The Rest Is...

“All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down.
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death?
…………………….
I should be glad of another death.” —“Journey of the Magi” (1935). T. S. Eliot.

I know how it feels to die.

Nothingness encroaches, pressing upon your throat with Everything’s weight. It is as if the galaxy has imploded upon you. Gravity’s only thought is to flatten and squeeze you into an infinitesimal jot of Nothing.

Forget breathing. You cannot anyway. Forget screaming. You cannot—you cannot breathe. Forget weeping. Forget making any noisy protest against Fate or Gravity or Nothingness, any cry for pity, any expression of regret. No one will hear you. The rest is…

I know how it feels to die. The Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s 2010 production of Hamlet, directed by Bill Rauch, taught me how it feels to die. In Act V, Scene 2 of Shakespeare’s script, four characters perish: Gertrude, Laertes, Claudius, and Hamlet. All poisoned. Hamlet’s last words are, “The rest is silence.” Fortinbras enters, sees the carnage, and bids soldiers carry Hamlet to the stage. He will hear Horatio’s story and honor Hamlet; for “had he lived, he might have proved most royal.”

Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet ends with Hamlet choking out his final line. Then, a stern-faced, regal Fortinbras receives his immediate coronation and orders a lavish military funeral for Denmark’s dead prince. Fortinbras may rule Denmark, but Hamlet won.

Bill Rauch’s Hamlet ends with Hamlet—the son of a deaf king—speaking his final line and signing the words in American Sign Language. Yet the word “silence” never passes his lips. Unlike Branagh’s Hamlet, who barely chokes out the last word before dying, Dan Donahue’s Hamlet dies with the final word. Hamlet signs “silence” and then dies in silence. Then, a camou -clad Fortinbras kicks over Claudius’ chair and prances about the stage, spitting Shakespeare’s words in a ridiculous accent. In Rauch’s modern production, if Horatio could be a hobo, than Fortinbras could be Borat. This Fortibras shows anything but respect for Denmark’s royal dead. Fortinbras rules Denmark. Hamlet lost.

The light dims. A spotlight illuminates only Hamlet. The King his father, still in military uniform, steps into the lit circle and takes his son’s body in his arms. The deaf King’s head lowers. And we are deaf to his weeping as the spotlight shrinks around the father and his son until death’s oblivion swallows them.

Is this how it feels to die?

Is the whole world made deaf by Death, so that no one can hear one’s dying cry: “This is not what I wanted”?

Does Death destroy everything that is good in the world? Prompt incest, condemn a sensible young woman to madness, make Denmark a prison for Danes and home for tyrannical Swedes?

Is Death invincible?

What is, besides silence and nothingness and Death?

If “the rest is silence,” what is there before “the rest” that is “silence,” but noise, the harbinger of life?


“For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a wimper.” —“The Hollow Men” (1925). T. S. Eliot.

Shasta

The Cascades and Sierras are blanketed in snow. Shasta, this June, is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen it. It transcends the green-gold hills—white, blisteringly white. I feel like some primeval being looking down upon it. For the first time, I understand why the Native Americans worshipped it as a god. The Mountain is godlike, like Achilles, but beautiful as no demigod could ever be. Achilles, ever stained with his foe’s blood, killing and killed by the sword, was nothing against the Mountain.

No wonder they worshipped Shasta.

Yet here I am, above the Mountain. Its volcanic fires and fumes have died; they cannot harm me here. Man has conquered the Mountain. But not the wind or rain. The sky—no longer the earth or sea—is the domain I fear. Zeus’ domain.

Who is Zeus: a demon affrighted by the Holy Spirit; a figment of man’s collective consciousness; or the fellow subordinate of Jehovah? Who is Jehovah: not a mountain-god or sky-god or galaxy-god, but a Beyond-God? God beyond God, Light beyond light, Being beyond being…and, incidentally, non-being?

I am—quite literally—in the sky; by natural forces, human ingenuity, and God’s mercy, I am suspended between earth and Space, between finitude and Infinity, between nothing and Everything. Between earth and Space, in the air, Zeus’ principality, whom must I fear but Prince Zeus?

Except that as man has conquered Shasta, Jehovah has conquered Zeus. Jehovah brought His Everything, His Being, His Infinity into my awkward two-by-three cranny in an airplane representing under one hundred souls, teetering on Tartarus’ edge, just west of the Sierra Nevada’s spring snow.

Christ is the Prince of the Air. May the name of YHWH be praised.

Summer Book Review: The Mysterious Affair at Styles

This is the first Hercule Poirot mystery and the first Agatha Christie book I read that was narrated by Hastings. May I say I love Hastings? This first book gives a good picture of Poirot at his most innovative and most eccentric. I noticed something that was important and felt proud of myself, but I didn't guess who did it (though I rarely do). Suspicion rotates through all the characters appropriately, and I thought it was a mystery very well done. I like Hastings!

Five Stars
* * * * *

Summer Book Review: Sad Cypress

Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie is indeed sad. I felt sad for the characters, empathized with the emotional injustice of the situation, and was only moderately consoled by the potentially happy ending. I disliked the writing style, which was noticeably different than the other Agatha Christie's I'd read at the time, and found the mystery a bit unbelievable. It seemed the murder had gone to greater extents than necessary and those greater extents were the clinching clues. I also thought the murderer was ill-informed and thus the motive was kind of pathetic. Certainly not my favorite of Christie's mysteries.

Two Stars
* *

Summer Book Review: The Man in the Brown Suit

The first Agatha Christie book I've ever read, The Man in the Brown Suit, has a lot going for it. I like the twists and changes in the characters and I liked the young heroine. I have not read any other Agatha Christie books with a young heroine yet. She was smart, precocious, romantic, and adventurous. Overall, the book felt as much like an adventure novel as it did a mystery novel, but the mystery was distinct and satisfying. This novel showed a mastery of detail research--I was completely convinced that Ann Beddingfeld was the daughter of a professor obsessed with prehistoric men. It was quite fun and I loved the romance. Of the Agatha Christie books I've read this summer, The Man in the Brown Suit is certainly the most romantic.

Five Stars
* * * * *

Flying After a Day of Real Work

The cool air flowing over me like a constant drink of fresh, sweet water, cooling the sweat that coats my body—sweat from real work. The warm presence of thirst in my mouth. The wind rushing past my ears, drowning out the sounds of the clamoring world. The blowing past my face, the cutting, pressing, refreshing air of—

When the bike stops clicking and only whirs.

When the incline dips, turns into a real hill—

When the road turns ahead.

And the passing air keeps whipping at me, caressing me, lifting me.

It’s the burning, hateful climb up that makes the racing, breathing, living flight down so immeasurably blissful.

Unbaited Cabbages

Athena and I just spent two glorious weeks immersing ourselves in Shakespeare! We read plays, acted them out, wrote papers, watched movies, went to Ashland, and even dueled our peers.

Ahhh, so wonderful. I never knew the Ashland Festival existed before this experience. And I declare to everyone: You must go this summer! Find a way! Hamlet and Henry the Fourth, Part 1 must be seen. The other plays that are preformed are also very good, but Hamlet and Hal are the best.

We were spoiled rotten. Our group meet the leads from every Shakespeare show: Miriam (Countess Olivia, Twelfth Night), John (Prince Hal, Henry the Fourth), Anthony (Shylock, Merchant of Venice), and Dan (Hamlet, Hamlet). We got to hear from each of them about their preparations for their parts, their experience, philosophies about theater, and so much more. John told us about a young woman who once had to do a 7 second quick change in the dark in very small space, and took us on a tour of the theaters. We met with a leading costume designer for Hamlet, and oh my word, all the intense preparation that goes into the production.--ahh, Savers we love you well.

The Elizabethan theater is in the open air, and we got rained on at least twice. Almost didn't get to see the duel between Hal and Hotspur, but they fought wonderfully. John told us that both he and the other actor are sporting great bruises from that night. The Angus Bowman theater was built in the 70s and the stage is incredible. Anything a director wants to happen on that stage can be done. The flooring is able to be manipulated in so many ways, it's ridiculous! Each play has its own amazing and completely unique set. John told us that often the crew only has two to three hours to do a complete change over from one play to another. It only takes two-three hours for Hal's England to be transformed to Shylock's Venice--good grief!

This experience has only wetted my appetite for more. I want to go back and watch, and help, and perform. I don't know exactly why I should be one to have such an incredible time. I know that it was only through completely undeserved grace. If I've learned anything, I think that I've learned my age. I'm not too old, and I shouldn't stop trying.