Antony and Cleopatra

I am rereading Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra for the first time in five or six years and searching for its truths, for me and my students. I used to teach the play but, even then, I was not always comfortable with my understanding or grasp of the history, although Shakespeare takes such liberties that it almost does not matter. I wrote my senior thesis on the play, but remember nothing but loving the play and rooting around the big Boston Public Library in Copley Square researching Plutarch. I still have that paper but have not the nerve to read it. Yet it might hold the clue as to why this play fascinated me then and what lessons it has to teach now, one more way the past can clarify the present moment.

I had a wonderful professor, William Carroll, who is now the head of the English Department at Boston University.  He had a way of making the language accessible and I fell for the langourous dialogue that transported me from the shores of the Charles to the shores of the Nile.  I most likely viewed the play as little more than a romantic fantasy but, although barely 20 years old, I did not imagine dying for love was some noble act; I never did have patience for Romeo or Juliet. It was more that Cleopatra and Antony cared for something so intensely they were willing to be consumed by their desire, an understanding embraced more in youth than at any other age.  I recognize now that what they cared for most deeply was themselves and, despite support from Harold Bloom, I am sure my observation is a bit cynical. Because I want to care that much about the people and beliefs I embrace and am a tad jealous of their willingness, and their desperation, to feel so sure about their desires.  Our willingness to acknowledge our yearning for a deep, abiding, even all-consuming passion for something or someone is what gives us the strength to endure life's tragedies, absurdities, and its inescapable end. 

Thus the spectacle of Cleopatra and Antony resonates on a visceral level.  I want my students to feel their myriad passions, to know so much is possible when they give themselves wholly to what they hold so dear that to lose it would be to lose themselves.  As Shakespeare's lovers move inevitably towards their demise, he cautions us that the Pompeys, Caesars, and the rigidity of Rome are waiting in the wings.  Yet I know there is a middle, fertile ground where we we temper our enthusiam and passion just enough so that we can live spontaneously, but not recklessly--with the energy of youth and the mindfulness of adulthood.  Bloom reminds us that Cleopatra does not come into her own until Antony dies and her death waits in the basket of figs.  Perhaps being aware that the Nile worms await is enough to spur all of us to consciously embrace our desires.  This is the same consciousness Camus' Sisyphus embraces and, if we believe Camus, we can be happy.

A Feast

My dozen young classicists breeze into the room, tugging at the snack drawer--repeatedly--until they realize it's locked. "Hey, what happened to hospitality?" one grumbles. There are certain lessons it is not difficult to teach and sharing food facilitates the process. After all, throughout The Iliad and The Odyssey the meal comes before everything, even introductions. As angry as the Greeks are with Achilles, Odysseus and Nestor break bread with him first with no mention of the carnage his feud with Agamemnon has visited on the Achaeans.

I have watched as my twelve have bonded over the past months. Their enthusiasm for the Classics, its literature and its archetypal themes, is infectious and, I sense, somewhat proprietary as they come to realize they are speaking a language that may be universal and that they are joining a community.  No one wants to be alone--the Greeks ostracized Bellerophon for his hubris rather than sentencing him to death. The students' distinctions begin to blur yet their differences remain, a union that benefits both the group and its members.  Each knows the others' favorite treats and a pile of clementines sits in front of one student while the last gummy bear is presented to another; a student struggles to cut hunk of homemade bread big enough for 4 into 12 pieces.  Likewise, students are tolerant of the myriad opinions even as they develop predictably.  Medea's champions and her detractors will each have their impassioned say.  I expect next week's discussion of Cleopatra will develop similarly and students will smile and nod and patiently process the comments until one or more dissenters will announce something along the lines of: "I understand what you are saying and I cannot argue with your logic.  I still think Medea got a crummy deal."  They operate in direct contrast to so much of the "real world" discourse and counter the prevailing research that suggests we have all made up our minds and only give credence to, or even seek out, opinions, beliefs and philosophies sympathetic to our own.  They are patient when they sense someone needs to be forceful; they likewise know just how to keep from crossing the line into stridency.  Eventually, one will say it's time for a snack. 

My other students tell me that Classics is my favorite class--and they are right.  But it is not because they are any brighter or more interesting or easier to manage (truth be told, teaching them can be like herding cats--specifically the ones in Rome's Torre Argentina).  It is their shared love for the classics that engenders the common language that weaves them together and nurtures their souls in a way that makes them dear to mine.  But it is also the traditional nourishment, the breaking of bread--or sharing other treats--that sates their physical hunger and opens their minds and spirits to the rest of the feast.