The other day I had the idea of
arbitrarily choosing a Shakespeare Sonnet to contemplate. This post is the
result of that endeavor. For no particular reason, other then the fact that I
like the number, I choose Sonnet Number 66.
In the
future, should I have the time and inclination I may set my sights upon
additional randomly selected sonnets.
Tired with
all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to
behold desert a beggar born,
And needy
nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest
faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded
honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden
virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right
perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And
strength by limping sway disabled,
And art
made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly
doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple
truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive
good attending captain ill:
Tired with
all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that,
to die, I leave my love alone.
This is a
dark view of life. Things are somewhat redeemed however by the last line, which
is a declaration that the object of the writer’s love makes life worth living,
despite the despair inherent in existence. There is question that bears asking
however: what are these horrific aspects of life that lead the writer to cry
for death and rest?
Lines two
through twelve are a catalogue of frustrations and disappointments.
Beginning
with,
And needy
nothing trimm'd in jollity,
We are presented
with a list of maddening injuries, rooted in the corruption of virtue. Faith is abandoned,
strength is hobbled, skill is negated as folly triumphs, etc.
I think
that Shakespeare gets to the heart of some of the most soul shattering aspects
of the human condition here. That is, when the finest parts of us are betrayed,
all seems lost. There are indeed villains out there, but when the good are subverted
by the vile, the result is a special kind of perversion.
Drilling
down further I ponder the following line,
And art
made tongue-tied by authority,
Oppressors,
both large and small have a long history of stifling expression. Not just
governments, but organizations of all types, public figures, even teachers and
family members have used all kinds of authority, from the emotional, to the
social, to the deadly, to manipulate artists. Censorship and suppression of
expression are one thing, but worst of all, aesthetic works are often twisted
and contrived to serve those who hold power. Beauty is thus subverted in a
particularly nasty way.
I can really relate to disgust over these wrongs that would lead one to
question the validity of life. Unsurprisingly an analytical summery of these
ills packs little of the emotional power that the Bard infused into the sonnet.
Of course expressing ideas in this way is one of the reasons that art exists. When
such ideas are expressed by someone with the abilities of Shakespeare, the
results are sublime.
