My Favorite Authors, My Favorite Films, My Favorite Music

MY FAVORITE BOOKS, MY FAVORITE FILMS, MY FAVORITE MUSIC: Joseph Suglia

My favorite music is German, African, and English Progressive Rock from 1969 until 1987.

My favorite film is First Reformed (2018), directed by Paul Schrader.

My favorite writings include those of Gayl Jones, Roland Topor, D.H. Lawrence, J.G. Ballard, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, Arthur Schopenhauer, William Shakespeare, Martin Amis, Paul Valéry, Daphne du Maurier, Will Self, Herman Melville, Marcel Proust, Gore Vidal, John Wyndham, Richard Matheson, John Milton, Ambrose Bierce, Georg Trakl, Witold Gombrowicz, Henrik Ibsen, Georges Perec, Roald Dahl, Elias Canetti, Frank Wedekind, Epictetus, H.L. Mencken, Arthur Schnitzler, Michel Leiris, et al.

Joseph Suglia

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING (Shakespeare): An analysis by Dr. Joseph Suglia

 

An Analysis of MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING (Shakespeare)

by Joseph Suglia

If Much Ado about Nothing (1598/1599) is about anything at all, it is about the social character of all desire, about the triangulations that make desire possible.  Love comes about as a conspiracy.  That is: Love is the result of a conspiracy.  A love-relation is not an isolated relation between two individuals who feel affection for each other.  Love-relations are arranged by the community.  They have nothing to do with individual desires and feelings of fondness.  It is the community that decides who loves whom.  It is the community that makes love-relations possible.

We get a sense of this in the very first scene of the play.  Claudio confesses to his lord Don Pedro, Spanish prince, that he is attracted to Hero, daughter to Leonato.  Immediately, Don Pedro imposes upon his subject.  He will be Claudio’s intercessor:

The fairest grant is the necessity. / Look what will serve is fit.  ’Tis once, thou lovest; / And I will fit thee with the remedy. / I know we shall have reveling to-night; / I will assume thy part in some disguise, / And tell fair Hero I am Claudio; / And in her bosom I’ll unclasp my heart, / And take her hearing prisoner with the force / And strong encounter of my amorous tale. / Then, after, to her father will I break; / And the conclusion is she shall be thine. / In practice let us put it presently [I:i].

Notice the metaphors: Don Pedro is a doctor who will supply the “remedy” to Claudio’s erotic sickness.

Why, precisely, must Don Pedro intervene in the prospective love affair between Claudio and Hero?  Why does Claudio not speak of his desires in his own name?  Why does Claudio not do the courting himself?  Why does he require someone above his station to seduce his inamorata?  Why must Don Pedro be his consigliere?

The answer seems to be that desire always requires a third.  A third party, a mediator, a matrimonial go-between, a manipulator, an intermediary.  Rene Girard is quite brilliant on this point—for his discussion of mimetic desire in Much Ado about Nothing, read pages 80-91 of A Theatre of Envy.

Before he learns that Don Pedro’s matchmaking operation has been successful, Claudio forswears his lord, the mediator: “Let every eye negotiate for itself, / And trust no agent” [II:i].  Afterwards, he accepts that all love requires what I have called elsewhere “the intervention of the third.”

As we will eventually discover, Don Pedro takes an erotic interest in his subordinates’ lovers.  (He flirts openly with Beatrice in Act Two: Scene One.)  And yet his eroticism resides in the role of the mediator, not that of the actor.  Don Pedro insists on bringing both Beatrice, who has renounced all men, and Benedick, who has renounced all women, into a “mountain of affection” (an allusion, perhaps, to Seignior Montanto?).

Don Pedro, the most powerful human being in the play, makes the following statement:

I will… undertake one of Hercules’ labours; which is to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection th’ one with th’ other. I would fain have it a match; and I doubt not but to fashion it if you three [Leonato, Hero, and Claudio] will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction [II:i].

Notice the use of the verb “fashion.”  Notice the reference to Hercules and his twelve labors.  What chthonic beast will he slay?  Notice that it is Don Pedro who desires the match (“I would fain have it a match”), not Beatrice or Benedick.

And a few lines later, Don Pedro gives us this rodomontade:

I will teach you [Hero] how to humour your cousin [Beatrice] that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps [Claudio and Leonato], will so practice on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods [Ibid.].

Notice the irreligious way in which Don Pedro’s speech ends.  Shakespeare always refuses extra-worldly transcendence.

This is no intercession on the behalf of a mooning lover (as was the case with Claudio).  This is a conspiracy of marriage.  Just as Signior John and Borachio sabotage the marriage plans of Claudio and Hero, Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato fashion the marriage of Beatrice and Benedick.  When Seignior John slanders Hero, is this not the exact obverse of what Don Pedro, Hero, and Leonato have done to Beatrice and Benedick?

Ensconced in the arbor, Benedick quickly changes his mind about women and marriage when he overhears his friends talking about Beatrice’s affections for him.  He eavesdrops upon Claudio, Leonato, and Don Pedro, all three of whom praise Beatrice.  Perhaps this is the clincher (spoken by Don Pedro):

I would she had bestowed this dotage on me; I would have daff’d all other respects and made her half myself [II:iii].

“All other respects” is an allusion to the class divide between Don Pedro and Beatrice.   When he hears these words, Benedick falls in love with Beatrice, I suspect.  His superior desires Beatrice.  So must he.

In a series of asides, Claudio likens his friend to a “kid fox,” a “fowl,” and a “fish” [Ibid.]—all three metaphorical animals are to be trapped.  Benedick himself is the quarry, the beast who is entrapped in the matrimonial cage.

The exact scene is replicated in the third act.  Ensconced in the arbor, Beatrice quickly changes her mind about men and marriage when she overhears her friends talking about Benedick’s affection for her.  Hero—Beatrice’s rival—praises Benedick:

“He is the only man of Italy, / Always excepted my dear Claudio” [III:i].

Ursula, lady-in-waiting to Hero, says in an aside: “She’s lim’d, I warrant you; we have caught her, madam” [Ibid.].  “Liming” refers to a trick that bird-hunters used to catch birds.

Hero’s reply: “If it proves so, then loving goes by haps: / Some Cupid kills with arrows, some traps” [Ibid.].

She utters what are utterly the worst lines in Shakespeare, with the exception of Hamlet’s “The play’s the thing.  / Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.”  More importantly, she casts light on one of the play’s most pronounced meanings: The one does not relate to the other except by way of the intervention of the third.

Ultimately, Much Ado about Nothing is conjugal propaganda.  And are not all of the Shakespearean comedies marriage propaganda (with the exception of Love’s Labour’s Lost, All’s Well that Ends Well, and The Winter’s Tale, which are not even “comedies” in the Shakespearean sense of that word)?  Much Ado about Nothing is a play in which the principal characters get married, whether they want to or not.  The misogamist and misogynist Benedick is married, almost against his will.  The misogamist and misandrist Beatrice is married, almost against her will.  Claudio is married to a woman whose face is disguised with a veil.  The exception to the marriage plot is Seignior John, who, we are told, is a bastard.  A melancholic bastard.  And those who were born illegitimately will die without ever being married and cuckolded.

What saves the play from being one of Shakespeare’s worst is the immense power of the first scene of its fourth act and Beatrice, one of Shakespeare’s most living female creations.  Were it not for the crisis of Act Four: Scene One and the divine Beatrice, Much Ado about Nothing would be nothing more than an Elizabethan beach blanket bingo that ends with the characters swiveling and beveling their hips.

Joseph Suglia

 

 

 

The Horse Dealer’s Daughter (D.H. Lawrence): An Analysis

THE HORSE DEALER’S DAUGHTER (D.H. Lawrence): An Analysis

by Dr. Joseph Suglia

from England, My England (1922)

“My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is!  Nothing but old fags and cabbage-stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest…  what old and hard-worked staleness, masquerading as the all new!”

—D.H. Lawrence on James Joyce

“James Joyce bores me stiff—too terribly would-be and done-on-purpose, utterly without spontaneity or real life.”

—D.H. Lawrence on James Joyce

“[D.H. Lawrence] is a propagandist and a very bad writer.”

—James Joyce on D.H. Lawrence

From the third paragraph of “The Horse Dealer’s Daughter” by D.H. Lawrence is the following sentence:

There was a strange air of ineffectuality about the three men, as they sprawled at table, smoking and reflecting vaguely on their own condition.

The word sprawl is used for the first time here (it will be used twice more in the text).  To sprawl is to spread oneself out irregularly and unevenly.  The three Pervin brothers—Joe, Fred Henry, and Malcolm—are positioned perversely around the table, positioned in a way that suggests their collective stupidity; they are asprawlSprawled makes them appear insensate, callous, obtuse, stolid.  They are doing what rather careless people carelessly call “manspreading”—a fuzz word that has to do with sitting on a New York subway with one’s legs splayed frog-like.  Sprawling denotes a mindless subhuman inactivity (I will return to the motif of subhumanity below).

Stupidity is the inability to grasp even basic concepts, and in that sense, all three brothers are stupid.  They are not even individual entities (they are not “alone” in the sense that Mabel is “alone”); they form an undifferentiated “ineffectual conclave.”  They cannot apprehend that their sister is geared toward the absence of all relations which is death–self-imposed death.

Safe in their stupidity, the brothers are sprawlingly looking forward to their eviction from their father’s house, whereas the youngest (?) daughter in the family, Mabel Pervin, is hyper-conscious of, and sensitively sensitive to the loss of her dignity, to the loss of her status, and to the curtailing of her possibilities.  The men in the story propose that she might become a nurse, she might become a skivvy, or, worst of all, she might become someone’s wife.  It is important to stress that she wants to become none of these things.

Mabel is not sprawling around the table: Unlike her brothers, who are only able to reflect “vaguely,” her external “impassive fixity” masquerades a hive of conscious activity (I will return to the “impassiveness” of Mabel’s exterior below).

The great draught-horses swung past.

The word swing comes into play for the first time here (it will be deployed four times altogether in the text).  Swung: This connotes a mechanical back-and-forth movement.  Motion without any consciousness.  The idiocy of the boys’ sprawling is correlated with the idiocy of the horses’ swinging.  The horses are swinging their great rounded haunches sumptuously (in a manner that pleases the senses, but not the intellect).  Their movement shows a massive, slumbrous strength (the intellect is asleep).  They rock behind the hedges in a motionlike sleep (they only seem to be kinetic; they are mindlessly static).

Draught-horse: a large horse that is used for bearing heavy loads.

Joe watched with glazed hopeless eyes.  The horses were almost like his own body to him…  He would marry and go into harness.  His life was over, he would be a subject animal now.

D.H. Lawrence gets himself into some trouble here.  He tells too much (which is unlike him) and shows too little (which is unlike him).  I can write without fear of repudiation or of exaggeration that this is the weakest passage in the story.  The writing of this passage is didactic / propagandistic (to refer to the Joycean epigraph above).  It is far too explicit and spells out what should have been left to the reader to decode: Joe is looking forward to an engagement to a woman as old as himself and therefore to financial safety, and this “safety” is the safety of a kept animal.  A domesticated animal.  Marriage will reduce him to subjection.  He will lose his vitality.  He will lose his human spontaneity.

[W]ith foolish restlessness, [Joe] reached for the scraps of bacon-rind from the plates, and making a faint whistling sound, flung them to the terrier that lay against the fender.  He watched the dog swallow them, and waited till the creature looked into his eyes.

And what is in those doggy eyes other than the nullity of animal stupidity, a stupidity that reflects his own stupidity?  What is in those eyes other than the likeness of his own animal insensibility?

The flinging of the bacon corresponds to the swinging of the horses.  The word swing, etymologically, means “to fling”—the Old High German word swingan means “to rush” or “to fling.”  The idiocy of the mechanical movement of swinging corresponds the idiocy of the mechanical movement of flinging.  The etymology of swing further establishes a metaphorical connection between Joe and the animals of the story (the dog, the horses).

The equine and canine metaphors bestialize all of the brothers.  (Joe, in particular, is described as straddling his knees “in real horsy fashion”; he seems “to have his tail between his legs,” etc.)  They are all dull, dim beasts, animals that will soon be subjected to the yoke of marriage and of other forms of servitude (labor, etc.).  As all domestic beasts, they will become subject to human authority.  To be an animal, according to the metaphorics of the text, means to be subjected to human power.  As mentioned above, Joe will soon be subordinated to the bestial subjection of marriage.  To draw out one the implications of the text: A married couple resembles two animals yoked together.

The face of the young woman darkened, but she sat on immutable.

Mabel, on the other hand, is described as seeming immutable (once) and impassive (four times): not incapable of emotion or without affectability, but inscrutable, as withholding herself from expression, from saying and speaking.  Impassivity, here, means not the absence of emotion, but rather, inexpressivenessExpression will become important in the third and final act of the story.

‘I’ll be seeing you tonight, shall I?’ he said to his friend.

‘Ay—where’s it to be?  Are we going over to Jessdale?’

‘I don’t know.  I’ve got such a cold on me.  I’ll come round to the Moon and Stars, anyway.’

‘Let Lizzie and May miss their night for once, eh?’

‘That’s it—if I feel as I do now.’

No one appears to know what “Jessdale” refers to—whether it is the name of a fabricated city or the name of an inn or a bar–-but I suspect that it is the name of a bordello and that Lizzie and May are prostitutes therein.  If I am correct about this (and I am), Jack Fergusson is (initially) a rogue and a roué, someone who isn’t the least interested in marriage.  What, then, draws Mabel to him in the first place?  Could it be his relative freedom from convention and from the constraints of bourgeois society?

But so long as there was money, the girl felt herself established, and brutally proud, reserved.

Her father was once a well-off horse dealer.  No more.  Now comes the shame that is killing her.

She would follow her own way just the same.  She would always hold the keys of her own situation.  Mindless and persistent, she endured from day to day.  Why should she think?  Why should she answer anybody?  It was enough that this was the end, and there was no way out.  She need not pass any more darkly along the main street of the small town, avoiding every eye.  She need not demean herself any more, going into the shops and buying the cheapest food.  This was at an end.  She thought of nobody, not even of herself.  Mindless and persistent, she seemed in a sort of ecstasy to be coming nearer to her fulfilment, her own glorification, approaching her dead mother, who was glorified.

Suicide would be an authentically superhuman act, elevating her to the status of godhood.  Self-drowning would be an act of freedom that would propel her beyond human-animal subjection.  An act of radical individualism.  Would it not be divine for her to take her own life?  Unhappily, Jack Fergusson will (try to) take away her godlike freedom and subjugate her to the conjugal yoke.

It was a grey, wintry day, with saddened, dark-green fields and an atmosphere blackened by the smoke of foundries not far off.

As Martin Amis reminds us, D.H. Lawrence never took a breath without pain.  Lawrence died of emphysema at the age of forty-four.  He knew too well the colliers of Northampton, near where this story takes place.  Could it be that the smoke from the foundries that are blackening the sky also blackened Lawrence’s lungs?  Are the black billows that Mabel sees the same black billows that killed her creator?

It gave [Mabel] sincere satisfaction to [tidy her mother’s grave].  She felt in immediate contact with the world of her mother.  She took minute pains, went through the park in a state bordering on pure happiness, as if in performing this task she came into a subtle, intimate connexion with her mother.  For the life she followed here in the world was far less real than the world of death she inherited from her mother.

Here, I would like to make the rather obvious point that suicide, not merely the tiding of her mother’s grave, would bring Mabel into a subtle and intimate connection with her mother.

[Fergusson] slowly ventured into the pond.  The bottom was deep, soft clay, he sank in, and the water clasped dead cold round his legs.  As he stirred he could smell the cold, rotten clay that fouled up into the water.  It was objectionable in his lungs.  Still, repelled and yet not heeding, he moved deeper into the pond.  The cold water rose over his thighs, over his loins, upon his abdomen.  The lower part of his body was all sunk in the hideous cold element.  And the bottom was so deeply soft and uncertain, he was afraid of pitching with his mouth underneath.  He could not swim, and was afraid.

It is as if Jack Fergusson’s body were being liquefied, as if his body were being fluidified in the aqueous deeps of the pond.  Or is his body being softened into clay?  The clay suggests, perhaps, the amorphous clay of the golem.  In Jewish mysticism, the golem is a clay figure that comes alive once a magical combination of letters is inscribed on its forehead: emeth (“truth” in Hebrew).  If you erase the aleph from the word emeth, the golem will collapse into dust (meth means “dead”).  (See Gershom Scholem’s seminal book On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism, Chapter Five.)

And so doing he lost his balance and went under, horribly, suffocating in the foul earthy water, struggling madly for a few moments.  At last, after what seemed an eternity, he got his footing, rose again into the air and looked around.  He gasped, and knew he was in the world.  Then he looked at the water.  She had risen near him.  He grasped her clothing, and drawing her nearer, turned to take his way to land again.

He went very slowly, carefully, absorbed in the slow progress.  He rose higher, climbing out of the pond.  The water was now only about his legs; he was thankful, full of relief to be out of the clutches of the pond.  He lifted her and staggered on to the bank, out of the horror of wet, grey clay.

He laid her down on the bank.  She was quite unconscious and running with water.  He made the water come from her mouth, he worked to restore her.  He did not have to work very long before he could feel the breathing begin again in her; she was breathing naturally.  He worked a little longer.  He could feel her live beneath his hands; she was coming back.

The pond is the uterine vessel through which Mabel undergoes her palingenesis, her renaissance, her second birth.  It is as if some tellurian current were transferred within her.  She dies in the pond and is brought back to the life upon the bank.  Her body has been revived, and yet her consciousness is still slumbering.  Her total revivification will take place in the house, now desolate, upon the hearthrug, by the fireplace.

Who dwells within the house?  Consider the following: Mabel’s father has died.  Her three brothers have evacuated the house.  Her sister is long gone.  The dog and the horses are gone.

No one is alive in the house except for the spirit of her dead mother.

‘Do you love me then?’ she asked.

He only stood and stared at her, fascinated.  His soul seemed to melt.

She shuffled forward on her knees, and put her arms round him, round his legs, as he stood there, pressing her breasts against his knees and thighs, clutching him with strange, convulsive certainty, pressing his thighs against her, drawing him to her face, her throat, as she looked up at him with flaring, humble eyes, of transfiguration, triumphant in first possession.

Emerging from the pond an amorphous mass of clay, Jack will now be resculpted by Mabel into her own creature.  He will be completely reconstructed.  His body was already likened to clay when it was immersed in the pond.  Now his soul, too, is melting into the shapeless stuff of the pond-clay.  Note that Mabel’s eyes are “of transfiguration”: It is she who is transfiguring Jack into her own effigy.  She is the creator; he is the golem.

He had never thought of loving her.  He had never wanted to love her.  When he rescued her and restored her, he was a doctor, and she was a patient.  He had had no single personal thought of her.  Nay, this introduction of the personal element was very distasteful to him, a violation of his professional honour.  It was horrible to have her there embracing his knees.  It was horrible.  He revolted from it, violently.  And yet—and yet—he had not the power to break away.

There is indeed something horrible going on in this passage, given that Jack is powerlessly being shaped, rounded, molded into something that is not of his own making.

‘You love me,’ she repeated, in a murmur of deep, rhapsodic assurance.  ‘You love me.’

Her hands were drawing him, drawing him down to her.  He was afraid, even a little horrified.  For he had, really, no intention of loving her.  Yet her hands were drawing him towards her.

I only want to underline something in the text: She is drawing him toward her.  Repeatedly, it is emphasized that Jack is being reconstructed against his own will into something that is not of his own creation.

The assertion “You love me” is a performative speech act.  But is it an illocutionary or perlocutionary speech act?  If it were an illocutionary speech act, “You love me” would be a description of what is being done, such as, “I now pronounce you man and wife” or “I move that we adjourn the meeting.”  And yet Mabel is not saying, “I seduce you” or “I make you love me.”

It is, rather, a perlocutionary speech act: that is, a speech act that is designed to have an effect on someone’s thoughts, feelings, or actions.

Every human being you meet will want to impress one’s fingerprints upon you, as if you were a ball of clay.  A perlocutionary speech act is the attempt to mold someone else’s thoughts, feelings, or actions through words.

‘You love me?’ she said, rather faltering.

‘Yes.’  The word cost him a painful effort.  Not because it wasn’t true.  But because it was too newly true, the saying seemed to tear open again his newly-torn heart.  And he hardly wanted it to be true, even now.

D.H. Lawrence has been called a “misogynist” for over a century now, most recently on Wikipedia.  (Thankfully, the sensationalist accusation of misogyny has been redacted.)  I don’t think that the paper Lawrence is misogynistic at all, except in his titanic, uncomfortable novel The Plumed Serpent.

However, there might be a kind of misogyny in this passage.  There is a kind of love-rape going on, a tearing-open of the heart, a violation of interiority.  Here we have a woman who is metaphorically raping a man.

Much in the way that letters inscribed on the forehead of the statue bring to life the golem, the words “You love me” form a perlocutionary performative speech act that gives Jack Fergusson a second birth.  Mabel Pervin has destroyed and recreated him.

‘And my hair smells so horrible,’ she murmured in distraction.  ‘And I’m so awful, I’m so awful!  Oh, no, I’m too awful.’  And she broke into bitter, heart-broken sobbing.  ‘You can’t want to love me, I’m horrible.’

‘Don’t be silly, don’t be silly,’ he said, trying to comfort her, kissing her, holding her in his arms. ‘I want you, I want to marry you, we’re going to be married, quickly, quickly—to-morrow if I can.’

But she only sobbed terribly, and cried:

‘I feel awful. I feel awful. I feel I’m horrible to you.’

‘No, I want you, I want you,’ was all he answered, blindly, with that terrible intonation which frightened her almost more than her horror lest he should not want her.

There are two “horrors” intimated in these words, the final words of the story.  The first horror is the horrified apprehension that Mabel will become her mother.  That is to say, Mabel is horrified that she will be mired in the same soul-deadening stupidity in which her mother was steeped and in which her brothers are steeped.  We return, then, to the opening moments of the text: to the image of the yoked horses (which figures marriage as subordination and subjection to the will of another).  The second horror is that she will be undesired or no longer desired.

Consider this: Mabel has created a golem that will desire her, a male Pygmalion, a Frankensteinian monster.  And now, her creation desires her too much.  Golem-making is dangerous, as Scholem reminds us, but the source of danger is not the golem itself, or the forces emanating from the golem, but rather the conflict that arises within the golem-maker herself.  It is a conflict between the horror of being desired by one’s creature and the horror of not being desired enough by one’s creature or the horror of not being desired at all, the horror of undesirability.  It is a conflict between the horror of being-desired and the horror of the absence of being-desired.

Joseph Suglia