"Give me thy arm," isn't just remarkable and palpable, and discourse-worthy -- whereas placed as it is, almost does this great funnel-work of distilled recompense. Akin to what Auden ('54) does with Hephaestus and "or one could weep because another wept" and "at what the God had wrought to please her son" for returns various, conjoining all the poem's/epic's/play's characters; a hard funnelling of sorts. Edgar and his leadership speak and move, action matches a wisdom in brevity's directive incisionary and non-talk. In a play of countless wrong gestures and missteps, it is more than relieving and affirmative.
(Whisking the entire 'gestural and anti-gestural' aspects of the tragedy. All 'Lear wants' so rigidly from Act 1 and on (and can't count to a hundred to satisfy his accounting of non-numerical emotions) (the knights are hilarious) and its tragic embodiments. All into for syllables; "[g]ive me thy arm," that is, if only (*IF ONLY) Cordelia led with that instead of nothing.)
This is lovely; thank you for this manner of learning in which you've expressed *this here*: "the misery Tom bears — misery that means both Tom’s poverty and the depersonalized Gloucester himself who is the misery Tom must now bear to Dover — with “Something rich about me”, which has (for me) the effect of a strange combination of hyperbole and understatement."
It yields (a current yield, if you will) ... in both a very timely and practical life-lesson, and, as a keener sense of exactly whom Gloucester has become, can muster of himself, and, "withers/entropies" into (over the full-course of the rapid, pace-making action). Tom's rapidity in pilgrimage (Peck) Christian, indeed shows the negative space underscoring the reverse-coming-of-age in Gloucester-&-Lear with their decayed whenever/wherever 'fall-into-schmati'em'.
If, whoever said, that Lady Macbeth was entirely drunk keeping warm in that castle the length of the play, (I don't recall(?)...) -- is onto the wrong tree bark; then, perhaps we might at best grant Gloucester mercy and obligatory credentials for his endurance (titiksha; forbearance) before the age of antibiotics.
Since I've not seen the play's production in over a decade, ( --and Kenneth (?) Kenneth brannagh's was too fast for anyone~~as we have heard (?)--) I think I would most 'nobly oblige' a kindred spirit in a Van Doren objection: all the "brassy" template of dramatic and lowly Shakespeare, here permits the play tk rise in heights. It's it's great ascent to Dover that becomes itself; the Gloucester mindlessness that secures and invites necessity of action in Edgar-come-royal, or 'anti-Van Doren's tastes' as in T_&_C, (Tillyard).
If only for Act 4&5 of Lear..... ...... We can forgive our fathers, grieve our elders, Zadies and Bubbleh Bubushkas, properly mourned and rites hastened to the resting places and (like dog to Odysseus's homecoming) --sniff out a thing or two .
"There is a cliff, where" -- I simply go head-over- when Shakespeare hits the meeting ground of lyricism's magical notes, and spritely telling (*MSND, 'a field where...' Puckish telling/playing's echoed). This must be something akin to the natural oral traditions capacities at seizing the soul's ear by the lobe-of-love: what Berryman and Yeats, Longenbach and Heaney, must hear when Hopkins hits perfect pentameter in Scot/Irish/Celtic/Brit ballad rhythms, and mime in their verse: "...would fail to blurthe still profiled reproach of" (11-count, ah sweet "where's to my mind")(Dream song 29)
"Give me thy arm," isn't just remarkable and palpable, and discourse-worthy -- whereas placed as it is, almost does this great funnel-work of distilled recompense. Akin to what Auden ('54) does with Hephaestus and "or one could weep because another wept" and "at what the God had wrought to please her son" for returns various, conjoining all the poem's/epic's/play's characters; a hard funnelling of sorts. Edgar and his leadership speak and move, action matches a wisdom in brevity's directive incisionary and non-talk. In a play of countless wrong gestures and missteps, it is more than relieving and affirmative.
(Whisking the entire 'gestural and anti-gestural' aspects of the tragedy. All 'Lear wants' so rigidly from Act 1 and on (and can't count to a hundred to satisfy his accounting of non-numerical emotions) (the knights are hilarious) and its tragic embodiments. All into for syllables; "[g]ive me thy arm," that is, if only (*IF ONLY) Cordelia led with that instead of nothing.)
This is lovely; thank you for this manner of learning in which you've expressed *this here*: "the misery Tom bears — misery that means both Tom’s poverty and the depersonalized Gloucester himself who is the misery Tom must now bear to Dover — with “Something rich about me”, which has (for me) the effect of a strange combination of hyperbole and understatement."
It yields (a current yield, if you will) ... in both a very timely and practical life-lesson, and, as a keener sense of exactly whom Gloucester has become, can muster of himself, and, "withers/entropies" into (over the full-course of the rapid, pace-making action). Tom's rapidity in pilgrimage (Peck) Christian, indeed shows the negative space underscoring the reverse-coming-of-age in Gloucester-&-Lear with their decayed whenever/wherever 'fall-into-schmati'em'.
If, whoever said, that Lady Macbeth was entirely drunk keeping warm in that castle the length of the play, (I don't recall(?)...) -- is onto the wrong tree bark; then, perhaps we might at best grant Gloucester mercy and obligatory credentials for his endurance (titiksha; forbearance) before the age of antibiotics.
Since I've not seen the play's production in over a decade, ( --and Kenneth (?) Kenneth brannagh's was too fast for anyone~~as we have heard (?)--) I think I would most 'nobly oblige' a kindred spirit in a Van Doren objection: all the "brassy" template of dramatic and lowly Shakespeare, here permits the play tk rise in heights. It's it's great ascent to Dover that becomes itself; the Gloucester mindlessness that secures and invites necessity of action in Edgar-come-royal, or 'anti-Van Doren's tastes' as in T_&_C, (Tillyard).
If only for Act 4&5 of Lear..... ...... We can forgive our fathers, grieve our elders, Zadies and Bubbleh Bubushkas, properly mourned and rites hastened to the resting places and (like dog to Odysseus's homecoming) --sniff out a thing or two .
*Dreaming* (1606, and pre-'73)
"There is a cliff, where" -- I simply go head-over- when Shakespeare hits the meeting ground of lyricism's magical notes, and spritely telling (*MSND, 'a field where...' Puckish telling/playing's echoed). This must be something akin to the natural oral traditions capacities at seizing the soul's ear by the lobe-of-love: what Berryman and Yeats, Longenbach and Heaney, must hear when Hopkins hits perfect pentameter in Scot/Irish/Celtic/Brit ballad rhythms, and mime in their verse: "...would fail to blurthe still profiled reproach of" (11-count, ah sweet "where's to my mind")(Dream song 29)