(32) King Lear

I really liked this one, in all its dark nihilism. This one breaks bad really fast, and stays bad, and then gets worse. It’s the most tragic tragedy I have yet read, darker and more bleak than Hamlet, devoid of the love and romance of Romeo and Juliet, empty of the somewhat uplifting martial pomp of Julius Caesar. This play is about death…lonely, meaningless, empty death, with a little betrayal and cruelty sprinkled in, for good measure. Hey ho!

To summarize: King Lear decides to retire and divide his kingdom between his three daughters. However, he demands that they profess their love for him first to “earn” their share. The two eldest profess their love (falsely), in the most flattering language possible, and are rewarded for their lies. The youngest (the great character Cordelia), refuses to play along (although she loves him most and is his favorite) and is thus banished from the kingdom. No soup for you! It’s all downhill after Cordelia gets the boot, a tale of usurping sons and gouged out eyes, of disturbing madness and unmitigated disaster. And a very foolish Fool (but more on that in a minute).

There’s so much interesting symbolism and imagery in this one, all so well placed and perfectly integrated. For example, the famous storm, in the middle of the play, that confronts Lear after he’s been turned out of his daughter’s house (there’s a lot of “turning out” in this one. Come to think of it, there’s a lot of everything in this one. With this play especially, it’s easy to see how someone could make a career out of studying a single Shakespeare play. It’s that full).

This storm, and the immortal line “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!” spoken by a half mad, enraged Lear sure seems to me to be Shakespeare at the top of his game. It all comes together in this one and it’s the kind of thing that you can turn over and over in your mind, while waiting in line at the grocery store or painting the kitchen, considering and reconsidering what this and that means or does not mean, what this line says and doesn’t say. Probably more so than any play, I can guarantee I will be reading this one again. It seems like the right thing to do. A requirement.

One other thing I found really interesting about this one (and along the lines of what I am ranting about above) is the Fool, perhaps the most interesting and creative Fool I have yet come across (save Falstaff, if you count him a fool). Lear’s Fool is all black comedy, winding words and images into twisted diatribes against everyone and everything. As an artistic vehicle, he’s just really great, an effective foil and provocateur, setting up and knocking down (and about) themes, motifs, and plot like a bull in a china shop. And, he’s in the play a lot, or at least it seems that way. Take, for example, these lines in the Act I, Scene 4, a very “fool-heavy” act (and therefore one of my favorite Acts in the play):

Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for
her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure. I am better
than thou art now: I am a fool, thou art nothing.
[To Goneril] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face
bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum!
He that keeps nor crust nor crum,
Weary of all, shall want some.
[Points at Lear] That's a sheal'd peascod.

Here’s the No Fear Shakespeare “translation,” as a helpful reference:

(to LEAR) You were better off when you didn’t have to care whether she frowned or not. Now you’re a big zero, with no digit in front of it to give it value. I’m better than you are—I’m a fool and you’re nothing.
(to GONERIL) Yes, I promise I’ll shut up. That’s what you’re telling me with that expression on your face, even though you don’t say anything. Mum, mum,
The man who gives away his crust and his crumbs
Will discover that he needs some crumbs back.
(pointing at LEAR) That guy is an empty pea pod.

He’s like this throughout. Shakespeare has the Fool speaking to many and none, calling out and gesturing, riddling and rhyming, all over the place. It’s really something, a command performance, and I am leaving this play (for now) with a distinct memory of him. As much as all the death and tragedy, of all the daughters and fathers, of all the plucked out eyes and tormented souls, the Fool really sticks with you as much, if not more, than anything.