Tag: Readiness

Shakespeare’s Lessons in How to Get Old – King Lear and The Tempest

Shakespeare seems to have started seriously thinking about old age when he was just over 40 and writing King Lear.  Forty was the “old” sixty or seventy; in 1606, when Lear was produced, Shakespeare had already substantially outlived his life expectancy and would retire and die within the next ten years.  He continued to ponder the problems of aging and mortality. Six years later, he wrote The Tempest.  I would argue that Lear showed us how not to get old, and The Tempest gave us a template for a better way.  And I am always looking for a better way.

First, let me make a plug for the BBC versions of the Shakespeare plays made in the late seventies through the eighties.  Watch them with the subtitles on – not because the sound quality is bad, but because the language is so dense that you don’t want to miss anything.  View both the ones you know well and the ones you don’t remember; from our altered/aged perspective, they will not be the same plays we studied in college.

Back to Shakespeare’s old men.  Lear claims that he is ready for retirement: “And ‘tis our fast intent / To share all cares and business from our age, / conferring them on younger strengths while we/ Unburdened crawl toward death.”  But Lear does not mean what he says.  He wants to distribute his kingdom to his heirs, but with strings attached.  He wants to be unburdened, but don’t take his horses or his men or his status away from him.  Good luck with that.  He also wants pledges of love from his daughters – and, as one learns in life, those quickest to promise are the one who take their promises the least seriously.  Lear loses his daughters, his horses, his kingdom, and, of course, becomes a broken old man.  Even in the end, he wants to take Cordelia off to prison with him, “Come, let’s away to prison; / We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage.”  Lear still wants to control his daughter, to have her to himself.  When Lear dies, the loyal Kent says, “the wonder is that he hath endured so long. / He but usurped his life.”  What does “usurping his life” mean?  If usurp means to take something one has no right to, does this imply that Lear was somehow interfering with the natural flow of life?

Many have read the lesson here as being that one should never retire, never distribute one’s assets, never trust the younger generation.  The real lesson is that we should never renunciate (more on this word below) until we can do it fully.  We cannot take the gifts of old age without giving up the advantages of youth. And thus we move to The Tempest.

The Tempest, written in 1612 when Shakespeare was 48 and about to go back home to rest and die, is thought of as the author’s farewell play, with the epilogue being Shakespeare’s last words to his audience.

Now my charms are all o’erthrown,
And what strength I have ’s mine own,
Which is most faint. Now ’tis true
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got
And pardoned the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell,
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands.

Applause please!  The Bard wants recognition from his audience for his past contributions, but then he wants to step aside.  And here we have a completely different view of old age.  Prospero is determined to tie up loose ends – get off the island, get his kingdom back – but he is also willing to give up everything: his spirit Ariel, his slave Caliban, the exclusive love of his daughter, his books, his magic, and even his vengeance toward his brother and others who have done him wrong.  His magic causes the shipwreck that brings his former enemies to the island, but he is determined not to hurt them.  Prospero fully expects his daughter to transfer her loyalty to her husband, Ariel to fly away to live their own life, Caliban to pursue whatever kind of existence he can manage, for his own days of power to come to an end.

In deciding whether to act, Hamlet says “Readiness is all.”  In Lear, Edgar is sure that “Men must endure /Their going hence, even as their coming thither;/ Ripeness is all.”  In The Tempest, the aging Shakespeare realizes that there must be both readiness and ripeness. (See an old blog on ripeness and readiness here.)

Buddhism has the concept of a renunciant, and particularly a tradition of elders “going forth” and becoming renunciants in their old age.  These old folks take nothing with them and have no expectations.

Who so has turned to renunciation,
Turned to detachment of the mind,
Is filled with all-embracing love
And freed from thirsting after life. (AN 5.55)

If you still have expectations, need adulation, need control – you are not ready.  There is a tragedy when one is ripe (very old) but not ready, and an equal tragedy in being ready but not ripe.  But, make the right decision, and be “filled with all-embracing love.”

I am not just talking about retirement decisions here; old age is full of questions of renunciation.  Some are forced on us as we lose abilities and resources; some are moral issues. Medical treatment decisions are a good example. But we must both know what to do and have the mindset to do it gracefully.

In an earlier play, As You Like It, Shakespeare has his character Jacques list the seven ages of man.  I am probably in stage 6 as I still have (more or less) control of my faculties, and have not reached the point of “mere oblivion, /Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”  But this is the rub, isn’t it?  We need “control of our faculties” to judge when to take the next step, before we enter into “mere oblivion.”  Otherwise, we are in an eternal loop – trying to be old without giving up anything.  Not only is that hard, but it is silly. And, as we in the United States are learning, there is a price for such foolishness.

For a fanciful piece of fiction about different ways to grow old, you might try “Tale of Two Grannies.”

Ripeness and Readiness

In an essay on “Late Style in Beethoven,” the philosopher Theodor Adorno starts out with this comparison of old age and fruit:

The maturity of the late works of significant artists does not resemble the kind one finds in fruit. They are, for the most part, not round, but furrowed, even ravaged. Devoid of sweetness, bitter and spiny, they do not surrender themselves to mere delectation… and they show more traces of history than growth.

Putting aside the specific discussion of “late” creativity (a subject I will come back to in a future blog, surely citing Adorno’s essay, Edward Said’s On Late Style, and the fascinating Old Masters and Young Geniuses by David Galenson), I am more interested in the simile presented, comparing age to ripe fruit. It is a trope often used; Cicero repeatedly compares old age to ripeness (maturitas). But, in true old age, our fruit is beyond its peak (as much as we would like to think otherwise). It is often dry, withered. It might even start to ferment.

Shakespeare considered the issue of ripeness and indirectly compared it with readiness. In Hamlet (surely the story of the tragedy of youth) and King Lear (a tragedy of old age), in precisely the same point near the end of the play (Act V ii in both cases), we are faced with the conclusion that either readiness is all or ripeness is all. First (in 1603 or thereabouts) we hear the young Dane:

HAMLET: We defy augury. There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all.

Readiness connotes preparation, and a proactive stance toward a situation. Hamlet may dawdle, but he finally is ready to do something. He has agency over the readiness.

In Lear (five or six years later), it is not the title character that proclaims that ripeness is all, but Edgar, talking to his blinded and despairing father Gloucester:

GLOUCESTER:  No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.

EDGAR:  What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming thither;
Ripeness is all: come on.

GLOUCESTER:  And that’s true too.

Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming thither. This is interesting, because (like many of us I would guess) my young “going hence” was even more angst-ridden than my late life “coming thither.” In the scene above, Gloucester wants to go no farther: A man may rot even here. Surely we will grow old wherever we are and, yet, his son encourages him to keep going. And the paradox is that Gloucester, poor blind, disillusioned Gloucester, recognizes that both things are true. And that’s true too. We must age and yet we must go on. It is of note here that when Nahum Tate bowdlerized the Bard to produce an upbeat version of Lear in 1681, it was Tate’s happier version that ran almost steadily until 1838. And in Tate’s unauthorized edit, the line about ripeness just disappears. Apparently, we are more willing to accept the demands of readiness than the inevitabilities of ripeness.

Yves Bonnefoy writes that ripeness and readiness are “the two irreducible attitudes. One the quintessence of the world’s order, the unity of which one seems to breathe; the other, the reverse of that order….” Ripeness connotes a passive passage of time; readiness signals a capacity for action. And, as Gloucester says, both are true. However, the readiness of old age has to be in the context of ripeness, even over-ripeness or decay. There were only five or six years between the writing of Hamlet and the appearance of Lear. Both are tragedies. Both examine a portion of the arc of life – one going up and one coming down. And both have something to teach us, perhaps, about balancing action with acceptance.

For many years, I attended a Great Books week in the summer; we read six works in advance and discussed them with the same group over six days. It was terrific and I would heartily recommend it. At one point I tried writing a novel about the experience – but after a few hundred pages, I did not think it was worth completing. I did, however, complete a chapter in which the group discussed King Lear; I attach a draft here. If you haven’t read the original lately, you might want to revisit the story of an old person who thought he had it figured out.