Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Measure for Measure
Well, we have reached the .30 threshold for only the second time in the history of this blog. Charles Olson's section of the library went as deep as .36. It looks like Shakespeare will take the record, making it all the way to .37 or .38. If he only makes it to .37. that would still mean I am missing a book. Or that I miscatalogued one of the books by repeating the number from the day before.
This is a common mistake I make when I get to an author with a lot of books on the shelf. Rather than type out "Aimless Reading: The S's, Part 19.30 (William Shakespeare)," I cut and paste the previous day's title into the dialogue box and then, for instance, change .30 to .31. I often forget to do this and end up catching my mistake later.
I sometimes reread a post later in the day. Whenever I do I find a million typos and grammatical errors that need to be fixed. Also, I often find that my morning sentences, which I rarely revise on the spot, tend to be longer than than my afternoon sentences. They show the strain of my thinking trying to work itself out.
I have thought about putting part of this blog into book form, but with each passing day the task of editing all of these entries, many containing innumerable typos and grammatically questionable sentences, seems daunting. I guess I can worry about that if I ever get to the end.
I have no memory whatever of having read Measure for Measure, but I feel as if I have seen it performed and/or adapted to the screen. I don't recall when or where. Oddly, I have a recollection of having seen it performed as a play within a film sometime very recently, but I don't remember which one. Alas.
from Measure for Measure
We have strict statutes and most biting laws.
The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds,
Which for this nineteen years we have let slip;
Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave,
That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,
Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch,
Only to stick it in their children's sight
For terror, not to use, in time the rod
Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees,
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;
And liberty plucks justice by the nose;
The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart
Goes all decorum.