Thus it is always with surprise that I discover thoughts better than my own in other people. I am less surprised by this in ancient theologians, and more surprised by this in my own dear friends. As neither theologian (per se) or friend, Shakespeare falls somewhere in-between.
Shakespeare (or whoever it was that wrote the plays that bear that name) is such wallpaper on the wall of world consciousness that one hardly notices they are familiar with his work until it strikes them between the eyes. I take it as a general rule to be distrustful of world consciousness and in consequence I have had less truck with Old Bill than I should have. Last night my sister and I watched an old BBC version of Hamlet. I hasten to add that I've tried and failed to read it several times and have never seen a version that was any good. This one was. And it was with that proud surprise I realized afresh what I always realize when faced with the works of the Bard— his reputation is deserved.
Here is a man whose intellect was not stunted by the dregs of the Dark Ages, or (to say what we really think) by the fact that he did not live now, in this happy point in history where wisdom has reached its peak. “How amazing,” we say, “that one who lived in such primitive times should have such insight into mankind (woman/humor/tragedy/wit/history/theology/human nature). Why, it stands up even under the clearer light of our modern day!” Thus do we damn ourselves with our assumptions that these times are the best that have ever been, the brightest, the rightest, the most advanced, the most evolved, never taking into account the law of entropy or the facts of history. When ancient South American tribes knew about the existence of Pluto several thousand years before we did, how dare we be shocked by the brilliance of any age?
And so I will try to be humbled by Hamlet, for the wit and wisdom of those words are not to be gainsaid. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and the play's the thing.
Shakespeare (or whoever it was that wrote the plays that bear that name) is such wallpaper on the wall of world consciousness that one hardly notices they are familiar with his work until it strikes them between the eyes. I take it as a general rule to be distrustful of world consciousness and in consequence I have had less truck with Old Bill than I should have. Last night my sister and I watched an old BBC version of Hamlet. I hasten to add that I've tried and failed to read it several times and have never seen a version that was any good. This one was. And it was with that proud surprise I realized afresh what I always realize when faced with the works of the Bard— his reputation is deserved.
Here is a man whose intellect was not stunted by the dregs of the Dark Ages, or (to say what we really think) by the fact that he did not live now, in this happy point in history where wisdom has reached its peak. “How amazing,” we say, “that one who lived in such primitive times should have such insight into mankind (woman/humor/tragedy/wit/history/theology/human nature). Why, it stands up even under the clearer light of our modern day!” Thus do we damn ourselves with our assumptions that these times are the best that have ever been, the brightest, the rightest, the most advanced, the most evolved, never taking into account the law of entropy or the facts of history. When ancient South American tribes knew about the existence of Pluto several thousand years before we did, how dare we be shocked by the brilliance of any age?
And so I will try to be humbled by Hamlet, for the wit and wisdom of those words are not to be gainsaid. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and the play's the thing.
2 comments:
Five.
Why thank you. How is the Far Middle East?
Post a Comment