Recently in Hamlet Category
It's not every day that one's psychological analysis extracted from Hamlet
finds confirmation in The New York Times
. But today appears to be that day.
about how the paralysis Hamlet suffers because of his existential and epistemological crisis parallels my experience in the face of unyielding rejection and failure, I then read
in the Times
when animals or people were given a series of arbitrary punishments
or rewards, they stopped trying to do anything constructive. "We found that even when good things occurred that weren't earned, like
nickels coming out of slot machines, it did not increase people's
well-being," [Dr. Martin Seligman] said. "It produced helplessness. People gave up and
became passive." I can relate
. My experience of the world is that, regardless of my merit, effort or desert, luck - that is to say, arbitrariness - is the deciding factor in my accomplishments, both personal and professional.
Because, as Dr. Seligman says, "accomplishment [separate from happiness] is a human desiderata in itself," my situation is not conducive to satisfaction:
"'Well-being cannot exist just in your own head,' [Dr. Seligman] writes. 'Well-being
is a combination of [happiness] as well as actually having meaning,
good relationships and accomplishment.'"
Accomplishment must not, therefore, always be based on luck; but achieving this happy state requires a certain redefining of "accomplishment." For example, as a well-intentioned friend said to me of my novels, I finished them - never mind that they're unpublished and no one reads them. My friend isn't the only one to employ this technique: in Hamlet
, the Danish prince makes "readiness" his accomplishment: "the readiness is all." The rest? "The rest is silence
This coping mechanism may provide some solace, but the larger relief comes in the recognition that the paralysis is not madness: it's normal. Well being requires certain objective external conditions that, when absent, sabotage one's enjoyment of life.
That's what the doctor says. And, I suppose, anticipating that advice through recourse to Hamlet
might be considered some sort of accomplishment.
Seven months ago, I saw the (British) National Theatre's production of Hamlet
in London, and it was brilliant. The director, Nicholas Hynter, dropped the royal house of Denmark into the security apparatus of modern governments. In addition to imbuing the play with the excitement and suspense of a political thriller, this present-day setting made the power dynamics of the play come violently alive.
In keeping with the modernity of the production, Peter Holland
- writing in the program's playbill - offered an interpretation of Hamlet's dilemma that seems tailored to today's psycho-analyzed, cosmopolitan, post-deconstructionist, alienated audience:
[Hamlet] approaches a paralysis of will that is the consequence of an impasse reached by his thinking: the more he is able to grasp his awareness of how he knows anything the less it seems possible to know anything at all. The process of knowing makes all truth only relative . . . . Confronted with the enormity of that crisis of truth, the only response is to "Let be," to accept the impossibilities of being human and the limits of knowing and to wait patiently for whatever comes.
The quote to which Holland refers comes at the end of the play, when Horatio is exhorting Hamlet to listen to himself and decline to fight Laertes: "If your mind dislike any thing, obey it." Hamlet responds by dismissing his feeling of foreboding, saying - in essence - we're all going to die and we don't know when, so what does it matter if it's soon? "The readiness is all . . . Let be.
I don't know if Shakespeare ever ran a marathon. I doubt it.
Nor do I have any insight as to whether Peter Holland ever ran a marathon, but he has a goatee, so I think it's unlikely.
Nonetheless, both men seem intimately familiar with the modern marathoner's mindset. After months of single-minded physical labor, abstinence from late nights, booze and any semblance of vice, the marathoner surrenders to reality: the preparation is all you can do; after that, as my brother says, "anything can happen in a marathon."
In fact, the "anything" that happened to my brother during last Sunday's marathon in Prague, was a pretty damned impressive "anything." He ran 3:15:57, which is not the kind of fate one can complain about. Had my brother gone off to fight Laertes, the play would have had a different ending.
Not so with me. My legs all but shattered, and I staggered across the finish line 5 hours, 9 minutes, and 54 seconds after I started. I never ran slower in my life. Indeed, during training, I ran 22 and 23 miles in roughly four hours; but the race was nothing like training: blisters on my toes, leg muscle cramps, and an extended stretch of walking were all present during the race and noticeably absent during training. Had I been tapped to duel with Laertes, death would have arrived on the playwright's schedule.
While I've had enough exposure to truly rotten fates to refrain from describing mine as one about which I can complain, my situation is nonetheless dispiriting - all the more so because, from the outset, I saw running the marathon as a metaphor for how I live my life, a microcosm that reveals the whole. I became attracted to this idea last year, when I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and discovered that the key to reaching the peak was going slow and surrendering to the limitations imposed by the environment. I blogged
about the inspiration I drew from my mountain experience to persevere in my writing.
Unfortunately, the take-away here is less upbeat. Months of planning and work, tireless effort, deprivation of socializing and fun, dieting, forswearing alcohol, money spent on clothes, shoes and supplements - not to mention all the acupuncturists, physiotherapists, chiropractors and masseuses who toiled to get my legs race-ready - resulted in a completely disastrous performance. Enthusiasm, willpower, investment of resources: all easily come to nothing.
I thought I'd already learned this truism the hard way. Six years of work, discipline and sacrifice to write novels have yielded (a) four novels on the shelf, as of yet unpublished and unread, and (b) a state of near bankruptcy. Rejection is the only constant, and my life is so unstable that I've come to feel for rejection a wry and perverted gratitude: it's the only thing I can rely on.
It also make me want to vomit. Not just vomit, but curl up in a ball on the curb and stay there. When your rock is rejection, maybe you're better off under the stone.
Of course, I'm not the first to feel this way. I refer to the aforementioned "paralysis of will that is the consequence of an impasse reached" when "the more [I am] able to grasp [an] awareness of how [I] know
anything the less it seems possible to know anything at all. The
process of knowing makes all truth only relative" - although I add, no less painful for being relative. "[T]he only response is to 'Let be,'
to accept the impossibilities of being human and the limits of knowing
and to wait patiently for whatever comes."
While I'm constitutionally constrained from waiting patiently - the best I can muster is waiting in a state of thinly-veiled neurosis and sincerely-felt misery - I take the larger point. "The readiness is all" because it's all we can control. The loss of control reduces us to paralysis - metaphorically, literally or, if we're really unlucky, both. Though being without control is an aspect of reality, living in that reality without being sabotaged by it requires a mental discipline of preferring, and prioritizing, what you can control.
That's our choice: lopsided or frozen.
And here, at last, is the metaphor I'll draw: even a lopsided runner (like myself, suffering from a biomechanical breakdown in her right leg) can finish a marathon.
(Images of Maya Alexandri and Talmon Alexandri running the Prague marathon on 8 May 2011 compiled by Maya Alexandri
Quick: what play involves an incestuous uncle, a sword fight to avenge the honor of a family member, a poisoned goblet of wine drunk by an unintended victim, and a pile of corpses at the play's close? (If you said, Hamlet
, that's a correct answer, but not the play about which I was thinking.) I'm referring to Thomas Middleton's Women Beware Women
, a kind of Jacobean Desperate Housewives
, absent the suburbs, and plus verse. Women Beware Women
, side-by-side, illustrate how playwrights of the late-Elizabethan, early-Jacobean era manipulated certain standardized or formulaic set pieces in order to craft their stories. The fluency, eloquence and sophistication with which they maneuvered these story components, as contrasted with their originality in devising new components for the story, constituted their skill. (Hence, Shakespeare borrowed plots from other sources, rather than making up his own.) This mode of story telling is, in fact, quite ancient: Walter Ong describes how oral poets of Homer's time composed epic poems using "standardized formulas . . . grouped around equally standardized themes, such as the council, the gathering of the army, the challenge, the despoiling of the vanquished, the hero's shield, and so on and on." (Orality & Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word
, p. 23.)
So I felt an odd delight when I realized that, quite unconsciously, I'd been working in the same tradition on my latest novel, The Celebration Husband
, which takes place in East Africa during the first three months of World War I. Upon hearing that I'd written this novel, a friend gave me his seriously tattered-jacketed copy of Bartle Bull's Africa adventure, The White Rhino Hotel
Reading The White Rhino Hotel
, I felt an intriguing sense of recognition. The novel contained many familiar scenarios, as if Bartle Bull and I had attended the same writing seminar and had both completed the assignment to "write a scene in the following circumstance: East Africa, nineteen-teens, go."
My novel contains: (a) a lion attack, (b) people captivated by the sight of wildlife, (c) crossing Kenya on a train, (d) riding around Kenya on a motorcycle, (e) farmers bemoaning the punishing conditions from which they are attempting to coax agricultural produce, (f) Masai and Kikuyu warriors in oppositional confrontation, (g) descriptions of bush cooking, (h) references to hunting safaris, (i) invocation of the classics, (j) a woman facing down a potential rapist, (k) a close friendship between a smart black African and a naive white colonist, and (l) arcane explanations and depictions of equipment and weaponry.
Every one of those elements appears in The White Rhino Hotel
I can think of a number of reasons for this overlap. Bull and I might have read the same authors and texts in our research (e.g.
, Lord Cranworth, Elspeth Huxley, Karen Blixen, Beryl Markham are all fairly ubiquitous as sources on East Africa in the early twentieth century). Also, these elements all correlate to regularly-occurring events in the reality of East African life between 1914 and 1921 (when The White Rhino Hotel
ends), which is why they might crop up repeatedly in the relevant historical texts or stories handed down over the generations.
In short, these elements have become standard set pieces, the lion attack analogous to the Elizabethan / Jacobean sword fight. They are (what in copyright law is referred to as) mise-en-scene
: essential or stock elements of a particular genre. See, e.g.
, Universal City Studios v. T-shirt Gallery, Ltd.
, 634 F. Supp. 1468, 1474 n.5 (S.D.N.Y. 1986).
I hadn't seen my writing from this perspective before, and - although to our novelty-centric culture, the prospect might be threatening or induce a sense of competitiveness - I found unexpectedly comforting aspects in it. In contradistinction to the isolated novelist in a cottage in Naivasha, which I was for the duration in which I wrote The Celebration Husband
, I felt myself in a tradition of storytellers captivated by East Africa in the early twentieth century, all of us sorting and reordering standardized story components of The East African Novel in our individual attempts to ignite the magic of suspension of disbelief.
In a surprising way, it felt good.
(Image of Bartle Bull and the cover of his novel, The White Rhino Hotel
, from The New York Times
Today is the closing date for the "NotAboutKarenBlixen" exhibition at The Karen Blixen Museum in Rungstedlund, Denmark. A collection of collaborative work between Kenyan, Danish and other artists from around the world, "NotAboutKarenBlixen" featured an installation performance art piece called "Rebuilding, Remembering & Renewing" by Gillion Grantsaan (pictured above) and Ato Malinda (pictured below). Gillion and Ato constructed a shanty outside Karen Blixen's writing studio (pictured below), an artistic home for homeless real and imaginary writers in migration. Gillion and Ato invited a number of writers (including myself) to collaborate on the installation. Below is the piece I wrote in connection with the installation, which - consistent with the installation's themes of nomadism, immigration, displacement, alienation and assimilation - I developed in Denmark, wrote in Italy, and mailed to the The Karen Blixen Museum from England.
Maya Alexandri's stream-of-consciousness meditation on themes relating to Gillion Grantsaan's and Ato Malinda's installation "Rebuilding, Remembering & Renewing" in the "Not About Karen Blixen" show at The Karen Blixen Museum, Rungstedlund, Denmark
Boats are destabilizing.
On a boat, humans come closest to experiencing the movement of the planet. Standing on the deck of a water bus in Venice, with the deck rocking beneath me, I place my backpack at my feet and worry about it slipping between the slats of the gangway gate and sinking. I watch an older couple standing at the wheel of a speedboat passing us. Neither member of the couple looks to be in great shape, and I am amazed that they remain upright as the lagoon bounces their speedboat into an imitation of an airplane taking-off.
Perhaps because of their ability to connect humans with the reality of the earth's motion, boats are vehicles of momentousness. Pirates sail on boats. Slavers carried their human cargo across the world on boats. Karen Blixen sailed to Kenya, and Paul Gaugin to Tahiti, and King Claudius banished Hamlet to England by boat.
Hamlet was kidnapped by pirates.
At Kronberg Castle in Helsingor, Hamlet's abode, the Maritime Museum contains a small visual memento of Denmark's slave trade: a painting of a slave ship below deck (pictured right). Black people, naked, peer out from where they are stacked in horizontal berths. Descending into their squalor are a black cabin boy and a black steward, both impeccably dressed. The painting is beautiful: did the artist think he was documenting a horror?
In a later room in the Maritime Museum, in an exhibit about Danish emigrants to the United States, the display is accompanied by the following blurb:
In the early days of emigration the voyage was made by sailing ship with the emigrant supplying his own food and drink, which had to keep for up to six weeks without refrigeration. Added to this was the lack of ventilation and bad hygiene, not to mention seasick passengers. Even though steamships and increased competition gradually improved conditions one can still safely conclude that a trip in emigrant class was often like a trip on a slave ship - an experience for life!
Whatever the phrase, "experience for life," means, emigrants, colonists and slaves all have it. Transplants, (mal)adjusters, uprooted, disconnected, identity-inventors - all. The difference is choice and humanity. Those who choose to uproot themselves may be crazy, but they're not property.
Paul Gaugin was crazy. Although he may have been born with a predisposition in this direction, at his death, the cause of his mental illness was syphilis. Who knows how long syphilis addled his brain?
When he arrived in Tahiti and learned that missionaries had banished paganism and converted the island a hundred years previously, he was despondent. He carved his own pantheon of pagan gods. He was going to out-savage the savages. He was determined to paint like a primitive.
What did Gaugin think "painting like a primitive" meant? Was he seeking a visual palette free from the overbearing influences of the Old Masters, of the Romantics, of the Impressionists? Was he enraptured by the stereotype of pure, uncorrupted, natural, sexual, uncivilized primitives? Did he think painting like a primitive was beautiful? Or was he just crazy?
Mette Gad probably regretted that Gaugin was a colonist (a pariah within the French colonial system in Tahiti, perhaps, but still a colonist), and not a slave. A crazy husband with no property was no good to her and their five children, freezing in Copenhagen while Paul was sunning his syphilitic phallus in Tahiti. At least if he'd been a slave, she could have sold him. (Being married to Paul Gaugin must have been an experience for life.)
Paul Gaugin never enriched Mette Gad, though. Carl Jacobsen was another matter. Gaugin's Danish wife correlated with a disproportionately large number of Gaugin's paintings landing in the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, the museum in Copenhagen housing Jacobsen's collection. In the Glyptotek's sophisticated, well-appointed nineteenth century art wing, Gaugin's paintings don't look particularly primitive. They don't have the appearance of paintings best viewed on a boat.
I wonder if Karen Blixen ever saw the Gaugins in Carl Jacobsen's collection. If she did, what did she feel? A visual artist before she was a writer, Karen, too, had painted "primitives." She, too, had sailed on a boat to live among primitives. She, too, sought to understand their customs, religion and mindsets. She, too, had syphilis. She, too, was a prominent authority on whom Danes relied for information about primitives. Did she see Paul Gaugin as her kindred?
Boarding my own boat - my imagination - I slip my toes inside Karen Blixen's feet and peer from her eye sockets at Paul Gaugin's painting, "Manao Tupapau." No, he is not my kindred. He is not noble; he represents nothing beyond himself. He's a sexual adventurer among the savages. I know his kind, and he wouldn't know the Crusades from the Renaissance.
(Isn't there always dissension among the ranks? Geniuses tend to despise each other. Byron and Shelley would've eventually hated each other if their premature deaths hadn't prevented them from doing so. Wordsworth's ultimate treatment of Coleridge is abominable. Mario Vargas Llosa and Gabriel Garcia Marquez couldn't remain friends.)
Imagining Karen Blixen viewing the Gaugins in Carl Jacobsen's collection, I am in a kind of matryoshka boat: a boat, within a smaller boat, within a boat smaller still. In the boat of my imagination, I sail on a boat of another sort: Denmark. For islands are boats more than other landmasses are. And the ground in Denmark is moving perceptibly.
Homogenous cultures breed conservatism that may mask the movement beneath the feet, but in the end it emerges because it exists: boats are destabilizing. Shaky ground is not the place for an unstable structure, but instability is relative. Paul Gaugin no doubt sailed on leaky ships, the Venetians rebuilt the Palazzo Ducale on its fire-damaged hulk, and a wobbly ladder didn't prevent Gillion and Ato from constructing the shack. Instability, after all, lasts only until it is assimilated or eclipsed by the next cataclysm.
Every life - if we're lucky - includes more than one experience for life.
(All photographs taken by Maya Alexandri)