Sebastian of Portugal

Firstly, big mistake! Took another look at that portrait of Farnese, this time at a high-res scan of the entire thing that I just found and...guess what--? It turns out he's standing in a very dark corner, but I still stand by what I said, it's a very plain, sparse corner, that must have meant something. Well, on to our next person.

Well, it seems as if Sebastian of Portugal has been turned into a mythic figure by just about everyone before me. His story is a rather gripping one after all, he seems a symbol for what's been lost in this world or else in us all, as people. As it's all been written about, look for it in wikipedia by following this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sebastian_I_of_Portugal. I've also found another essay on some website by this fellow who says he's a professor at the University of Virginia, but since he and his content sound pretty dodgy--never heard of it anywhere else--I'm not putting it up. If you really want the link, put a comment here (and perhaps your e-mail?) and I'll send it to you when I can, or else, search up Sebastian of Portugal, a pedophile in the palace, take it with a HUGE pinch of salt though.

Also, put in a comment if you know any good books on him, I'd like to find out more.

Two interesting people

Two interesting people whom have occupied my mindspace for quite awhile now: Alessandro Farnese and Sebastian of Portugal. The former was, I feel, a vital, essential figure in the brilliant goings-on in the complicated politics of sixteenth-century Europe although I have not managed to find many books concerning him and his life; the latter exists almost solely as a dream-image of some sort, I know next to nothing of him and always I find myself leaning, closer and closer in, hoping to see more.

I came upon them a few months ago when I was looking up the history of the sixteenth century on my computer, I'm usually too stingy to buy books on the subject (and anyway, bookstores don't seem to share my interests) and the library does not stock many of the books that I want. "Finding" someone usually involves clicking randomly through the web encyclopaedia, once in awhile, I see something I like. In Farnese's case, it was really the image of his head cropped off a portrait of him as a boy, probably around fourteen to fifteen years old (curiously, I was fifteen as well at the time), that compelled me to read the rather lengthy entry on him.

Beginning with the portrait--it may be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:AlexanderFarnese.jpg
I felt in my heart that it was an interesting, intelligent face that promised quite something (which is really what a good portrait is supposed to do--be engaging). It was purely the image that enchanted me, not so flat and musty--as most portraits of the time were--as to completely shut the viewer out and leave her lost in unfamiliar territory, but with the clarity of gaze--and steel beneath the gaze--to lend the painted figure some kind of awareness and consciousness. Farnese seems wary here, but not weary as he would be nearing his death. The portrait opens into nothing, leaving us only the young prince standing against the shadows so that the place seems dimensionless and yet with infinite dimension; it gives us enough space to keep walking on, closer in and closer in...and yet, being only a portrait, it keeps us away. We cannot enter that painted, still world where Farnese stands. And truly, he offers no invitation. I did not think of all this at the time I saw the portrait, I am only giving my feelings an in-depth look now as I write this. Thoughts have been corrected, superimposed, what was no longer is; I suppose these are my thoughts now. Going back--am I being too romantic here? Perhaps, but this is what the portrait made me feel.

Farnese himself is not a pleasant person. He was a shrewd, unscrupulous statesman, no saint, and a brilliant military man as well--while conducting the siege of Antwerp, he constructed that famous bridge of boats around the harbour to prevent any ships from coming in. This prevented traders from entering the harbour to trade and it also prevented any attacks from sea. The image of the tied-together boats bobbing up and down in the sea, fencing off the coast of Antwerp is particularly surrealistic, and I remember it, clear as that day I never saw; clouds bright with sun in the sky, the sea below, and the line of boats floating as if in that mirrored light, so dazzling as to appear dream-like. This sticks.

I cannot recall exact facts, my memory is foggy where I do not often cross or otherwise tread through too often so that I end up embroidering and re-embroidering so that it becomes more legend than truth. I do not like the prospect of propagating wrongness. Read the rest of it here:
http://babelfish.altavista.com/tr?tt=url&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.provincia.parma.it%2Fscuole%2Fssbodon3%2Fwww%2Fnome%2FGIARDINO4%2Fs-alessandro.htm&lp=it_en&lang=&rt=http://www.altavista.com/web/results?itag=ody&q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.provincia.parma.it%2Fscuole%2Fssbodon3%2Fwww%2Fnome%2FGIARDINO4%2Fs-alessandro.htm&kgs=0&kls=0 (not very convenient, I ran it through the search engine translator so that now it's wonky, but if you can read Italian, by all means: http://www.provincia.parma.it/scuole/ssbodon3/www/nome/GIARDINO4/s-alessandro.htm. Otherwise, check up John Lothrop Morley's books, the links (which did not work for me) and the titles can be found on Wikipedia.

I'll write an entry on Sebastian tomorrow, perhaps.

On days

Time passes wearyingly, it seems almost too human how the hours stretch as the shadows do, lengthening along the wall. The days do not know what they are, being only the intervals of light in between each nightfall. What are these days? The means by which we measure time tells us how much we know of it. We know it through light and dark; we assign it numbers, to pin it down, give it some relation to ourselves, give it definition in some way; we look at events, mapping them along the years--perhaps births, deaths, wars and disaster, all things significant to ourselves.

These thoughts...I derive an odd sensation of dissociation--blindness--from them. Am I wrong? Am I right? And if so, where shall I go next? Of course, the thoughts have always been familiar to me, you, but they look so strange on their own, plucked out of our daily lives. They seem to be an odd set of conclusions. Is this what we learn from our days? About days? Things look so strange out of context, time slips out of my hands, like quicksilver, each time I reach out to grasp it; now, I do not believe it is an entity in itself.

It is almost as if I am talking to myself, writing on this thing.
Thoughts...I could drown in them...due to pressure differences between the outside and the inside. I wonder if anyone else has a similar view on the human body.

Where do our days go? It seems almost as if we come to nothing as much as we come out of nothing. We go where our days send us.

A Picture of Christopher Marlowe

Well, I finally learnt how to upload pictures on this thing. This is to round off the last post, I got the picture off http://www.tudorplace.com.ar/Bios/ChristopherMarlowe.htm. It's not exactly the best scan of the portrait but this site loaded the fastest and without giving me any problems. I'm still trying to finish the book but you can still post comment if you like, that is, if you are there at all.

Personally, I found the portrait a charming one from the first. It is not known if this young man really is Marlowe but the swaggering attitude depicted here certainly does match the bold, ambitious Marlowe we know. Assuming this is a portait of him, it was done in his student days when he was twenty-one (as the portrait says). The books I've read about him (well, actually, book--one book) say that he most probably obtained the money to pay for the portrait as well as the expensive jacket from his spying activities--which began while he was still a student (and this, the book says, was really quite common as they wanted really intelligent intelligence, not like the Wayans brothers--but no, I haven't watched the movie, I just know the quote). If (if, if, if nothing is ever quite certain in this world) this really were a portrait of him, it would provide fascinating insight into the character of young Marlowe:

Just a little background information, sixteenth century England was a terribly class-conscious society and only those of a certain social status (gentlemen) could wear silk and other such materials. Even at universities, poor scholars were only allowed to wear drab scholar's robes whereas the sons of gentlemen could wear whatever they pleased even though it was a rule that everyone had to wear those same robes. Also, notice that Marlowe has very long hair. This was also against the rules; all students had to have short hair. Before you simply surmise this to be simple rebellliousness on his part, think--intelligently. Marlowe, son a Canterbury shoemaker and Queen's Scholar, was an upward-looking, ambitious young man, and he must have been very frustrated by all the limits placed upon him by his social status and the society of that time (read: not based upon meritocracy, those with friends in high places were most likely to get ahead). look at his plays, "Ta,burlaine" and "Faustus" are both about ambition, in one part of the latter (first scene, open up another window on your computer and look it up on Project Gutenberg), Faustus says that he would, with his new powers, clothe all the scholars of the University of Wittenberg in silk--notice anything familiar here? (And if you don't, look at the description of the portrait.)

It's not very good as a piece of writing, in fact, I myself would call it shitty as an essay, but I'm not doing it as schoolwork and this blogger software is not doing my blood pressure any good as it's deleted whole passages of this each time I tried to save it as a draft. And now I'm really quite leery of it (an odd word, but it just means suspicious, same as how lusty means healthy). I'm not doing any beautiful writing as it's really more for my own personal satisfaction, when I have to say something, I must say it. I have a bit of an interest in Marlowe even if I do find most of this stuff pretty archaic and over my head. All the analysis came out of a wonderful book called The World of Christopher Marlowe by David Riggs. I'd suggest you borrow it from the library as it's a little heavy-going at some bits so you might not read it again, and it's also very expensive--over fifty Singapore dollars when I saw it at the bookstore. But it's also a terribly illuminating book and you should get it if you genuinely love Kit and/or the English Renassaince or just history in general--personally, I would wish to own a copy, but I've got my eye on other things as well (I just bought Plainwater by Anne Carson for $27.95 yesterday--not cheap).

Shifting gears/ Visions and passions: A review of A Dead Man in Deptford

I really don't know why I'm bothering to write here, it's been, like, two years since I set this up, a little less than two years since I left it and there was never really a sense of purpose about it--even now. I'm not egocentric enough to actually believe anyone's reading this and not enough of an exhibitionist to write anything really personal, but I suppose my brain just went: Oh well, it's there, so why not use it?--Anyway, I'm not one to forget these things quickly, so I'm guessing I'll be writing here whenever I feel like it.


Alright, first things first--I've always wanted to recommend books, really good books, great books. And even if no one cares, at least I'll have done it. The first one to be up this time is Anthony Burgess's A Dead Man in Deptford. I read it last year when I was fifteen (I'm still fifteen, I have a late birthday) and I've been itching to share it with someone ever since.

It shames me to admit I'm not quite clear about the book anymore, it's been months and I'm re-reading it for just the second time round now, I'm barely done with it but it'll have to go back to the library (the National Library of Singapore--now you know where I'm from) in less than a week's time. That's the problem of borrowing more than four books each time. So I suppose I'll start with the preliminaries (the rest you can get off Amazon.com, including a short excerpt).

A Dead Man is a historical novel set in sixteenth century London, it centres on the life of Christopher Marlowe, a Renaissance playwright who pioneered the use of blank verse (it's not really that he invented it but he defined and revolutionized the use of it) and who wrote the plays Doctor Faustus, Tamburlaine, The Tragedy of the Rich Jew of Malta among others (because that's really all I can recall at the moment). --Still mystified? Fine, he's the guy who got killed in a tavern brawl (circa 1593), officially over whom would foot the bill, but rumour says he was assassinated as the state considered him, once a spy for Elizabeth I's secret service (headed by her "Eyes", Sir Francis Walsingham), too much a threat to their interests to be allowed to live.--Personally, I feel his life was one big tragedy in itself and, after reading the book, I felt the loss not only as a reader, but also as a person.

Marlowe begins as a scholar of Divinity at Corpus Christi, and we watch as he plunges into the dark world of the Elizabethan secret service, reaches thrilling heights as a poet and playwright and struggles through his life as a constant questioner of the God he was supposedly created by. There is a profound sense of anger, existential angst and doubt that runs through the whole book. Marlowe is passionate man alienated from the rest of society by his genius, and yet, we see that he is really the best man of them all--with the highest morals (perhaps not morals as that is something defined by society itself, perhaps right- and free-thinking), the only truly honest, loving, kind, courageous (in a way) and sincere individual in this dark, lonely, godless universe. But don't get me wrong, his fighting spirit is palpable even in his despairing atheist's view of the world--he does want to live. Besides issues of faith, he questions the nature of lust and love and that of...Nature itself.

A panoramic view of Reformation Europe is unveiled before us; the spiritual confusion and darkness of the Europe of the Reformation is stunningly captured, the tumult that rushed out of the book very nearly knocked me dead the first time round. There is no one to trust, nothing to trust in, only the cold elements into which one is dissolved--back--into after death, man's fate, man's life, was in his own hands. This was Marlowe's despair, this was his anger, this was his vision. He walks the pages of this book as his own man (or at least he tries), and no one is his master. His personal ambition, his internal fires drive him...and they are the end of him too. As Marlowe moves, closing in on his death, there is a profound horror as the pages fly out of our hands. And the ending...no one will forget that, it is as sharp as the plunging of a dagger and as dazzling as the light reflected off it and the soft flesh never quite recovers from it. Part of us is as dead as Marlowe is. Hope is killed.

Read the book. Reread the book. Let Marlowe tread through his paces again and again and wonder where he went. This was all I felt during the reading of the book and the writing of the review. There is so much more to write on but I just cannot catch it at this moment so I will leave it off until the thoughts come upon myself again.

And oh, I didn't want to add this into the review because I thought that anyone reading it would blow up the point (especially since it's still Brokeback season) and forget the rest of whatever I have written, but I'll say it (hold onto your seats): Marlowe here is portrayed here as in most books, he is a homosexual and in the book he has one relationship--one relationship!--with a certain someone. So, if you're a strict Christian or are perhaps not too ready for anything icky (don't worry, I've got nothing against people who can't stomach smut--I can't either), you should think twice before you read the book as there are a couple of depictions of sex--but all written in Latin and they are more comedic than anything. But I will tell you--I can't stress this enough--the book is Literature, not some crappy exploitative squicky Gay Fiction (authors and publishers of such abominable books are, I believe, just out to make money out of bored old women, office ladies and lonely, repressed closet homosexuals).

Now, I shan't reveal more 'cos it'd be a crime to do so. So read the book, find out yourself, come back here and leave comments.

Besides the book review, I have to say that over these months (years?), I find that I have really changed. Writing style's changed, mood's changed. Not quite so self-assured and whiny anymore. I hope that I will never use this place as a podium for petty criticism because it's just not worth it. Leave comments if you like or don't like anything, that is, if anyone is reading at all. The little button at the bottom of each post is there to do it's job--come on now people, you can do it!