Timon of Athens

Rather than begin with an introduction both of myself and of this blog, I will instead begin with a book. I'll shelve that introduction for another time, another place.

I am at the tail-end of a reading journey (which I do not doubt will prove the most fulfilling of my life) of Shakespeare's works; this journey began twelve years ago when I first read A Midsummer Night's Dream. I was on an extended hiatus from school and had checked out the play from our local library. I remember sitting in bed, eating a TV dinner I had microwaved myself, and reading the entire play in one sitting. I felt daring and grown-up. One, because I was home alone and left to my own devices, and, two, because I was reading literature that was clearly beyond me. I probably understood a fifth of it at the time (although perhaps that is being too generous), but I recall laughing whole-heartedly at the lovers' mercurial hearts. The line that sticks out most from that particular reading belongs to Lysander: 'And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake!' I still crack-up at that one when I see the show performed; in most audiences I think I am the only one to laugh.

Currently--what seems a lifetime later--I am reading Timon of Athens on the subway to and from work. This is my last Shakespeare play, but one. After Timon, it's Coriolanus. Once I'm finished with the canon, I don't truly know how I will respond. I suppose I should expect some sense of loss, some cold frigid feeling. After all, unless in my lifetime some lost play of Shakespeare's re-emerges (I'm hoping for Cardino simply because the title is so striking), Corialanus will prove the last time Shakespeare's words will be entirely new to me. But in actuality I don't feel any foreboding toward the end. For one thing, Shakespeare is one of the rare writers whose works I can read (or see) again and again without any trepidation. His plays age better than wine, and are far less expensive (cheap bottle of wine in New York: fifteen dollars, used Shakespeare play: four). Though this view will certainly not gain any points in originality: I attest that Shakespeare is the greatest writer of any age. There is something about his words that is inexpressible, they reach into the deepest valley of what it is to be human--and pull out conundrums. His metaphors, while never unfunctional, are always bold, daring, and replete. He creates characters that are at once bigger-than-life yet at the same time as true-to-life as any person who has ever graced this earth. He is the master imaginer.

But enough of this, I'm certain I will return to 'why-Shakespeare-above-all-others' again in the future. On to: Timon of Athens. I just finished Scene 1 of Act IV, in which Timon curses Athens--with true Shakespearean passion--the city that has grounded his ruin. The play is not one of Shakespeare's best, however I still find myself enthralled. One of the things that intrigues me most is how Shakespeare can write a compelling play centered almost entirely on economic issues (although I shouldn't be surprised: A Merchant of Venice). To me--a person with mostly an artistic and dramatic sensibility--it seems like a rather bland topic. But here Shakespeare brings both the micro-economy of Timon and the macro of Athens into light. He is fascinated by how the decisions one person--or a community--makes with money can so easily shape our fates. What are these gold pieces, these dubloons, these talents, this cash? Of course, Shakespeare doesn't answer this question; it would be ridiculous if he did. But for myself--entering my late twenties--I almost wish he did. Us post-college loaners could use a little Shakesperean advice.

Shakespeare's round-about, open treatment of loaning/lending reminds me of Neal Stephenson's own presentation of cash in Quicksilver. I read that book this summer, and while I did not love it enough to read the two following hefty volumes, I really did enjoy the read (except for the very strange sex/purging scenes). I was especially drawn-in by Stephenson's obsession with money or, perhaps more properly, the rough-and-tumble beginnings of a capitalist market economy where money becomes like air. It's there: we know that because we breathe it, it allows us to live; it's there, but it's no longer tangible. It's tied up. It's invested. It is--beyond true comprehension.

But Timon begins with actual assets, and then loses everything due to unbridled spending. Or does he lose everything because what he invests in (friendship) refuses to pay him back? There is no return on camraderie, certainly not cold hard glittering cash. So here money is not based on material worth or market value, but rather on social ties and social relationships. Or are social ties only corrupted by financial? Maybe. Maybe not. Here is a sign of things to come: there will be no answers in this blog. Answers don't belong in great literature, only questions and musings.

While it sucks to be Timon, at least he's expressive enough to pay back his lackluster friends with perfected cursing. I'll leave you with these impassioned words:


bankrupts, hold fast;
Rather than render back, out with your knives,
And cut your trusters' throats! bound servants, steal!
Large-handed robbers your grave masters are,
And pill by law. Maid, to thy master's bed;
Thy mistress is o' the brothel! Son of sixteen,
Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire,
With it beat out his brains! Piety, and fear,
Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth,
Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood,
Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades,
Degrees, observances, customs, and laws,
Decline to your confounding contraries,
And let confusion live!


(Library Book, NYPL 96th St.)


Titus Adronicus/Timon of Athens

By: William Shakespeare

General Editor: Sylvan Barnet

Signet, 1989

Paperback, 432 pages

ISBN: 0-451-52269-9