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SHAKSPER 1992: Astral Metaphors & Sonnet 116
From: Ken Steele (ksteele@epas.utoronto.ca) Date: 01/06/92
Shakespeare Electronic Conference, Vol. 3, No. 3. Monday, 6 Jan 1992. Date: Sun, 5 Jan 1992 16:20 CST From: Piers Lewis <LEWIS@MSUS1.MSUS.EDU> Subject: Sonnet 116 I have been thinking about sonnet 116 since Geoffrey Hargreaves asked the following question a few weeks ago: "Is there a definitive (or even confident) interpretation of the lines in Sonnet 116: It is the star to every wandering bark Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. ? Is the metaphor fractured? That is to say, you can take the height of a star, if you have a problem navigating, but no mariner has ever considered the worth of stars." I am not sure what is meant by a 'fractured' metaphor. I have never heard the expression before. If a metaphor is fractured, is that an imperfection? Should we be bothered by the fact that it 'says' two different things at the same time? On the one hand, love is like a star because you can steer by it; you always know where you are, no matter how storm-tossed or confused you may be in other respects; on the other, we don't understand it any better than we do the stars. We can 'take the height' of a star, which gives us a number that we can use, but that fact tells us nothing about its qualitative importance in what was for Shakespeare (in all liklihood) a ptolemaic universe where height had a moral value. So: while the true value of love may be as mysterious as that of the stars, we can use it to steer by as we do the stars; provided love is, as the poem's central conceit would have us believe, as unchanging as the fixed stars. Which brings us to the word that Shakespeare actually uses here which is 'worth' not 'value.' "Worth' was and is a word with a very wide range of social and moral applications, one of which pertains to character. The character of the person, man or woman, addressed in these sonnets is often in question which gives the line a particular poignance--especially if we remember that the man, at least, is socially higher and worthier than the poet. All this is pretty clear it seems to me; the real problems are elsewhere, beginning with the first lines-- "Let me not to the marriage of true minds/ Admit impediments"--which in the very act of firmly slamming the door on possible impediments to such marriages, effectively acknowledges that there are plenty of them out there. Similar stresses and strains are evident in what follows: Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! . . . oh yeah? that "O, no!" tacitly admits that it happens all the time. Things change, alter over time. Alterations bring on alterations; removals, removals. when people lose their youthful good looks--or their money--friends or lovers who once proclaimed eternal fidelity remove themselves and look elsewhere. As Bessie Smith sings, "No one knows you when you're down and out." Love, like everything else, is subject to time, is "Time's fool." Such knowledge is implicit in the straining, struggling language of these lines. And that brings us back to the matter of the poem's central conceit, which bravely proclaims the opposite: love is the one fixed point in a turning world. Well, yes. That's what everyone says and there are a few people who really believe it and behave accordingly; including the poet who knows, however, that he is virtually alone in this. And that, it seems to me, is why the final couplet, with its studied non-sequiturs, has such an air of empty bravado, whistling in the wind. Does this sonnet offer us an example of a poem 'deconstructing' itself, rhetorically subverting its own rehetoric, as De Man says all poetry and all literature must? Or is it merely imperfect? Piers Lewis <lewis@msus1.msus.edu>
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