Last night, thanks to the generosity of a kind friend, I attended a potent performance of Othello at Broadway’s Ethel Barrymore Theater, with Denzel Washington as Othello and Jake Gyllenhaal as Iago. Sitting there, absorbed in the drama, I was transported to a distant memory: my first encounter with this powerful play. I recall being entertained, moved—but more than anything, profoundly shocked by Othello’s reaction after strangling Desdemona in Act Five:
“Soft you. A word or two before you go.
I have done the state some service, and they
know’t.
No more of that. I pray you in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely, but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued
eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drops tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinable gum. Set you down this.
And say besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turbanned Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,
I took by th’ throat the circumcisèd dog,
And smote him, thus.” 〈He stabs himself.〉
Why was this shocking? Because when Othello declares, “I have done the state some service,” I saw myself reflected sharply in those words. Shakespeare had captured precisely what I would have said in such desperation. It struck me then, and continues to now, that no one has understood the human condition quite like Shakespeare. Through Shakespeare, Homer, Virgil, Eliot, Tolstoy, Sappho and on and on, we are immersed in the stuff of humanity.
As Denzel continued, his words flooded my mind with another vivid memory. I had just arrived at Yale and found myself at the kitchen table of the legendary Professor Harold Bloom. He asked about my experience with Shakespeare; I eagerly shared my connection to Othello. Proudly, I quoted, “I have done the state some service,” feeling accomplished for having memorized seven whole words from Shakespeare in front of one of the greatest literary critics of our age.
Professor Bloom sat quietly, his head heavy from age and illness, nodding slowly. Then, with profound effort yet unmistakable passion, he quoted the entirety of Othello’s final speech verbatim, filling the room with awe and reverence. When he finished, his head lowered gently, his breathing heavy from nearly nine decades of life and declining health. Six weeks later, in the midst of my first semester at Yale, while attending what would be Professor Bloom’s final Shakespeare class, I learned of his passing.
Like Desdemona, taken by Othello’s hands, we all eventually feel death’s unyielding grip. This stark truth leaves me questioning: How do I honor the profound gift of life I still hold? This development came from being immersed in the great books. Thank you Directed Studies!
Poetry from 2,500 years ago still speaks to me today because I can see myself in the characters, which helps me think about this rodeo called “life” in a new way, to see myself with fresh eyes. Additionally, it lets us off the hook! We can see from the great works of literature, philosophy and history, that not much we do or say is all that original.
In closing
Professor Bloom does it far more eloquently than I ever could:
“The great poems, plays, novels, stories teach us how to go on living, even when submerged under forty fathoms of bother and distress. If you live ninety years you will be a battered survivor. Your own mistakes, accidents, failures at otherness beat you down. Rise up at dawn and read something that matters as soon as you can.”
Rise up indeed.
