Blogia
Vanity Fea

Literatura y crítica

Discurso del diablo en MAN AND SUPERMAN

lunes, 24 de diciembre de 2012

Discurso del diablo en "Man and Superman"


En el Acto III de Man and Superman, de  George Bernard Shaw, los personajes discuten sobre el sentido de la acción, y del matrimonio y de la reproducción y de la vida y de la existencia, concluyendo con una defensa de la Fuerza Vital en boca de Don Juan, una fuerza que guía la evolución y que llevará al hombre hacia su destino en el Superhombre (en la obra se alude explícitamente a Nietzsche). El Diablo, otro de los interlocutores, es mas escéptico: el Universo visto globalmente no tiene propósito, y el hombre, con todo su cerebro y su inteligencia, no es  sino una especie destructiva:
 

foto de hoyDON JUAN. You forget that brainless magnificence of body has been tried. Things immeasurably greater than man in every respect but brain have existed and perished. The megatherium, the icthyosaurus have paced the earth with seven-league steps and hidden the day with cloud vast wings. Where are they now? Fossils in museums, and so few and imperfect at that, that a knuckle bone or a tooth of one of them is prized beyond the lives of a thousand soldiers. These things lived and wanted to live; but for lack of brains they did not know how to carry out their purpose, and so destroyed themselves.THE DEVIL. And is Man any the less destroying himself for all this boasted brain of his? Have you walked up and down upon the earth lately? I have; and I have examined Man's wonderful inventions. And I tell you that in the arts of life man invents nothing; but in the arts of death he outdoes Nature herself, and produces by chemistry and machinery all the slaughter of plague, pestilence and famine. The peasant I tempt to-day eats and drinks what was eaten and drunk by the peasants of ten thousand years ago; and the house he lives in has not altered as much in a thousand centuries as the fashion of a lady's bonnet in a score of weeks. But when he goes out to slay, he carries a marvel of mechanism that lets loose at the touch of his finger all the hidden molecular energies, and leaves the javelin, the arrow, the blowpipe of his fathers far behind. In the arts of peace Man is a bungler. I have seen his cotton factories and the like, with machinery that a greedy dog could have invented if it had wanted money instead of food. I know his clumsy typewriters and bungling locomotives and tedious bicycles: they are toys compared to the Maxim gun, the submarine torpedo boat. There is nothing in Man's industrial machinery but his greed and sloth: his heart is in his weapons. This marvellous force of Life of which you boast is a force of Death: Man measures his strength by his destructiveness. What is his religion? An excuse for hating ME. What is his law? An excuse for hanging YOU. What is his morality? Gentility! an excuse for consuming without producing. What is his art? An excuse for gloating over pictures of slaughter. What are his politics? Either the worship of a despot because a despot can kill, or parliamentary cockfighting. I spent an evening lately in a certain celebrated legislature, and heard the pot lecturing the kettle for it s blackness, and ministers answering questions. When I left I chalked up on the door the old nursery saying—"Ask no questions and you will be told no lies." I bought a sixpenny family magazine, and found it full of pictures of young men shooting and stabbing one another. I saw a man die: he was a London bricklayer's laborer with seven children. He left seventeen pounds club money; and his wife spent it all on his funeral and went into the workhouse with the children next day. She would not have spent sevenpence on her children's schooling: the law had to force her to let them be taught gratuitously; but on death she spent all she had. Their imagination glows, their energies rise up at the idea of death, these people: they love it; and the more horrible it is the more they enjoy it. Hell is a place far above their comprehension: they derive their notion of it from two of the greatest fools that ever lived, an Italian and an Englishman. The Italian described it as a place of mud, frost, filth, fire, and venomous serpents: all torture. This ass, when he was not lying about me, was maundering about some woman whom he saw once in the street. The Englishman described me as being expelled from Heaven by cannons and gunpowder; and to this day every Briton believes that the whole of his silly story is in the Bible. What else he says I do not know; for it is all in a long poem which neither I nor anyone else ever succeeded in wading through. It is the same in everything. The highest form of literature is the tragedy, a play in which everybody is murdered at the end. In the old chronicles you read of earthquakes and pestilences, and are told that these showed the power and majesty of God and the littleness of Man. Nowadays the chronicles describe battles. In a battle two bodies of men shoot at one another with bullets and explosive shells until one body runs away, when the others chase the fugitives on horseback and cut them to pieces as they fly. And this, the chronicle concludes, shows the greatness and majesty of empires, and the littleness of the vanquished. Over such battles the people run about the streets yelling with delight, and egg their Governments on to spend hundreds of millions of money in the slaughter, whilst the strongest Ministers dare not spend an extra penny in the pound against the poverty and pestilence through which they themselves daily walk. I could give you a thousand instances; but they all come to the same thing: the power that governs the earth is not the power of Life but of Death; and the inner need that has nerved Life to the effort of organizing itself into the human being is not the need for higher life but for a more efficient engine of destruction. The plague, the famine, the earthquake, the tempest were too spasmodic in their action; the tiger and crocodile were too easily satiated and not cruel enough: something more constantly, more ruthlessly, more ingeniously destructive was needed; and that something was Man, the inventor of the rack, the stake, the gallows, and the electrocutor; of the sword and gun; above all, of justice, duty, patriotism and all the other isms by which even those who are clever enough to be humanely disposed are persuaded to become the most destructive of all the destroyers.
 



Más adelante este diálogo, expone o reconoce Don Juan la tesis de que la evolución humana está guiada por la guerra y la lucha por el poder. Es una interesante y temprana exposición de la tesis evolutiva de que somos hijos de la guerra: 

THE DEVIL. Yes; and this civilization! what is it, after all?DON JUAN. After all, an excellent peg to hang your cynical commonplaces on; but BEFORE all, it is an attempt on Man's part to make himself something more than the mere instrument of Woman's purpose. So far, the result of Life's continual effort not only to maintain itself, but to achieve higher and higher organization and completer self-consciousness, is only, at best, a doubtful campaign between its forces and those of Death and Degeneration. The battles in this campaign are mere blunders, mostly won, like actual military battles, in spite of the commanders.THE STATUE. That is a dig at me. No matter: go on, go on.DON JUAN. It is a dig at a much higher power than you, Commander. Still, you must have noticed in your profession that even a stupid general can win battles when the enemy's general is a little stupider.THE STATUE. [very seriously] Most true, Juan, most true. Some donkeys have amazing luck.DON JUAN. Well, the Life Force is stupid; but it is not so stupid as the forces of Death and Degeneration. Besides, these are in its pay all the time. And so Life wins, after a fashion. What mere copiousness of fecundity can supply and mere greed preserve, we possess. The survival of whatever form of civilization can produce the best rifle and the best fed riflemen is assured.THE DEVIL. Exactly! the survival, not of the most effective means of Life but of the most effective means of Death. You always come back to my point, in spite of your wrigglings and evasions and sophistries, not to mention the intolerable length of your speeches.


El ideal de Don Juan, la evolución creadora de formas superiores, requiere sin embargo la inteligencia, sea cual sea su origen. La  cima de la  existencia humana, lo más parecido al superhombre que tenemos hoy, es

the philosophic man: he who seeks in contemplation to discover the inner will of the world, in invention to discover the means of fulfilling that will, and in action to do that will by the so-discovered means. Of all other sorts of men I declare myself tired.


—sin embargo la obra termina con Don Juan (Tanner) casado con Doña Ana, impulsado se supone por la Fuerza Vital, y rindiéndose a las argucias matrimoniales femeninas: "The Life Force enchants me: I have the whole world in my arms when I clasp you".... 

Tanto más curiosa esta conclusión desde el punto de vista de Bernard Shaw, cuando se piensa que su propia esposa impuso en su matrimonio la condición de no tener relaciones sexuales. Debería de estar pensando en la vida y deseos de los otros.

Darwin y Nietzsche


George Bernard Shaw

DOMINGO, 23 DE DICIEMBRE DE 2012

George Bernard Shaw



From the Oxford Companion to English Literature, ed. Margaret Drabble: 
 

(George) Bernard SHAW (1856-1950), born in Dublin, the youngest child of unhappily married and inattentive parents. In 1876 he moved to London, joining his mother and sister, and began his literary career by ghosting music criticism and writing five unsuccessful novels (including Cashel Byron's Profession, 1886, and An Unsocial Socialist, 1887, both first published in Today, in 1885-6- and 1884 respectively). During his first nine years in London he calculated that he earned less than £10 by his pen. He wrote music, art, and book criticism for the Dramatic Review (1885-6), 
Our Corner (1885-6), the Pall Mall Gazette (1885-8), the World (1886-94) and the Star (1888-90, as 'Corno di Bassetto'). His music criticism has been collected in three volumes as Shaw's Music (1981, ed. Dan H. Laurence) (see also under MUSIC, LITERATURE OF) and his theatre criticism in four volumes as The Drama Observed (1993, ed. B. Dukore). He was a drama critic for the Saturday Review (1895-8) and produced a series of remarkable and controversial weekly articles (published in book form as Our Theatres in the Nineties, 3 vols, 1932), voicing his impatience with the artificiality of the London theatre and pleading for the performance of plays dealing with contemporary social and moral problems. He campaigned for a theatre of ideas in Britain comparable to that of Ibsen and Strindberg in Scandinavia, and came nearest to achieving this with Granville-Barker at the Court Theatre in London between 1904 and 1907. During this period he took up various causes and joined several literary and political societites, notably the Fabian Society, serving on the executive committee from 1885 to 1911. Not naturally a good public speaker, he schooled himself to become a brilliant one and gave over 1,000 lectures. he edited and contributed to Fabian Essays in Socialism (1889) and wrote many tracts setting down his socialist and collectivist principles. He was a freethinker, a supporter of women's rights, and an advocate of equality of income, the abolition of private property, and a radical change in the voting system. He also campaigned for the simplification of spelling and punctuation and the reform of the English alphabet. He was well known as a journalist and public speaker when his first play, Widowers' Houses (pub. 1893), was produced in 1982, but it met with little success. There followed Arms and the Man (1894, pub. 1898: partly used for Oscar Straus's musical The Chocolate Soldier), The Devil's Disciple (perf. NY 1897, pub. 1901), You Never Can Tell (1899, pub. 1898), Caesar and Cleopatra (pub. 1901, perf. Berlin 1906), Mrs Warren's Profession (pub. 1898, perf. 1902), and John Bull's Other Island (1904, pub. NY 1907), a play which, thanks to its characteristic 'Shavian' wit, brought his first popular success in London. The critics also were gradually persuaded that the plays were not simply dry vehicles for his reformist zeal.

Shaw was an indefatigable worker, writing over 50 plays, including Man and Superman (pub. 1903, perf. 1905), Major Barbara (1905, pub. NY 1907), The Doctor's Dilemma(1906, pub. Berlin 1908). Getting Married (1908, pub. Berlin 1910), Misalliance (191, pub. Berlin 1911), Androcles and the Lion (pub. Berlin 1913, perf. Hamburg 1913),Pygmalion (perf. Vienna 1913, pub. Berlin 1913, later turned into the popular musical My Fair Lady), Heartbreak House (pub. 1919, perf. 1920, both NY), Back to Methuselah (pub. and perf. NY 1921, 1922), Saint Joan (perf. NY 1923, pub. 1924), The Apple Cart (perf. Warsaw 1929, pub. Berlin 1929), Too True to Be Good (perf. Boston 1932, pub. Berlin 1932), Village Wooing (pub. Berlin 1933, perf. Dallas 1934), The Simpleton of the Unexpected Isles (perf. NY 1935, pub. Berlin 1935), In Good King Charles's Golden Days (perf. and publ 1939), and Buoyant Billions (perf. and pub. Zurich 1948).

These plays were published (some in collections: Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant, 1898; Three Plays for Puritans, 1901) with lengthy prefaces in which Shaw clearly expresses his views as a non-romantic and a champion of the thinking man. The dramatic conflict in his plays is the conflict of thought and belief, not that of neurosis or physical passion. Discussion is the basis of the plays, and his great wit and intelligence won audiences over to the idea that mental and moral passion could produce absorbing dramatic material. He believed that war, disease, and the present brevity of our lifespan frustrate the 'Life Force' (see under MAN AND SUPERMAN) and that functional adaptation, a current of creative evolution activated by the power of human will, was essential to any real progress, and indeed to the survival of the species. The plays continued to be performed regularly both during and after his lifetime (several were made into films) and his unorthodox views, his humour, and his love of paradox have become an institution. Amongst his other works should be mentionedThe Quintessence of Ibsenism (1891, revised and expanded 1913), which reveals his debt to Ibsen as a playwright and presents an argument for Fabian socialism; The Perfect Wagnerite (1898); Common sense about the War (1914); 
The Intelligent Woman's Guide to Socialism and Capitalism (1928); and Everybody's Political What's What (1944) Shaw was a prolific letter writer. his correspondence with the actressses Ellen Terry and Mrs Patrick Campbell, with friends and colleagues such as H.G. Wells and Gabriel pascal, as well as several volumes of collected letters, are available in book form.

In 1898 Shaw married Charlotte Payne Townshend. It seems to have been a marriage of companionship, and they lived together until her death in 1943. He was a strict vegetarian and never drank spirits, coffee, or tea. He died at the age of 94, as independent as ever an still writing for the theatre. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1925. See The Bodley Head Collected Plays with Their Prefaces (7 vols, 1970-74).



The Fabian Society, a society founded in 1884 consisting of socialists who advocate a 'Fabian' policy, as opposed to immediate revolutionary action, and named after Quintus Fabius Maximus, nicknamed Cunctator or 'the Delayer' [d. 203 BC - was appointed dictator after Hannibal's crushing victory at Trasimene (217 BC). He carried on a defensive campaign, avoiding direct engagements and harassing the enemy. Hence the expression 'Fabian tactics' and the name of the Fabian Society (1884) dedicated to the gradual introduction of socialism]. One of its instigators was Thomas Davidson (1840-1900), the illegitimate son of a Scottish shepherd, a charismatic figure with many disciples who was also responsible for founding in 1883 the Fellowship of the New Life, a body which at first attracted some of the same membership, although its aims were mystical and philsophical rather than political. The Fabians aimed to influence government and affect policy by permeation rather than by direct power, and to provide the reseach and analysis to support their own views and introduce them to others. One of their methods was the publishing of tracts, or pamphleteering: the first two Fabian tracvts weere Why Are the many Poor? (1884) by W. L. Phillips, a house painter and one of the few working-class members, and A Manifesto (1884) by G. B. Shaw. Shaw wrote  many other important tractsas did S. Webb. Fabian Essays in Socialism (1889), edited by Shaw and with contributions by Webb, Sydney Olivier, and A. Besant sold well and attracted much attention. The Society itself continued to attract a distinguished membership of politicians, intellectuals, artists, and writers, ranging from Keir Hardie, Ramsay Macdonald, and G. D. H. Cole to E. Carpenter, E. Nesbit, R. Brooke, and W. Crane. See Margaert Cole, The Story of Fabian Socialism (1961) and N. and J. Mackenzie, The First Fabians (1977).
  
Widowers' Houses, 
a play by Bernard Shaw, first performed 1892, published 1893, and published (with The Philanderer and Mrs Warren's Profession ) in Plays Unpleasant (898). It is designed to show the manner in which the capitalist system perverts and corrupts human behaviour and relationships, through a demonstration, in Shaw's words, of 'middle-class respectability and younger son gentility fattening on the poverty of the slum as flies fatten on filth'.

Dr. Harry Trench, on a Rhine holiday, meets Blanche Sartorius, travelling with her wealthy father, and proposes marriage to her: Sartorius is willing to permit the match if Trench's family (including his aunt Lady Roxdale) agrees to accept her as an equal. All seems well, until it is revealed in Act II that Sartorius is a slum landlord. Trench is horrified, refuses to accept Sartorius' money, suggests that he and Blanche should live on his  £700 a year, and is even more horrified when Sartorius points out that this income is derived from a mortgage of Sartorius' property, and that he himself and his miserable rent collector Lickcheese are merely intermediaries. 'You are the principal.' Blanche, revealing a passionate and violent nature, rejects Trench for his hesitations. In the third act Lickcheese, himself now rich through dubious dealings to the property market, approaches Sartorius with an apparent philanthropic but in fact remunerative proposition, which involves Lady Roxdale as a ground landlord and Trench as mortgagee. Trench, now considerably more cynical, accepts the deal, and he and Blanche are reunited.


John Bull's Other Island, an ironic description of Ireland deriving from Leon Paul Blouet's John Bull and His Island  (1884) and used by G. B. Shaw as the title of a play (1904) written at the request of Yeats 'as a patriotic contribution to the repertory of the Irish Literary Theatre'.


Man and Superman: A Comedy and a Philosophy, a play by Bernard Shaw, first published 1903, first performed (without Act III) in 1905 by the Stage Society at the Court Theatre.

The play is Shaw's paradoxical version of the Don Juan story, in which his hero John Tanner (Don Juan Tenorio), provocative, eloquent, and witty ideologue and author of theRevolutionist's Handbook (a work which appears in full as an appendix to the play), is relentlessly if obliquely pursued by Ann Whitefield, who is more interested in him as a potential husband than she is in his political theories. Ann has been entrusted as ward by her dead father jointly to Tanner and to the elderly respectable Ramsden, who expects her to marry the devoted and poetic Octavius. Tanner is made aware of Ann's intentions by his chauffeur Straker (the new man of the polytechnic revolution), and flees to Spain whither he is pursued by Ann and her entourage, which includes her mother and Octavius's sister Violet, who demonstrates, through a matrimonial sub-plot, the superior force of women. Act III consists of a dream sequence set in hell in which Tanner, captured by the brigand Mendoza, becomes his ancestor Don Juan, Mendoza the Devil, Ramsden 'the Statue', and Ann becomes Ana: in one of Shaw's most characteristic 'Shavio-Socratic' debates, the four characters discuss the nature of progress, evolution, and the Life Force, the Devil arguing powerfully that man is essentially destructive, and Don Juan arguing for the saving power of ideas and rational effort, for the philosopher as 'nature's pilot'. In the last act Ann achieves her object, despite Tanner's struggles; the play ends with the announcement of their impending marriage and Tanner's submission to the Life Force.

The concept of the Life Force bears some similarity to Bergson's 'élan vital', although Shaw was not at the time familiar with Bergson's work: the echo in his 'Superman' of Nietzsche's 'Übermensch' (Also sprach Zarathustra) is, however, deliberate.


Major Barbara,
 a play by Bernard Shaw performed 1905, published 1907.

It portrays the conflict between spiritual and worldly power embodied in Barbara, a major in the Salvation Army, and her machiavellian father, millionaire armaments manufacturer Andrew Undershaft. While visiting her East End shelter for the poor, as part of a bargain struck between them, he reveals that the shelter's benefactor, Lord Saxmundham, made his money through 'Bodgers' whisky', and she suffers a crisis of faith as she glimpses the possibility that all salvation and philanthropy are tainted at the source: the next day, visiting his factory with her mother Lady Britomart and her fiancé, classical scholar Adolphus Cusins, she is further shaken to discover her father is a model employer. Cusins enters the debate, reveals that he is technically a foundling nd therefore eligible to inherit the Undershaft empire (as Undershaft's own children are not), strikes a hard bargain with his prospective father-in-law, and agrees to enter the business, partly persuaded by Undershaft's quoting of Plato to the effect that 'society cannot be saved until either the Professors of Greek take to making gundpowder, or else the makers of gunpowder become Professors of Greek'. Barbara, recovering her spirits, embraces this synthesis as a possibility of hope for the future. The portrait of Cusins is based on G. Murray.  


Pygmalion, one of the most popular plays of Bernard Shaw, first performed 1913 in Vienna, published in London, 1916.

It describes the transformation of a Cockney flower-seller, Eliza Doolittle, into a passable imitation of a duchess by the phonetician Professor Henry Higgins (modelled in part on H. Sweet, and played by Beerbohm Tree), who undertakes this task in order to win a bet and to prove his own points about English speech and the class system: he teaches her to speak standard English and introduces her successfully to social life, thus wining his bet, but hse rebels against his dictatorial and thoughtless behaviour, and 'bolts' from his tyranny. The play ends with a truce between the two of them, as Higgins acknowledges that she has achieved freedom and independence, and emerged from his treatment as a 'tower of strength: a consort battleship':  in his postscript Shaw tells us that she marries the docile and devoted Freddy Eynsford Hill. My Fair Lady, the 1957 musical version, makes the relationship between Eliza and Higgins significantly more romantic.

Pygmalion, in classical legend, was the king of Cyprus, who fell in love with his own sculpture; Aphrodite endowed the statue with life and transformeed it into the flesh and blood of Galathea.



Heartbreak House:A Fantasia in the Russian Manner on English Themes,  a play by Bernard Shaw, first performed in New York 1920, published there 1919; probably written 1916-17, despite Shaw's claims that he began it before the war.

It deescribes the impact of Ellie Dunn, daughter of the idealistic and undworldly Mazzini Dunn, upon the eccentric, complacent, and 'horribly Bohemian' household of 88-year-old Captain Shotover, with whom she strikes up an alliance: the inmaes include energetic, beautiful, dominating Hesione Hushabye (determined Ellie shall not marry the ageing business magnate Boss Mangan); her husband, the romantic liar and fantasist Hector Hushabye; her sister, the apparently conventional, newly returned Lady Utterword; and Lady Utterword's devoted brother-in-law Randall, prototype of the useless artist. Shaw appears to be portraying in 'this silly house, this strangely happy house, this agonizing house, this house without foundations', an aspect of British (or European) civilization (suggested in part by the Bloomsbury Group, in part by the society portrayed by Chekhov), about to run on the rocks or blow itself up through lack of direction and lack of grasp of economic reality, but, after various Shavian debates on money, marriage, and morality, the play ends in deep ambiguity: an air raid destroys Boss Mangan, the practical man (who takes refuge in a gravel pit where the captain stores dynamite), and is greeted with exhilarated rapture by Hesione and Elie ('It's splendid: it's like an orchestra: it's like Beethoven'), who with the rest of the household refuse to take shelter, and survive.


Back to Methuselah:  A Metabiological pentateuch (1918-20) is an infrequently performed cycle of five plays by Bernard Shaw, beginning in the Garden of Eden and reaching the year AD 31,920, which examines the metaphysical implications of longevity. Shaw revised the text and its preface, and added a postscript, in the mid-1940s when choosing Back to Methuselah to represent his work in the Oxford University Press World's Classics seires.


Too True to Be Good,  (1931), a three-act political extravaganza by Bernard Shaw which opens in one of the richest cities in England, in a patient's bedroom inhabited by a 'poor innocent microbe' made of luminous jelly, and then moves to a sea beach in a mountainous country patrolled by the omnipresent Private Meek, Shaw's imaginative portrait of T. E. Lawrence. The surreal plot, which progresses by means of a series of fantastical illusions and proliferating identities, contains echoes from The Pilgrim's Progress and The Tempest, and reaches its climax in a long peroration on the place of human beings in the evolution of the world.


The Intelligent Woman's Guide to Socialism and Capitalism (1928), G. B. Shaw's answer, 200,000 words long, to a request for 'a few ideas on socialism' from his sister-in-law, to whom the book is dedicated. This closely argued and passionately felt political testament treats women as the have-nots of a male culture and traces specific social evils to inequality of income. A new edition, with two additional chapter and retitled The Intelligent Woman's Guide to Socialism, Capitalism, Sovietism and Fascism, was published in 1937 as the first two Pelican Books.




The importance of Being Earnest

From The Oxford Companion to English Literature:


The Importance of Being Earnest: A Trivial Comedy for Serious People, a play by Oscar Wilde, first performed at the St James's Theatre, London, on 14 Feb. 1895.

Wilde's most dazzling and epigrammatic work, it describes the courtships and betrothals of two young men about town, John Worthing (Jack) and Algernon (Algy) Moncrieff, who are in pursuit respectively of Gwendolen Fairfax (Algy's cousin) and Jack's ward, Cecily Cardew. Both young men lead double lives, in that Jack is known in town under the name of Ernest, while representing to his ward Cecily in the country that he has a wicked brother Ernest. Algy, to cover his own diversions, has created a fictitious character, the sickly Bunbury, whose ill health requires a visit whenever engagements in town (particularly those with his formidable aunt Lady Bracknell) render his absence desirable. After many confusions of identity, during which it transpires that Cecily's governess, Miss Prism, had once mislaid Jack as a baby in a handbag at Victoria Station, it is revealed that Jack and Algy are in fact brothers, and that Jack's name is indeed Ernest. All objections, both financial and genealogical, to both matches, are thus overcome and Gwendolen's addiction to the very name of 'Ernest' is satisfied, so all ends happily.


—oOo—

BBC TV production, 1986:


THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST



The Life and Loves of Oscar Wilde:
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiQMDNYpqeI




Wilde entre líneas

The Way of the World

From The Oxford Companion to English Literature:

The Way of the World, a comedy by Congreve, produced 1700.

Mirabell is in love with Millamant, a niece of Lady Wishfort, and has pretended to court the aunt in order to conceal his suit of the niece. The deceit has been revealed to lady Wishfort by Mrs Marwood to revenge herself on Mirabell, who has rejected her advances. Lady Wishfort, who now hates Mirabell 'more than a quaker hates a parrot', will deprive her niece of the half of the inheritance which is in her keeping if Millamant marries Mirabell. The latter accordingly contrives that his servant Waitwell shall impersonate an uncle of his, Sir Rowland, make love to Lady Wishfort, and pretend to marry her, having, however, first married Lady Wishfort's woman Foible. He hopes by this deception to force Lady Wishfort to consent to his marriage to her niece. The plot is discovered by Mrs. Marwood, and also the fact that Mirabell has in the past had an intrigue with Mrs Fainall, daughter of Lady Wishfort. She [Mrs. Marwood] conspires with Fainall, her lover, and the pretended friend of Mirabell, to reveal these facts to Lady Wishfort, while Fainall is to threaten to divorce his wife and discredit Lady Wishfort, unless he is given full control of Mrs Fainall's property and Millaman's portion is also handed over to him. The scheme, however, fails. Mrs Fainall denies the charge against her and brings proof of Fainall's affair with Mrs Marwood, while Mirabell produces a deed by which Mrs Fainall, before her last marriage, made him trustee of her property. Lady Wishfort, in gratitude for her release from Fainall's threats, forgives Mirabell and consents to his marriage to Millamant.

Congreve enlives the action with a fine gallery of fools, including Sir Willful Witwhould, Lady Wishfort's boisterous and good-natured country nephew; they serve to highlight the central contrast between the passionate and grasping relationship of Fainall and Mrs Marwood and the delicate process by which Mirabell persuades Millamant that even in such a mercenary society, love can survive into marriage. The dialogue is exceptionally brilliant, and many critics also consider the play a study of the battle between good and evil, rather than of the characteristically Restoration conflict between the witty and the foolish.

—oOo—

On a recent production of  The Way of the World.



The Country Wife


A comedy by William Wycherley, 1675. A BBC production with Helen Mirren, 1976:

THE COUNTRY WIFE

 

The Theatre of the Restoration
 


Toni Morrison

jueves, 20 de diciembre de 2012

Toni Morrison

From The Oxford Companion to American Literature, ed. Hart and Leininger:
 


Toni Morrison (1931-), Ohio-born novelist, originally named Chloe Anthony Wofford, a graduate of Harvard University, writes about the problems of black women in the North, like herself. Her novels include The Bluest Eye (1970), about a young black woman who moves from the old South with the belief that if only she had blue eyes she would be well accepted; Sula (1973); Song of Solomon (1977), Tar Baby (1981); and Beloved (1987), about a black woman after the Civil War recalling her need and thus her action of killing her baby, Beloved, but now pleasantly greeted by a young woman of that name, aged about 20, some years after the war. It was awarded a Pulitzer Prize. Jazz (1992), set in Harlem of the 1920s, details the experiences, often bitter, of a couple, Joe and Violet. Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (1992) collects the William E. Massey Sr. Lectures, at Harvard, in the History of American Civilization. Morrison won the Nobel Prize in 1993, the first African-American writer to be so honored.

________

From Richard Gray's History of American Literature (August Wilson and Toni Morrison):
 


While [Ed] Bullins has been central to the story of alternative theater, success on the mainstream stage has tended to elude him. By contrast, August Wilson [1945-2005] enjoyed considerable mainstream success. His Ma Rainey's Black Bottom (1982), Fences (1983), Joe Turner's Come and Gone (1984), The Piano Lesson (1986), Two Trains Running (1992), and Seven Guitars (1995) were all produced on Broadway, for the most part to critical and commercial acclaim. Born on "The Hill," a racially mixed area of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to a black mother and a white father he seldom saw, Wilson encountered racial prejudice early. He also encountered two formative cultural influences: black talk and black music. In a cigar store in Pittsburgh, he recalled, he would stand around when he was young listening to old men talling tales and swapping stories. Later, listening to the records of the blues singer Bessie Smith, he became determined to capture black cultural and historical experience in his writing. One of his first publications was, in fact, a poem called "Bessie." Beginning to write plays in the 1970s, Ma Rainey's Black Bottom established his reputation. Set in 1920s Chicago, it describes the economic exploitation of black musicians by white record companies and the ways in which victims of racism are compelled to direct their rage at each other rather than at those who cause their oppression. It is also a memorable combination of the vernacular, violence, and humor. So is Fences, which concerns the struggles of a working-class family in the 1950s to find security. Here, Wilson also uses myth to tell the story of Troy Maxson, a garbageman, ex-convict, and former Negro Baseball League player, who cannot believe that his son wil be allowed to benefit from the football scholarship he has been offered.

Joe Turner's Come and Gone is set some forty years earlier than Fences, in a Pittsburgh boarding house in 1911. Focusing on the personal and cultural aftermath of slavery and the Great Migration, it explores the lives of characters who are in danger of being cut off from their roots. The Piano Lesson, in turn, is placed in 1937 in Pittsburgh: concentrating on a conflict between a brother and a sister, over who has the right to won a family heirloom, the piano of the title, it dramatizes the debate between African-American and mainstream cultural values.
Two Trains Running moves forward several decades, to the late 1960s—to a coffee shop where regulars discuss their troubled relation to the times—and Seven Guitars then moves back to the 1940s. Wilson declared that, as a playwright, he wanted to "tell a history that has never been told." His major plays reflect this. For him, they were all part of a major project: the "Century Cycle" of ten plays, each of them intended to investigate a central issue facing African-Americans in a different decade of the twentieth century. The others are Jitney (1983), King Hedley II (2000), Gem of the Ocean (2003), and Radio Golf (2005). He was aiming at nothing less than raising collective awareness: rewriting the history of every decade so that black life would become a more acknowledged part of the theatrical history—and, for that matter, the general history—of America. In 1991 Wilson recalled that his plan, to bring a silenced past into dramatic speech, began with "a typewritten yellow-labeled record titled 'Nobody in Town Can Bake a Sweet Jellyroll Like Mine' by someone called Bessie Smith." "It was the beginning," he explained, "of my consciousness that I was a representative of a culture and the carrier of some very valuable antecedents." He continued to pursue that plan after that, in plays that work precisely as the "yellow-labeled record" did: by bringing a whole culture and its past to life, with rhythmic flair and passion.

If any novelist can be said to have a project similar to that of August Wilson in dr
Toni  Morrisonama, it is surely Toni Morrison (1931-). "For me, in doing novels about African-Americans," she has declared, "I was trying to move away from the unstated but overwhelming and dominant context that was white history and to move it into another one." Her work can, in fact, be seen as an attempt to write several concentric histories of the American experience from a distinctively African-American perspective. A series of fictional interventions in American historiography, her novels draw what she has called, in Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (1992), "the overwhelming presence of black people in the United States" from the margins of the imagination to the center of American literature and history. What has been distinctive about the history of the United States, Morrison has argued, is "its claim to freedom" and "the presence of the unfree within the heart of the democratic experiment." This was, and remains, "a nation of people who decided that their world view would combine agendas for individual freedom and mechanisms for devastating racial oppression." As such, it "presents a singular landscape for a writer." And her aim in mapping that landscape has been twofold. On the one hand, she has charted a specifically black history, giving voice to the silence: pointing to the culpability for it of White America's 'failure' to apportion human rights equally, while simultaneously celebrating that history's achievement and identifying its own failings. On the other, she maps out a general history of America from the readjusted perspective, the angle of black experience. As Morrison has noted in Playing in the Dark, "Africanism is inextricable from the definition of Americanness—from its origins on through its integrated or disintegrating twentieth-century self." The history of black America, over the last two humdred years and perhaps more, is the history of America, as she sees it. So what she is pursuing, reclaiming in imaginative terms, is a history of the whole American experience.

"The crucial difference for me is not the difference between fact and fiction," Morrison once admitted, "but the distinction between fact and truth. Because facts can exist without human intelligence, but truth cannot." That search for truth began with her first novel,
The Bluest Eye (1970). It has a simple premise. A narrator, Claudia McTeer, tells the story of Pecola Breedlove, a black girl whose hunger for love is manifested in a desire for blue eyes that eventually drives her to insanity. What complicates is both structural and social. Morrison has said that one of her goals as a writer is "to have the reader work with the writer in the construction of the book." And here she uses a number of narrative devices to realize that goal. The novel opens, for example, with a parodic passage from a Dick and Jane school primer that presents an ideal, inevitably white family: the kind of cultural intervention that seems calculated to create false consciousness. Working with the writer here and elsewhere in the novel, the reader gradually unravels a tale of personal and social disintegration. Pecola, it seems, is driven inward by the norms of white society (the bluest eye, the ideal family) to shame, the destruction and division of the self. Claudia, the narrator, finds herself directed outward, to anger against white society: finding a convenient scapegoat, a focus for anger, for instance, in the "white baby dolls" she cuts up and destroys. The Bluest Eye deconstructs the image of the white community as the site of normality and perfection. It also exposes the realities of life in an impoverished African-American community, whose abject socioeconomic status is exacerbated by the politics of race. Those politics point, in particular, to internalized racism, manacles that are mind-forged as well as devastatingly material. as Morrison has put it in an afterword to a recent edition of the novel: "the trauma of racism is, for the racist and victim, the severe fragmentation of the self."

Coextensive with Morrison's concern with the psychosocial consequences of racism is her interest in what she calls "silence and evasion:" the shadows and absences, the gaps and omissions in American history. In her second novel, Sula (1973), for example, she shows how a black community evolves and shapes itself, with its own cultural resources and elaborate social structure. She rescues it from a kind of historical anonymity. Through the lives of the two main characters, Sula Peace and Nel Wright, in turn, she opens up the area of intimate friendship between African-American women. Also, though a poignant account of the rifts and disputes between Sula and Nel, she charts differences, the diverse paths and possibilities available to females as part of or apart from communal tradition. Morrison's third novel, Song of Solomon (1977), sustains her commitment to what is called here "names that had a meaning:" the evolution of a distinctive black identity and community through the habit of language. A complex tapestry of memory and myth, Song of Solomon tells the story of a young man, Milkman Dead, who comes to know himself through a return to origins. He is captivated by the legends surrounding his family from slave times. He learns, in particular, from the stories of men who flew to freedom and the realities of women who remained to foster and to nurture. Just as the novel does, he returns to the past and, through that, discovers how to live in the present. Tar Baby (1981) also pursues themes of ancestry and identity, how African-Americans come to name and know themselves. It does this primarily through the contrast between two characters, Jadine Childs, a model, and William (Son) Green, an  outcast and wanderer. Jadine, brought up with the help of white patrons, has been assimilated into white culture; Son remains outside it, in resistance to it. Drawn to each other, they seem to be trying to "rescue" each other, the one from assimilation, the other from separation. "One had a past, the other a future and each bore the culture to save the race in his hands," the reader is told. "Mama-spoiled black man, will you mature with me? Culture-bearing black woman, whose culture are your bearing?" The love affair between them is aborted. Neither fundamentally changes. And, although the perspective on Jadine is less than sympathetic ("she has forgotten her ancient properties," one oracular black character observes of her), the identity crisis posed by the conflict between her and Son is never really resolved. Morrison adopts her usual strategy, of leaving the narrative debate open.

With her fifth and most important novel so far, Beloved (1987), Morrison took the core of a real story she had encountered while working as a senior editor at Random House. It was recorded in The Black Book (1974), an eclectic collection of material relating to more than three hundred years of African-American history. And it concerned a fugitive slave called Margaret Garner who killed her daughter, then tried to kill her other children and herself rather than be returned to slavery. Morrison took this as the nucleus, the germ of her story about Sethe Suggs, who killed her own young daughter, Beloved, when faced with the same threat. Circling backwards and forwards in time, before and after the Civil War, the novel discloses how Sethe and other characters—especially her daughter Denver and her lover Paul D—struggle with a past that cannot but must be remembered, that cannot yet must be named. In other words, it pivots around the central contradiction in African-American, and for that matter American, history: living with impossible memories. There is the need to remember and tell and the desire to forget; there are memories here with an inexhaustible, monstrous power to erupt and overwhelm the mind that must somewhere be commemorated yet laid aside if life is to continue. it is a contradiction caught in a phrase repeated in the concluding section of the narrative: "It was not a story to pass on" (where "pass on" could mean either "pass over" or "pass on to others"). It is one caught, too, in the scandalous nature of the act, the killing that haunts Sethe. In that sense, the mother-daughter relationship that Morrison characteristically focuses on here is at once a denial of the institution of slavery and a measure of its power.

Beloved is an extraordinary mix of narrative genres. It has elements of realism, the Gothc, and African-American folklore. It is a slave narrative that internalizes slavery and its consequences. It is a historical novel that insists on history as story, active rehearsal and reinvention of the past. It weaves its way between the vernacular and a charged lyricism, the material and the magical, as it emphasizes the centrality of the black, and in particular black female, experience. It also forces the reader to collaborate with the author, narrator, and characters in the construction of meaning: the energetic refiguring of a past that is seen as a necessary precondition of the present—determining (and so to be resurrected) yet different (and so to be laid to rest). This involvement of the reader in the exhumation of a secret that is also the narrative's secret—the unspeakable heart of the story that remains intimated rather than spoken—is the main grounds for the emotional intensity of Beloved. This is a novel that reorients history, American history in particular, to the lived experience of black people. it is also a passionate novel, that sets up a vital, unbreakable circuit between historical events and emotional consequences, and then connects up that circuit to any one, black or white, or whatever, who reads it. We the readers are caught as the main characters of Beloved are in the "look," the gaze that seeks to reduce the black subject to the position of otherness. We share with these characters the rigors of the disciplined body—the denial of the ownership of one's own flesh. We also participate in the strenuous, successful effort to resist all this: the right to one's own body and consciousness, the responsibility for them in the past, present, and future. Above all, we share in the project of naming. "Did a whiteman saying make it so?" Paul D asks himself at one point. The immediate answer turns out to be "yes"; the ultimate answer is "no." The novel and its characters turn out, after all, to offer another form of "saying," a more authentic way of seeing and telling the personal and historical past. That is why the last word of Beloved is, precisely, "Beloved," because the whole aim of the story, and its protagonist, has been to name the unnameable. That way, we know by now, African-Americans and all Americans can come to terms with a past that should be told, that will not be told (the paradox is irresolvable)—and then, perhaps, be able to continue.

After Beloved, Morrison published two books that, with it, form part of a loosely connected trilogy, Jazz (1992) and Paradise (1998). Morrison has said that the three novels are about "various kinds of love"—the love of a mother for her child, romantic love, and "the love of God and love for fellow human beings." The three might equally be described as charting the history of African-Americans. Jazz, set in Harlem in 1929, was inspired by Morrison reading in a book she was editing,  The Harlem Book of the Dead, about a young woman who, as she lay dying, refused to identify her lover as the person who had shot her. What distinguishes the novel more thatn its plot, however, is Morrison's innovative way of telling it. Imitating the improvisational techniques of jazz music, she presents us with a narrative that constantly revisits events and a narrator who frankly confesses her fallibility. "I have been careless and stupid," the narrator declares at one point, "and it infuriates me to discover (again) how unreliable I am." History is consequently presented as a process of constant telling and retelling, with the openings for chance, the impromptu, and mistakes that implies. And, at the end, the responsibility for that process is passed to us, the readers. "Make me, remake me," the narrator tells us. "You are free to do it and I am free to let you because look, look. Look where your hands are. Now." Paradise is set in 1976. However, in describing the intimate contact between two communities, one a black township and the other a refuge for women, it circles as far back as 1755. It also supplies another example of Morrison's characteristic strategy of giving voice to the silence while initiating its own forms of silence. That is, it brings those traditionally exiled to the margins, for reasons of race, gender, or both, to the center of the stage; it allows them to name themselves and narrate their history. But it quietly intimates its own lack of authority, the blanks and absences detectable in its own account, and the responsibility that this imposes on the reader.

In Beloved, for example, the reader never knows who the young girl is who returns to Sethe during the course of the story. Is she the ghost of the 2-year-old-daughter Sethe killed twenty years earlier? Does she recall Sethe's nameless mother, since some of her dreams and narrations seem to recall the horrors of the Middle Passage? Is she a myriad figure, a composite of all the women ever dragged into slavery? Or is she a very singular young woman who has been driven mad by her enslavement? We cannot know for sure; all we can do is allow these possibilities to feed into our own retelling of an intolerable, impossible past, our own project of naming the unnameable. Nor, for that matter, can we be certain what happens at the end of Paradise. The pivotal act of this novel is the shooting, and apparent killing, of the women at the refuge by nine men from the township. Paradise closes, however, with the "marvelous" disappearance of the bodies of the women and the reappearance, then, of four of them. One of the several, unresolved puzzles of this story is, therefore, what they return as —ghosts or human beings who somehow survived the attack. But just as Beloved, for all its push beyond realism, leaves no doubt as to the monstrous fact of slavery and its central place in the story of America (indeed, using magic, mystery, as a measure of that monstrosity), so Paradise  lesaves no doubt about the necessity for the reappearance of women like these, in some form or another, for the survival of the republic. Paradise is a book about the failures of American democracy (hence its setting in the bicentennial). It is about the strengths and fatal flaws in the black community (hence its complicity in the shootings). It is about the core meaning of the African-American story to American history (hence the narrative connections forged with key events since 1776). And it is also a book about the failure of patriarchy. Morrison has resisted the description of herself as a feminist. She is right to do so because Paradise, like all her novels, is much more than a polemical statement of a position. But, in itws own way, it registers a fundamentally optimistic belief in the recovery of the American republic—a belief that all her work tends to share—and, in this case, at the hands of women. The beguiling mystery at the end of Paradise is centered, just as the mystery at the heart of Beloved is, by a powerful analysis of history, past disasters, and possible future directions. Any doubts about that surely dissolve in the meditations of one female character as she considers the possibility of reappearance, the return of the women shot by the men of the township. "When will they return?" she asks herself. "When will they reappear . . . to rip up and stomp down this prison calling itself a town?" "She hoped with all her heart that the women were out there," the meditation concludes, "darkly burnished, biding their time, brass-metaling their nails, filing their incisors—but out there. Which is to say she hoped for a miracle."

Apart from the occasional excursion into drama (Dreaming Emmett (1986)) and critical and social theory (Playing in the Dark, En-Gendering Power: Essays on Anita Hill, Clarence Thomas, and the Construction of Social Reality (1992)), Morrison has focused on the writing of novels, her most recent being Love (2003), set mainly in the 1990s, which explores different forms of love—familial, romantic, self—and childhood confusion, miscommunication, and their consequences; and A Mercy (2008), set in early America, which examines the beginnings of slavery and the roots of racism.



Hemingway and Faulkner
 


The Poetics of Subliminal Awareness

JUEVES, 20 DE DICIEMBRE DE 2012

The Poetics of Subliminal Awareness


—artículo sobre Nabokov y sobre la poética de la consciencia subliminal que publiqué en e European Journal of English Studies, y que ahora veo incluido en las páginas de tres revistas electrónicas del SSRN:
- Cognitive Neuroscience eJournal 

- Cognition and the Arts eJournal

- American literature eJournal


También habla de un cuento de Navidad.


A photo on Flickr

W. H. Auden

martes, 18 de diciembre de 2012

W. H. Auden

 

From the Oxford Companion to English Literature, ed. Margaret Drabble:
 


AUDEN, W[ystan] H[ugh] (1907-73), the youngest son of a doctor, brought up in Birmingham and educated at Gresham's School, Holt. He began to be taken seriously as a poet while still at Christ Church, Oxford, where he was much influenced by Anglo-Saxon and Middle English poetry, but also began to explore the means of preserving 'private spheres' (through poetry) in 'public chaos'. Among his contemporaries, who were to share some of his left-wing near-Marxist response to the public chaos of the 1930s were MacNeice, Day-Lewis, and Spender, with whom his name is often linked (See PYLON SCHOOL).  After Oxford, Auden lived for a time in Berlin; he returned to England in 1929 to work as a schoolteacher, but continued to visit Germany regularly, staying with his friend and future collaborator Isherwood. His first volume, Poems (including some previously published in a private edition, 1928) was accepted for publication by T. S. Eliot at Faber and Faber and appeared in 1930; it was well received and established him as the most talented voice of his generation.The Orators followed in 1932, and Look Stranger! in 1936. In 1932 he became associated with Rupert Doone's Group Theatre, which produced several of his plays (The Dance of Death, 1933; and, with Isherwood, The Dog Beneath the Skin, 1935); these owe something to the early plays of Brecht. (See also EXPRESSIONISM). Working from 1935 with the GPO Film Unit he became friendly with Britten, who set many of his poems to music and later used Auden's text for his opera Paul Bunyan. In 1935 he married Erika Mann to provide her with a British passport to escape from Nazi Germany. A visit to Iceland with MacNeice in 1935 produced their joint Letters from Iceland (1937); Journey to a War (1939, with Isherwood) records a journey to China. Meanwhile in 1937 he had visited Spain for two months, to support the Republicans, but his resulting poem 'Spain' (1937) is less partisan and more detached in tone than might have been expected, and in January 1939 he and Isherwood left Europe for America (he became a US citizen in 1946) where he met Chester Kallman, who became his lifelong friend and companion. Another Time(1940), containing many of his most famous poems (including 'September 1939' and 'Lullaby'), was followed in 1941 by The Double Man (1941), published in London asNew Year Letter), a long transitional verse epistle describing the 'baffling crime' of 'two decades of hypocrisy', rejecting political simplifications, accepting man's essential solitude, and ending with a prayer for refuge and illumination for the 'muddled heart'. From this time Auden's poetry became increasingly Christian in tone (to such an extent that he even altered some of his earlier work to bring it in line and disowned some of his political pieces); this was perhaps not unconnected with the death in 1941 of his devout Anglo-Catholic mother, to whom he dedicated For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio (1944). This was published with The Sea and the Mirror, a series of dramatic monologues inspired by The Tempest. The Age of Anxiety: A Baroque Eclogue (1948) is a long dramatic poem, reflecting man's isolation, which opens in a New York bar at night, and ends with dawn on the streets.

Auden's absence during the war led to a poor reception of his works in England at that period, but the high quality of his later work reinstated him as an unquestionably major poet; in 1956 he was elected professor of poetry at Oxford, and in 1962 he became a student (i.e. fellow) of Christ Church. His major later collections include Nones (1951, NY; 1952, London), The Shield of Achilles (1955), which includes 'Horae Canonicae' and 'Bucolics' and is considered by many his best single volume; and Homage to Clio(1960), which includes a high proportion of light verse. Auden had edited The Oxford Book of Light Verse in 1938, and subsequently many other anthologies, collections, etc.; his own prose criticism includes The Enchafèd Flood (1950, NY; 1951, London), The Dyer's Hand (1962, NY; 1963, London), and Secondary Worlds (1968, T. S. Eliot Memorial Lectures). He also wrote several librettos, notably for Stravinsky's The  Rake's Progress (1951, with Kallman). About the House (1965, NY; 1966, London), one of his last volumes of verse, contains a tender evocation of his life with Kallman at their summer house in Austria. Auden spent much of the last years of his life in London, and died suddenly in Vienna. His Collected Poems, edited by Edward Mendleson, were published in 1991. A volume of Juvenilia, edited by Katherine Bucknell, appeared in 1994.

Auden's influence on a succeeding generation of poets was incalculable, comparable only with that, a generation earlier, of Yeats, to whom Auden himself pays homage in 'In Memory of W.B. Yeats' (1939). His progress from the engaged, didactic, satiric poems of his youth to the complexity of his later work offered a wide variety of models—the urbane, the pastoral, the lyrical, the erudite, the public, and the introspective mingle with great fluency. He was a master of verse form, and accomodated traditional patterns to a fresh, easy, and contemporary language. A life by Humphrey Carpenter was published in 1981. See also The Auden Generation by S. Hynes (1976).

Memento Auden-Spender