluded that he had to be a ghost—which made the novel even better! You should also try reading Absalom with Quentin as a ghost just once. I haven’t read the entire novel yet, but ghost characters make any novel better. Yes, I was a little disappointed when I realized that Quentin wasn’t actually the undead (I toyed with the idea of him being a zombie for a little while—but Miss Rosa’s lack of terror dissuaded me) but the novel does make a ton more sense now, which is always nice.
I was really excited to see that Quentin is a key narrator in this novel too. I felt like I didn’t learn enough about Quentin in S&F to satisfy my taste. He’s such a complex character. When his narration ended in S&F, I was pretty depressed. Quentin’s Absalom narrations stay pretty close to his voice in S&F. I’ve read 1.5 sections and when he speaks (i.e. when that Rosa lady isn’t yapping her lips off) his narration is still rife with religious allusions and confused rhetoric. I can’t wait to get to the section where he’s telling the story—I hear it’s killer! (I really hope someone dies in that section because then that add-on is totally worth it!)
I don’t know how to feel about this Rosa chick. First off, her name puts me on edge. Rosa. Rosa. What’s a Mexican doing in the South? Even an Italian? Sounds like a scam to me. Secondly, she just keeps talking and, while I understand she’s telling a story, what she says is rarely relevant. For some reason, reading the first section left me out of breath. The sentences just went on and on and on. I kept thinking, “Geeze, Rosa! Take a siesta, ‘kay? Just for one second.” Quentin’s few lines were a blessed relief, a siesta for this reader. Her story was confusing (Of course. God forbid Faulkner make anything simple) but intriguing. I’ll definitely have to re-read it, but from what I can tell, there’s a whole lot going on with this family! I loved that she was so young when whatever story she’s relaying happened. It gives her so much bias. Of course, it also gives her a ton to whine about—which she does incessantly. I also find her obsession with Sutpen’s lack of roots fascinating.
I’m hoping there’s someone with a god complex coming up. Those are fun.
Maybe I’ll hold my breath for a ghost/zombie too? (536)
And then I realized that Absalom, Absalom! is a prequel, not a sequel, to The Sound and the Fury.
Things make sense now. For a quick mental breakdown and a good cry session, try reading Absalom convinced that Quentin has already committed suicide. After a few minutes trying to figure out how Quentin could be both alive AND dead, I concluded that he had to be a ghost—which made the novel even better! You should also try reading Absalom with Quentin as a ghost just once. I haven’t read the entire novel yet, but ghost characters make any novel better. Yes, I was a little disappointed when I realized that Quentin wasn’t actually the undead (I toyed with the idea of him being a zombie for a little while—but Miss Rosa’s lack of terror dissuaded me) but the novel does make a ton more sense now, which is always nice.
I was really excited to see that Quentin is a key narrator in this novel too. I felt like I didn’t learn enough about Quentin in S&F to satisfy my taste. He’s such a complex character. When his narration ended in S&F, I was pretty depressed. Quentin’s Absalom narrations stay pretty close to his voice in S&F. I’ve read 1.5 sections and when he speaks (i.e. when that Rosa lady isn’t yapping her lips off) his narration is still rife with religious allusions and confused rhetoric. I can’t wait to get to the section where he’s telling the story—I hear it’s killer! (I really hope someone dies in that section because then that add-on is totally worth it!)
I don’t know how to feel about this Rosa chick. First off, her name puts me on edge. Rosa. Rosa. What’s a Mexican doing in the South? Even an Italian? Sounds like a scam to me. Secondly, she just keeps talking and, while I understand she’s telling a story, what she says is rarely relevant. For some reason, reading the first section left me out of breath. The sentences just went on and on and on. I kept thinking, “Geeze, Rosa! Take a siesta, ‘kay? Just for one second.” Quentin’s few lines were a blessed relief, a siesta for this reader. Her story was confusing (Of course. God forbid Faulkner make anything simple) but intriguing. I’ll definitely have to re-read it, but from what I can tell, there’s a whole lot going on with this family! I loved that she was so young when whatever story she’s relaying happened. It gives her so much bias. Of course, it also gives her a ton to whine about—which she does incessantly. I also find her obsession with Sutpen’s lack of roots fascinating.
I’m hoping there’s someone with a god complex coming up. Those are fun.
Maybe I’ll hold my breath for a ghost/zombie too? (536)
February 22, 2008
I'm seeing ghosts now.
HAMLET
[Within] Mother, mother, mother!
{Frustration and anger.}
QUEEN GERTRUDE
I'll warrant you,
Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming.
[Gertrude waves Polonius off, looking around the corner for Hamlet. Line said in an urgent whisper.]
POLONIUS hides behind the arras
Enter HAMLET
HAMLET
Now, mother, what's the matter?
[A mocking tone.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
[Gertrude: Don't play coy with me, son! She is flustered.]
HAMLET
Mother, you have my father much offended.
[Snaps back. Frowning.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
[She raises her finger and wags it disapprovingly.]
HAMLET
Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
[Throws hands up in feign defense.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Why, how now, Hamlet!
[Face turns red.]
HAMLET
What's the matter now?
[Mocking. Again.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Have you forgot me?
[Eyes widen, hands clutch chest.]
HAMLET
No, by the rood, not so:
You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;
And--would it were not so!--you are my mother.
[Says so with a slight laugh.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak.
[Moves to leave.]
HAMLET
Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;
You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
[Gestures to seat, grabs Gertrude, then pulls her towards a mirror.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?
Help, help, ho!
[Flails.]
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] What, ho! help, help, help!
[Tries to get out of arras.]
HAMLET
[Drawing sword] How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead! [stabs]
Makes a pass through the arras
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] O, I am slain!
[Falls and dies, blood pooling around Hamlet's foot.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O me, what hast thou done?
[Hands to cheeks, face pale. Gertrude looks with horror at Hamlet.]
HAMLET
Nay, I know not:
Is it the king?
[Distractedly answers mother, nudges body with foot, peers at Polonius with curiosity.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
[Backs away]
HAMLET
A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
[Full attention now on Gertrude, walks towards her with hand in the air after gesturing to "Claudius."]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
As kill a king!
[Stops, confused.]
HAMLET
Ay, lady, 'twas my word.
[Lifts up the array and discovers POLONIUS. Angry.]
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;
Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger.
[Gertrude backing quickly away] Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, [Pulls Gertrude onto chair]
And let me wring your heart; for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff,
If damned custom have not brass'd it so
That it is proof and bulwark against sense.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me? [Very pale.]
HAMLET
Such an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows
As false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow:
Yea, this solidity and compound mass, [points to self]
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act. [Spits on floor.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index? [Confused.]
HAMLET
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. [Points to portraits, stares at father's picture.]See, what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury [Starts to look a little lost.]New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man:
[Turns to Gertrude violently, thrusts her face towards portrait.] This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. [Gertrude tries to close eyes] Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for at your age
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would step from this to this? [Lets go of mother, walks around the room as he starts to ramble] Sense, sure, you have,
Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense
Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err,
Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'd
But it reserved some quantity of choice,
To serve in such a difference. What devil was't
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind? [Turns to mother]
[Gestures to his eyes] Eyes without feeling, [Touches sleeve]feeling without sight,
[Tugs on ears] Ears without hands or eyes, [Brushes nose] smelling sans all,
[Runs towards mother] Or but a sickly part of one true sense
[Comes within two inches of her face. Voice steady and lowered.] Could not so mope.
[Pulls back.] O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,
[Walks around chair] To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,
Since frost itself as actively doth burn
And reason panders will.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, speak no more:
[Covers eyes] Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.
HAMLET
[Waves hand across face to brush her words away.] Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty,--
QUEEN GERTRUDE
[Covers ears] O, speak to me no more;
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet! [Shakes head]
HAMLET
A murderer and a villain;
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, [Takes a coin from a shelf]
And put it in his pocket! [Shoves in pocket.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
No more! [Shakes head, eyes closed, hands over ears, stomping feet like a child.]
HAMLET
A king of shreds and patches,--
[Enter Ghost]
Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? [Eyes widen, face pales, steps back at sight of ghost]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, he's mad! [Opens eyes in horror.]
HAMLET
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command? O, say!
Ghost
Do not forget: this visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But, look, amazement on thy mother sits:
O, step between her and her fighting soul:
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:
Speak to her, Hamlet.
HAMLET
How is it with you, lady? [Triest to be concerned, steps closer to mother.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, how is't with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? [Cries.]
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;
And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,
Your bedded hair, [touches his hair] like life in excrements,
Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience. [Touches his cheek] Whereon do you look?
HAMLET
On him, on him! [Gestures towards ghost] Look you, how pale he glares!
His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,
Would make them capable. [Turns away.] Do not look upon me;
Lest with this piteous action you convert
My stern effects: then what I have to do
Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood. [Fingers bloody sword.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
To whom do you speak this? [Looks around questioningly.]
HAMLET
Do you see nothing there? [Voice is a little frantic.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. [Shakes head. Rises.]
HAMLET
Nor did you nothing hear? [Voice deadly quiet.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
No, nothing but ourselves. [Voice concerned.]
HAMLET
Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!
My father, in his habit as he lived! [Turns back around, gestures to where the ghost moves]
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
[Exit Ghost]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
This the very coinage of your brain:
This bodiless creation ecstasy
Is very cunning in. [Thinks it's a joke.]
HAMLET
Ecstasy! [Laughs.]
My pulse [points to chest], as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: it is not madness
That I have utter'd: bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from. [Quiets voice a little] Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that mattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:
[Voice raises.] It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds,
To make them ranker. [Seems almost to be pleading.] Forgive me this my virtue;
For in the fatness of these pursy times
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,
Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. [Clutches heart.]
HAMLET
O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Good night: but go not to mine uncle's bed;
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
[Walks to mother, grabs her shoulders] That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,
Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,
That to the use of actions fair and good
He likewise gives a frock or livery,
That aptly is put on. [Lets go, walks towards door.] Refrain to-night,
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence: the next more easy;
For use almost can change the stamp of nature,
And either [ ] the devil, or throw him out
With wondrous potency. [Gestures for her to leave.] Once more, good night:
And when you are desirous to be bless'd,
I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord,
[Pointing to POLONIUS]
I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,
To punish me with this and this with me,
That I must be their scourge and minister.
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So, again, good night.
I must be cruel, only to be kind:
Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.
[Gertrude starts to speak.] One word more, good lady.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What shall I do? [Voice scared.]
HAMLET
Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:
Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed;
Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;
And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,
Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,
[Gets excited again.] Make you to ravel all this matter out,
That I essentially am not in madness,
But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;
For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,
Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?
No, in despite of sense and secrecy,
Unpeg the basket on the house's top.
Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,
To try conclusions, in the basket creep,
And break your own neck down.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,
And breath of life, I have no life to breathe
What thou hast said to me. [shakes head.]
Mr. Coon, I have been trying to post this beast since Friday morning. This is probably my twentieth time trying to post this monster. It hasn't been letting me keep the coding when I post. If this doesn't work, you may see me at school Monday morning with patches of hair absent from my head because I have ripped them out in frustration. Here's to hoping I won't have to go into a wig shop!
[Within] Mother, mother, mother!
{Frustration and anger.}
QUEEN GERTRUDE
I'll warrant you,
Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming.
[Gertrude waves Polonius off, looking around the corner for Hamlet. Line said in an urgent whisper.]
POLONIUS hides behind the arras
Enter HAMLET
HAMLET
Now, mother, what's the matter?
[A mocking tone.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.
[Gertrude: Don't play coy with me, son! She is flustered.]
HAMLET
Mother, you have my father much offended.
[Snaps back. Frowning.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
[She raises her finger and wags it disapprovingly.]
HAMLET
Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
[Throws hands up in feign defense.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Why, how now, Hamlet!
[Face turns red.]
HAMLET
What's the matter now?
[Mocking. Again.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Have you forgot me?
[Eyes widen, hands clutch chest.]
HAMLET
No, by the rood, not so:
You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife;
And--would it were not so!--you are my mother.
[Says so with a slight laugh.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak.
[Moves to leave.]
HAMLET
Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;
You go not till I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
[Gestures to seat, grabs Gertrude, then pulls her towards a mirror.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?
Help, help, ho!
[Flails.]
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] What, ho! help, help, help!
[Tries to get out of arras.]
HAMLET
[Drawing sword] How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead! [stabs]
Makes a pass through the arras
LORD POLONIUS
[Behind] O, I am slain!
[Falls and dies, blood pooling around Hamlet's foot.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O me, what hast thou done?
[Hands to cheeks, face pale. Gertrude looks with horror at Hamlet.]
HAMLET
Nay, I know not:
Is it the king?
[Distractedly answers mother, nudges body with foot, peers at Polonius with curiosity.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
[Backs away]
HAMLET
A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
[Full attention now on Gertrude, walks towards her with hand in the air after gesturing to "Claudius."]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
As kill a king!
[Stops, confused.]
HAMLET
Ay, lady, 'twas my word.
[Lifts up the array and discovers POLONIUS. Angry.]
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;
Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger.
[Gertrude backing quickly away] Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, [Pulls Gertrude onto chair]
And let me wring your heart; for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff,
If damned custom have not brass'd it so
That it is proof and bulwark against sense.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue
In noise so rude against me? [Very pale.]
HAMLET
Such an act
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows
As false as dicers' oaths: O, such a deed
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul, and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: heaven's face doth glow:
Yea, this solidity and compound mass, [points to self]
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act. [Spits on floor.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Ay me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index? [Confused.]
HAMLET
Look here, upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. [Points to portraits, stares at father's picture.]See, what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury [Starts to look a little lost.]New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man:
[Turns to Gertrude violently, thrusts her face towards portrait.] This was your husband. Look you now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. [Gertrude tries to close eyes] Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for at your age
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment
Would step from this to this? [Lets go of mother, walks around the room as he starts to ramble] Sense, sure, you have,
Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense
Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err,
Nor sense to ecstasy was ne'er so thrall'd
But it reserved some quantity of choice,
To serve in such a difference. What devil was't
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind? [Turns to mother]
[Gestures to his eyes] Eyes without feeling, [Touches sleeve]feeling without sight,
[Tugs on ears] Ears without hands or eyes, [Brushes nose] smelling sans all,
[Runs towards mother] Or but a sickly part of one true sense
[Comes within two inches of her face. Voice steady and lowered.] Could not so mope.
[Pulls back.] O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,
[Walks around chair] To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,
Since frost itself as actively doth burn
And reason panders will.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, speak no more:
[Covers eyes] Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.
HAMLET
[Waves hand across face to brush her words away.] Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty,--
QUEEN GERTRUDE
[Covers ears] O, speak to me no more;
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet! [Shakes head]
HAMLET
A murderer and a villain;
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, [Takes a coin from a shelf]
And put it in his pocket! [Shoves in pocket.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
No more! [Shakes head, eyes closed, hands over ears, stomping feet like a child.]
HAMLET
A king of shreds and patches,--
[Enter Ghost]
Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings,
You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? [Eyes widen, face pales, steps back at sight of ghost]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, he's mad! [Opens eyes in horror.]
HAMLET
Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command? O, say!
Ghost
Do not forget: this visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But, look, amazement on thy mother sits:
O, step between her and her fighting soul:
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:
Speak to her, Hamlet.
HAMLET
How is it with you, lady? [Triest to be concerned, steps closer to mother.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Alas, how is't with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? [Cries.]
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;
And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,
Your bedded hair, [touches his hair] like life in excrements,
Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience. [Touches his cheek] Whereon do you look?
HAMLET
On him, on him! [Gestures towards ghost] Look you, how pale he glares!
His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,
Would make them capable. [Turns away.] Do not look upon me;
Lest with this piteous action you convert
My stern effects: then what I have to do
Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood. [Fingers bloody sword.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
To whom do you speak this? [Looks around questioningly.]
HAMLET
Do you see nothing there? [Voice is a little frantic.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. [Shakes head. Rises.]
HAMLET
Nor did you nothing hear? [Voice deadly quiet.]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
No, nothing but ourselves. [Voice concerned.]
HAMLET
Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!
My father, in his habit as he lived! [Turns back around, gestures to where the ghost moves]
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!
[Exit Ghost]
QUEEN GERTRUDE
This the very coinage of your brain:
This bodiless creation ecstasy
Is very cunning in. [Thinks it's a joke.]
HAMLET
Ecstasy! [Laughs.]
My pulse [points to chest], as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: it is not madness
That I have utter'd: bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from. [Quiets voice a little] Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that mattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:
[Voice raises.] It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds,
To make them ranker. [Seems almost to be pleading.] Forgive me this my virtue;
For in the fatness of these pursy times
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,
Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. [Clutches heart.]
HAMLET
O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
Good night: but go not to mine uncle's bed;
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
[Walks to mother, grabs her shoulders] That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,
Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,
That to the use of actions fair and good
He likewise gives a frock or livery,
That aptly is put on. [Lets go, walks towards door.] Refrain to-night,
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence: the next more easy;
For use almost can change the stamp of nature,
And either [ ] the devil, or throw him out
With wondrous potency. [Gestures for her to leave.] Once more, good night:
And when you are desirous to be bless'd,
I'll blessing beg of you. For this same lord,
[Pointing to POLONIUS]
I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,
To punish me with this and this with me,
That I must be their scourge and minister.
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So, again, good night.
I must be cruel, only to be kind:
Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.
[Gertrude starts to speak.] One word more, good lady.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
What shall I do? [Voice scared.]
HAMLET
Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:
Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed;
Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;
And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,
Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,
[Gets excited again.] Make you to ravel all this matter out,
That I essentially am not in madness,
But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;
For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,
Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?
No, in despite of sense and secrecy,
Unpeg the basket on the house's top.
Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,
To try conclusions, in the basket creep,
And break your own neck down.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,
And breath of life, I have no life to breathe
What thou hast said to me. [shakes head.]
Mr. Coon, I have been trying to post this beast since Friday morning. This is probably my twentieth time trying to post this monster. It hasn't been letting me keep the coding when I post. If this doesn't work, you may see me at school Monday morning with patches of hair absent from my head because I have ripped them out in frustration. Here's to hoping I won't have to go into a wig shop!
February 4, 2008
'Bout Time.
I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair
--Pablo Neruda
DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
---------
From "I Live by the Invisible"
--Ray Bradbury
I have endured much to reach this place in time
Yet I have not been sick, nor mad,
Nor ruined in a wreck.
And yet I feel I have.
There is a thing in me, the walls of cells are thin,
My veins are glass, my heart the merest whim
Of beat and pause and beat,
Deaths in the street are mine. I would not have it so.
I know much more than I would want to know.
The breakfast headlines tell me of a war,
I know they die out there; put down my spoon.
Men land on the moon tonight, I know their joy,
The boy in me goes with them as they tread
Far overhead on dust world beyond reach
They teach my tired blood to love again.
There's rain in downtown Peru tonight,
I wash my face in it. In Indo China, one more massacre,
I run a race in it and lose.
You see?
I cannot choose to be or not to be.
--Pablo Neruda
DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
---------
From "I Live by the Invisible"
--Ray Bradbury
I have endured much to reach this place in time
Yet I have not been sick, nor mad,
Nor ruined in a wreck.
And yet I feel I have.
There is a thing in me, the walls of cells are thin,
My veins are glass, my heart the merest whim
Of beat and pause and beat,
Deaths in the street are mine. I would not have it so.
I know much more than I would want to know.
The breakfast headlines tell me of a war,
I know they die out there; put down my spoon.
Men land on the moon tonight, I know their joy,
The boy in me goes with them as they tread
Far overhead on dust world beyond reach
They teach my tired blood to love again.
There's rain in downtown Peru tonight,
I wash my face in it. In Indo China, one more massacre,
I run a race in it and lose.
You see?
I cannot choose to be or not to be.
January 26, 2008
Blogus Rex
For once, I've got nothing to really say about what we've read in class. I don't know why, but Oedipus Rex just didn't really get my mind thinking. It’s interesting, but it seems pretty self-explanatory. I finished reading it and thought, “Huh. Okay. Cool.” The idea that intrigued me the most with Oedipus Rex is the idea of Fate and not messin' with it. You can't screw around with Fate.
Oedipus tried to be a good guy and not screw up his life. He tried so hard to escape Fate, but that's just what Fate anticipated. Oedipus should've known. I mean, it's Fate. The very meaning of Fate is "an inescapable occurrence." So, silly Oedipus decided to exile himself from his homeland and never speak to his family ever again. That's pretty harsh. The poor guy ends up playing into Fate's hand. Ooops!
There were also some other, lesser, morals in the play that I found interesting:
One: Don't rob the cradle. You never know if that spry young man you're marrying is actually your son. If you're going to do it, check for any identifying birthmarks/scars that may have been from one of your kids just in case. You can never be too careful.
Two: Road rage is bad. If some rich guy is a complete jerk and cuts you off, don't go berserk and kill him. People are not always nice. You aren’t either. Take a deep breath, count to ten or a thousand (if you’re on the freeway), and let it go. Reason with yourself. The jerk may not have seen you. He may be having a terrible day and just wants to get home. He may need to use the bathroom. Or he may just be a jerk. Think of yourself as being the bigger guy if you need to appeal to your ego to let the rage go. If you succeed in cooling yourself down, you may have just thwarted Fate for another hour or so. Yay!
Three: Don’t leap to conclusions and blame your best bro. One, he’s your best bro. The man (or woman!) has been there through thick and thin. You don’t want to be pulling out that huge dagger you stuck in his back a couple of minutes later because (1) you’ll look like an idiot and (2) you may pull a back muscle—and everyone knows back muscles are the most important muscles.
Those were the highlights.
Okay. So, how would I have improved this play? The answer, as always, involves dinosaurs. Picture this: Oedipus, a poor T-Rex (Oh ho!), has had a pretty rough life so far. He spoke to a pterodactyl years ago who said that he has spoken with the Sun and the Sun said that a huge meteor is thundering through the universe and heading straight for Earth—particularly Oedipus! To save his family, Oedipus self-exiled to another land that was very dry and very hot. A couple of days later, this jerk of a stegosaurus eats what Oedipus was clearly gunning for, so Oedipus eats him because he has developed a quick temper over the years. Plus, he’s a T-Rex. T-rexes eat other dinos when they’re hungry. Next thing he knows, Oedipus has got a large following because he ate the bully of the area. He gets to decide who migrates where and who gets eaten when. It’s awesome. But, oh no! the land is infertile for some reason! What’s up, man? That darned pterodactyl shows up again and says, “Oedipus, you screwed up, man. This is where your family is! Your parents adopted you, dude! Sucks.” Oedipus freaks, leaves the area, but not soon enough! Before he can get far enough away from the area, Oedipus and the dinosaur colony is destroyed by a huge asteroid.
Way to go Oedipus. (636)
Oedipus tried to be a good guy and not screw up his life. He tried so hard to escape Fate, but that's just what Fate anticipated. Oedipus should've known. I mean, it's Fate. The very meaning of Fate is "an inescapable occurrence." So, silly Oedipus decided to exile himself from his homeland and never speak to his family ever again. That's pretty harsh. The poor guy ends up playing into Fate's hand. Ooops!
There were also some other, lesser, morals in the play that I found interesting:
One: Don't rob the cradle. You never know if that spry young man you're marrying is actually your son. If you're going to do it, check for any identifying birthmarks/scars that may have been from one of your kids just in case. You can never be too careful.
Two: Road rage is bad. If some rich guy is a complete jerk and cuts you off, don't go berserk and kill him. People are not always nice. You aren’t either. Take a deep breath, count to ten or a thousand (if you’re on the freeway), and let it go. Reason with yourself. The jerk may not have seen you. He may be having a terrible day and just wants to get home. He may need to use the bathroom. Or he may just be a jerk. Think of yourself as being the bigger guy if you need to appeal to your ego to let the rage go. If you succeed in cooling yourself down, you may have just thwarted Fate for another hour or so. Yay!
Three: Don’t leap to conclusions and blame your best bro. One, he’s your best bro. The man (or woman!) has been there through thick and thin. You don’t want to be pulling out that huge dagger you stuck in his back a couple of minutes later because (1) you’ll look like an idiot and (2) you may pull a back muscle—and everyone knows back muscles are the most important muscles.
Those were the highlights.
Okay. So, how would I have improved this play? The answer, as always, involves dinosaurs. Picture this: Oedipus, a poor T-Rex (Oh ho!), has had a pretty rough life so far. He spoke to a pterodactyl years ago who said that he has spoken with the Sun and the Sun said that a huge meteor is thundering through the universe and heading straight for Earth—particularly Oedipus! To save his family, Oedipus self-exiled to another land that was very dry and very hot. A couple of days later, this jerk of a stegosaurus eats what Oedipus was clearly gunning for, so Oedipus eats him because he has developed a quick temper over the years. Plus, he’s a T-Rex. T-rexes eat other dinos when they’re hungry. Next thing he knows, Oedipus has got a large following because he ate the bully of the area. He gets to decide who migrates where and who gets eaten when. It’s awesome. But, oh no! the land is infertile for some reason! What’s up, man? That darned pterodactyl shows up again and says, “Oedipus, you screwed up, man. This is where your family is! Your parents adopted you, dude! Sucks.” Oedipus freaks, leaves the area, but not soon enough! Before he can get far enough away from the area, Oedipus and the dinosaur colony is destroyed by a huge asteroid.
Way to go Oedipus. (636)
January 13, 2008
For the fiftieth time this week, I ask myself: Will I end up like him?
Most Russian literature I’ve read—which I admit is minimal—I’ve found to be pretty bland, cold, and more wordy than necessary. “The Death of Ivan Ilych” deviates slightly from my experience with Russian works. The part where I found the most passion and interest is when Ivan realizes his own mortality.
Ivan becomes the lost believer when he conceives mortality as it applies to him. He mentions the logic of Caius. Haven’t we all had the disenchantment he experienced? Ivan moans, “Caius really was mortal, and it was right for him to die; but for me, little Vanya, Ivan Ilych, with all my thoughts and emotions, it’s altogether a different matter. It cannot be that I ought to die. That would be too terrible.” Humans carry themselves with high importance because they can think, because they have memories, because they feel. Some readers would be quick to assume that he thinks he is beyond death just as the rest of his society does because they are so great, which is true. But I think the mistake readers make is in assuming this feeling of importance is unique to Ivan’s friends. It’s really not. Think about it: his society is obsessed with appearances, right? You’re thinking, “Jess, you’re reaffirming what everyone else already thinks.” Okay. So. I’m not, trust me. It’s always been fashionable for the wealthy to have some sort of visceral faith, barely skin-deep. Enough faith to be “holy” and “saved,” but not enough to really cut into whatever it is they want to do. Faith has always been a way to judge people, and higher society, especially with Ivan Ilych’s friends, is pretty much all about judging. With this faith, they are guaranteed salvation, eternal life. With as widespread as religion is today, it isn’t a stretch to say that a fair amount of people feel they are guaranteed everlasting life.
Okay. So. I’m going somewhere with this, I swear. Every believer, no matter how deep of a believer, has a moment where he questions his belief. What I believe Ivan experiences is this deviation from faith. Ivan begins to “suffer inexpressibly” when he begins to feel that his mortality extends beyond just the physical and into the spirit. I have felt this myself. I’ve felt the same indignation, the same denial, the same pride as Ivan. With all my thoughts, feelings and memories, how could I possibly end up like Caius? When I think of me ending, I become inexplicably depressed. There is a deep, undefined gnawing in the pit of my stomach, not unlike what Ivan feels. Could the fall he experienced have been what caused him to start thinking about his mortality? I know the more I think about a life actually ending when my physical body gives out, the worse I feel. Sometimes, when I question eternity, I try to distract myself with other thoughts, just as Ivan does. I don’t doubt that the emotional schisms I experience when I begin to think about my own possible mortality, if I dwell on them long enough, would manifest itself into physical pain as well.
So, this puts an interesting spin on Gerasim. In my mind, Gerasim is merely a symbol of an everlasting life, of Christ. When Gerasim is around, Ivan feels better. His pain is relieved, at least mostly. Gerasim represents the brief glimpses of belief Ivan feels towards the end of his life. What keeps me believing when my doubts start to overwhelm me are the little breezes that seem to be only for me, the moments of laughter between children, the seconds when I look around and the world is simply stunning. Gerasim is these moments for Ivan, except that’s, sadly, all they are for him: moments.
In the end I think the death of Ivan Ilych is really just his fall from grace, his fall from belief, his entrance into doubt. (651)
Ivan becomes the lost believer when he conceives mortality as it applies to him. He mentions the logic of Caius. Haven’t we all had the disenchantment he experienced? Ivan moans, “Caius really was mortal, and it was right for him to die; but for me, little Vanya, Ivan Ilych, with all my thoughts and emotions, it’s altogether a different matter. It cannot be that I ought to die. That would be too terrible.” Humans carry themselves with high importance because they can think, because they have memories, because they feel. Some readers would be quick to assume that he thinks he is beyond death just as the rest of his society does because they are so great, which is true. But I think the mistake readers make is in assuming this feeling of importance is unique to Ivan’s friends. It’s really not. Think about it: his society is obsessed with appearances, right? You’re thinking, “Jess, you’re reaffirming what everyone else already thinks.” Okay. So. I’m not, trust me. It’s always been fashionable for the wealthy to have some sort of visceral faith, barely skin-deep. Enough faith to be “holy” and “saved,” but not enough to really cut into whatever it is they want to do. Faith has always been a way to judge people, and higher society, especially with Ivan Ilych’s friends, is pretty much all about judging. With this faith, they are guaranteed salvation, eternal life. With as widespread as religion is today, it isn’t a stretch to say that a fair amount of people feel they are guaranteed everlasting life.
Okay. So. I’m going somewhere with this, I swear. Every believer, no matter how deep of a believer, has a moment where he questions his belief. What I believe Ivan experiences is this deviation from faith. Ivan begins to “suffer inexpressibly” when he begins to feel that his mortality extends beyond just the physical and into the spirit. I have felt this myself. I’ve felt the same indignation, the same denial, the same pride as Ivan. With all my thoughts, feelings and memories, how could I possibly end up like Caius? When I think of me ending, I become inexplicably depressed. There is a deep, undefined gnawing in the pit of my stomach, not unlike what Ivan feels. Could the fall he experienced have been what caused him to start thinking about his mortality? I know the more I think about a life actually ending when my physical body gives out, the worse I feel. Sometimes, when I question eternity, I try to distract myself with other thoughts, just as Ivan does. I don’t doubt that the emotional schisms I experience when I begin to think about my own possible mortality, if I dwell on them long enough, would manifest itself into physical pain as well.
So, this puts an interesting spin on Gerasim. In my mind, Gerasim is merely a symbol of an everlasting life, of Christ. When Gerasim is around, Ivan feels better. His pain is relieved, at least mostly. Gerasim represents the brief glimpses of belief Ivan feels towards the end of his life. What keeps me believing when my doubts start to overwhelm me are the little breezes that seem to be only for me, the moments of laughter between children, the seconds when I look around and the world is simply stunning. Gerasim is these moments for Ivan, except that’s, sadly, all they are for him: moments.
In the end I think the death of Ivan Ilych is really just his fall from grace, his fall from belief, his entrance into doubt. (651)
December 2, 2007
Fettuccini
Okay. So. I finished Love in the Time of Cholera last week. To my disappointment, Urbino did not show up much more past the second "Oh, no! My husband is dead!" moment, which pretty much means there was little humor and more romance. Even more to my disappointment, it ended in the most cliché way possible.
I saw it coming like I see a D on a test I haven't studied for (not that that’s ever happened, Mr. Coon!). I mosey along through my day, ignoring the fact I have a test the next day. I might pull out the textbook for the class in question, but play Zuma or read or stare out the window instead of cracking open the book. I can see the grade coming, but think, "Oh, maybe I won't fail it. It's probably going to be easy anyway." That false hope was what I had for the ending of Cholera. I could see the ending coming while reading, but tried to ignore it. Maybe their love could miraculously continue when they returned home, I thought. I could deal with that. It is a romance novel after all. Or maybe their love will come to a tragic, but beautiful, end when Florentino can finally get his tool to work in bed. They would die together in each other's arms after making love. That ending would be a little harder to swallow, but I can roll with it, mostly because of the potential symbolism: One could reason that because Florentino has finally joined physical love and spiritual love into one glorious emotion, he can finally rest easy, having received what his soul had been searching for all his life.
But no. No, Marquez couldn't let me keep my lunch down. Tension rises because of forbidden love. Reality floods their fairy-tale world. My abdomen clenches in expectation. I swallow some Pepto-Bismol to soften the churning acids in my stomach. How will the lovers keep their romance going? Will the charitable captain be punished for his kindness? Who can save them? My eyes become watery, a last-ditch effort to conserve my well-being by not allowing me to read the words. A sneeze attack, a cramp in the leg, a coughing fit—all part of the natural instinct of self-preservation. Ah, here is brave Florentino! He will be the hero! I read, despite my body’s attempts to dissuade me, as Florentino, with the Rocky theme song playing in the back, heaves a sigh that flicks off the weight of the world he so clearly has on his shoulders, flips his gray hair and flashes his eyes towards the horizon. “Forever,” he says in a voice so wispy it has the power of an earthquake.
And then it ends.
Fade out.
Just like that.
I have to rush to the bathroom and never see fettuccini the same again.
The only thing I can appreciate about the ending was that it puts a new twist on the title of the novel. I mean, that ship at the end is theoretically in the time of cholera since it’s flying the cholera flag. I don’t get a whole lot if I follow that train of thought, but at least it’s something!
I’m not going to say that Love in the Time of Cholera is a bad novel. Not at all. It’s just definitely not my cup of tea. It’s a romance and some people like those. I don’t think less of those who do. Something tells me I’d prefer the novel in Spanish, but that could just be the faint whisper of Latina I have in me peeping through. And there’s also a part of me that wishes I knew every language ever simply so that I may read every book in its native tongue. Anyway, it’s unfortunate that my last impression of Cholera involved a toilet bowl and some Lysol. I’m sure Marquez deserves more than that, if not Dr. Urbino. (659)
I saw it coming like I see a D on a test I haven't studied for (not that that’s ever happened, Mr. Coon!). I mosey along through my day, ignoring the fact I have a test the next day. I might pull out the textbook for the class in question, but play Zuma or read or stare out the window instead of cracking open the book. I can see the grade coming, but think, "Oh, maybe I won't fail it. It's probably going to be easy anyway." That false hope was what I had for the ending of Cholera. I could see the ending coming while reading, but tried to ignore it. Maybe their love could miraculously continue when they returned home, I thought. I could deal with that. It is a romance novel after all. Or maybe their love will come to a tragic, but beautiful, end when Florentino can finally get his tool to work in bed. They would die together in each other's arms after making love. That ending would be a little harder to swallow, but I can roll with it, mostly because of the potential symbolism: One could reason that because Florentino has finally joined physical love and spiritual love into one glorious emotion, he can finally rest easy, having received what his soul had been searching for all his life.
But no. No, Marquez couldn't let me keep my lunch down. Tension rises because of forbidden love. Reality floods their fairy-tale world. My abdomen clenches in expectation. I swallow some Pepto-Bismol to soften the churning acids in my stomach. How will the lovers keep their romance going? Will the charitable captain be punished for his kindness? Who can save them? My eyes become watery, a last-ditch effort to conserve my well-being by not allowing me to read the words. A sneeze attack, a cramp in the leg, a coughing fit—all part of the natural instinct of self-preservation. Ah, here is brave Florentino! He will be the hero! I read, despite my body’s attempts to dissuade me, as Florentino, with the Rocky theme song playing in the back, heaves a sigh that flicks off the weight of the world he so clearly has on his shoulders, flips his gray hair and flashes his eyes towards the horizon. “Forever,” he says in a voice so wispy it has the power of an earthquake.
And then it ends.
Fade out.
Just like that.
I have to rush to the bathroom and never see fettuccini the same again.
The only thing I can appreciate about the ending was that it puts a new twist on the title of the novel. I mean, that ship at the end is theoretically in the time of cholera since it’s flying the cholera flag. I don’t get a whole lot if I follow that train of thought, but at least it’s something!
I’m not going to say that Love in the Time of Cholera is a bad novel. Not at all. It’s just definitely not my cup of tea. It’s a romance and some people like those. I don’t think less of those who do. Something tells me I’d prefer the novel in Spanish, but that could just be the faint whisper of Latina I have in me peeping through. And there’s also a part of me that wishes I knew every language ever simply so that I may read every book in its native tongue. Anyway, it’s unfortunate that my last impression of Cholera involved a toilet bowl and some Lysol. I’m sure Marquez deserves more than that, if not Dr. Urbino. (659)
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