Three Little Pigs in Old English

Be charmed... be charmed. *chuckles* Ah, me. The beauties of Olde English. I wish we still talked like this.

Lo,
-whisper

Artificial Beauty

"My lady's eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her skin is dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my lady reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My lady when she treads the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare."

This is Shakespeare's 130th sonnet (though I have edited it a bit to make it more family-friendly, if y'know what I mean). I and my classmates studied this poem in a literature class some time ago.

While this poem paints a rather unpretty picture of a lady, I like it. Shakespeare wrote this poem tongue-in-cheek; he jibes at other poets who describe their lovely ladies in exaggerated terms. For instance, in the fifth and six lines Shakespeare proclaims he has seen (heard of) red and white roses in the cheeks of other maidens, but they are not in his lady's. He's heard other lovestruck poets declare that their loves have eyes like the sun, but Shakespeare bluntly states that his lady's do not compare to that celestial orb. In short, to paraphrase what my good friend Noelle so wonderfully put it, "It's as though Shakespeare's saying, 'Quite frankly, I've never seen a woman with roses in her cheeks, snow-white skin, breath like perfume, etc.'"

I like that. The exaggerated, otherwordly beauty found in poetry (and, nowadays, in magazines and commercials) doesn't exist in real life. Yet Shakespeare wrote that though music sounded better than her voice, he still loved to hear her speak. He was content with her, a flawed mortal.

Furthermore,



...a short video that goes to show what Shakespeare was insinuating: that ethereal, supermodel beauty is, almost always, artificial.

And lastly, please check out Noelle's blog, Seeing Beauty. I think I can honestly say hers is my favorite blog (and I've seen a lot.) Short, random, beautiful, well-written, frequent posts; all of which inspire me very, very much. 'Tis well worth your time to stop by!

Macbeth

Macbeth
William Shakespeare

Macbeth is tragic and grim but beautifully written. Though laced with occasional phrases of "adult content," methinks that, for the older reader (perhaps 13+), the marvelous writing style and clever descriptions - not to mention the strong plot - make it a worthy read for a lover of literature.

Heh, I actually read Macbeth in bed with a flashlight, so eager was I to find out "what happens next!" Methinks that indicates a level of literary geekiness that many readers do not share. :) In other words, you may not like it as much as I. However, Macbeth is fairly short, and not too difficult for the reader with the right kind of edition (melikes the helpful kind that, while giving a few pointers as to the definition of tricky Old English words and phrases, still leaves room for ambitious and curious readers to spend a few seconds mulling over some confusing lines, and then to be rewarded with a joyous spark of pride as it all becomes clear.)

From this book I gleaned:

• A new insult - "Young fry of treachery!" - which I now shout to my brother on occasions.
• A deeper appreciation and knowledge of Shakespeare's culture.
• The nearly breathless experience an avid reader undergoes upon reading a gloriously written line.
• The opportunity to feel sophisticated as I make a bulleted list on a blog post.
  

Villainous characters reciting their gruesome and terrible morals, witches, and "content" would elevate this to older reader's appropriate level, but those who read it carefully and with discernment can even find their faith uplifted, as I did when I read these lines that Macbeth himself recites:

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more."

Happily, 'tis not so for we who are Christians. Indeed we often squander our lives in strutting and fretting about, but through no merit of our own, we are not destined to "be heard no more." With inexplicable kindness, God has granted us the gift of dwelling with him for eternity. Marvelous fact, no?