Perhaps the most interesting part of Heidegger's "Building, Dwelling, Thinking" is his definition of the term "mortal" in relation to the concept of dwelling. The writer breaks it down into four components, which state that in order to be mortal one must "save the earth," leave natural elements like the sun and moon to their own devices, do not attempt to influence divinity, and strive to live life well in expectation of death. Combined these items constitute what Heidegger defines as dwelling on this earth.

I found this interesting because I've only ever thought of dwelling as a noun to mean a physical "home." Never had I considered it as a term to describe our mortality. When I think of the word "dwelling" I think of caves, places with light or fire, where people can sleep and keep warm. To regard it as a figurative noun is to connect the idea of the home with our survival. I'm reminded of that list of basic necessities without which man cannot survive: food, water, clothing, shelter, etc. The shelter is the one that Heidegger targets, though I've always thought of shelter as the weakest addition to that list. Is it really that important for man to have a roof over his head to survive? Or does Heidegger's definition of the dwelling make this the most important necessity of them all? I can see how all of the other requirements of survival could fit under the umbrella of "dwelling," but do not believe that "shelter" means the same thing. The former transcends physical needs, while the latter remains there.

Another Swing at Will

After taking a closer look at the so-called "heath" in King Lear, I thought it might be interesting to take a look at another use of space in Shakespeare, namely the Forest of Arden in As You Like It. (Last week I finally saw Kenneth Branagh's 2006 film adaptation, which does some cool stuff with this space.) The forest stands in stark contrast to the court of France, from which all of the play's major characters hail. At the start of the piece one may note that most of these people are snobbish, materialistic, self-centered, and greedy. It seems as if the atmosphere of the court, in combination with the greed of an uncle, the jealousy of an older brother, and the neediness of some of the women, make the civilized world a very untamed place. This stands in opposition to the Forest, whose inhabitants enjoy peaceful contemplation and tranquil happiness in the heart of nature.

It's a theme that literature has seen before and after the composition of the play: can nature be less wild than the world of men? Once the characters from the French court escape to the forest, they begin to see what is truly essential in life. To offer affection to another person, to have that affection reciprocated: these become the only things that matter. The disputes of the court, and even the reasons for which the characters left it in the first place, are made unimportant in light of these simple virtues. The Forest is described as a rough and unorganized place, but somehow the lack of order brings about the opposite effect in people. There are not any malevolent distractions, such as gambling and fighting for possessions, out in the woods, which I take to mean that once temptation is removed, we return to a more primal, thoughtful way of life. Stated simply, our definition of "order" is what nature would consider "chaos" and vice versa.

The Heath (Lear Acts III & IV)

Though I read Acts III and IV of Lear before reading Turner's "King Lear Without: the Heath," I found that my train of thought while reading the heath scenes reflected quite accurately some of the sentiments Turner expresses in his essay. For instance, Turner explores the notion that Lear's Britain is textually vast and contains little sense of locality.

Could it be said that the heath is merely a plane of existence on which these characters have little other to do than ponder life? Lear's oddly sensible rants and the Fool's equally reasonable puns, not to mention Edgar's false insanity, seem to support this. Their contributions highlight aspects of the human condition from the many traits of female treachery to reflection on why people prize some objects as necessities more than others. The vagueness of the location also shows Shakespeare's focus on cognition over all: he offers no picture of the heath through the words of his characters, except in their accounts of the poor weather overhead. In this sense I am left with a mental image of a flat, grey plain dwarfed by gusts of wind, lightning bolts, and clouds. This locale is, in my opinion, the plain of the mind, where the playwright is free to take his characters on thoughtful journeys in between short bursts of plot-driven dialogue among Goneril, Regan, and Edmund. To that end the castle scenes are for movement, while the heath scenes are for reflection. This exchange is not unlike today's television dramas, which have a strict script formula that switches between periods for action and periods for thought on said action. The heath is simply a physical plane of the mind where Lear and company ponder the consequences of what went on in their castles.

"Land" of Constant Sorrow (Lear Acts I & II)

Perhaps the most interesting thing about the places in King Lear is how the people who inhabit them change (superficially and earnestly) when they go from one location to the next. It's Lear himself who brings about this change in his subjects, particularly within his daughters. In Act I, Scene 1, when they arrive at his call to express their love and allegiance to him as their father, the three daughters are within Lear's own court. He is still in control of the kingdom. Regan and Goneril show the utmost respect and courtesy to him out of necessity: if they are to receive a portion of his kingdom, they must lather him with tribute beforehand, though inwardly they're only so kind to him out of material desire. (Cordelia is the exceptional daughter, but she doesn't appear again in the Acts we've read to this date.) When Regan and Goneril re-encounter Lear at their own estates, their father's power now in their hands, they don't grant him the same grace as in the first scene of the play. Rather, they treat him like an old man who believes his elderly status gives him clout now that his political power is gone, regarding him with bewilderment. The exchange of royal power elicits this switch of manner from one location to the next.

Consider the fact that the events of these first two acts take place at two courts: one Lear's court, the other Regan's new court. In his own court Lear holds all the cards, so his daughters respect him. In her court Regan holds all the cards, but Lear interprets this as disrespect. There's nothing Lear can do about his opinion, however, because he's not on his own ground anymore. These first two acts therefore establish the importance of land when it comes to having sway in your own affairs. To quote Tim Blake Nelson in O Brother, Where Art Thou?, "You ain't no kind of man if you ain't got land."

When Hell Freezes Over

Perhaps the most interesting part of the Inferno is (for me) the portrayal of Hell as becoming colder the lower one goes. Common depictions would have one believe that greater depth equals greater temperature. Take, for example, the earth on which we live. The crust and atmosphere, likened to the upper levels of Hell, are cold and wet. The center of the earth, on the other hand, is a hot, molten mess. Considering the thermal opposition of these two settings, why doesn't our poet stick to convention and construct his Hell in accordance with our geologically sound view of the earth?

The most obvious answer to this question is that science hadn't gotten that far when Dante composed the Divine Comedy. No one knew about the molten core of the earth; however, they did know about volcanoes and magma. From where else might lava come, other than deeper in the earth? Why does Dante seek, in light of this recorded natural event, to portray the belly of Hell as frozen? Hailing from Italy would, I assume, only increase the likelihood that Dante was aware of volcanic eruptions, the country situated in a stew of volcanic activity. The only reason I can think of that would cause him to overlook this phenomenon is artistry: it is vital that Dante maintain a legendary and religious aspect to his work, so why not imbue the fall of Lucifer with frigidity rather than heat? Such an approach to this seismic event (literally and figuratively) only increases the chances that his work will catch the eye of the Church and, in turn, its sizable laity. To me (with little background in the religious history of Dante's Italy, mind you), this is as much a literary tactic as a marketing one.

Focused on Holes

I'd like to talk a bit about the use of lakes and mires in Cantos XXI and XXII of the Inferno. When considered within the physical scheme of a big crater created by the fall of Lucifer, these small depressions compliment the intricacy of Hell in the same way that strainer holes add to a kitchen collender. (You're bound to see a lot of dishwashing references in light of the title of this blog.) These lakes and mires permit only certain sinners' souls to permeate them, in the same way that collender holes only allow certain forms of food to flow through them.

I wonder about this "holes within holes" landscape. One might liken it to a tidepool, complete with different forms of life in each pocket of a large watery basin. In these two cantos Dante investigates the plight of Barrators, while in previous cantos he spoke of the Wrathful as they suffered in the Styx Marsh. Could these be thought of as crabs and shrimp? Or is this analogy business going a little too far? Perhaps it would be better to investigate these miniature hells in terms of their depth: by including lakes and mires in Hell, isn't Dante creating "more" depth in circles that are seemingly flat? Dante often mentions that these lakes and mires are abysses of their own. If this is the case, isn't there a whole secondary measure of hellish depth we haven't considered? Where do these abysses lead, and should they be measured topographically along with the rest of Hell?

Intro/Inferno (Cantos I-V)

So here's to all things topographical! (Applause.) After two geography classes at UConn, I'm finally being exposed to a side of it that I may very well enjoy. No more demographic studies: this is Dante's Inferno we're talkin' about!

Enough pep. I'm here to talk a bit about the first five cantos of the Inferno, in particular its intricate, circular portrayal of hell. I'm used to the Biblical depiction of hell described in rousing sermons by my childhood priest, and hadn't seen such a complex schematic of the place until picking up this poem. It's contours may almost be likened to a tree stump or an onion, with some circles/layers imagined as larger, smaller, busier, emptier, more agonizing, or less terrible than their neighbors. This sits in stark contrast to my previous mental picture of hell as a single domain beneath the earth, where souls aren't separated by the degrees of their sins. In light of these first five cantos, I realize that my view of the great Devil's Den has been systematically dulled by cartoon versions of it, in which the devil sits as a dark, brooding figure in a cave of flames. Here, on the contrary, I saw an interesting mixture of characters out of epic poetry, Greek and Roman mythology, and Christianity.

As I finished up the reading, I couldn't help but wonder if the topographical intricacy of Dante's hell was a result of his use of many literary, historical, philosophical, and mythological figures, or whether it was the other way around: the great capacity of Dante's hell spawning the inclusion of these characters. Either way, I'm prepared for an interesting read. Considering I've only reached the second circle out of seven, I'm certain this question will be answered over the coming week. Stay tuned.