And in the end . . .

Well, there you have it. That's it. That's all. That concludes our entertainment programming. Almost every aspect of my life carefully contrived, meticulously manufactured, sliced into edible pieces and laid upon the table for your kind consumption. I hope you enjoyed some of the content. I hope you found a tear, a sympathy, a revelation, an honesty, but most importantly, I hope you found a laugh, a chuckle, a chortle, or a grin. For that is what life is truly worth. And in the end, it is the only thing truly worth living for.

"Life is a work of art - a connected prose of comedy, tragedy, epic, horror, fantasy, aspiration and imagination - mine was just a little more melodramatic than most" - David Christopher.

"If Christopher never writes another book in his life, it'll be too soon. His egomaniacal and egocentric first person tripe is enough to make you choke on "Canadian" authorship." - review by a colleague to a publisher I approached who quoted it to me before definitively rejecting my book idea - I think I quoted him correctly

"A [work of art] is never completed, it is only abandoned" - George Lukas.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Cinquo de Mexico

An e-mail I sent to Marianne on my first day in Mexico on my fifth trip to that country:

"Day 1: Whilst sitting alone in the booth at the edu-fair, I was approached by a blonde man in his fifties whom I had observed speaking fluent Spanish in the adjacent cafe earlier. He promptly introduced himself in fluent American English, sat himself down and engaged me in conversation. Our interaction revealed that he was from Kansas, and I slowly recognized the subtle idiosyncratic behaviour that is occasionally characteristic of a gay man who is accustomed to keeping it secret. I also slowly began to realize that he was coming on to me. Part of our conversation somehow landed on his childhood in a Catholic family.
"No, I´m not Catholic anymore. Can you guess why?"
"Yes, Chris, I think I have an idea."
His disappointment at discovering I was not gay was apparent and he stormed off in what I could only describe as a ´huff´.
Later, on the way back to the hotel, Rudy and I stopped at a little roadside food joint called ´Beef´. I was in some urgent need for a bathroom which, of course, they didn´t have. A little negotiating by Rudy and the ´guy´ (who could not be described with such a lofty title as maitre´d) told Rudolfo to have me follow his waiter. Curiously, I did so, and we went out through the back to the dumpster beside the car dealership next door and he clandestinely directed me to the back corner to pee, where the stench made it fairly obvious that their staff made regular use of this locale. "Whatever doesn´t kill you, only makes you . . . stranger." Bienvenido a Mexico - el tiempo cinquo.

She is BEAUTIFUL! Thank you for the pictures. As "insensitive" as I am, there is no man on earth who experiences the anguish I do in every tiny moment that I am not with my daughter and her beautiful mother."

Sadly, and with some regret, changes in my life, and decisions I find myself in the process of making, makes it highly probable that this will be my last trip to Mexico, at least in my capacity in my career as a TESL educator. What I have come to learn, however, is that every change in life is followed by the unexpected, not the expected; every intention manifests its consequences differently than we imagine; and every ending, no matter how melancholy or invasive, is followed by a new beginning. On this day that I offer my mother very deep sympathies for her loss, I encourage her to believe with me that, although never as expected, the adventure is not over yet.

I will be home soon, my dear. And as is true every day that you wake up next to me, I will be a little different than the last time you saw me.

See you in . . . well, just see you.
Shakes.

Poochy

When I was 18 years old I met my best friend.
I had just moved in with my new-found genetic mother and was on a reflective melancholy drive when I happened by the Ottawa Humane Society - the equivalent to the SPCA here in the west. I decided that I might go in and inquire after walking a dog. When I went inside, I was informed that dog-walking was only done at certain times and that I would have to go through a lengthy registration process to get on the list. I forewent that, but asked if I could just go in and visit the condemned. The room was a caged cacophony: a wall-to-wall prison for unwanted puppies who all were making a desperate plea for freedom and life. My heart sunk into its normal misanthropy and I steeled against the sadness and injustice before me. I turned towards the door and vowed never to come back when something unexpected caught my eye. A single cage, at eye level, which seemed empty, had a noticeable cardboard label on the front. "My name is 'Star' because of the white star on my chest. I am the runt of a litter of eleven and I have been very sick. I have already been in a foster home but I was too sick to stay. I probably won't live very long so I am not up for adoption." I peered inside and this tiny, cowering little black lab shelty mix was shivering alone at the back of the cage. Unlike the other puppies, this little dog was silent and serene - as though it knew the end was nigh, waiting for the inevitable. I unlocked the cage to reach in and pet him but didn't need to. No sooner was it open, but the little dog shakily wobbled towards me, crawled right up my arms and fell fast asleep nuzzled into my neck. I walked out to the front desk and told them I was taking this dog.
"I'm sorry sir, but that dog is not available. You see, the cost is still $125.00 no matter what dog you take. This dog won't live for more than a couple of weeks. I can't sell it to you in good conscience."
I laughed at the inhumanity (ironic word) of a person hired to care for animals but realized that his heart had probably steeled long ago to the tragedy he faces every day and that he was just being pragmatic. I threw $125 cash on to the counter - a sum I really couldn't afford which my mother graciously paid me back as an Easter present - and said, "Here's for your good conscience. If he lives two weeks, that's about $62 bucks a week. Money well spent for his life," and I walked out.

Eleven years later, Poochy died in my arms on New Year's Eve millennium having lived a healthy and happy life. Advanced liver cancer took hold and brought him down in only five short months. There was nothing I could have done. I know this because my beloved sister worked as a veterinarian's assistant at the time and she graciously paid for a full autopsy and cremation. His urn still resides on my mantle.
Actually, he died on December 30, 1999 in the morning, but when I tell it I always say New Year's Eve millennium. Although off by a day, it adds a certain necessary romance to the story. I held him close to his last breath.
If there is any sort of heaven in the afterlife, both of which I doubt, I will likely be unwelcome - and want no part of it anyway. The christians can have it. But Poochy will surely be there, and I have my conversation with St. Peter well planned.
"Just give me the dog and I'll leave in peace. You'll know him because he'll be kept close company by an angry looking cat a'goes by the name of Vernon."
And since my life on earth has seen enough to leave no threat of suffering to be afeard in hell, my dog and our cat will quite happily spend the hereafter exploring the Elysium fields of a purgatory that is all the heaven I desire.
"Keep your eternal wings - whether fiery leather or heavenly feather, I want for neither. Just give me the dog."

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Art, Acting, and Daniel MacIvor’s This is a Play in Theoretical Perspective

Art is one of those elusive terms that seem to defy definition. Clearly it incorporates elements of aesthetics and didacticism, but not in any balance or format about which there is much theoretical agreement. Throughout history, many of the great minds have attempted to pin it down: Samuel Johnson in his Preface to Shakespeare, Henry James in The Art of Fiction, Oscar Wilde in The Critic as Artist, W. E. DuBois in Criteria of Negro Art, Walter Benjamin in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, Viktor Shklovsky in Art as Technique, Jean-Paul Sartre in What is Literature, Althusser in A Letter on Art in Reply to Andre Daspre, and the list goes on. To stay within the theoretical confines of the course, the only real attempts to focus on the broad topic of art were attempted by Plato through the character of Socrates, who describes art as a wide term that is different for every genre it includes. “[T]he mark of differentiation is that one art means the knowledge of one kind of thing, another art the knowledge of another, and so I give them their respective names” (Plato 223). And later Boucicault will simply state that “no art becomes respectable or respected until its principles, its tenets, and its precepts are recognized, methodized, and housed in a system” (Boucicault 145). Certainly art is an enigma, and perhaps it should remain that way. When the wonder of an unknown is solved, it loses its wonder. It becomes formulaic and subject to its own definition. The closer we get to defining art, the more we kill its existence as its own mystery is a fundamental part of itself. Throughout history, acting theorists and playwrights alike have sought to break the traditions of the former definitions and conventions. As such, the best definition one could hope to give to the art of acting is that it is a population of conventions, variable in their application to genre, historical era, and socio-cultural sensibility. The presentation of these conventions must be left within the purview of the actor and his use and manipulation of his natural talents and strengths. Natural talent is paramount, followed closely by practical experience. Skill such as timing, realism or lack thereof, voice manipulation, bodily motion can only be improved, not installed as Stanislavski seems to think, and that improvement can only come through experience, on the stage (Dusmenil) or off of it (Fenichel). “The real difference between art and science lies in the specific form in which they give us the same object in quite different ways: art in the form of ‘seeing’ and ‘perceiving’ or ‘feeling’, science in the form of knowledge (in the strict sense, by concepts)” (Althusser 1481). Grotowsky polarizes the ““scientific” by which we mean discursive and cerebral” and “what we might call physiological pleasure” (Grotowsky 255). When acting as a ‘science’ becomes too laden with serious theory, it becomes worthy of satire. The course begins in this fashion as Plato parodies the actor in the character of Ion who is a self-admitted buffoon pretending to embody all knowledge. Subsequent theories presented in the course have been varied, paradoxical, era-specific, and yet all valuable and lucid in some way. Ultimately, however, they all fail to provide a definitive description or even a satisfying definition of ‘acting‘. The most logical termination to this body of texts would be a text that summarizes these conventions and ideas while satirizing the actor far enough to put the art of acting back into its proper perspective.
In his play, This Is a Play, Daniel MacIvor presents a light-hearted farce of the art of stage-acting. As a performer, the text requires the dexterous ability to move between two voices of a single person in contrast, and a willingness to look at one’s own ‘profession’ ‘with a grain of salt’. Each of the three characters presents a verbalization of the self-talk they experience during a performance in which MacIvor includes all of the nuances of ego and insecurity that are stereotypical of actors. These inner dialogues are superimposed on to an ’actual’ play that is presented in typical modern realism. MacIvor moves seamlessly between the two and is unapologetic about their mutual and oscillating presence in a single scene or dialogue. Inherent to this structure is an editorial examination of almost every relevant acting theory presented in the course and it does so through the applied voice of fictional actors in dialogue both with each other on stage, and with themselves. In this way, MacIvor explores his own experiential reality of the actor who must variously ‘be’ the character, but cannot escape being themselves simultaneously.
MacIvor primarily seems to be ridiculing Stanislavsky’s notions that an actor needs to mentally become their character before they begin performing. Early in the course, and in history, Plato describes actors and audiences in fairly disparaging terms. Not only does he suggest that actors are idiots who know nothing and are therefore not qualified to imitate the art/knowledge of others, but also that there is a certain insanity in transferring false emotions to the audience. Through his character Socrates, he asks, “When you chant these, are you in your senses? Or are you carried out of yourself, and does not your soul in an ecstasy conceive herself to be engaged to in the actions you relate”. To which Ion responds, “whenever I recite a tale of pity, my eyes are filled with tears and when it is one of horror or dismay my hair stands up on end and my heart goes leaping”, and that he sees the audience “every time, weeping, casting terrible glances, stricken with amazement”. Socrates then rhetorically asks, “what are we to say of a man [. . .] [who] weeps though he has lost nothing of his finery? Or he recoils with fear, standing in the presence of more than twenty thousand friendly people [?] [. . .] Shall we say that man is in his senses?” (Plato 221). In this fictional dialogue, Plato sets the stage for centuries of debate surrounding the psychological state of empathy that actors must have while performing. Stanislavski takes the debate to its ridiculous extreme suggesting that actors must enter a psychologically unconscious state of full empathy with their character before performing. It would seem that he means at the expense of an actor’s self-awareness. Although his ideas regarding the employment of action are highly practical, Diderot had already observed the impossibility of employing Stanislavsky’s theory. He states that if the actor “is himself while he is playing, how is he to stop being himself? If he wants to stop being himself, how is he to catch just the point where he is to stay his hand?” (Diderot 15). He goes on to contrast two categories of actors – those who perform “from the heart” and those who perform “from thought” (Diderot 15). He notes that the former category will have uneven and weak performances. The footnote to the passage also points out that “actors learnt by experience the unwisdom of relying on inspiration alone” (Pollock 15). David Cole brings the actor and the character back together by recognising their simultaneous coexistence in a more realistic appreciation of the art of acting. “[C]haracterization – consists largely in an attempt to endow one’s character with the inner life the general reader has had to leave off being in order to play him” (15). MacIvor’s entire text demonstrates a self-talk of actors while performing that is definitively at an empathetic distance from their characters.
Early in the text, MacIvor has the Older Female Actor (OFA) exemplify her self-awareness. Her line reads, “(to audience) Confused by the moody lighting and the empty stage? Nervous because you were expecting a comedy? “Oh no” you think “it’s experimental!” Relax!” (MacIvor 82). Not only is she empathetically distant from her character, she is mentally aware of her effect on the audience, as was Ion in Plato’s text. She is also poking fun at the unpopularity of avant-garde theatre in which Brecht admits “the audience would gradually stay away” (Brecht 27). Still in a state of self-awareness, the OFA shows nuances of insecurity and awareness of her type-casting, and all while she is performing. “You know me! I’m the Older, but still attractive Female Actor; wise and gruff and charming, rough around the edges but soft on the inside. In actuality I am a mother image for the playwright” (MacIvor 82). Similarly, the male actor (MA) is not at all lost in his character, but in his fantastical motivation to emulate famous and ‘brilliant’ actors. “I fantasize about Robert DeNiro” (MacIvor 84). The interactions of the characters also work to demonstrate their mutual distance in thought from their characters with an interesting and paradoxical perspective on unspoken collaboration (LePage) that occurs in the similarity of their thoughts, while being mutually disparaging.
MA: I think: she thinks I can’t act.
FA: I think: he can’t act
(MacIvor 84)
And while onstage with her two younger contemporaries, the OFA is mentally elsewhere. “I look at him, I look at her. I wonder if I left my cigarette burning” (MacIvor 95). MacIvor most clearly shows that the actors are not entrenched in the empathy of their own characters but quite aware of themselves by having them have to remind themselves to “Focus” at two points in the text. (MacIvor 84/94). These moments are also reminiscent of Cole’s notion that good acting will emerge if the actor simply remains interested in what they are doing.
But MacIvor gives some leeway to Stanislavsky’s theory by suggesting that the three actors are at least satisfactory and they are certainly focusing on the action their characters would employ, if nothing else. Moreover, the dialogue on page 86 between the actual characters about rhetorical questions is joined so seamlessly with the inner dialogue of the actors that it is a moment in which it feels like the actors have become their characters. MacIvor shows that the ‘method acting’ system can be applied and that actors can get swept away with an internal empathy for their characters but that it occurs simultaneously with a self-awareness and only in the passion of the moment, not as a preconditioned state of unconsciousness. Later, MacIvor has the idiotic MA state in his self-talk that he is “entranced by thoughts of my dead brother” (MacIvor 97). However, MacIvor follows the ‘rhetorical question’ scene only a few pages later with the stichomythia of self-talk in which each actor simply states the number of line they are reciting. “I say my second line”, “I say my third line” (MacIvor 88). Comically, but realistically, they get the order mixed up (which occasionally does occur in reality) and they scramble to make sense of the situation and recover it. The juxtaposition against the actors’ recent deep empathetic involvement clearly shows that they have become uninvolved and at a Brechtian distance from their own characters.
More than exploring the self-awareness and empathy paradox, however, MacIvor touches on a variety of other theories from within the course. At one point he takes a comic look at actor stereotypes and insecurity, when the male actor remains preoccupied with Robert DeNiro at an inopportune moment. The FA asks herself, “I wonder if he’s gay?” and the MA immediately echoes, “I wonder if I’m gay?” (MacIvor 94). MacIvor revisits the notion of actor insecurity several times, but most obviously when the MA thinks, “I worry that I might be spitting” (MacIvor 89). He even touches on the theories of Appia, who observes that the actor has become subservient to such elements as lighting and setting (which I can extend to props).
OFA: “I give him the bowl of soup.”
MA: “I take the bowl of soup. [. . .] She wasn’t supposed to give me the bowl of soup.” (MacIvor 90).
MacIvor revisits the OFA’s self-awareness and touches on Goffman’s description of an actor who is cynical about their performance or material. “OFA: I begin a monologue that you can tell was stuck in after previews because no one understood what the hell was going on. Relentless exposition peppered with lame humour” (MacIvor 92). Furthermore, in Brechtian style, she is aware of the text, distant from it and analyzing it. Brecht would have the character physically display her editorial dislike of the text and it seems from her inner monologue that she is bursting to do so, but in the realist play that she is staging, it is of course inappropriate. MacIvor intimates Cole’s loss of ‘first read thrill’ that comes with the repetitive nature of the OFA’s profession. “OFA: You look at your watch and shift in your seat and I’m out of here” (MacIvor 82). MacIvor makes fun of teaching platitudes. “MA: “I enter with conviction!” (MacIvor 83). Of course, ‘conviction’ is a vague trope with no real specific meaning, but is relentlessly repeated by directors as an objective for actors. MacIvor finally comes full circle to the theories presented by Plato in the words of the MA, “I don’t understand this speech but manage to fake it” (MacIvor 83) simultaneously demonstrating that an actor doesn’t need to know everything to be effective while satirizing the poor quality of acting it represents in the idiocy of the Male Actor, much like Ion.
MacIvor concludes the play and rounds out his thematic exploration by demonstrating that actors are involved in a subjective art form in which there are many theories and motivations for good performance.
FA: I think about Uta Hagen
MA: I think about Robert DeNiro
OFA: I think about Jack Daniels
(MacIvor 101).
For the FA it is about theory and training to a scientific skill. Cole points out that “in our own day, Uta Hagen exhorts her students to acquire “a thorough education in history, literature, English linguistics” (6). For the MA acting is about fame and glory, and for the OFA it has become a mundane profession requiring the use of alcohol to endure. And in MacIvor’s text he answers why. It is “because we are actors” (MacIvor 101).
All the theorists within the course present valid, if not conflicting, points of theory about acting. Unfortunately, by the time and in the work of Stanislavski, the theory had become too heavy and pedantic to be very applicable and it seems to have drained the joy of ‘playing’ from the art form. Artaud suggests that a “longstanding habit of seeking diversions has made us forget the slightest idea of serious theory” (Artaud 25) which demonstrates a pedantic overload in direct contrast to the “playing” described by LePage, which allows theatre to be taken seriously without overlooking its value as an entertainment diversion. The Euro-avant-garde movement immediately followed Stanislavsky. It made the theory even heavier with ideas of alienation, psychoanalysis, and cruelty. Only recently have theorists like Cole and LePage attempted to inject some levity and simplicity back into acting with phrases such as “Forget about the public: Think about yourself . . . If you are interested, the public will follow you”. Or LePage’s musing on this lost art. “I think there’s an important word that has lost its sense in theatre, and that’s the word ‘playing’. It’s become a profession, a very serious word, but the concept of playing has disappeared from the staging of shows”. MacIvor’s play embodies all of these theories and does so in a way that is light-hearted and full of the ‘playing’ that LePage describes. It is reminiscent of Moliere’s brilliant Rehearsal at Versailles as it is in the form of a play, metatheatrical, takes a poke at the insecurity and neuroses of actors, while examining genuine realities of stage performance. It simultaneously explores and maintains the mystery, joy, skill, and paradox of acting. MacIvor’s play is a contemporary Canadian macrocosm for the entire course and in a format that students would both enjoy and understand: the perfect piece with which to close the course.

Works Cited
Althusser. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism.
Artaud, Antonin (1995). Theatre and Cruelty. Acting (Re)Considered / Phillip B. Zarrilli, ed. Routledge.
Boucicault, Dion (1958). The Art of Acting. Papers on Acting / Brander Matthews. ed. Hill and Wang.
Brecht, Berthold (1964). A Dialogue About Acting. Brecht on Theatre. London: Methuen.
Cole, David (1992). Acting as Reading / The Reader as Actor. Acting as Reading: The Place of the Reading Process in the Actor’s Work. University of Michigan Press.
Diderot, Denis; Walter Herries Pollock, trans. (1957). The Paradox of Acting. Paradox of Acting and Masks or Faces / Denis Diderot; William Archer. Hill and Wang.
Grotowsky, Jerzy (2002). Statement of Principles. Towards a Poor Theatre. Routledge.
LePage, Robert (1996). Robert LePage in Discussion with Robert Eyre. Twentieth Century Performance Reader / Huxley, Michael. Routledge.
MacIvor, Daniel (1992). Daniel MacIvor 2 plays Never Swim Alone & This is a Play. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press.
Plato; Lane Cooper, trans. (1961). Ion. The Complete Dialogues of Plato / Edith Hamilton; Huntington Cairns et al. Pantheon Books.

Marianne becomes Shavian

After Marianne and I watched My Fair Lady together, during which time she fell asleep, I discussed the history of the movie with her and promised I would publish this essay that I had written about the play. I love Shaw.

David Christopher (0634180)
ENGL 437A
Prof. S.M. Rabillard
4 April 2007
Elements of Form Challenging Romantic Conventions in Pygmalion

In his play, Pygmalion, George Bernard Shaw calls into question traditional views of propriety and aristocratic hypocrisy. The viewer/reader is invited to take part in an intellectually elitist perspective of the world that allows for sympathy, and perhaps even reverence, for the otherwise pompous, arrogant and abusive Higgins. Although Higgins carries these characteristics unremittingly to the play’s close, he remains appealing in ways that are paternal, academic, intellectual, and most importantly, romantic. The romantic sense given to the reader/viewer seems counter-intuitive in light of the overbearing nature of Higgins. Shaw challenges traditional notions of propriety and romance by manipulating elements of form such as act structure and allusion, setting, and rhetorical dialogue to subvert the audience’s romantic expectations, leave the plot tantalizingly unresolved, and allow for a character such as Higgins to remain an appealing romantic prospect for Eliza.
Shaw sets up the expectation of a romantic resolution for Eliza in two ways. The most obvious element of form that Shaw uses is the five-act structure. The lack of resolution is striking. In that length of drama, one would expect issues to have had enough space to be resolved by the author. In this way, Shaw not only highlights the five-act structure but invites the viewer to draw comparisons against other plays with five acts that are more traditionally resolute. Immediately reminiscent is the romantic comedy genre established by Shakespeare. It is not uncharacteristic of Shaw to challenge Shakespeare or invite comparisons to his work as is demonstrated by his farcical yet intellectual puppet play, Shakes versus Shav. Typically, the Shakespearean dramatic comedy completes a full five acts in which one or more marriages of young romantic lovers is facilitated and expected or actually performed after the removal of an elderly blocking agent which challenges the romance. Shakespeare’s romantic works focus heavily on the delight in courting rituals with a ‘happily-ever-after’ feeling to the imminent marriages in the denouement. A modern example of this established convention occurs in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest in which two comic young couples are destined to achieve their nuptials once the misgivings of the elderly Lady Bracknell are removed. Shaw is obvious in his use of five Acts and even more obvious in that his romantic plot is unresolved. As such, he is boldly contradicting Shakespearean romantic notions within Shakespeare’s own recognizable five act structure.
The second element of form that Shaw uses to establish romantic expectations is in allusion to Shakespearean works. While the title of the play distracts the viewer/reader into thematic comparisons with the classical myth of the same name, similarities to Shakespearean works in the content of the drama are overlooked. The tenor of the relationship between Eliza and Higgins is highly reminiscent of Kate and Petruchio in Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Like Shakespeare, Shaw uses a form of stichomythia in which Higgins and Eliza banter. For example, in Act II they chase each other with words in opposing lines:
“Higgins: [. . .] Well!!! [. . .] What do you expect me to say to you?
The Flower Girl: Well, if you was a gentleman, you might ask me to sit down, I think. Don’t I tell you I’m bringing you business?
Higgins: Pickering: shall we ask this baggage to sit down, or shall we throw her out of the window?
The flower girl: [. . .] Ah-ah-oh-ow-ow-ow-oo! [. . .] I won’t be called baggage (Shaw 300). Their bold interaction from beginning to end creates a romantic tension similar to that found in The Taming of the Shrew. In Act II, Higgins instructs her to live with him and immediately has her stripped down and washed. The sexual symbolism is clear as intimated by Doolittle when he brings his daughter’s luggage and says “She said she didn’t want no clothes. What was I to think from that, Governor? I ask you as a parent what was I to think?” (Shaw 312). Higgins’ abusive training of Eliza is also similar to Petruchio’s ‘taming’ of Kate. Shaw is again drawing on popular conventions of romantic tension to establish the possibility of a romantic resolution between Higgins and Eliza. Within this antagonistic framework, Shaw challenges romantic notions of courtship.
Shaw uses another element of form to establish an egalitarian perspective of the battle of the sexes between Higgins and Eliza: setting. As Acts change, he oscillates the setting between Higgins’ laboratory (in his home) and his mother’s drawing room (at her flat). Symbolically, these two settings represent patriarchal and matriarchal power. In his home, Higgins is boorish and overbearing in his treatment of Eliza. His mother, however, is not intimidated by him and maintains very matriarchal control of her space. In Act V, for example, she says to her son, “If you promise to behave yourself, Henry, I’ll ask her to come down. If not, go home; for you have taken up quite enough of my time” (Shaw 340). In this matriarchal space, Eliza is empowered and able to counter Higgins in his demeanour. At one point in Act V, Eliza declares “[s]o you are a motor bus: all bounce and no consideration for anyone. But I can do without you: dont think I cant” (Shaw 346). A weakness in Higgins’ masculine power is intimated which mitigates his boorish behaviour and is only one of several characteristics that make him romantically appealing.
Higgins is intelligent, educated, passionate about his profession, honest and paternal. These are all traditional romantically appealing qualities. He is ingenuous and egalitarian in his depiction of relationships. In Act II he says, “I find that the moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous, exacting, suspicious, and a damned nuisance. I find that the moment I let myself make friends with a woman, I become selfish and tyrannical” (Shaw 307). To the end, he is also genuinely void of hypocrisy. In Act V, he states his perspective to Eliza:
“Higgins: And I treat a duchess as if she were a flower-girl.
Liza: I see [. . .] The same to everybody.
Higgins: Just so.
Liza: Like father.
Higgins: [Grinning, a little taken down.] Without accepting the comparison at all points, Eliza, it’s quite true that your father is not a snob [. . .] The great secret, Eliza, is not having bad manners or good manners or any other particular sort of manners, but having the same manner for all” ( Shaw 345-6). Higgins is also intellectually appealing in much of his rationale. Furthermore, showing a delightful knack for rhetoric, Higgins is established as honest in the name of Eliza’s virtue. When Pickering intimates “that no advantage is to be taken of her” sexually, Higgins dryly responds with “What! That thing! Sacred, I assure you” (Shaw 308). Higgins’ position against romantic considerations both establishes his integrity and establishes a conventional expectation for this opinion to be altered.
Furthermore, by removing a sexual motivation, Higgins takes on a paternal role in Eliza’s education. The romantic intimation of a potential partner being paternalistic is conventionally Freudian1. Her real father has already suggested an abusive pattern in his paternity towards her when he says “I never brought her up at all, except to give her a lick of a strap now and again” (Shaw 316). In Act II, however, the egalitarian perspective is again reinforced as it is notable that Eliza solicits the tutelage of Higgins. Although Higgins appears abusive in his treatment of Eliza, it is all in the name of improving her in the only way he sees possible.
Eliza’s education, in conjunction with the established romantic tension creates a dual climax in the plot. The social climax is achieved with her success at the “garden party” discussed at the beginning of Act IV. Shaw marginalizes this climax by having it occur offstage and between Acts. He immediately begins to subvert expectations in the denouement following this climax. According to conventions in fairy-tales such as Cinderella, Eliza’s social success would be synonymous with the romantic assurance of her lover. However, the romantic plot is unresolved. In Act V, Shaw heightens the expectation that the vehement bachelor has realized love when Higgins states to Eliza, “You never asked yourself, I suppose, whether I could do without you” (Shaw 346). At the point of the romantic climax, when it feels as though Eliza must choose between Freddy and Higgins, the dramatic text ends. The unresolved ending not only contrasts with conventional Shakespearean endings but also contradicts the resolution of the romantic tension established between Eliza and Higgins as well as the resolution of the clear marital candidacy established in Freddy. The emotionally calming effect and expectation of the traditional comic happy-ending is abruptly subverted and Higgins is left as a tantalizing unresolved potential romantic prospect.
Shaw uses the unresolved romantic plot to advance his notion of romantic egalitarianism. Higgins won’t choose for Eliza. In his unremitting honesty and inability to be hypocritical, he states “If you come back I shall treat you just as I always treated you. I cant change my nature; and I don’t intend to change my manners” (Shaw 345). He leaves the choice of her romantic future entirely up to her. In a jealous tirade he asks, “You find me cold, unfeeling, selfish, dont you? Very well: be off with you to the sort of people you like. Marry some sentimental hog or other with lots of money, and a thick pair of lips to kiss you with and a thick pair of boots to kick you with. If you cant appreciate what youve got, youd better get what you can appreciate” (Shaw 349). Eliza is left empowered to pursue whatever course she desires, protected by the matriarchal setting in which the dramatic text ends, at Higgins’ mother’s flat. Shaw does not eliminate any possibility from Eliza’s future but leaves the audience wondering if she would be better off with an honest man who is above the hypocrisy of aristocratic society or with an aristocratic romantic fool such as Freddy.
Shaw invites the audience to consider a realistic perspective on true companionate marriage, and a strong desire for more banter between Eliza and Higgins.
Using broad characteristics of form, Shaw draws comparisons with conventional Shakespearean forms and subverts audience expectations. By doing so, Shaw challenges traditional and conventional notions of propriety and romance in favour of a doctrine of ingenuous honesty, intellectual companionability, and the reality of unresolved romantic considerations. After all, in reality, most romantic tribulations are not neatly tied up in five ‘well-made’ acts of life.


Notes

1See Freud’s work entitled The Interpretation of Dreams. Chapter 5. Material and Sources of Dreams [The Oedipus Complex]


Works Cited

Shaw, George Bernard. "Pygmalion." George Bernard Shaw’s Plays, Sandie Byrne, ed.
W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.: New York, 2002. pp. 286 - 360.

Melodrama

I have often been accused of being "so melodramatic" that I thought I would do a little research to try and understand the perjorative definition assigned to the term.

Webster's dictionary defines melodrama as "a work (as a movie or a play) characterized by extravagant theatricality and by the predominance of plot and physical action over characaterization". However, it also offers a second definition which is "the genre of dramatic literature constituted by such works". The term 'genre' inherently suggests an identifiable set of parameters to which works of literature can be ascribed. Dr. Eric Trumbull, in his Introduction to Theatre course at Northern Virginia Community College writes that melodrama "[c]omes from "music drama" [in which] music was used to increase emotions or to signify characters (Trumbull). In her lectures at the University of Victoria, Dr. Alanna Lindgren agrees that the genre started as 'melodrame' with Jean-Jacques Roosseau's Pygmalion in which music was used to underscore the text (Lindgren). She also suggests that the genre emerged as a form of musical dumb-show to bypass certain theatrical licensing laws which banned spoken word (Lindgren). Using music as a way of heightening emotional responses is, therefore, a point of departure for a definition of the genre. However, it is clear that the definition evolved to include more than mere emotional music.
Dr. Anthony Vickery, also lecturing at the University of Victoria, outlines several characteristics of the mature theatrical genre. He states that melodrama "depended on visual excitement and the thrill of the moment rather than literary excellence" (Vickery). He also suggests that the genre was most popular with an emerging dominant working class who were partial to a dream-world inhabited by dream-people with dream-justice in which the 'good guy' always wins (Vickery). Vickery includes in his definition a stratified world of good against evil where the basic hero is generally stupid but courageous and faces a villain who is irrationally pre-disposed to effecting the hero's demise, regardless of the consequences to himself. Generally, the villain is male and uses a meek and compromised heroine lover of the hero as the vehicle for his evil plots. Vickery suggests that the heroine is the heart of the melodrama and often motivates the villain in his jealousy of the hero to possess her. Vickery also makes reference to the use of the elderly or young children to heighten emotional responses in their victimization by the villain. He outlines a plot structure in which the heroine, as well as children or elderly are in near constant peril. Dr. Lindgren, touting Beecher-Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin as a paradigmatic example of melodrama, extends the definition of the genre to include what she calls 'pictorial' in which on-stage scenes create an emotional aesthetic, like the finale tableau of the play. For example, the stage direction to close the play reads, "Gorgeous clouds, tinted with sunlight. EVA, robed in white, is discovered on the back of a milk-white dove, with expanded wings, as if just soaring upward. Her hands are extended in benediction over ST. CLARE and UNCLE TOM who are kneeling and gazing up to her. Expressive music. Slow curtain" (Wise 65). Lindgren re-iterates the use of emotionally emphatic music, and includes the use of "high-tech special effects" which Trumbull specifies to include "fires, explosions, drownings, earthquakes" (Trumbull). The musical origin is pivotal, but in its evolution, many academic characteristics are evident.

See you in hell.
Shakes.

The Importance of Staging a Scene

David Christopher
ENG 437A
Prof. S. M. Rabillard
16 Feb. 2007

Assignment #1 – Staging a Scene: Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest

In his play, The Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde has presented material that is simultaneously very light-hearted in its satire, and yet rich in its social critique. As such a two-tiered piece of work, Wilde has simply and brilliantly combined conventions of theatre and comedy to create a piece that superficially appears quite simplistic but is, in actuality, quite rich in its social commentary. The surface simplicity is further evidence of the genius of the work as Wilde has managed to weave a sharp satire of the upper classes into an otherwise brief and light-hearted presentation.
What is important, in staging a scene, is to present a setting that remains light and enjoyable, while providing hints as to the social commentary that will be presented. It is paramount not to interrupt the lightness of the material by exposing the underlying theme as too serious or brutal. In contrast to the emotionally gut-wrenching works of Ibsen, in which his oppressive settings are reflective of the realistic emotional dramas that he will explore, it would seem that Wilde is holding true to notions suggested by Synge in his introduction to The Playboy of the Western World: “On the stage one must have reality, and one must have joy, and that is why the intellectual modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, that has been given them in place in the rich joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality (Synge 96). In this sense, it would be reasonable to say that the primary motive of the play is humour, both verbal and situational, complemented and accented by the use of established convention. The satire within the comedy against the petty behaviour of the upper classes must be considered only secondary. That is to say that it can only be accessed if it does not compromise the levity of its surface presentation.
The setting and presentation must therefore encompass several aspects that are important to the integrity of the work. It must be light and humorous while making use of conventional images to marry with the comedic conventions within the play such as mistaken identity, lost infants, love-at-first-sight, and coincidence. On the secondary level, it must provide evidence of a critique or satire of upper class behaviour that does not overshadow the comic appearance. There must be physical and verbal evidence of a society that is conventionally recognizable as upper class, but also as ridiculous.
With these macro-objectives in mind, let us explore the micro-dynamics in the staging of an early scene in which Jack and Algernon are providing an implicit exposition of the nature of their relationship. The scene begins on line 39 of the first act when Algernon first addresses Jack and runs until line 279. Algernon taunts Jack with his cigarette case, having become aware of Jack’s ‘other’ identity, and Algernon makes light of marriage in the face of Jack’s desire to marry Algernon’s cousin, Gwendolen.
We see in Algernon characteristics that are clearly indicative of satire against his aristocratic social libertinism. He has been dismissive with his servant and been clear that his views on marriage are less than conservative. Nevertheless, he remains protagonistic and seems to serve the main purpose of contrasting against Jack and motivating both coincidence and mischance.
Although Jack is the evident protagonist, as the main conflict of marriage circles around him, it is clear that Algernon is also an important element in the comedy and critique. In fact, one might suggest that Jack is a cliché ‘straight man’ to Algernon’s comedic verbal banter. Algernon assumes an almost arrogant air of superiority over Jack in their initial conversation which allows the audience to enjoy the comedy and levity of his verbal banter against Jack’s nervous desire to keep a secret and win the hand of Gwendolen. Algernon, in this scene, is in a position of complete ease. Not only is it his own home, but he has no secret to keep and he has no desire to engage in marriage. Jack is, of course, concerned on both these counts.
The two-tiered nature of the comedy and social satire could be symbolized by a two-tiered stage. An indoor balcony crossing the entire stage left to right, but only half-way downstage would act as a metaphor for the two-tiered nature of the drama and for the imagined superiority Algernon has over Jack. As Algernon sends Lane for the pivotal cigarette case, he could move upstairs to continue his conversation with Jack below. As such, we have a physical representation of superiority in which Algernon can manipulate Jack like a puppeteer from above. It might even be plausible to have Algernon taunt Jack with the cigarette case by dangling it on a string further emphasizing the image of Jack as a puppet at the end of Jack’s string.
In order to represent the convention of a clearly aristocratic social environment, the décor of the house would have to be obvious. An array of extravagant artworks on the wall would be evidential and provide an opportunity for the paintings to reflect the nature of the drama. Various other works of art should be obviously scattered about as well. The couches should be of the highest antique quality, even though they will be used with comfort, and they should be large in number, crowding almost every inch of the three walls of the box set on the main floor. The large number of couches symbolizes an excess in extravagance and laziness that one might expect from Algernon. Each side, both upper and lower, should have large glass doors allowing free access from servants on one side, and aristocratic visitors on the other. The servants and aristocratic characters should never enter from the same side. The reflective nature of the glass would create a mirror effect of expansiveness typical of the frivolously large living spaces of the well-to-do classes.
The paintings on the upper floor should be entirely comic satire of upper class society. In the middle is a painting of a marriage scene of two wealthy individuals whose marriage has famously failed, such as Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor for modern audiences. This painting hints at the convention of marriage and romance in the play and the satire against them. It also symbolizes the attack on the petty sensibility that wealth and title are the only reasonable grounds for decent marriage. As a backdrop to Algernon on the second floor, it would underscore his lines about marriage that he doesn’t “see anything romantic in proposing [ . . .] Then the excitement is all over” and that “if ever [he] get[s] married, [he]’ll certainly try to forget the fact” (although technically, he has not gone upstairs yet) (Wilde 255). He later implies a lack of fidelity between married partners, especially when married to someone as serious as Jack, when he suggests that Jack’s wife will want a “bunbury” alias (Wilde 261). The painting adds comic authenticity to his trivialization of Jack’s desire to marry Gwendolen.
On either side, are twin paintings that are caricature-like portraits of Algernon and Jack. Although a portrait of Jack might seem odd in Algernon’s house, it would not be such a prevalent stage piece as to be distractingly out of place. As the play deals with conventions and the ridiculous, there is no need to be particularly discrete with the physical presentation. Furthermore, the ‘twin’ portraits hint at the brotherly relationship between them that is yet to be revealed. They are both formally and identically dressed in the portraits, except that Algernon should carry an air of self-importance while Jack appears more modest. The portrait of Jack has a stereotypically comic moustache drawn on it, suggesting subtext that Algernon is actually intimidated by Jack with a need to ridicule him and suggesting his natural frivolity and libertinism with such expenses as a painted portrait.
The comic backdrop is perfect for the location from which the casually comedic Algernon will play his baiting game with Jack about his secret identity. As a complement, Algernon’s attire should be stereotypically aristocratic, but with a ridiculous and flambouyant edge. He wears a traditional navy blue silk suit with a ridiculous pink scarf tucked into the front coming right up under his chin so that it appears to be supporting his head.
By contrast, on the main floor, where our straight man resides, are paintings that are more traditional although not austere: classically famous pieces that represent extravagance. A copy of the Mona Lisa and a copy of Whistler’s Mother are immediately recognizable. In this instance, the Mona Lisa is symbolic of the beauty in Gwendolen to which Jack is a captive, and Whistler’s Mother of the oppressive disdain her mother (Lady Bracknell) will harbour against Jack for his apparent lack of social station. Both of these paintings are behind Jack as he is the one subject to them. Furthermore, these first floor paintings are on the back wall under the balcony and, therefore, shadowed a little, suggesting that the surface comedy above is to be brought more into the light than the less important underlying serious social commentary.
The more serious tenor of the first floor setting underscores the play’s demonstration that Jack is “the most earnest looking person that [Algernon] ever saw in his life” (Wilde 257). Jack will be dressed in the same attire as Algernon, without the ridiculous scarf. In this way, Algernon has made Jack ridiculous only in the painting, but has made himself ridiculous by his own fashion choice.
In terms of physicality, Algernon’s character should be hyper-comfortable with extravagant sweeping motions of his arms in a ridiculous and condescending histrionic fashion. Jack should be more stiff and nervous. The differences in their physical movement will create a light-hearted tension representative of the lover with something to lose and the libertine with nothing to. The effect on the audience will be to sympathize with Jack and anticipate both an increase in his conflict to achieve an unlikely marriage, and eventually to turn the power structure against Algernon. This presentation will also avoid villainizing Algernon too severely into someone we wish to see undergo tragedy, but merely comic coincidence.
The staging of the scene is corrupt with dichotomy. In fact, Algernon and Jack will later become such perfect twin fools that they actually have mutual lines in their respective romances. The dichotomy of comedy against serious theme, however, is the primary dichotomy. Its representation is encompassed with all available aspects of conventional semiotics. Setting, twinned paintings, extravagant couches, twinned and contrasted outfits, the use of height and puppetry images, and histrionics all work together to accentuate and assist in the audience’s participation in brilliant conventional comedy and lighter social commentary.



Works Cited

Synge, J. M. The Playboy of the Western World and Other Plays. Oxford University
Press, 1998.

Wilde, Oscar. The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Plays. Oxford University Press, 1998.

Full Circle

They say that history repeats itself. Furthermore, it seems that a theatrical personality is an inescapable thing.

Sir Ken Robinson, in his 2006 TED Lecture tells us that we educate people out of their creativity, "progressively from the waist up, and then we focus on their heads, and slightly to one side". Quoting Picasso, he says that "all children are born artists. The problem is to remain an artist as we grow up". I had been indoctrinated to respect the PhD and to view my acting talent as futile, hopeless, and, like so many historical philosophies have posited, that it was worthy of derision and disrespectable. I viewed 'art' as pathetic and risible. I moved emotionally towards what I deemed loftier academic pursuits. But in 2001 something happened that began the completion of a journey started decades earlier. The closure of a circle that I only now begin to see in its full light . . .

As a child, I lived with my three adoptive siblings and two adoptive parents in a beautiful little home in a suburb of Ottawa called Nepean. I only mention adoptive as a matter of historical fact for in my young mind they were, and still are, as much my family as to any other child or to any other adult looking back on their life. The house will always fondly be remembered as 21 Meadowbank Drive and in its unfinished basement, I and my childhood friends would find many adventures building forts in my father's wood stock piles (he is a highly skilled amateur carpenter), or, as it happens, staging little plays that we would compose and present to all of the parents in the neighbourhood who were willing to come and watch their children show-off. I couldn't have been more than eight-years-old and unfortunately, distant memory has lost any hope of retelling the subject or plot line of any of our brief 'artistic' pieces forever. Budding childhood starlets who are worthy of mention include Geordie King, Charles Foster, Dale Faye and, of course, Blair and Ross Mackenzie. Ross remains in my life today, Blair has passed on long ago, and the others I could not tell hide nor hair of in the passage of time. One memory that does remain is of one occasion when Geordie's or Blair's parents perhaps (I think Ross was in it) had joined my own for a 'production'. All of the adrenaline, embarrassment, excitement, and stage fright that goes along with my acting career today was as present then as it is now. It was exhilarating. During the show, however, my brother's punching bag, which was hung in the 'stage' area we had selected was swung a little too vigorously and caught one of my fingers between its momentum and the corner of our metal furnace. It tore my finger nail clear off, which is a pain I am sadly yet to forget, and the screaming and wailing that ensued brought that particular little presentation to a definitive end. Later, our dramatic pursuits would evolve into the staging of haunted houses for which we charged admission. My mother made us donate all the proceeds to charity though, save a little that we kept to buy much deserved ice cream for the 'cast'. Another noteworthy list of names emerges including Blair and Ross Mackenzie, Todd Kowalik, Darren Mundt, Derek Saunders, Brad something-or-other, Mark Senyshin, and others, I'm sure . . . most of whom are also lost in time now. Although I maintained an artistic penchant for literature in Junior High School and High School, in both writing and a discovered love for Shakespeare, any hope of acting had been shaken from me as a foolish pipe-dream by the naysayers and relegated to a lowly artistic position in my heart. Business pursuits and higher education held a much stronger appeal, . . . or so I thought.
Once during a session with a psychotherapist named Don, an eccentric, older, gruff man with great wisdom but little foresight, he told me to be honest with myself and to inspect who I truly was. He rhetorically asked if I read The Wall Street Journal in my leisure, or even the business section of the local newspaper. Sadly the answer was no, and the revelation was both crushing and liberating. I barely made it out of my first degree in Economics but later I would pursue a degree in English Literature, and later still . . . Well, I am getting ahead of myself.
In 2001, I was looking to go and see some local Shakespearean theatre. I made several calls from the dj booth at the club for which I was (and am still) working. Ultimately I was directed to a little company called Theatre Inconnu which I called asking for ticket sale information. I ended up talking to the company owner, named Clayton Jevne, who was also the owner of the now defunct Victoria Shakespeare Festival. He laughed, saying that my December phone call was a bit too early for their exclusively summer performances. For some reason, though, he was prompted to engage me in conversation and after learning about my past, and incidentally hearing me do announcements for the club while we were on the phone, he somehow managed to convince me to come down and audition. I didn't take it very seriously but a strange mixture of whimsy and newly discovered passion prompted me to do so. And I got a part! It was minor, but my budding talent had become all too apparent to myself and the director, a woman named Wendy Merk. She openly solicited me to take a leading role in the following year's production of The Tempest for kids which I also helped her edit. My soul had been released, and so had my marriage, which crumbled under the pressure of infant children and my absence to rehearse and perform, amongst other reasons. My calling had been finally discovered, but only too late. After the dissolution of Jevne's Festival, I would become a founding member of the Victoria Shakespeare Society saving it from financial ruin on two fundraiser occasions by verbally auctioning off assets for an event that was otherwise far in the red. My performances for the VSS, as it gained in professional strength and renown, were always met with highly positive local fanfare culminating in my opus performance of Iachimo in Barb Poggemiller's vision of Cymbeline. Today I have even more local fanfare under my belt for nearly a decade's worth of stage performances and I am entering into a Master's Degree in theatre history. I was directed into that academic position by two theatre history profs who were openly astounded by my performance in their classes and an English prof who noted that my academic essays were more of a theatrical brand than analytical. It seems my association with acting and theatre has come full circle from its near loss in younger years and that 'history' has repeated itself as well as becoming part of my imminent future. I will act again. I will get my MA. My checklist is renewed. I am not done yet.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Skipping Stones and Spots of Time

Once I was hosting a University lecture with a very large group of first year students on the topic of William Wordsworth's epic poem, The Prelude. The poem itself is some 400 pages long but filled with some of the greatest empathetically engaging text in poetic history. After a timely length of highly lacking interaction on the part of the students, I was slowly getting the sense that I was lecturing into a vacuum. "Better to keep silent and be thought the fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt", so the proverb goes. The poor brave soul that finally breached the silence was the one who showed his ignorance and removed the doubt. After nearly an hour of class, he put up his hand and quite candidly asked, "If this is just the prelude, how long is the poem?"


In the poem Wordsworth refers to "spots of time". Although my memory of the interpretation offered by my second year prof when I was under Wordsworth's posthumous tutelage is vague at best, my own interpretation is probably similar. Wordsworth refers to childhood memories that are triggered by a scent or an image or some abstract combination of sensory inputs that is just right to travel the memory back in time to a moment, an emotion, an elusive spot of time that registered in our childish minds for some reason that may have been entirely beyond our cognitive realization at the time. In the revisitation, via sensory memory, our adult mind is "repaired" in some way, the world is categorized in childhood terms and put back in order. Wordsworth was not just waxing romantic poetic drivel. It's happened to me. It's happened to everyone I should imagine. And when it does, it's absolutely magical. One of those authentic 'stop and smell the roses' moments that genuinely slows time and is worth it, to the astute observer, to try and live in it for as long as the moment will last.
The other day I had just such a moment. I was not actually returned to a childhood memory, but the emotion was just as strong. I'm not sure what triggered it, but I think it was an attempt to skip a flat stone offered to me by Blair into the choppy ocean surf at Willow's Beach. It was a brief image of stones interrupting fast moving water on a sparkling sunny day filled with the laughter of children. And suddenly there I was . . . at the Sooke Potholes. That is the nickname given to a particularly beautiful rocky and weaving little river park area in the township of Sooke, just outside of Victoria. It variously offers enough depth to rock jump in places, enough placidity to swim in others, and enough shallow areas for children to wade and be idle and capture little water creatures with a net. The day had been filled with just such activities. All the kids joined myself, Dad and Anita for a day excursion to the Potholes. Eventually we found a nice, relatively secluded place to have a picnic lunch. The lazy day was glimmering and gorgeous. Dad got up and selected from the rocky shore an ideal skipping stone. Now Dad is an expert stone skipper and he managed to skim it across the surface with several light bounces almost all the way to the other side of the river. In fact, this calm, narrow stretch of the river was a perfect width for just such a contest. Not to be outdone, I stood up and rose to the challenge with almost equal near success. The next half-hour turned into a full-fledged male ego/skill contest with Dad parading for his wife and I for my girlfriend respectively. The kids got involved by cheering us along and either harvesting stones for their chosen champion or joining in the efforts and attempts to skip. Dad and I taught Rory, Blair and Milo how to select good flat stones and give with a whirl. Although the girls feigned disinterest, we could tell they were impressed. We left later that day with sore arms and big smiles.


Often when I am melancholy, . . . which is often, I head down to the nearest ocean access and reflect while I skip stones into the surf. I like brooding and I like melancholy solitude and often seek it when life has become too . . . well, too life. Merely selecting a stone from a sea of beached geologic choices is a pensive activity which seems to slow time and gives one pause to reflect, or to avoid thought altogether. The serenity achieved getting lost in the rock hunt is worth the time itself. Even as melodramatic as I am accused of being, I have earned my tragic right to melancholy only too well and have enough to last this lifetime and many others. I hope better for my kids. I fear not. Alas, however, as much as I cannot escape my sadness, I have learned that I cannot escape the more buoyant parts of what I am either. Every time I go to skip stones now, I am foiled in my melancholy as my spot of time, at the Sooke potholes, with Dad, invariably creeps into my mind, and similarly creeps a smile across my face . . . even if I don't want one. A teary smile in a spot of time: inescapable and wonderful. Have you ever tried skipping stones? You should.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Moonlight Sonata

I knew not what to do. Should I try to impress her? Should I take her to a fancy restaurant and dazzle her with verbal wit and perfectly rehearsed charm? Should I just take her home and walk away before it´s too late? Should I give up and stop caring? My mother once told me that if I didn´t change my behaviour, I would grow up to be boorish and brash and disgusting enough to be one of those men who spit in public. I always wanted to be elegant, haute-couture, respected, revered. I long ago tried to convince myself to stop hating who I really was, to forgive myself, to stop apologizing for who I was, and to always try, at least try, to be true to myself. Should I just get a bottle of wine, skip the glasses, and take her down to the oceanfront to listen to waves and get drunk?

And in that moment, something changed. I had always had strong feelings for her, but something about the warm summer twilight, the watchful eye of the hanging moon, passing the bottle of wine, the front seat of her van, the lullabye of the ocean surf, . . . and her voice, was absolutely intoxicating. Lost in the glistening liquid pools of her teary, beautiful eyes, I was overcome. In my emotion and anxiety I talked too much. I always do. She didn't seem to mind. I knew the night would end all too soon and that I would lose her again, maybe forever. I wanted to hold on to her and never let her go. I restrained myself. We talked, we laughed, we flirted, and then we parted. But when I kissed her goodbye, . . . when her soft lips pressed against mine and I tasted her mouth, . . . it was perfect, and I felt a passion I have not felt in what seems like an eternity.

The baby was born in October, and though I wanted to name her Artemis, it was too obvious and she deserved something more subtle. So I named her after the night wind. The love I have for her, like the gift given me by her mother, will last long past my own mortality. It will be as constant and haunting as the moon, in my heart, and through eternity.

The Trouble With Pickle Jars

I'm not sure if the boy has picked up Marianne's habit of inadvertent destruction, but Rory has developed what appears to be a Freudian weakness with Pickle jars.
All in about one week, the poor boy has had a litany of accidents involving pickle jars or pickle jar related scenarios. I'm not a big believer in fate, unsuccessful life notwithstanding, but there seems to be more than coincidence going on here. Although he insists it is naught but mere coincidence, I think that the higher powers that be, or Rory himself, are trying to send me some sort of message. What that message can be, for the life of me, I have no idea.

The whole family took to a balmy evening excursion to an oceanside park called Saxe Point. It was a park I had visited in the first weeks I came to Victoria complete with rolling hills, war ruins, and oceanic vistas. Since then, I had searched for it in vain many times and especially on one of Dad's visits but never found it, and much to my chagrin, had never found it again. I was beginning to give it up as having been a figment of my imagination, when Marianne expertly (or almost expertly) navigated us into it one evening for a family picnic. I was delighted to finally be reunited with the place and made a point of logging its location firmly into memory. Rory and Megan covertly made off with one of the large, unopened pickle jars to snack in isolated brooding-teen style even though I had insisted that all the food remain at the picnic table. When he returned, he looked a little more guilty than I would have expected for such a minor crime, which prompted me to inspect the jar a little more closely. Upon doing so, I suppose Rory saw the inspective misgiving in my auspicious eye and came clean. He admitted that after opening the jar, he had knocked it over spilling most of its contents on to the grass of the field. He further admitted that he replaced the pickles to the jar and filled up the missing brine with sea water and the "pickling weeds" with field grass. I gave him the requisite fatherly 'I-told-you-so' speech and promptly disposed of the jar.

Our move out of family housing came swiftly and unexpectedly. After the decison to move out had been made, Marianne was lucky enough to find a near dream home of the right size and price range within days. Had it not been for the muscle and perseverence of the boy, the move would not have been a success. In fact, Rory and I managed to move everything that our large family owned, including ridiculously large and heavy items of furniture that neither he nor I expected to be able to lift in the slightest without assistance, with nothing more than multiple trips in our family mini-van. Marianne commented that Rory was a 'moving machine'. The vague reference to the Terminator movie series prompted me to post the following tongue-in-cheek status on facebook: "David C. Outnumbered by furniture in both mass and volume; no weapons but a single older van; an impossible time-frame; an angry wife - when there seems no hope left at all - David Christopher must look to the machines to save him. Rory Christopher IS the FURNITURATOR. The future (of moving to a new home) is inevitable." Rory was amused by that and the entire move was largely uneventful in terms of damage . . . save one poor jar that fell out of a food box quickly stuffed with fridge items. It was the only casualty to speak of. It was, (you guessed it), a large, full, unopened jar of pickles. It dropped from one of the last boxes Rory was carrying from the house on to the curb under the van and shattered. I don't know what these pickles were made with, but Rory and I were certainly glad that the incident came near the end of the day's moving because the dill stench that scathed our poor nostrils and I'm sure offended many of the residents of the street was nothing shy of atrocious. We drove away quickly with little sympathy for those left behind.

Sometimes when the whole family is in the van and wanting for a snack, and we have yet some stops to make, we pick up a jar of pickles at the grocery store and give everyone in the van something to crunch and munch. It has proven a family favourite as eccentric as it may sound. Rory and I often dip into the jar more than once. On this recent occasion he insisted on holding the newly opened jar on his lap for easy access to more snacking. I warned him that his luck with pickle jars of late had been less than encouraging and that he had best put them down beside me where I could keep them upright. He was adamant, however, to keep them close to himself and in his care. Of course, the jar leaked, and did so all over his lap. The boy emerged from the van looking like he had peed his pants and smelling like a pickle factory.

Upon fully moving in to our new home, we finally managed to unpack well enough to access the refrigerator. We were all hungry, especially Rory. In his hasty rummaging to grab something from the back of the fridge, he managed to knock over a jar of pickles that one of the younger kids had failed to seal very well. Interestingly, not one of the many other jars on the same shelf toppled - only the pickles. The jar was on the top shelf and the pickled brine that sloshed from it managed to cover and, of course, ruin almost all of the few food items that had made the trip and remained even remotely edible.

I have prohibited Rory from going near any pickle jars indefinitely.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

McToast

Some of the most hilarious moments in life are just that - moments. If one should happen to be as cynical as I am, these moments tend to occur all too frequently in the hilarity of offense inadvertently given to people innocently in my path: a function of a personality that is too verbose and too candid.
The other day, Marianne and I took to one of our frequent visits to McDonald's. Yeah, yeah, yeah, . . . I know - "that's gross", "so unhealthy", "Do you know what's in that stuff!?" Blah blah blah. I can read the sensational internet tabloids as well as the next guy but before it became a multi-national corporate target of every leftist vegan hippy on the planet, it was just another burger joint, and ultimately that shit tastes sooooooooo goooooooood when you're hungry that I have long since stopped counting that small evil amongst my sins because I assure you that my reckoning in hell will have a long list of far greater weights of concern.
I digress.
Anyways, as Marianne waited in line, I sprinted off for a much needed visit to the lavatory. After completing my bathroom transaction, unlike most of the disgusting male half of our species, I washed my hands. Just as I reached for some paper towel, someone else entered the washroom behind me. I paid little heed to him, as you might expect, and I noticed that the paper towel dispenser was empty. I reached for the other paper towel dispenser only to discover it was also empty. Frustrated, I entered one of the stalls and attempted the always less-than-satisfying effort to dry my hands with one-ply bulk-purchased toilet paper. The toilet paper roll was also empty. As I emerged from the stall wiping my hands on the front of my pants, the fellow who had entered after me verbalized his observation that there was not any paper towel. Without looking up, I offered an honest response. "Yeah, well, what do ya expect? It doesn't take an I.Q. much higher than toast to get a job at McDonald's." The pregnant silence that ensued gave me cause to look up curiously. I found myself face to face with what would have been an indignant expression on a man of any other vocation but instead was met by the confused expression of the Poster Boy of McDonald's employees. He was not wearing a uniform but I sensed that he was imminently going to be. I paused and realized my faux pas. Then I proceeded in typical fashion by further realizing that I didn't give a rat's ass if this guy was offended, or if he understood me, or if he had even heard me for that matter. My blank expression somehow both slowly and instantly turned into a half-cocked, awkward-moment frown of sorts followed by the sound of realization. "Eeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuum. Riiiiiiiiiiight. Ya know what? Never mind." I rushed past him and back into the queue with Marianne.
Minutes later I spied the same fellow flipping burgers behind the very counter from which I was ordering. He was clearly completely oblivious to the offense I had accidentally given which was good for both of us. It was good for me because it saved me worrying that he had spit in my hamburger, and it was good for him because blissful ignorance is surely a happier place than offended indignance, especially at the beginning of a long and difficult shift at the golden arches. I told Marianne the tale and she had a good laugh when she looked at the guy - she is well known for being as sensitive as I am.
Upon visiting the lavatory one more time before leaving the establishment, I was not at all surprised to discover that there was still no paper towel nor toilet paper to be found.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

The Truth

Ultimately we all live two lives: the life we actually lead, replete with mundane realities, paying bills, earning a living, making dinner, using the toilet; and the life we dream of, filled with magic, and emotion, and adventure, and revisions - revisions of the reality, of the mundane, . . . revised with the magic of how we felt, not the mundane of what we did. Meeting a woman you love may be a boring story in reality, but in your heart it is a soaring epic tale of two hearts destined to come together after the romantic passage of oceans of time and incredible odds. It is a movie we play out in our minds with the most passionate kiss, the most unlikely romance, and the most exciting conclusion. In time, as we age, the puritanical definition of truth becomes far more subjective - and how we remember something is as important as how it really happened. Nay, it is far more important, and reality and imagination and memory all fuse into one glorious truth. Not a reality, but a truth. My children are not likely ever to know what my life was really like. But I surely hope they remember how I felt, how they made me feel, and how I lived every day in a romantic, fantastical theatre of emotion that may have been unreal, but it was surely the truth. I hope they love me enough to remember legend more than reality and make a myth out of the mundane father they actually had. For life is a work of art - a connected prose of comedy, tragedy, epic, horror, fantasy, aspiration and imagination. Mine was just a little more melodramatic than most. And in every memory there is a mountain of truth, and occasionally, a smattering of reality.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Living VicaRORYously

The football year has been exciting! Don't get me wrong, here. I have not suddenly turned into some flag-toting, horn-honking, moronic sports fan having overnight completely lost my sense of decorum and disdain of idiocy. No, I simply have a son of whom I am VERY proud. And he likes football. And he plays football. In fact, he plays organized football for a team called the Oak Bay Vikings, atom division. And he's goooooooood! (Proud father notwithstanding)
Rory and I like to play catch and run plays on the grassy areas surrounding our home here at U-Vic Family Housing. He's actually duly impressed with his boring and intellectual old man's dexterity with the ball and I have been affording him the limited knowledge I have to supplement his training. There's never enough time and we don't get out to play or practice enough. Cat's in the Cradle, I guess.
This year during one of his games, Marianne and I had an ironic conversation by the sidelines. We were only loosely paying attention to the game as we had several other kids to attend to in the neighbouring park, but on the few occasions that Rory got some action, we paused to pay attention. In our ambivalent viewing I took a moment to scan about at the motley crew of parents that represent football sons. My normal gag reaction to such people kicked in as I listened to verbally illiterate comments spewed at the top of their lungs from the sidelines at children who couldn't hear and coaches who didn't care. I am usually a man of overwhelming disdain, but sports fans as parents is a mix with which I seem to take particular issue. I commented to Marianne that nothing irritates me more than boorish and loud sports parents who are living vicariously through their children and I idly strolled towards the field sideline. Then it happened.
The moment every proud father awaits, even if he has a disdain for sports. The ball went up in a perfect arc. The quarterback had thrown a genuinely good pass. Rory was in the clear and ahead of the crowd. Surely it was a touchdown pass. With the defense only steps behind him and running full tilt, he stretched out his arms as the ball descended perfectly towards him. It was glorious. A lifetime of athletic dreams that I never had flashed before my eyes. Visions of our practicing in the field flooded my memory. Fantasies of him thanking me on Father's Day for all my training that turned him into a football star abounded. And all in the instant before the ball reached its goal. Time slowed. Rory's fingers reached out and I felt myself let loose an earth-shattering cheer while my arms raised in ecstatic triumph . . . but only too soon. The ball bounced gently, ever so lightly off his finger tips and to the ground in a definitively incomplete pass. The noise I was emitting didn't stop but turned from cheer to wail. I dropped to my knees. My raised hands fell to my eyes to cover and shield them from the horror.
"Nooooooooooooo!"
"Ahem." Marianne got my attention and I came to my senses. It seems my negative feelings had been projected into many of the other parents there who were all staring at me in awe, and disdain, and I think a little fear. I composed and excused myself and laughed at my own ironic fatherly egocentrism and hypocrisy. Rory later told me that he heard me from the field and had to explain to his team-members that his Dad was a little weird. I vowed I would not do that again.
But our best laid plans oft gang aglay and every player has a chance to redeem themselves. The final game of the season is one I had promised Rory I would not fail to attend. It was truly an exciting and well-matched game which came down to the final seconds of play to decide its outcome. Rory's team lost, but only by an excitingly slim margin. Once again, Rory played well. And it happened again, but even better.
The opposing team had the ball. The quarterback made the last second decision to go with a passing play. The ball was up and heading straight for the player against whom Rory was defending. But wait a minute, . . . wait a minute! The quarterback has misjudged. So has the receiver. Rory swoops in. I can see it coming but desperately keep silent. Then Rory cuts quickly to one side in front of the receiver and smoothly intercepts the ball. Oh my god! Perfect catch! Picked Off! It was glorious. I contained myself no longer, and as Rory bounded down the field I leapt from my lawnchair and hollered praise at the top of my lungs. So much for discretion and decorum. That was AWESOME Rory! Good job.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

More Taffan

He leaned back farther in the sun warmed grass and let the rays cover his body. It was a perfect balance of warm sun and cool breeze. It seemed nothing in the world could interrupt Taffan's refuge of serenity. He summarily decided that his idle state would be the perfect way to fill the entire afternoon and he lazily daydreamed about books and heroes and stories. Before long he could almost hear himself gently snoring away in the warm grass before he was truly fast asleep..
Abruptly he was startled awake. Had he dreamed it? The bright sunny sky visible over the clearing that was making the water sparkle, and the grass warm, and the trees bake had suddenly vanished. With eyes closed, Taffan was visibly only aware of a sudden darkness. In the instant that the darkness ascended, Taffan's big eyes had flashed open and the sunlight was as present as ever. A shadow had cast itself over Taffan's little piece of sunshine and disappeared as quickly as it had occurred. No cloud could have come and gone so abruptly. Was it something that had flown over? It must have been absolutely emormous to cast such a large and sudden shadow. Half asleep, startled, and confused, Taffan was surely ill at ease and it took him some moments to regain composure and catch his breath. He relaxed back in the grass again and relegated the incident in his mind to naught but sun exposed imagination, a silly dream, nothing more, and he found his little paradise intact once again.
His regained serenity would not last. No sooner had he become comfortable than three surly and burly soldiers of the King's private guard awkwardly thrust themselves through the brush and into the clearing. The largest of the three barked at him.
"Taffan!? Taffan Tingle!?"
Taffan bolted upright, rubbed his eyes, and resigned himself to the fact that this interruption would probably not be as brief as the shadow had been. His plans for the rest of the afternoon had decidedly absconded with the guards' intrusion. His frustration, however, was not outweighed by his timidity and fear in the face of the unfriendly looking guards who, bewilderingly, were looking for him!
"Y-y-yes. I-I-I'm Taffan Tingle."
"All elves are expected at the town counsel on this day. Why are you absent?"
"I-I-I-I don't know. I-I-I hadn't thought I was welcome, . . . or-or-or really missed."
"The king has business with you. Come along now."
"The King!?" Taffan was incredulous which momentarily endowed him with more confidence while confronting the three brutes. "Surely, you are mistaken. What business could the King possibly have for someone so ill-considered, and regularly ignored as myself. Why I'm sure the idea is perfectly ridiculous and I've been quite bullied and teased enough in my life. I'll thank you to take your cruel jest with you when you turn right about and leave me in peace. You might find its foolishness droll, but I assure you that I do not. Now, be gone!" Taffan's last meek attempt at sounding courageous and authoritative utterly failed him in its intended result. The guards' dangerous looking spears simultaneously descended from their erect vertical posture to a horizontal position, with three pointed ends aimed squarely at him. He sighed and took silent note in his mind that attempts at verbal bravery from the meek rarely carry the desired psychological effect on those not intelligent enough to be tricked by reverse psychology. The lead guard barked again.
"No jest, Taffan. The King wishes to see you, yes YOU. NOW! MOVE!"
Taffan was still absolutely certain that there had been some ridiculous mistake made but realized fully that it would not be resolved by arguing with the guards. He scurried about on his knees to collect the few books he had scattered about into his arms, brought himself to his feet, and attempted to stand as tall as he could next to the three large guards.
"Fine then. Let's get this mockery done with quickly. Lead on."
The three guards stumbled and fumbled and bumped into one another and succeeded in doing nothing more than proving that none of them had any idea which way to return. Taffan sighed again.
"Nevermind, then. Follow me," and all four of them traipsed heartily into the thick wood in the direction of the King's castle, a direction that obviously only Taffan knew. And unbeknownst to himself, Taffan left behind his little forest solace for much longer than he would ever have imagined.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Dad would be proud . . .

Scene Shop – Reflective Summary

Any attempt to reflect back on my ‘year’ of work in the scene shop is already marred by the fact that the work I have done has spanned over two years and subject to my lacking memory. Furthermore, the work I have done was mainly in the areas of set striking and shop maintenance, which is distinctly different than the work involved in building sets. Nevertheless, I was afforded the opportunity to do some building, and the tasks of striking and cleaning proved surprisingly educational.
I spent long hours simply sorting screws. This task would be considered menial by many, but represents a necessary part of the team work. Somebody must do the cleaning and, moreover, it is tasks such as these that afford an intimate knowledge of the scene shop that is often overlooked by many. I am now perhaps one of the few that is closely familiar with screw sizes, and where to put them away. It is minutiae of this sort that I found myself having to ask about in my first term, but now I am in the know. Similarly, I have learned how to use the paint rack, and other less glamorous details of the shop.
Even though I missed out on some of the more exciting set building, Charles did afford me the opportunity to help him install the extension of the stage in the Bishop for the fashion show, and to build a dolly for scrap wood disposal. Both of these tasks showed me the simple details of construction that are inherent to any building task. Charles directed me and then left me largely to my own auspices in building the dolly, including the installation of caster, which was both fun and rewarding. Furthermore, the laborious task of rolling wood to the dumpster takes on a surprisingly more fulfilling pride when one is using a dolly that one has built themselves, especially when it works effectively.
Another benign task that proved to be a lot of fun was striking the set for Medea. Ultimately, I spent all of my time unscrewing screws with an electric drill. While the other younger students seemed to revel in the destructive use of sledgehammers for smashing set pieces to bits, I found that I quite enjoyed the task of locating and unscrewing screws. There are small intuitions that one learns in so doing, such as the logistics of where to begin so that unscrewed set pieces do not collapse in a dangerous way, and simply how to remove a screw that has the spindle portion out of the wood already. I actually demonstrated to another student, who had more experience in the shop than I, how to put wood pressure behind it to gain the necessary leverage, and then the screw comes out quite easily. In fact, that and the task of building the frame for the bug screen on the Medea set, I found that many of the younger students looked to me as a senior and surprisingly, my modest skills often proved to be intuitively correct, and occasionally superior to those with whom I was working. As such, I learned to have faith in my own abilities a little more, while still recognizing the need to defer to Charles’ wisdom for some things that should have been intuitive and left me feeling foolish. For example, I learned the hard way that the proper way to hold a ladder for someone is not to place your hand on the foot-step!
Reflecting on the course theory is a wide task. Certainly, I learned more about the details of carpentry than I would have expected, and I did so from the highly interesting perspective of building sets for theatre. I imagine that learning carpentry from the perspective of building houses, or curing wood, would be far less interesting and highly repetitive. Of the many things I learned, some of the most salient, or at least the ones that stick out in my mind include, castering, set movement, types of flat construction, grades of wood, wood strength and the relevance of grain direction, and most importantly, cutting lists. I suspect that all of these, especially the last of them, will prove useful in my everyday workings as a father of a large family, and in my newly improved ability to perhaps build things that previously I would have had to have bought. Most importantly, however, was the opportunity to learn about and use the larger machinery in the shop. It is intimidating and represented a point of fear for me, but knowing the proper usage and safety has certainly bolstered my confidence. Perhaps I will be able to build a set one day, now that I am not so fearful and much more knowledgeable.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Obnoxious

There's nothing quite so offensive as a room full of foul-mouthed, twenty-something, college boys, especially in the presence of a more demure audience whom they bewilderingly assume will be impressed by such jibberish. I can't imagine why someone would want to proudly display that their vocabulary is clearly limited to 500 words, 450 of which are foul. As boorish as my mother assures me that I am, I have always, at the very least, known when to keep a civil tongue. I can confidently say that my sons will grow up endowed with more civility. I have certainly been forthright enough to bestow upon them a sense of politeness and propriety and superior sociolinguistic skills. Indeed, the heights of my ivory tower have become loftier with age and education. Nevertheless I would like to invite all of the some ten or fifteen of them that descended upon the 7-11 late at night while my pregnant wife and I were obtaining a pregnancy-motivated craving snack, and who both terrified and offended her in her delicate state, to proceed with having sexual relations with themselves, and I can only hope there is enough justice left in the world, and enough discriminating taste and common sense left in the women of the world, that it is the only relations they will ever have.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

A Brief E-mail About a Brief Review of A Brief History

Hi David,

I’d like to request a copy of your wonderful book review for inclusion in our class portfolio. Congratulations on a fine achievement! I’m sure the class will very much enjoy reading it, as I did.

Many thanks!

Monika Rydygier Smith
Writing Instructor
Department of English
University of Victoria


Book Review: Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time"

Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time" is well titled and well worth the read. Hawking begins by tracing our most fundamental understandings of the heavens from ancient Greece to modern day. However, the true appeal of the text goes beyond mere historical exposition, and lies in Hawking's reiterating the questions that have dominated philosophy, religion, and even the curiosity of the common man, since the dawn of intelligence. In the 20th and 21st centuries, people have become suspicious of, and disillusioned with archaic pre-enlightenment religious explanations in the face of mounting, logical and irrefutable scientific evidence. Unfortunately, the other end of the spectrum, modern science, has progressed into the world of the academic elite so far that the common man, still curious, has been alienated by mathematical explanations and the jargon of physics in such a way that the only people qualified to explain what we now understand, lack the simple common vocabulary to address the public outside of the elite. Stephen Hawking has finally produced a literary bridge between these two factions that speaks in accessible language to explain some of the loftiest scientific explorations, primarily between the general theory of relativity and quantum mechanics, and on his own work primarily regarding black holes. All of this is packaged in a conversational style that revisits personal anecdotes and has a tenor of humility against a cosmos that is unforgiving in its expanse and complexity and still allows for the possibility of 'god'.
The very first chapter of the book outlines the largest names of historical relevance in the exploration of the Universe: beginning in Ancient Greece with Aristotle, he moves through Ptolemy, Copernicus, Johannes Kepler, Galileo, Newton, Kant, Einstein, and Hubble. Most people have heard of these great names but, without formal education, may have been intimidated to even pretend they understood the most fundamental aspects of their relevance. Hawking connects them all in a historical timeline as his point of departure to advance into more modern theories. He even manages to set the tenor for explaining contradictions in modern theories by forgivingly pointing out what was valuable about theories that are now considered incorrect, rather than merely touting them as wrong. For example, he notes how Copernicus was the first to posit the idea that "the planets moved in circular orbits around the sun", and that nearly 100 years later "the German, Johannes Kepler, and the Italian, Galileo Galilei-started publicly to support the Copernican theory, despite the fact that the orbits it predicted did not quite match the ones observed" (Hawking 4). Hawking continues to point out that Kepler "modified Copernicus's theory, suggesting that the planets moved not in circles, but in ellipses [. . .] The predictions now finally matched the observations" (Hawking 4). The example shows how science has built upon the theories of the past, rather than dogmatically abandoning them at the first sign of error, and Hawking reports these connections in a delightfully simplistic and accessible prose style.
As valuable as his connections and simplification are, the quality of the text doesn't end there. Hawking weaves into this fascinating history an unexpected levity. At the very outset of the first chapter, Hawking captures his audience with a comic anecdote about an elderly woman challenging a scientist in saying, "What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise [. . .] You're very clever young man, very clever, [. . .] But it's turtles all the way down" (Hawking 1). Herein lies the charm of the text. Each topic is put into a conversational style that is highly inclusive, and often humorous.
From this humorous anecdote, Hawking launches into the primary appeal of the text by listing those fundamental questions of cosmic curiosity that are universal amongst all that have ever gazed at the heavens and wondered. "[W]hy do we think we know better? What do we know about the universe, and how do we know it? Where did the universe come from, and where is it going? Did the universe have a beginning, and if so, what happened before then? What is the nature of time? Will it ever come to an end? Can we go back in time?" (Hawking 1). These questions invoke many popular-culture science fiction texts and movies with the philosophical curiosities that spawned them. These monumental images and questions are then firmly grounded in explanations of the most current scientific debates and discoveries. Often these require more than one read because, even in their simplest form, they can become complex. However, Hawking never fails to bring the language back to the reader with a mundane example. "It will be like the ripples that spread out on the surface of a pond when a stone gets thrown in. The ripples spread out as a circle that gets bigger [. . .] This cone is called the future light cone" (Hawking 26). He uses simple images such as playing cards to demonstrate complex atomic structures (Hawking 69), and he interjects personal anecdotes on his 'bets' in competition with contemporaries to prove or disprove theories.
In the heart of the text, Hawking deeply examines modern ramifications of the general theory of relativity, quantum mechanics, black holes, and wormholes. Although this subject matter is heady, Hawking gently builds one topic on to another in a very efficiently chronological manner. He carefully avoids any presupposition of knowledge or terminology that he has not yet introduced. His chapters move seamlessly from one topic to the next while the reader is both fascinated and entertained and unaware of the increasing complexity of the subject, and their own surprising ability to understand what was formerly exclusive to the highest elite of physics. Interspersed with diagrams, his text reads like the lecture of a talented raconteur who is a master at both explaining the complex and using the chalkboard to do so.
Hawking approaches his audience with humility and respect, while questioning dogmatic perspectives. In one memorable anecdote, he states that "I attended a conference on cosmology organized by the Jesuits in the Vatican [. . .] At the end of the conference the participants were granted an audience with the Pope. He told us that it was all right to study the evolution of the universe after the big bang, but we should not inquire into the big bang itself because that was the moment of Creation and therefore the work of God. I was glad then that he did not know the subject of the talk I had just given at the conference - the possibility that space-time was finite but had no boundary, which means that it had no beginning, no moment of Creation" (Hawking 120). Inherently, Hawking is clear that his talk represented only a "possibility" and he infuses scientific jargon into his anecdote so contextually, that the reader is not alienated.
Leaving the theological doors open and his humility intact, Hawking finishes where he began: he lays down the very questions that make the text interesting - philosophical, not scientific - which remain admittedly unanswered. "What is the nature of the universe? What is our place in it and where did it and we come from? Why is it the way it is?" (Hawking 187). The fascination of the topic remains intact with the satisfaction of a greater understanding and a hope that it will continue to increase and be more fascinating yet. The fundamental human quest for knowledge is not resolved; the thirst remains unquenched. Hawking has merely simplified all that history and science has revealed so far and shown how the grand-scale general theory of relativity (primarily ascribed to Einstein) and the miniscule theory of quantum mechanics give rise to contradiction and the current search for reconciliation. This search in itself has revealed many new questions and fascinatingly unexpected scientific truths, or theoretical probabilities. As a reader you will be left with a thirst to know more, but the pride and satisfaction that your point of departure for examining the great questions of the universe is now much more well informed.


Works Cited
Hawking, Stephen. A Brief History of Time - The Updated and Expanded Tenth Anniversary Edition. Toronto: Bantam Books, 1998.