Roberto Bolano continues to be my favorite not-all-that-new writer.  I’ve recently read *Amulet*, a great novella about the student uprisings in Mexico in 1973, and I’m currently working my way through a bilingual edition of *The Romantic Dogs*, the only book of his poems that’s appeared in English yet (I think).  (The cover has a great image of a dog on it, Bolano’s puns not being all that subtle.)

I like his manic energy more than anything — *Amulet* ostensibly takes place in a bathroom while the army occupies the university, but it’s also a portrait of Latin American literary culture in the 1970, and it moves in huge, crazy loops.

*Nazi Literature in America* is another good one, a novel in Borges-like portraits of imaginary right-wing writers from Argentina to California to Indiana.

The two master-works are *The Savage Detectives* and *2666*.

He was probably in his mid-50s, a perfectly ordinary looking sort, but he was getting a private swim lesson in the 1/2 hour before my daughter and her friend Sylvie had their lesson.  And he was terrified.  Allie, the instructor,  had him in the twelve-foot section of the pool with two noodles supporting him, and he clutched the wall for all he was worth.  He could chat about it — not quite the same as a scared child — but it was easy to see that he was really frightened.

I spoke with him during Olivia’s lesson & he said that when he was a kid someone had thrown him in the water (to “teach him to swim”) and he’d never gotten over the panic.  This summer was the first time he’d tried lessons in his life.  A very brave man.

Makes me rethink some stuff about the water – human relationship that I’ve been working on.  Swimming is nearly universal now — I wonder what the statistics are, in the US and worldwide — but it hasn’t always been, at least not everywhere.  I think the Polynesians have always been great swimmers, but in the 17c it was an exotic practice in England, even banned at Cambridge along with other Continental (ie, Italian) bad habits.  The water looks quite different if you can’t swim.

Reading the intro to the Arden 3 ed of Hamlet yesterday (as I get ready to teach next week), I was reminded that the first performance of the play for which we have clear evidence was on board a ship off the coast of Africa in 1607.  We assume it had been played in London before that — it had already been printed, in two different versions, in 1603 and 1604 — but we don’t have records of those performances.  What we have is a note in Captain William Keeling’s journal, on board the Red Dragon, dated 1607 September 5th, “we gave the tragedie of Hamlet.”  The ships were anchored off what is now Sierra Leone for six weeks, trying to re-assemble a fleet.  They also played (some version of) Richard II during the same month.

A strangely resonant beginning for the most famous play in the language…

I saw this morning in my email inbox that the Stacey Keach Lear has been extended at the STC in Washington.  Which makes me think again of the many ways in which the last scene did not live up to the promise, or the verve, of the opening.  Part of the problem, perhaps, is simply the need for things to wind down: the King dies of heartbreak and exhaustion, being “streched out” on the rack of the world (in Kent’s metaphor), but given how much energy is required of the star actor, sometimes that level of physical broken-ness is hard to pull off.  (I remember Ian McKellan had some similar problems in the last scene, and Kevin Kline, at the NY Public Theater, even more so.)

But the direction of the final scene was off too: cutting “yet Edmund was beloved” flattens this complex character, and omitting “Great thing of us forgot” may avoid an awkward laugh-line in the middle of the crisis, but it also makes the long scene less complex.  The dead Cordelia, a Goth princess no more, looks instead like a sex symbol in her tattered clothes, but that itself is distracting.  The repeated lines — “Never, never…” and “Howl, howl…” — are a challenge to any actor (was it Olivier who said the former was unplayable?), but they were among Keach’s weaker, and least inventive, moments.

Is there a tension between 1.2 (the King’s manic dance of kingdom-dividing) and 5.3 (the slow slog into death)?  Certainly there is, and perhaps it’s true that in our age-defying cultural moment we’re more open to an energetic (if mad) king than one whose heart breaks slowly.

In Edgar’s final line, about speaking “what we feel, not what we ought to say,”  he picks up the stage microphone that the King and evil daughters had used in 1.2,  We’re supposed to think, I suppose, that he’s assuming a kind of kingship (though he is on his belly and not commanding the stage), as in the revised Lear-plot in which he married Cordelia and ruled Britain.  True to recent habits, this version does not imagine any possible redemptive future for the kingdom.  But I also missed the dramatic and poetic force of the floor dropping out beneath everyone.

The best version of the first two scenes I’ve ever seen: lively, funny, musical.  They staged the two scenes in a nightclub (with a DJ & cafe tables).  1.1 was in the mensroom, with Gloucester and Kent sharing a bit of semi-privacy by the urinals.  Then 1.2 featured the musical entrances of the three daughters plus the King.  The whole set was half Eastern European state (Slovakian? Yugoslav?) and half mafia.  There was a massive — 20 x 20 feet? — portrait of a younger Stacey Keach hanging above the stage.  When the king arrived he danced with each of his girls in turn, squeezing the highly sexualized Reagan on the bottom, and then promenaded around the stage.

Cordelia, in an interesting expression of her alienation from the court, was dressed as a goth girl.

Is clearly the best “new” writer I’ve come across in a few years.  A good trick, since he’s been dead ssince 2003…

http://www.brown.edu/Facilities/John_Carter_Brown_Library/I%20found%20it%20JCB/june2009.html

Here’s a link to my write-up of the greatest 17c maritime atlas, Robert Dudley’s “Dell arcano del mare” (“Secrets of the Sea.”)  I found it at the JCB…

After an excellent year in the archives at the John Carter Brown Library, it’s time to get back to the blog.  Upcoming — some thoughts on Roberto Bolano, Shakespeare and Borges, and maybe a few other things.

Spent Sunday May 17 in Canterbury, viewing the Cathedral and the Marlowe monument, among other things.  It’s a good as an overlarge church gets, almost the equal of Notre Dame (not quite as sinuous) or St Peter’s (not quite as monumental).  But Canterbury has a great melodrama, and I must admit seeing the place where poor loyal Thomas Becket lost his head was quite moving.  I’ll post some pictures on the area later, including the Marlowe monument (he was born in Canterbury, which I hadn’t remembered.)  The Marlowe theater was showing “Cats.”