"I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
"He questioned softly why I failed?
'For beauty,' I replied.
'And I for truth,—the two are one;
We brethren are,' he said.
"And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names."
I died for beauty, but was scarce. Emily Dickinson
She is one of my favourite poets. She knew beauty and nature - she was fascinated by death.
She could communicate well with other people, as long as it was done in writing. Emily Dickinson spent long years in her room, with very little human contact, talking to others through a closed door and writing hundreds of poems.
Dickinson is one of my favourite poets because she was a loner and a dreamer, who refused to integrate and didn't seem to be afraid to do things her own way.
Her poems populated my mind as a child. 'I died of beauty, but was scarce' was her first piece I read, aged 10. I stole one of my father's American poetry books, which ended up living by my bedside for years, alongside some of his Shakespeare books, both in English and Portuguese, and an archaic English dictionary, of course.
If anyone is not convinced by my words, my mother can confirm I was a very strange child. I spent most of my spare time playing alone, but mostly reading anything I could find.
I was a dreamer too. By the time I discovered Dickinson, I had already frightened my little impressionable self with Poe, cried with Shakespeare's sonnets and been utterly delighted by Whitman's patriotic optimism.
However Dickinson made me aware of life and death. She fascinated me with the simple structure of her poems and undeniable strength of her verses.
She taught an already melancholic child to accept the ephemeral nature of the human being. I had never thought so intensely about my own existence as I did after reading her poems. I already knew people died, but she made me aware of my own mortality.
I researched her life a few years later and never ceased to be fascinated. The fact that she lived as a recluse and dedicated her entire life to writing sparked admiration and sadness at the same time.
I could not understand, as a teenager, why someone would choose loneliness. I understand now and admire her even more.
She made a choice and what she created, I believe greatly influenced by that choice, was beautiful. Some would argue she had an unhappy, unfulfilled life which she perhaps regretted when the end finally came. If so, then she did die for beauty.
Emily Dickinson died aged 55 and was laid in a coffin lined with vanilla-scented heliotrope, Lady's Slipper orchid and a "knot of blue field violets".
Before she died, she made the poignant request to have her coffin carried, not driven, through fields of buttercups to the family plot at the local cemetery.
As I was growing up, she taught me it was fine to be who you are. I have forgotten that lesson many times along the way. I've remembered it again.
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Monday, 7 February 2011
Thursday, 3 February 2011
I am Ophelia
"Fear it, Ophelia fear it, my dear sister,
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire."
Laertes to Ophelia. Hamlet, act 1 scene 3
Every woman has loved and suffered and lost. Some women, more than others, carry the weight of failed relationships on their shoulders - not because they were relationships that failed, but because more often than not they were love that was lost.
Someone once asked me if I considered myself a feminist because I thought women were better than men. I remember giving an elaborate answer at the time, but not entirely believing it myself.
Women are women. Comparing genders because we happen to be carved out of the same wood is a shamelessly shallow exercise.
In my opinion, Ophelia, my favourite female Shakespearean character, is the embodiment of the pureness every woman carries in her heart.
A woman can have a solid, successful career built with hard work and competence. A woman can be the maker of her own destiny. She can make her own decisions, she can steer her own life as she thinks best and never need anyone to hold her hand along the way. We are all capable of that.
An independent woman can be a single mother who raises a child, sometimes two, three, all by herself. She can divorce because she is unhappy and never let her marital status be held against her.
A real woman can distinguish between thinking she needs help and knowing when she needs it.
The fact that women are cursed and blessed with the sweetness of Ophelia does not change their ability to succeed alone.
However, a woman's heart is a delicate emotional ecosystem which can trouble her whole life at the slightest sign of imbalance.
In Shakespeare's tragedy, Ophelia is courted by Hamlet - he believes he loves her. Hamlet, taken so violently by the urge to vindicate his father's death and his mother's and uncle's betrayal, makes Ophelia believe he has lost his mind.
At the height of his lunacy, he humiliates Ophelia by making sexual remarks and belittling her feelings for him. She cannot understand the sudden change. She cannot see beyond his madness. She loses her mind.
Men and women are different beings. Women are not dependent on nor are they better or worse than men. They are simply different. They should be allowed to be what they are.
Suffering for a lost love or for broken promises does not infer weakness. Suffering because one cannot understand what drives a sudden change of heart is what some women do. Because they feel. Because they are women. They are Ophelia.
Still, women achieve great things and those men who fail to understand we are entitled to be treated fairly and with respect in all spheres of life are likely to be the same ones capable of breaking a woman's delicate heart.
In Hamlet, Ophelia sadly commits suicide, unable to cope with his indifference and apparent disdain.
Every time a woman's heart is broken, she also dies a little inside. However, the fact that we carry on - we always carry on - is irrefutable evidence of how strong we are.
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire."
Laertes to Ophelia. Hamlet, act 1 scene 3
Every woman has loved and suffered and lost. Some women, more than others, carry the weight of failed relationships on their shoulders - not because they were relationships that failed, but because more often than not they were love that was lost.
Someone once asked me if I considered myself a feminist because I thought women were better than men. I remember giving an elaborate answer at the time, but not entirely believing it myself.
Women are women. Comparing genders because we happen to be carved out of the same wood is a shamelessly shallow exercise.
In my opinion, Ophelia, my favourite female Shakespearean character, is the embodiment of the pureness every woman carries in her heart.
A woman can have a solid, successful career built with hard work and competence. A woman can be the maker of her own destiny. She can make her own decisions, she can steer her own life as she thinks best and never need anyone to hold her hand along the way. We are all capable of that.
An independent woman can be a single mother who raises a child, sometimes two, three, all by herself. She can divorce because she is unhappy and never let her marital status be held against her.
A real woman can distinguish between thinking she needs help and knowing when she needs it.
The fact that women are cursed and blessed with the sweetness of Ophelia does not change their ability to succeed alone.
However, a woman's heart is a delicate emotional ecosystem which can trouble her whole life at the slightest sign of imbalance.
In Shakespeare's tragedy, Ophelia is courted by Hamlet - he believes he loves her. Hamlet, taken so violently by the urge to vindicate his father's death and his mother's and uncle's betrayal, makes Ophelia believe he has lost his mind.
At the height of his lunacy, he humiliates Ophelia by making sexual remarks and belittling her feelings for him. She cannot understand the sudden change. She cannot see beyond his madness. She loses her mind.
Men and women are different beings. Women are not dependent on nor are they better or worse than men. They are simply different. They should be allowed to be what they are.
Suffering for a lost love or for broken promises does not infer weakness. Suffering because one cannot understand what drives a sudden change of heart is what some women do. Because they feel. Because they are women. They are Ophelia.
Still, women achieve great things and those men who fail to understand we are entitled to be treated fairly and with respect in all spheres of life are likely to be the same ones capable of breaking a woman's delicate heart.
In Hamlet, Ophelia sadly commits suicide, unable to cope with his indifference and apparent disdain.
Every time a woman's heart is broken, she also dies a little inside. However, the fact that we carry on - we always carry on - is irrefutable evidence of how strong we are.
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