had Eliot not caused Prufrock to invoke Hamlet as a way of addressing his own inadequacy.
It’s worth remembering that comparatively few writers slavishly copy bits of Shakespeare’s work
into their own. More commonly there is this kind of dialogue going on in which the new work, while
taking bits from the older, is also having its say. The author may be reworking a message, exploring
changes (or continuities) in attitudes from one era to another, recalling parts of an earlier work to
highlight features of the newly created one, drawing on associations the reader holds in order to
fashion something new and, ironically, original. Irony features fairly prominently in the use not only
of Shakespeare but of any prior writer. The new writer has his own agenda, her own slant to put on
things.
Try this for slant. One of the powerful voices to come out of resistance to apartheid in South Africa
is Athol Fugard, best known for his play “Master Harold” . . . and the Boys (1982). In creating this
play Fugard turns to you-know-who. Your first instinct might be that he would grasp one of the
tragedies, Othello, say, where race is already at issue. Instead he turns to the history plays, to Henry
IV, Part II, to the story of a young man who must grow up. In Shakespeare, Prince Hal must put his
hard-partying ways behind him, stop his carousing with Falstaff, and become Henry, the king who in
Henry V is capable of leading an army and inspiring the kind of passion that will allow the English to
be victorious at Agincourt. He must learn, in other words, to wear the mantle of adult responsibility.
In Fugard’s contemporary reworking, Henry is Harold, Hally to the black pals with whom he loafs
and plays. Like his famous predecessor, Hally must grow up and become Master Harold, worthy
successor to his father in the family business. What does it mean, though, to become a worthy
successor in an unworthy enterprise? That is Fugard’s question. Harold’s mantle is made not only of
adult responsibility but of racism and heartless disregard, and he learns to wear it well. As we might
expect, Henry IV, Part II provides a means of measuring Harold’s growth, which is actually a sort of
regression into the most repugnant of human impulses. At the same time, though, “Master Harold”
makes us reexamine the assumptions of right—and rights—that we take for granted in watching the
Shakespearean original, notions of privilege and noblesse oblige, assumptions about power and
inheritance, ideas of accepted behavior and even of adulthood itself. Is it a mark of growing up that
one becomes capable, as Harold does, of spitting in the face of a friend? I think not. Fugard reminds
us, of course, even if he does not mention it directly, that the grown-up King Henry must, in Henry V,
have his old friend Falstaff banished. Do the values endorsed by Shakespeare lead directly to the
horrors of apartheid? For Fugard they do, and his play leads us back to a reconsideration of those
values and the play that contains them.
That’s what writers can do with Shakespeare. Of course, they can do it with other writers as well,
and they do, if somewhat less frequently. Why? You know why. The stories are great, the characters
compelling, the language fabulous. And we know him. You can allude to Fulke Greville, but you’d
have to provide your own footnotes.
So what’s in it for readers? As the Fugard example suggests, when we recognize the interplay
between these dramas, we become partners with the new dramatist in creating meaning. Fugard relies
on our awareness of the Shakespearean text as he constructs his play, and that reliance allows him to
say more with fewer direct statements. I often tell my students that reading is an activity of the
imagination, and the imagination in question is not the writer’s alone. Moreover, our understanding of
both works becomes richer and deeper as we hear this dialogue playing out; we see the implications
for the new work, while at the same time we reconfigure our thinking, if only slightly, about the
earlier one. And the writer we know better than any other, the one whose language and whose plays
we “know” even if we haven’t read him, is Shakespeare.
So if you’re reading a work and something sounds too good to be true, you know where it’s from.
The rest, dear friends, is silence.
6
. . . Or the Bible
C
ONNECT THESE DOTS
: garden, serpent, plagues, flood, parting of waters, loaves, fishes, forty days,
betrayal, denial, slavery and escape, fatted calves, milk and honey. Ever read a book with all these
things in them?
Guess what? So have your writers. Poets. Playwrights. Screenwriters. Samuel L. Jackson’s
character in Pulp Fiction, in between all the swearwords (or that one swearword all those times) is a
Vesuvius of biblical language, one steady burst of apocalyptic rhetoric and imagery. His linguistic
behavior suggests that at some time Quentin Tarantino, the writer-director, was in contact with the
Good Book, despite all his Bad Language. Why is that James Dean film called East of Eden?
Because the author of the novel on which the film is based, John Steinbeck, knew his Book of
Genesis. To be east of Eden, as we shall see, is to be in a fallen world, which is the only kind we
know and certainly the only kind there could be in a James Dean film. Or a Steinbeck novel.
The devil, as the old saying goes, can quote Scripture. So can writers. Even those who aren’t
religious or don’t live within the Judeo-Christian tradition may work something in from Job or
Matthew or the Psalms. That may explain all those gardens, serpents, tongues of flame, and voices
from whirlwinds.
In Toni Morrison’s Beloved (1987), four white men ride up to the house in Ohio where the escaped
slave Sethe has been living with her small children. In a fit of determination to “save” her children
from slavery, she tries to kill them, succeeding only with her two-year-old daughter, known later as
Beloved. No one, neither ex-slave nor free white, can believe or understand her action, and that
incomprehension saves her life and rescues her remaining children from slavery. Does her violent
frenzy make sense? No. It’s irrational, excessive, disproportionate. They all agree on that. On the
other hand, there’s something about it that, to us, makes sense. The characters all see four white men
from slave country riding up the road. We see, and Sethe intuits, that what’s coming in the front gate is
the Apocalypse. When the Four Horsemen come, it’s the Last Day, the time for Judgment. Morrison’s
color scheme isn’t quite that of St. John’s original—it’s hard to come up with a green horse—but we
know them, not least because she actually calls them “the four horsemen.” Not riders, not men on
horses, not equestrians. Horsemen. That’s pretty unambiguous. Moreover, one of them stays mounted
with a rifle slung across his lap. That looks a lot like the fourth horseman, the one who in Revelation
rides the pale (or green) horse and whose name is Death. In Pale Rider Clint Eastwood actually has a
character speak the relevant passage so we don’t miss the point (although the unnamed stranger in an
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