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Thread: shakespeare

  1. #31
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    Perhaps one of the things that makes Shakespeare great is that he didn't take his plays half as seriously as critics have (the Bardolatry of Bloom, e.g.). Hence him chucking it all in and his friends having to publish his plays posthumously.

    The opening of ToTShrew reminding me of the tavern scenes in Henry IV - again, the collision of high and low culture, the wit, the japery, the theatricality

  2. #32
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    also to state the obvious - his grasp of the manners of human psychology is so clearly and unpretentiously displayed, and is centuries ahead of its time...

  3. #33
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    Falstaff embodies something of Shakespeare's spirit in that he's a spectacle of the inventiveness of amorality. 'Banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.' (And of course Henry represents the flipside of that coin, the order that needs to be in place to reign in inventiveness and create art - the magic circle that Luka's referred to on here before.)

    Compare Iago's comparatively arid amorality vs. Othello's naive granduer.
    Last edited by Corpsey; 13-07-2018 at 11:02 AM.

  4. #34
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    Shakespeare is also the patron saint of puns.

    If he was writing today he'd be drawing inspiration from The Sun and Buzzfeed.

    I've read somewhere that Shakey mixed latin and saxon in a quite innovative way. Where did I read that? I can't remember.

    Wherever I read it, they used this speech from Macbeth to exemplify it:

    'Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
    Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
    The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
    Making the green one red.'

    The bathetic fall from the third line to the fourth.

  5. #35

  6. #36
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    Come, you spirits
    That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
    And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
    Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood,
    Stop up th’access and passage to remorse,
    That no compunctious visitings of nature
    Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
    Th’ effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts,
    And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring ministers,
    Wherever in your sightless substances
    You wait on nature’s mischief. Come, thick night,
    And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
    That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
    Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
    To cry ‘Hold, hold!’


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