A Most Auspicious Day!

Today is the great William Shakespeare's 400th birthday, and my 21st. In celebration of the Bard's natal day,  I'm posting a few of my favorite quotes!

Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments, love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

(So beautiful.)

Sonnet 146
Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms inheritors of this excess
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more,
So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there's no more dying then.

(I memorized this in fifth grade - good memories.) 

Juliet's Soliloquy from Act 3, Scene 2 
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them. 

(This is one of my favorite audition pieces - though I consider Romeo and Juliet to be a pair of lustful teens, I don't dislike their lovely speeches, especially this one; the analogies are exquisite).

Kate's Final Soliloquy from Act 5, Scene 2 of The Taming of the Shrew
Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:
It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband's foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

(I dislike misogynistic interpretations of this show - this speech does not advocate spineless submission! Kate has learned that love means supporting the other and seeking their good, out of love. That's my belief of what the Bard was trying to express - he was not a cynical woman-hater.)

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
- The Countess in All's Well That Ends Well
(I try to live by this.)

Happy Birthday, Will!! Long may you continue to delight us!!! :)

Henry Fielding's 309th Birthday

A portrait of Henry by an unknown artist.

Today is the 309th birthday of the 18th century British writer Henry Fielding, whose work has inspired the likes of Austen, Dickens, and many other authors. Fielding was born on April 22, 1707, in Somerset, England, and three years later his parents moved to Dorset. After losing his mother at age 11, Henry was taken in hand by his maternal grandmother, who intended to care for him better than his feckless, pleasant father (a lieutenant general) could. Henry attended Eton, then set about looking to make his way in the world. His careers were many and varied, not unlike the adventures of his picaresque protagonists Joseph Andrews and Tom Jones. Setting himself up in London, he took to playwriting and theatrical management - beginning in 1728, he produced many successful shows, mainly satirical comedies (and in 1734, he married his much-beloved wife, Charlotte Craddock) but unfortunately in 1737, Robert Walpole, a corrupt statesman - and the butt of most of Fielding's theatrical mockery for that reason - got the Licensing Act passed, which essentially declared that all plays from thenceforward should be censored by the government. Henry decided it was time to seek another path. His loss was literature's gain; after establishing himself as a lawyer, he tried his hand at writing fiction. His first work was a parody of Samuel Richardson's 1740 novel Pamela, the tale of a servant girl who resists her wealthy master's advances, eventually convinces him to mend his ways, and marries him; Richardson's detailed descriptions of their improper encounters prior to the master's change of heart irked Henry, who saw the author as a voyeur, despite his claims that his book was a source of moral instruction for young women. Henry's 1741 spoof, entitled An Apology for the Life of Mrs. Shamela Andrews (Shamela for short) purported to tell the true story of Richardson's heroine; instead of being a modest maid, Shamela is revealed to be a scheming hussy. In 1742, he wrote The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews, and of His Friend Mr. Abraham Adams (a.k.a. Joseph Andrews), which described the escapades of Pamela's brother Joseph, Henry's own creation. The pure Joseph, accompanied by the kindly Parson Adams, fends off the advances of several ladies as he journeys the highways and byways, longing only to marry his sweetheart Fanny Goodwill. In the end, the lovers are united. Since this book didn't do much to supplement his pay as a lawyer, especially since he now had children (though one of his daughters died in 1742), he published a volume of Miscellanies in 1743. Charlotte died in 1744, and the heartbroken Henry suffered from gout, but these personal afflictions didn't deter him from working on his best-known novel The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling (Tom Jones for short). This tale, by turns mirthful and moving, recounts the adventures of the warm-hearted, hot-blooded Tom as he bounds in and out of scrapes (usually of an amatory nature) around the countryside, all the while pining for his true love Sophia Western. As in Joseph Andrews, all ends happily. Henry's fondness for his hero is evident; he shares with Tom a genuine generosity towards his fellow men, one of his benefactors, Ralph Allen, inspired the character of Tom's worthy guardian Squire Allworthy, and I suspect that his second marriage in 1747 to his maid Mary Daniel who was six months pregnant with his baby had some influence on the incident where Tom prepares to make an honest woman of Molly Seagrim since he believes her to be carrying his child; the wedding doesn't occur since Molly jilts him for another man (from all accounts, Henry cared a great deal for Mary, who supported him in his sorrow). The lovely Sophia, he states, is based on his departed spouse. Invoking the poetic muse (he was influenced by epic poets including Homer) he writes: Foretel me that some tender Maid, whose Grandmother is yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious Name of Sophia, she reads the real Worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall, from her sympathetic Breast, send forth the heaving Sigh. 
I certainly sighed when I first read that. He continues: Do thou teach me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future Praise. Comfort me by a solemn Assurance, that when the little Parlour in which I sit at this Instant, shall be reduced to a worse furnished Box, I shall be read, with Honour, by those who never knew nor saw me, and whom I shall neither know nor see.
Sadly, Henry has been viewed by many not as an writer worthy of honor, but as a vile-minded fellow who wrote of nothing but sex. He would be deeply hurt if he knew this; though there are some sexual incidents in his books, they're never explicit or gratuitous, they're there to reveal some clue about a character. Henry upheld virtue in his stories, as he says in the preface to Tom Jones: To recommend goodness and innocence hath been my sincere endeavor in this history. This life-long love for decency played into his later career as a judge, which he began in October, 1748. Together, he and his blind half-brother Sir John Fielding brought many criminals to justice and founded the Bow Street Runners, London's first police force. In 1751, he published his final novel, Amelia, which tells of a wife's trials and triumphs (Amelia is very likely based upon Charlotte, and Henry referred to the work as his 'favourite Child'). It's a quieter sort of piece, quite different from his previous rollicking narratives, so some critics hold it in lesser regard than the others; nevertheless, it has much merit.
In 1752, bad health took a toll on Henry (he essentially worked himself to death by traversing the city investigating crimes), and he left his legal career and headed for Lisbon in 1754, thinking warmer weather would be beneficial. Alas, two months after his arrival, he was carried off by a combination of jaundice and dropsy on October 8 of that year. However, he provided the world with much mirth during his life, and readers have been chuckling ever since.

P.S. - Thus far, all major screen adaptations of the novels have been deplorable, in my opinion - the 1963 film of Tom Jones sacrificed the human side of the characters for the sake of a bawdy romp, the 1997 BBC version of the same book brought the seediness to the forefront, where Henry never intended it to be, and the 1977 adaptation of Joseph Andrews (which I've avoided) is a vile travesty, containing rampant vulgarity and a Black Mass (none of this filth is in the book). It is my hope that some wise filmmakers will rectify these errors and actually read the works thoroughly before attempting adaptation.

This gif I made from the 1963 trailer (wherein Molly, played by Diane Cilento, beats Albert Finney's Tom upside the head) perfectly captures my feelings towards those filmmakers. ;) Whatever were they thinking?

An illustration by W.R.S. Stott.
My favorite scene in Tom Jones, wherein Tom and Sophia are finally reconciled, and her father enters and sees them.
He then caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never ventured before.
At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out, "To her, boy, to her, go to her."

Charlotte Brontë's 200th Birthday

A sketch of Charlotte from 1850, by George Richmond

Today is the 200th anniversary of authoress Charlotte Brontë's birth - she was born April 21st, 1816, and in 1847, she gave the world her masterpiece,  Jane Eyre. Living a rather secluded life in Yorkshire with a clergyman father, a widower, she and her younger sisters Emily and Anne turned their hands to their passion - writing. Their first book was a group endeavor, a collection of poems, which they published under the pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Charlotte later explained how their literary careers originated:
About five years ago, my two sisters and myself, after a somewhat prolonged period of separation, found ourselves re-united, and at home. Resident in a remote district, where education had made little progress, and where, consequently, there was no inducement to seek social intercourse beyond our own domestic circle, we were wholly dependent on ourselves and each other, on books and study, for the enjoyments and occupations of life. The highest stimulus, as well as the liveliest pleasure we had known from childhood upwards, lay in attempts at literary composition; formerly we used to show each other what we wrote, but of late years, this habit of communication and consultation had been discontinued; hence, it ensued, that we were mutually ignorant of the progress we might respectively have made.
One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse in my sister Emily's handwriting. Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse: I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me -- a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear, they had also a peculiar music-- melancholy, and elevating.
My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, nor one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings, even those nearest and dearest to her could, with impunity, intrude unlicensed; it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication. I knew, however, that a mind like hers could not be without some latent spark of honourable ambition, and refused to be discouraged in my attempts to fan that spark to flame.
Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that since Emily's had given me pleasure, I might like to look at hers. I could not but be a partial judge, yet I thought that those verses, too, had a sweet sincere pathos of their own.
We had very early established the dream of one day becoming authors. This dream never relinquished even when distance divided and absorbing tasks occupied us, now suddenly acquired strength and consistency: it took the character of a resolve. We agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible, get them printed. Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because -- without at that time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called "feminine"-- we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice; we had noticed how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise.
The bringing out of our little book was hard work. As was to be expected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted; but for this we had been prepared at the outset; though inexperienced ourselves, we had read the experience of others. 

For the rest of this piece, see Charlotte's Biographical Notice of Ellis and Acton Bell - Bio Notice

The girls' brother Branwell, a painter and an alcoholic, died in 1848, as did Emily; Anne followed them a year later. The girls are supposed to have succumbed to tuberculosis, Branwell to a combination of that disease, laudanum or opium, and liquor. He was also something of a writer, though his works are overshadowed by those of his siblings. Charlotte was left to tend to her sickly father. In June of 1854, aged thirty-eight, she married his curate Arthur Bell Nicholls, but unfortunately, on March 31, 1855, she died, perhaps while pregnant; one of her letters hints at this. Her death certificate states the cause as tuberculosis, though some sources suggest it may have been pneumonia. In any case, the world lost a truly gifted authoress, but I, for one, am very glad she was born.

P.S. - My four favorite screen adaptations of Jane Eyre are the 1943 version starring Joan Fontaine, the 1970 film with Susannah York, the 1996 adaptation with Charlotte Gainsbourg, and the 1997 version with Samantha Morton. I recommend them all!

An illustration from Jane Eyre by C. E. Brock