Rereading Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! (the greatest achievement in American literature), I’ve realized anew how relatively temporally close Quentin is the events Rosa Coldfield is relating. Coldfield relates the story of Sutpen to Quentin (though he knows it already — it’s in his blood from growing up in Jefferson) in 1910, and Coldfield makes it clear that Sutpen was the reason God saw fit to let the South lose the war. Coldfield wants Sutpen’s story told so that those
who have never heard her name nor seen her face will read [the story of Sutpen] and know at last why God let us lose the War: that only through the blood of our men and the tears of our women could He stay this demon and efface his name and lineage from the earth.
It is, in other words, a story of the Civil War. And while that seems so very distant to us now, it’s easy to understand the lingering resentment Southerners feel in the story. After all, it’s only been forty-some odd years since the war when Quentin sits in Coldfield’s house, listening to the story of the most mysterious man in the county.
For us today, that’s the nearness of the Vietnam War, something that’s still in most everyone’s cultural consciousness. Many are still upset about “Hanoi Jane,” and I suppose that resentment might be something akin to what Coldfield is feeling in the novel: a resentment of a defeat that seems due to so many non-military, non-combat reasons.
Yet it’s still difficult for me to understand the continuing resentment many white Southerners feel about a defeat that was almost a century and a half ago. “The South will rise again!” would have made sense in Quentin’s turn-of-the-century culture, but another century after that and so many are still boiling about it?
Then again, a century and a half is nothing compared to the length and depth of some of Europe’s ethnic and national resentments. Hatred and disappointment never die, I suppose.
In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines,
lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.
They left the house at half past nine [...]
The smallest one was Madeline.
Madeline is fast becoming one of L’s favorites. We only own one book (Madeline’s Christmas), but we’ve borrowed several from the library, all of them hits. And what’s not to love about them? Lovely stories and a recurring theme: don’t judge by appearances.
Lately, L’s been fascinated with the Madeline cartoon. So far as adaptations go, these cartoons are wonderful. Christopher Plummer as the narrator has a warm, grandfatherly voice.
It seems to worm its way into your heart and stay there:
This show hasn’t been popular since I was in kindergarten. I am almost thirteen now, and sometimes, when I am up late, I stumble across “Madeline” on the Disney channel. I loved this show when I was little and I wonder why they don’t show it at times when little children can see it. It’s a lot better than the junk they show on “Playhouse Disney” these days. (Koala Bros., Higglytown Heroes, etc.) If they could bring this show back, it would be just as popular, if not, more than it once was. I think that Madeline had a big influence on children between the ages of two to six. Heck, I would still watch it. I hope to see Madeline on Disney Channel really soon. (IMDb)
The best part: the theme song. We’re all going around singing it.
Shakespeare is a challenge to our modern ears, no doubt about it. Even the most knowledgeable experts halter a line or two of a performance before they settle in to the poetry. In my experience, it takes me about a few minutes before the language on stage sounds completely natural and non-foreign.
I’ve been teaching Shakespeare to eighth graders of various academic levels for the past week: an enlightening, frustrating, ultimately rewarding experience. We’re reading an abridged version of Much Ado About Nothing. It is, in fact, part of the required eighth grade curriculum here in Greenville County, and I’m thrilled that those who designed the curriculum had the wisdom of chosing a comedy rather than, say, Julius Caesar. (A perfectly fine play in its own rights, it’s an absolute bore to teenagers.) Much Ado has all the elements adolescents can relate to: unrequited love; jealousy; the twittery, jittery joy of new love.
Yet it’s still been difficult enough for them that it’s been, at times, a chore. And so to remedy that, I changed my unit plan and decided to show the Branaugh Much Ado concurrently with our own reading. We’ve completed the first two acts in class; we watched the first two acts today.
What a joy to watch the kids watch Shakespeare and enjoy it. What was most rewarding for me was to hear them laugh at lines that had been omitted from our abridged version. “They’re really getting it,” I almost said aloud.
As part of our recent test on Romeo and Juliet, I included seven passages from the play for identification.
The instructions:
Identify the following passages. Who is the speaker? To whom is he/she speaking? How is this a critical passage in the play?
Here are the passages
A plague on both your houses!
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
What if it be a poison, which the friar
Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.
Some are easy; at least one is a little obscure (but covered in class as one of many examples of the Bard’s incessant foreshadowing).
I have not been “into” poetry for some years now. I once thought I might be a poet at heart, but I can’t even write compelling blog entries, so that is a dream long lost.
I do have to teach poetry, though, and I discovered, while teaching a unit on imagery, my new favorite poet: Billy Collins. Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003, he is accessible, witty, and charming.
The poem we read in class was “The Country.” While searching for an online version, I found an animated version of the poem. Then, I discovered “Forgetfulness.” It has all the elements of a poem of genius: enlightening observations, a uncommonly commonplace topic, perhaps even a cliche turned inside out.
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