Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Julius Caesar - Shakespeare

One of the most powerful speeches of the world - Mark Antony, after Caeser's death
(Shakespeare).


There was some disturbance when Antony mounted the steps to speak. The mob was persuaded after a fashion that Caesar had been a tyrant, and that Rome was well rid of him. "He'd best speak no harm of Brutus here," threatened the sapient citizen who had suggested crowning Caesar's better parts. But having obtained silence, Antony knew better than to begin by attacking Brutus.

"Friends, Romans, countrymen," he began, "attend ! I am here to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil which men do survives them; the good is often laid away under earth with their bones. Let it be so with Caesar. He was ambitious, the noble Brutus has told you. If that were so, it was a grievous fault, and Caesar has paid for it grievously. Here, by leave of Brutus and the rest for Brutus is a man of honour, and so are they all, all men of honour I am come merely to speak the last words over my friend.

"For he was my friend, and to me faithful and just; though Brutus- -who is a man of honour says he was ambitious. He brought, in his time, many captives home to this city, and poured their ransoms into the public coffers. When the poor have cried, Caesar has wept for them. It is hard to detect ambition in all this; but Brutus who is a man of honour says he was ambitious. You all saw how at the Lupercalia I thrice offered him the kingly crown, and how he refused it thrice. Was this ambition ? Brutus says so; and to be sure, he is a man of honour. But I am not here to disprove what Brutus told you. I am here merely to tell you what I know. You all loved him once not without cause. Can you not mourn for him ? Oh, have men lost all their judgment, all their reason !" He paused as one surprised at his own out burst. "Bear with me, friends ; my heart is in the coffin there with Caesar. Grant me a while to pause and recover it !"

His listeners were moved already. " There is reason in what he says." " Caesar has had a great wrong, if you consider." " We may have a worse master than Caesar." " He refused the crown so he did so 'tis plain he couldn't have been ambitious." " Poor soul ! look at his eyes, red as fire!" "There's not a nobler man in all Rome than Antony !" Thus they murmured together, while Antony conquered his emotion and prepared to speak again.

" But yesterday," he went on, " the word of Caesar might have weighed against the whole world. Now he lies there with none -not the poorest to do him reverence. Sirs, if I were disposed to stir you to mutiny and rage I should be wronging Brutus and Cassius who, as you know, are men of honour. I will not do this. I choose rather to wrong the dead, to wrong myself, to wrong you, than to wrong such men of honour ! But here I have Caesar's will. If I were to read it to you but, pardon me, I do not mean to I say if I were to read it you would run to kiss Caesar's wounds, to dip your handkerchiefs in his blood
"The will! read the will!" shouted the people; but Antony protested that he must not; it was not meet for them to hear how much Caesar loved them ; it would in flame them, make them mad. There was no saying what might come of it.

" Read the will ! Read it !" they clamoured.

But again he protested ; he had gone too far in speaking of it ; he feared, indeed he did, that he was wronging the men of honour whose daggers had stabbed Caesar.

" The will ! the will ! ' Men of honour !' Traitors ! Read the will !"

" You force me to read it ? Then come, make a ring about Caesar's corpse while I show you him who made the will." He stepped down from the rostrum, and as they gathered and pressed about him, he lifted the mantle from the body. " You all know this mantle. I remember the first time Caesar put it on one summer's evening, in his tent. It was the day he overcame the Nervii." He showed them the holes made by the daggers ; where Cassius had stabbed, and Casca, and Brutus "the well-beloved Brutus," "Caesar's angel" "ah, that was the unkindest blow ! That was the heart-breaking stroke ! Then it was that great Caesar covered his face and fell !" His hearers were weeping by this time, and he could be bold. " Fell ? Ay, and what a fall ! My countrymen, then it was that I and you and all of us fell, while treason and bloodshed flourished over us. You weep at sight of his garments merely ! Look you here then on him marred, as you behold, by traitors !"

They were mad now. They shouted for revenge. " Fire !"
" Kill !" " Slay !" " Death to the traitors !" But Antony, who had worked them to frenzy with such masterly art, must perfect that frenzy before letting them slip.

" Good friends, sweet friends, I must not stir you up so. The men who have done this deed are men of honour. What private griefs they had against Caesar to make them do it, I know not, alas ! But as men of honour they will give you their reasons. You see, I am no orator like
Brutus !" indeed he was not ! " but, as you all know me, a plain blunt man, who love my friend, and have permission to speak. For I have no gifts of eloquence to set men's blood stirring. I only speak right on, telling you what you know already, showing you Caesar's wounds, and bidding them speak for me. Were I Brutus now, I could put a tongue into every wound of Caesar that should move the very stones of Rome to rise in revolt."

" And so will we !" " Burn the house of Brutus !" "Down with the conspirators !" Antony had to shout for a hearing.
" Why, friends, you are going to do you know not what ! Nay, you scarce know yet how much cause you have to love Caesar. You have forgotten the will I told you of."

" True the will ! Read the will !"

" Here is the will, then, sealed by Caesar. It gives to every Roman citizen a legacy of seventy-five drachmas," again the hubbub was deafening " and to the citizens in general he bequeaths his gardens and orchards beyond Tiber, to them and their heirs for their recreation for ever. . . ."

They listened for no more. They rushed on the market place, tearing up benches, stalls, tables, and heaping the wreckage for a funeral pile. They laid the body of Caesar on it and set fire to the mass ; and as it grew hot they plucked out the blazing brands and rushed off towards the conspirators' houses, yelling for revenge. Antony could watch now. He had done his work, and done it thoroughly.


After the rains

The torrential rains were gone and most of the harvest was ruined. The farmers whose fields suffered irreparable damage, buried their heads in their hands and wept. They looked up wearily at the indifferent summer sun who seemed oblivious of their woes, or was pretending to be cheerful and urging them to do likewise and go forward with courage. After all, the Sun himself was clouded and blinded, degraded, when the rains took over.
The days before them would be difficult, of a kind that not many have faced before, a disaster that manifests itself perhaps once in a century.
The rains themselves were not forever winners, they were forced into downpour by a higher power, and their glory lasts but a few days, then they exist no more.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Memoirs 3 - The Smile

Don't be deceived by the smile. It may be a million pangs in disguise. It may not absolve one from the mistakes that one has unwittingly committed, and it does not blame one either.

A person who seemingly bounces back after being hit by adversity - with a smile - is the one who needs support the most.
He does not always need a shoulder to cry on or a listener for his woes.
He needs a silent wall that stays beside him, feeling him grieve, not a voice said between them, when silence is what he needs.
He needs a person who can banter the most irrelevant stories of the most insignificant times, when banter is what he needs.
And when he smiles to show the world that it has not broken his spirits, he wants him to smile with him.



Sunday, March 29, 2009

Journey to Ithaca

I wish I had discovered Anita Desai sooner. I wonder how her books never caught my eye in any of the innumerable bookshops I visit. In January, when I dropped in to Landmark, Forum, my intent was to get as many books I can to sustain me till the next visit which may happen only months later. I was on the look out mainly for short stories. I hungrily pulled out several books including R K Narayan, Gabriel García Márquez, Jhumpa Lahiri, to name a few. When I passed Journey to Ithaca by Anita Desai, I confused her for a moment with another Indian writer of the same name and was about to pass by without a second glance. But the surname made me look back and I decided to take a chance - after all, one needs to evaluate new authors (new to me - she has been writing since 1980's!) too once in a while! I am glad that I did.

When I read an author for the first time, I assess the writing and the language as much as the story. I was pleasantly taken aback by her style. Before I reached ten pages, I was googling for more books by the author. Amazing, eloquent writing and a beautiful, well-told story that stretches from Egypt, through Paris, Venice, Milan and New York, to India.

Italy:
He hides from Nonna, and from Isabel, in the rushes of the lake in the great tapestry that hangs over the table in the hall, together with a stag that has been driven into its waters by baying hounds while the huntsman blows his horn to summon the hunter with the knife for the kill.
Frightened out of hiding, Matteo leaps up into the chandeliers like a small monkey, and hangs there, no more than a velvet tassel, of olive or mahogany silk, or a spray of bronze ivy or mistletoe or leaves of crystal that catch the light and separate it into fragments of ice.
If Isabel tiptoes in to find him, if she catches at a corner of the tapestry and shakes it or pushes a brocade-upholstered chair out of a dusty corner or draws a forbidden book off a shelf in the library, Matteo flees, as thirty years previously he had fled from his mother.


France:
In trying to get as far away as possible, she found herself one day brought up short at the cage of an animal altogether different.
Instead of sinking with the others into late summer torpor, and the lassitude of the watched beast, the black panther still prowled the jungles of its memory, still inhabited an unpopulated wilderness of the past that it paced and paced with a kind of restrained frenzy, demanding of the barred square of concrete some reminder of freedom, or danger, or challenge, or beauty that it would not yield. Refusing to be refused, it paced and paced - its great paws treading into the unyielding surface, its senses alert to pick up the faintest response should it come.

India:
Sophie is lying as still as a stone, with an arm across her eyes, thinking in the dark of that first pilgrimage she went on in India that had ended in the death of a child. Now she knows why the mother went on that pilgrimage, and why she must go too. She says in a flat voice, 'I'll have to,' and adds, 'what else?'



DEATH
To Isidoro de Blas

How hard they try!

How hard the horse tries
to become a dog!

How hard the dog tries to become a swallow!

How hard the swallow tries to become a bee!
How hard the bee tries to become a horse!
And the horse,
what a sharp arrow it squeezes from the rose,
what a pale rose rising from its lips!
And the rose,
what a flock of lights and cries

knotted in the living sugar of its trunk.

And the sugar,

what daggers it dreams in its vigils!

And these miniature daggers,

what a moon without stables, what nakedness,

undying and rosy flesh they seek out!

And I, on the roof's edge,

what a burning angel I look for and am.

But the plaster arch,

how vast, how invisible, how minute,

without even trying!



-- Federico García Lorca



If you have not read any Anita Desai books so far, it is time you tried. I am sure you will be captivated. You can find more reviews on the book here.

For more books by Anita Desai, please go here.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Memoirs 2 - Honesty

Honesty used to be the best policy - perhaps in my grandfather's time and partially in my parents'. However now, being honest translates to exposing one's weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and allowing all the good-natured well wishers around you to dive a knife inside them and twist it.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

The Tempest

The storm had been brewing on the other side of the horizon, not visible, yet making its presence known by an occasional rumble, not allowing for the apprehension to die down.
Yesterday, finally, it made its much awaited and dreaded appearance, the skies came down in a torrent that washed away most of us with the deluge.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Summer Rains

The climate of Bangalore, as was discussed earlier is as unpredictable as it is pleasant. The transition between seasons not being very smooth these days, Summer arrived one sunny morning without any preamble. Ok, so we sat back and said, Fine. Now for three months of rising dry heat before monsoon hits the shores in June.
Whoa! Too quick.
Yesterday evening the sky shed a few drops of rain as if to sympathize with the dampened spirits of Men on Earth. The air cooled (so much so as to make me shiver when I came out with my mug of hot tea) and the smell of damp earth (I love this smell that signifies the first rains) filled us all.
Bangalore's unique (as far as I know) climate ensures a few hours of chill - the shivery kind - after a drizzle, even in the summer. And if there is a full fledged rain, it lasts for days.
Where's the Summer gone?

Monday, March 23, 2009

Quote for today

"If a man doesn't delight in himself and the force in him and feel that he and it are wonders, how is all life to become important to him?"

- Sherwood Anderson

More quotes can be found here