Caliban & Miranda

Like Othello, Caliban is a character who is always being characterized/acted upon by others. We first meet him indirectly,  through Prospero, as “Caliban, my slave,” and Miranda as “a villain, sir” who she “do[es] not love to look on.” The very first words that follow his name brand him as a slave and villain. This identification of the character through the descriptions of others continues when he meets Trinculo and Stefano. Act II provides us with a deluge of  nouns with which Caliban is designated: fish, islander, dead Indian, devil, savage, a present, cat, servant, moon-calf, subject, and most often, monster. His identity transforms from that of an animal to something supernatural to a definitive and lesser “other.” Stefano and Trinculo never once affirm Caliban as a man, (indeed when Trinculo utters the word in relation to him it is followed by a question mark and Stefano’s use of it is “man-monster”), while Caliban only identifies himself as such when he’s addressing Prospero, telling him to “get a new man” -- meaning get a new slave. The word’s signification, then, is changed when applied to him: it does not mean “man” as in “human being” but “man” as in servant, as in being who is able to be bounded. (Caliban also calls himself Cacaliban; where does his name come from? Did Sycorax give it to him, or is it something Prospero imposed on him?) The irony of Trinculo associating Caliban to an animal (and the play’s general characterization of him as being close to nature, which is illustrated through his willingness to show both Prospero and Stefano how to live on the island) is that Caliban is being tortured and tormented by that very nature. Prospero uses the supposed abundance of the island--which Gonzalo fantasizes will sustain his utopia of idleness--and animals/nature (apes, hedgehogs, adders) against “his slave”  in order to control him.    
Caliban’s dehumanization is highlighted by the fact that both Trinculo and Stefano immediately see him in terms of profit: Trinculo affirms that if he were in England he would display him so that he could fetch “a piece of silver” and even though Stefano does not mistake him for an animal he still understands that “he shall pay for him that hath him, and soundly.” Both commodify him, both immediately recognize him for the profit that can be derived from him and so his ownership of self never even has the chance to be questioned--he is immediately and always belonging to others. Their fascination with Caliban’s body (“Legged like a man and his fins like arms!” “some monster of the isles with four legs”) and their insistence on displaying him for scopophilic fulfillment in return for monetary gain recalls the historical practices of early modern England, where natives would be brought over to the motherland to be ogled and marveled at, which in turn reminds me of the popularity of travel narratives in the 18th century. In fact, much of this play is reminding me of Robinson Crusoe, a text that was written over a hundred years later.
Like when Antonio remarks that “past is prologue,” Trinculo’s and Stefano’s interactions with Caliban are constrained by the past: they act towards him the way they know their fellow Englishmen have acted in similar situations. Likewise, Caliban’s past experiences with Prospero dictate his interactions with the two fools. He only knows Prospero as someone who exerts power over him, someone who hurts him. When the two fools don’t hurt him, then, they are comparably much better thanProspero--they are gods, and if they are gods and he already serves Prospero, then the only relationship he can have with them is also one of servitude. Interestingly, while everyone else in the play is trying to attain power, Caliban at first seems to be giving power/submitting to it by calling Stefano his god. A closer look will reveal that he may actually be doing the exact opposite: by calling Stefano his god he rejects Prospero and establishes his own agency. Also, he’s using Stefano to get rid of Prospero (“Revenge it on him”); he’s so far been unable to kill Prospero and now he wants this newcomer to do it for him. This is emphasized by how he gets his “god’ to punish Trinculo. He uses a kind of divide-and-conquer technique with the two, wherein he allocates more power to Stefano, thereby giving Stefano the right to enforce that power over Trinculo, as evidenced by when he demands that Stefano “give him blows/And take his bottle from him,” which makes Trinculo lower in hierarchy than even Caliban. As subject he must show deference to Stefano, but as leader/King, Stefano has responsibilities he must see to, the same responsibilities that Prospero ignored when he was Duke of Milan, and the same responsibilities Gonzalo hilariously divests himself of in his utopia. It makes me question Stefano’s claim that “His daughter and I will be king and queen.” If Caliban would not allow Prospero to own the island, then would he allow Stefano? I cannot help but notice how much “monster” sounds like “master.”

Both Caliban and Miranda are subject to Prospero. While Miranda calls him “father” Caliban calls him “master” and the only thing that keeps the two words from being synonyms is that Prospero pets one while he tortures the other. Just as he determined Caliban’s relationship with Stefano and Trinculo, he determines Miranda’s relationship with Fredinand. He doesn’t simply determine it, he orchestrates it. What is most disturbing about their relationship is that Prospero controls her desire (like Oberon did to Titania in AMND) and  she is not free to relieve that desire ("At mine unworthiness that dare not offer/What I desire to give, and much less take/What I shall die to want.”) Like Caliban, Miranda has tangible worth. She is valued for her virginity and she is aware of it: “my modesty, the jewel of my dower.” But how did Miranda come to value her “modesty” so? Was it because Caliban tried to rape her? That certainly colors it, but I believe it is also because Prospero taught her to value it. We have been emphasizing how Miranda has taught Caliban to speak and how that is in effect a way of controlling his identity and his worldview. But who taught Miranda? She was a baby when she came to the island. Prospero taught her. Prospero gives language to both Miranda and Caliban, and like his paradoxical relationship with Ariel in which he sets him free only to enslave him again, his “gift” allows his Miranda and Caliban to speak while simultaneously marking them as living within the world he's constructed. Their language is a tool of both subjugation and insubordination. Caliban curses as a way to lay claim to a language that is not his own; Miranda does the same by disobeying her father by giving her love to Ferdinand. It is a hollow claim on her part, because in the end she is simply doing as he wants her to, but the crucial fact is that she remains unaware of this; in her mind she really is rebelling against him. Unfortunately she seems to be establishing another disturbing relationship with a male in which she’ll either marry Ferdinand or "die [his] maid." He has similar sentiments for her, and I have to ask, is there no way to express love without making oneself subservient to the loved one?

Throughout the play it is Caliban who is portrayed by various characters as “the other.” However, they also recognize him as a native of the island. Caliban insists that the island is his, that Prospero stole it from him. If when we are in England foreigners who come to the country are made to be others, then why is it that on this island the foreigners who arrive are still the norm against which the native is measured? Should not Prospero, Miranda, Stefano, etc, with their initial ignorance about survival on the island and their preoccupation with the world outside of the island be the “others” in The Tempest? Or does the island remain simply a representation/metaphor for England itself? 

Worthless Hero: The Importance of Virginity and the Absurdity of Marriage

We’ve been discussing in our class how clothes constitute identity in Shakespeare’s comedies, from Viola’s clothing in Twelfth Night being the deciding factor of what gender she is, to the masks in the party scene of Much Ado About Nothing that completely hide the wearer’s personality. Yet in Act IV and Act V of MAAN (the play’s title makes an interestingly masculine acronym, doesn’t it?), we see an entirely different marker of identity: virginity.

Although I was previously aware of the importance placed on premarital virginity in Shakespeare’s time, I found the reaction to Hero’s suspected de-floweration to be overwhelmingly spiteful. The man that only a day prior was lovesick over her wants absolutely nothing to do with her, telling her father:
“There, Leonato, take her back again.
Give not this rotten orange to your friend.
She’s but the sign and semblance of her honor.” (1.4.27)

However, the most shocking hatred is found in Leonato’s monologue, in which Hero’s father says:

“Do not live, Hero, do not ope thine eyes,

For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,

Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,

Strike at thy life. Grieved I had but one?

Chid I for that at frugal Nature’s frame?

O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?

Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?

Why had I not with charitable hand

Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,

Who, smirchèd thus, and mired with infamy,

I might have said, ‘No part of it is mine;

This shame derives itself from unknown loins’?” (4.1.122)

Harsh. Hero’s father is saying that he’d rather she die than not be a virgin, that he doesn’t know how he ever loved her, and that his only child is worthless to him. In such a short amount of time, a father’s love has been completely reversed due to the value of the prized possession of his loins being decreased; in other words, Hero is considered useless and unworthy of life if she isn’t a virgin.

This objectification of femininity contrasts severely with Shakespeare’s other representations of women in his comedies. His other female characters show strength and individual personality: Hippolyta is an intelligent Amazonian warrior queen, Hermia is willing to chase after the man she loves, Helena defies her father, Titania defies her husband, Viola bravely disguises her gender, Olivia rejects the traditional feminine role of submission, and Beatrice displays a sharp and clever wit. Among these great woman characters lies Hero, who is given no remarkable personality, whose only value lies in her virginal innocence. So why create such a weak, bland character as Hero?

Through Hero, Shakespeare is making a statement about marriage itself. Marriage is the core subject of this play, which is titled “Much Ado About Nothing.” This could have two meanings: marriage, as represented by the shallow relationship between Hero and Claudio, is nothing of any substantial value. Or, marriage has a great deal to do with female genitalia and sexuality, based upon the slang definition of “nothing” in Shakespeare’s time. Either way, Shakespeare is conveying the institution of marriage as being comically superficial. I say “comically” because the importance placed on Hero’s virginity is outrageous, enough to not only make her worthless as a potential wife but also to make her unworthy of existence.

What is also comical about Shakespeare’s treatment of matrimony is the contrast between marriage as represented by Hero and Claudio, and marriage as represented by Beatrice and Benedick. Unlike the younger couple, Beatrice and Benedick are two characters with multi-dimensional personalities and a witty and frequent exchange of dialogue. These two reject marriage throughout most of the play, and when they do end up together, their relationship is comical because their mutual affections were only revealed because of phony gossip.
So despite their relationship’s more substantial, personality-based qualities, Benedick and Beatrice are still getting married over “nothing,” just as Claudio and Hero are. Once Hero’s virginity is proven, everything returns to normal and the couple are happily together again- despite Hero now knowing that Claudio’s love is entirely conditional, that he is in love only with her virgin identity. We saw a similar return to normalcy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in which the couples were happily together despite Demetrius still being under a spell and Titania still being unaware of her abuse. Although Shakespeare may challenge convention in his plays, whether he challenges traditional femininity or the institution of marriage, he still completes the cycle of comedy with creation and returns the audience to reality. Hero’s virgin identity is restored, and we are left to believe that both marriages- however absurd they may be- will be successful ones.

Identity and Nature in King Lear

After finishing King Lear, I’m sort of sad that so many of the characters were killed. Not only were the “bad guys” killed off, but others like Gloucester, Cordelia, and Lear. Not only were they killed, but both Gloucester and Lear died in moments that could have potentially been a happy time for them. Gloucester dies when Edgar reveals himself, and Lear dies when he thinks Cordelia might be beginning to breathe again. Despite being depressing, I thought that these events added to our discussion on the play supporting nihilism. Perhaps as readers we are supposed to look at the deaths of these characters and use it to propel a questioning of our own lives, and observe them to see if there actually is any meaning to them.

Something else I still find to be interesting after finishing the play is Lear’s regression or descent from King to an almost non-human being. I liked that when Lear gave his daughters his kingdom to rule, that he was basically removing himself from the position of king, and thus, a position of authority. I think we talked in class about how Lear was able to regain power over himself/his life through this regression to a more animalistic way of living. He removes the clothes which helped create his identity of a king, and formulates his own natural identity based on his connection to nature. The idea of natural also relates to Edmund, who is “natural” born, or illegitimate. Because of this Edmund is unable to get the position of power that he longs for, and has to resort to other, more shady ways of getting it.

Class & Edmund

Class & Edmund
One similarity between Richard II, Henry V, and King Lear is that they each blur the lines between the classes. In Richard II the usurped King laments the fact that he has been deposed and in King Lear the banished king begins to recognize the validity of the lower classes’ experiences, as can be seen when he says “Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart that’s sorry yet for thee,” at 3.2.70. Each of these leaders have lost the power they once had and are betrayed by those who had once been their subjects, their subordinates. In doing so they become enlightened, in a sense, because their range of experience is made larger. With Henry V, however, there is no actual change in his knowledge because he has already been associating with the lower classes. When he rallies his followers together by calling them a “band of brothers” and elevates the peasants rankings by telling them all those who fight with him will be nobles, it does not cause a crisis in his identity as it does with Richard (“And now know not what to call myself”) and Lear (“Yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself). Richard and Lear’s experience of downward social mobility destroys them: neither knows how to operate unless they are king. Henry’s experimentation with it empowers him: he is the one who initiates the upward “advancement” of others (while Richard and Lear fall) and his blurring of class distinctions allows him more power while simultaneously exempting him from the consequences of having that power (“no more is the King guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for which they are now visited” at 4.1.162.)
The character I find most interesting in Lear is Edmund: he drives forward the entire subplot of the play through his sheer force of will, which is in contrast to Lear, who sets the events in the plot in motion, but subsequently loses all control, very unlike Edmund; his psychology seems to be a mixture of feeling inferior because he is an illegitimate child whose father has no legal obligations to him and feeling superior to all those around him because he is smarter than they are (he keeps on making fun of his father’s superstitions) and can easily manipulate them; he’s an excellent example of performativity (like Hal) in that he performs his roles of “good son” and “good brother” well; and he is very rational and practical, traits that seem to be missing from all the other characters in the play (save maybe Goneril.) What interests me most, though, is how he resembles Shakespeare’s other ‘characters of manipulation,’ the Duke in MfM and Hal in Henry IV. All three of them have a lack of power (the Duke can’t really run his dukedom efficiently and Hal is thought to be foolish) and sacrifice others (Edgar, Angelo, Hotspur &Falstaff) in order to gain in. I’m not sure how an actor would play him: I watched the Ian McKellan version of the play and was surprised at how the actor playing him delivered his speech at 1.2. In my mind he was brooding and vengeful, but the actor made him flippant, arrogant, and even playful. I’m not sure which one seems more honest to the overall tone of the play.

Identity and Divine Right

After reading Act 3, I am still unsure of how I feel about the character of Richard. Most of the time I feel bad for him, but once and a while he'll do something that bothers me. I'm curious to see what happens in the next act, and particularly, if he will be killed, or at least removed from the throne by Bolingbroke. I think he will be removed from the throne in the next act, as act 3 seemed to be moving towards that fate for Richard, but like all Shakespeare plays I'm sure there could be some crazy plot twist I wasn't expecting that changes everything.

Something I thought to be interesting while reading this play was the idea of divine right. I know we talked about this a little bit in class Friday, but reading Act 3 really got me thinking about it a bit more. I knew from history class that monarchs often got their power from the belief that they were chosen by God to be rulers, but I had never really thought about how important that may be. Richard says that "Not all the water in the rough rude sea/Can wash the balm from an anointed king./The Breath of worldly men cannot depose/ The deputy elected by the Lord" (3.2.50-53), and this really reveals how much faith is put into the belief of divine right, and that a ruler is a ruler not only because they are a part of the royal family, but also because they have been chosen by God to rule.

Another thing I found to be interesting was the continued discussion of honor and familial bonds, which we talked about for a while in class. Bolingbroke talks about his banishment in Act 3.1, and says "From my own windows torn my household coat,/ Razed out my imprese, leaving me no sign,/ Save men's opinions and my living blood,/ To show the world I am a gentlemen" (3.1.24-27). These lines show us just how important Bolingbroke's lineage is to him, as well as his honor. This also reveals how these things contribute hugely to constructing his identity. The loss of these things devastated him, and I think that he wants revenge for the theft of his honor.