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“King Henry’s Competence as a Ruler in Henry V”

Often remembered for his wild and boyish characteristics, King Henry assures his fellow English and those who oppose him that he has evolved from Prince Hal into a competent king. Although some of Henry’s actions in battle carry immoral implications, he defines a “competent” king as one who fully exercises the responsibilities of a ruler, as seen by his response to the Dauphin’s claim that Henry is still only a youth. Henry’s composed demeanor and well-devised rhetoric when speaking to various characters reveals that he is confident in his abilities as a ruler. Therefore, Henry’s rhetoric serves to convince the other characters and the audience, rather than himself, that he is capable of holding the throne of England, as he has grown from his past as Prince Hal and will “show [his] sail of greatness” upon the “throne of France” (I.ii.275-276).

Upon receiving the Dauphin’s gift of tennis balls, which symbolizes Henry’s image as a mere sportsman without governing capability, Henry responds with clever and serious rhetoric. The Dauphin’s insults do not dismantle Henry’s demeanor, revealing just how much the English King has matured: Henry says that he is “glad the Dauphin is so pleasant” and grateful for the Dauphin’s “present” and “pains” (I.ii.260-261). As Henry converts the imagery of a tennis game to that of a war, his words and attitude become very stern; he states that England “will in France, by God’s grace, play a set” and “strike [King Charles’] crown into the hazard” (I.ii.263-264). Henry acknowledges the Dauphin’s references to the wild Prince Hal by arguing that he never valued his position in England. Henry does assert, however, that he has made use of his boyish past.

“To be like a king,” Henry states, he will “show [his] sail of greatness,” and the Dauphin’s mockery will “mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down” and leave the unborn cursing the Dauphin’s ridicule. (I.ii.275-288) Henry’s rhetorical tactics carry a weight of severity that is somewhat masked by his earlier word play. As he compares war to a tennis match, Henry seems to be casually voicing threats, but, toward the end of his speech, he uses rhetorical manipulation to pin the cause of the impending war on the mockery of the Dauphin. The audience already knows that Henry has made the decision to wage war on France prior to his speaking with the ambassador, but Henry makes it seem as if the Dauphin’s insults have caused him to declare war. Henry’s manipulation also makes it seem as if he is quick to anger, thus providing the image of a serious ruler who is capable of overtaking the French empire. The primary function of the rhetorical manipulation, however, is to convince the Dauphin and France that Henry is a competent ruler; he could have simply stated that he has declared war, but his tactics place responsibility on the Dauphin, revealing hasty and clever decision-making.

In his argument with Michael Williams, Henry’s rhetoric serves to justify his duties as king and to convince his soldiers that a competent ruler is not responsible for his soldiers’ deaths. Williams states that King Henry is responsible for the ungraceful deaths of his soldiers because those who die, since they were led in battle by Henry, could not disobey orders for they are the king’s subjects. Henry objects with a set of analogies that focus on the structure of people dying in the process of following the orders of a superior. Henry argues that a king’s duties do not require him “to answer [the] endings of his soldiers,” just as the father and masters “purpose not their [subjects] death / when they purpose their services” (IV.i.151-154). Although a soldier, son and servant are subjects to their superiors, Henry argues that a king demands the service of his men but does not order them to die.

Henry’s rejection of responsibility does not serve to demean his power as king, but to assert that those who die in battle are suffering God’s vengeance due to their own personal sins. A king, Henry argues, is not more “guilty of [his soldiers’] / damnation that he was before guilty of those impieties / for which [his soldiers] are now visited” because those who die should be prepared for God’s justice. (IV.i.169-171) By arguing that “every subject’s duty / is the king’s, but every subject’s soul is his own,” Henry transfers the responsibility of death back to the soldiers. (IV.i.171-172) In addressing the soldiers’ souls, Henry targets their most intrinsic parts; the soldiers are essentially forced to clear their consciences before battle in fear of suffering an unpromising afterlife. Henry is again clever in his rhetorical manipulation because the soldiers are both obligated to follow their king and also left with the responsibility of their own deaths. If a man dies without repenting his sins, he is deserving due to his lack of faith, and if he dies after he has repented, it is to his advantage for his conscience is clear before the judgment of God. If a soldier were to live after clearing his conscience, Henry argues, it would mean he has been blessed by God for his preparation, and should therefore advise others to prepare for death. Henry’s logic and manipulation convince the audience that he is a capable ruler by avoiding his soldiers’ claims of conviction, and therefore avoiding the negativity of death produced by war. By transferring responsibility from himself to his soldiers, Henry creates a system that encourages his soldiers’ obedience while also making their fate strictly a product of repentance and God’s will.

After his argument with Williams and Bates, Henry expresses, in a soliloquy, how he is burdened with the lives of all his people. The responsibilities placed upon Henry only bring him grief, for the only compensation he gains in being king is a ceremony, which holds no value for Henry. In an attempt to find value in his ceremonies, Henry addresses “Ceremony” directly by asking for its worth and why he should admire it. Henry states that Ceremony only provides “place, degree and form,” things which merely instill fear in others through “poisoned flattery” (IV.i.236-243). Henry does not find satisfaction in the fame and glory that kingship supposedly brings because all that is produced from Ceremony is superficial and meaningless. Since Henry sees that Ceremony as all that separates him from an ordinary man, he argues that the lone reward of Ceremony cannot even cure him of sickness, thus stripping him of immunity to a danger common to all living beings. Henry’s reference to sickness places him on a level equal to his people, thereby underlining Ceremony’s fundamental uselessness. This rhetorical tactic proves effective because Ceremony is inanimate and therefore cannot object to Henry’s argument. As Henry refutes each supposed benefit of Ceremony, his argument accumulates with clear reasoning, which later aids in convincing the audience of his competence as king. Henry even goes so far as to argue that all the material possessions of Ceremony fail to provide him the peace of mind of a slave – who, after all, endures gruesome treatment day and night only to labor until he dies. A slave has the pleasure of being “a member of the country’s peace,” while Henry is burdened with the constant maintenance of that peace. (IV.i.273)

These lamentations notwithstanding, however, Henry embraces his responsibilities as king and continues into battle. Rhetorically, Henry’s words are honest, for no other characters are present on stage. This allows for the audience to first sympathize with Henry, and then realize that he is indeed a competent ruler because he rejects the materialistic and superficial qualities of ceremony that serve as the only supposed benefit of being a king. Without the presence of other characters, the audience cannot help but view Henry’s lament as genuine because, if Henry rejects Ceremony, his motivation to rule must lie solely in a desire to preserve the safety of England.

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Assuming the throne of England provides Henry with an overwhelming task in itself, but his immature past as Prince Hal introduces an additional obstacle for him to surpass as king. Henry’s manipulative rhetoric in placing the consequence of war on the mockery of the Dauphin constructs Henry’s image as a competent ruler to the French because he employs initiative and responsibility in not only defending his character but in his willingness to take action. Henry’s rhetorical ability to manipulate his soldiers into following his orders and assuming responsibility for their deaths proves to the audience that he is capable of leading an army without the conviction produced by death. Henry’s humble rejection of “Ceremony” finalizes his attempt to prove his competence as a king to the audience. Not only is Henry disinterested in his only reward for being king, he accepts the responsibility of protecting England and marches forward into battle.

The Christian will not find comfort in William Shakespeare’s King Lear. Imbued with the ideals of divine justice and good prevailing over evil, the Christian will be appalled as he delves into the tragedy to find pure-hearted gentlemen reduced to rags and feigned madness and deceitful characters easily duping their way into power without consequence. This is the godless universe that Shakespeare creates, setting his characters’ plots in a world devoid of the heavenly checks and balances that reward moral people and punish evildoers. A sort of bleak chaos ensues, where wrongs are not righted in the end, and the random results of these characters’ actions tend toward calamity. As the few righteous characters in the play suffer immensely, ending up in total misfortune, and the protagonist dies, after repenting for his errors, with an anguish that is never redeemed, it is clear that Shakespeare’s tragedy unfolds in a universe where divine justice has no jurisdiction.

Of the small number of honest characters in King Lear, virtually none of them are rewarded for their pure hearts. In fact, quite the opposite occurs as the honorable are stricken with misfortune and are utterly mistreated by those they come in contact with. The character Edgar is a sound example of this phenomenon in the play. When Edgar, the loving and loyal son of the moderately powerful and respected Lord Gloucester, is framed by his illegitimate brother, Edgar must flee to save himself. Because he falsely believes that Edgar was plotting to murder him, Gloucester orders that Edgar be executed if he is found, forcing the unfortunate Edgar to assume the guise of a crazy beggar to survive and guard his identity. The reader has first contact with Edgar in his new persona when Lear encounters Edgar in a hovel pretending to be Poor Tom, a man dressed in rags, convinced the Devil is encouraging him to commit suicide. Once he is alone, Edgar contemplates the terrible state he must endure to survive:

Whiles I may ‘scape,

I will preserve myself, and am bethought

To take the basest and most poorest shape

That every penury in contempt of man

Brought near to beast. My face I’ll grime with filth,

Blanket my loins… (II.iii.5-10)

Edgar now must live as one of the most hated and despicable members of society in order to escape persecution for something he did not do. Although he has always been true to his father, Edgar is now reduced to living in rags, caked with dirt and exposed to the elements. An innocent man is driven to live like a beast while his treacherous brother reaps the benefits of his dastardly plan, a situation that divine justice, if present, would not allow. At the end of the play, Edgar returns as a gentlemen and assumes the position of King of England. This, unfortunately, is a sad consolation prize for the hardships he has endured and the despair he has witnessed. For Edgar, becoming King cannot undo Gloucester’s death, take back his brother’s betrayal, or redeem the horrors committed against Lear and Cordelier. Edgar, one of the play’s few genuinely good characters, becomes a broken man after witnessing and tolerating the pain that permeates his world.

One of the other few totally pure characters in King Lear receives a similarly dismal fate, only hers is arguably worse. Cordelia is King Lear’s youngest and favorite daughter. When the King decides to split his land between his three daughters, Cordelia receives nothing and is disinherited by her father because she will not taint the true love she feels for the man by flattering him in a grandiose way. This act of authenticity, which is contrasted in her older treacherous sisters’ fake and pompous flattery, sets Cordelia’s misfortune into action. The woman is disowned by Lear and goes to live with her new husband, the King of France. When Cordelia hears of her sisters’ mistreatment of their father and of Lear’s terrible state, Cordelia comes in to try to save her beloved father. After being so wronged by the man, Cordelia says this of Lear:

O, dear father,

It is thy business that I go about.

…No blown ambition doth our arms incite,

But love, dear love, and our aged father’s right.

Soon may I hear and see him. (IV.iv.26-32)

Although the man had unrightfully disowned her, Cordelia has the honor to step in and risk her life to address the wrongs against her father and to try to reinstate the man’s power. No bitterness is detected in this markedly pure character’s speech about her father. Cordelia expresses her resilient love for Lear and the work she carries out in his name. Ultimately, death is the price that Cordelia pays for her loyalty and when the French army fails to beat the English, Cordelia and her Father are taken prisoner by Edmund. Though it would be no tragedy without this component, it is the play’s toughest blow that Cordelia should die. The most blameless character in the play, the one who comes back to the father that mistreated her to save him from his two other deceitful daughters, dies by hanging before the conclusion of this madness. Cordelia’s unfailing righteousness is not rewarded by this chaotic universe. Rather, her good heart is punished for acting lovingly and honorably and the woman is needlessly killed. Making her death seem even more unordered, meaningless, and tragic is the fact that a guard was on his way to call off her execution. Cordelia is a good-hearted character who falls victim to the godless universe in which she resides, where the gods are unmoved by righteousness and treachery alike.

Though the play is rife with good men ending in misfortune and bad ones prospering, no better evidence can be brought forth for a lack of divine justice in this world than the tragedy’s protagonist. From the very first scene of the play, King Lear does things that put him at odds with the reader. His disinheriting the pure Cordelia and banishing his just advisor Kent are inappropriate actions that depict Lear as a brash and unloving ruler and father. Through the intense anguish he experiences throughout the play, the audience beings to sympathize with the man who teeters on the brink of insanity from grief. As he is betrayed by his two oldest daughters, exposed to the harsh elements, and ends up ranting in hallucinations that mourn his lost kingship, Lear wins the audience’s pity back. By Act IV, scene vii, it is clear that Lear is sorry for his actions and the wrongs he has committed against Cordelia. Lear atones for his mistakes, recognizes his errors and asks his youngest daughter for forgiveness: “Pray you now, forget and forgive. I am old and foolish” (98-99). In a vaguely Christian sense, Lear repents for his sins and is forgiven for the wrongs he has committed. If King Lear were a Christian work, one in which the Heavens recognized a changed man and rewarded him, Lear’s fortunes would have improved and his life would have ended happily at the close of the play. Quite the contrary occurs here as this tragedy ends, as most all do, with emotionally painful deaths. Once Lear has repented, the deepest blow that the man could imagine, the death of his most beloved child Cordelia is struck, leaving him virtually shattered mentally and emotionally. With his daughter’s lifeless body in his hands, Lear cries:

And my poor fool is hanged. No, no, no life?

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life,

And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,

Never, never, never, never, never.— (V.iii.369-372)

With his favorite daughter dead in front of him, Lear is beside himself with emotion and utterly crushed. Here Lear notes himself the seeming injustice of this situation: his beautiful, honorable Cordelia has perished while beings of much less worth (in Lear’s eyes) go on living. Lear finds this intolerable and difficult to comprehend. The fact that Cordelia is gone forever is too much for Lear to handle as he veers off into a repetitive mantra before dying presumably from heartbreak. Shakespeare’s universe seems not to care that Lear has repented his misdeeds or even that he carried them out to begin with. The world that Lear suffers in is totally indifferent to his pain or repentance. Although Lear has suffered greatly and expresses his sorrow over disowning Cordelia, the godlessness of King Lear does not reward Lear’s change of heart but goes on unflinchingly to kill the person Lear loves the most before taking his life as well.

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The conclusion of Shakespeare’s tragedy will not sit well with the Christian reader. The misfortune of morally righteous characters coupled with the success of evil ones does not coincide with the views of Christianity, in which God maintains the victory of good over evil. Naturalists, however, will see in King Lear a realistic, if not pessimistic, depiction of a world where the universe is uncaring when it comes to the fate of human beings. These minds will see good deeds punished and treachery rewarded and will embrace what they believe to be the bleak truth of a world where random results trump divine justice. Shakespeare sets his tragedy King Lear in a universe devoid of divine justice and gods who right the wrongs of the world. Instead, the playwright crafts his story in a universe where the pure-hearted suffer, dying in total misfortune, where those who repent are met with disinterest and those who do not prosper from their evil deeds, where reality prevails and divine justice does not.

If you used the word faggot in Shakespeare’s time; you wouldn’t be called a homophobe, you’d simply be referring to a bundle of sticks. If you considered women less capable than men; you wouldn’t be called a misogynist, you’d be a Jacobean realist. If you believed the leader of the nation to be God’s rightfully appointed hand on earth; you wouldn’t be considered insane or even unusual. When it comes to understanding; context is everything, and King Lear is undoubtedly a timeless reflection of the Jacobean era for which it was composed. By employing dramatic techniques to intertwine the notions of justice, identity, and fate with contextual elements unique to his time and audience, Shakespeare reflected the true nature of the Jacobean world that he and his audiences lived and breathed. Through this interlinking of the broader human experience with era-dependant contextual notions, Shakespeare not only engages audiences across vastly contrasted time periods, but further allows us to understand the context that shaped King Lear, and ultimately challenges the modern audience to consider the true extent to which their understanding not only of the text, but of the world, is coloured by their own individual contextual lens.

In King Lear, Shakespeare questions whether “the heavens” make it their object to deliver justice to humanity or simply “like wanton boys…kill us for their sport”. This fundamental question of the true nature of justice is one explored from the moment the plays tragic plot is foreshadowed in the revelation of Lear’s “darker purpose” “to crawl unburdened toward death”. This expression of hubris, that ironically alludes to the “future strife” to come of trusting Goneril and her sister “of the selfsame metal”, means little in the eyes of today’s audience, but to Shakespeare’s audience, it was a grave offence against the heavens and a careless mockery of the divine right of kings. In the God fearing mind of the Jacobean viewer, Lear has sealed his tragic fate just a few lines into the play by putting the world out of order, further emphasised by the pathetic fallacy of the storm. Shakespeare, however, doesn’t limit his exploration solely to divine justice. By utilizing conflict as a means of highlighting comparative views of justice, Shakespeare employs characters such as “legitimate Edgar” and “bastard Edmund” as symbolic lenses for contrasting perspectives and ideologies. Edmund’s decision to acquire “lands by wit” represents a blatant rejection of the prevailing Jacobean system of belief, and his disillusionment with the notion of natural justice. Edmund thus can be considered a personification of Renaissance thought, seeking to understand and control the natural world without regard for the supernatural. On the other hand, the audience is presented with Edmund’s distinctly opposed brother, Edgar, who quite openly believes “the gods are just” even in the wake of overwhelming tragedy and the horrific mutilation of his father. In his unwavering belief, Edgar symbolizes the more common view of justice among the Jacobean audience. In one sense, divine justice is delivered when most of the characters metaphorically “taste the cup of their deservings”, however, this is tainted with ambiguity when the ever honest and forgiving Cordelia dies, leaving the audience to ask the rhetorical question “why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?” Through these conflicting and juxtaposed events, Shakespeare highlights that the true nature of justice as little more than perspective, and in effect, argues against the notion of absolute divine justice. Instead symbolizing that “the wheel is come full circle” when almost all the characters are undone by their deeds against each other and can no longer “make guilty of [their] disasters the sun”, effectively reflecting the superstitious context whilst making a subtle attack on it through the words of Edmund. This essentially presents justice in King Lear as a perpetual struggle between poetic, divine, and human justice, and through these conflicting modes of justice, Shakespeare mirrors the ongoing clashing of ideologies taking place in the real world at the time of composition. This conflict ultimately drives home the fundamental point made in King Lear when read from a modern perspective, that true justice is little more than a reflection of the context by which it’s measured.

The importance of identity in determining one’s fate was unprecedented in the feudalistic and superstitious Jacobean context. To have a certain “star in the firmament twinkled on [ones] bastardizing” was to be rendered “rough and lecherous” for life, and to “have lands by wit”, “not by birth” was to express a serious form of hubris, a direct moral attack on God, of equal gravity through Jacobean eyes as Lear’s early retirement plan. Shakespeare reflects this contextual understanding of identity’s connection to fate through the juxtaposition of the overly trusting Edgar with his cunning brother Edmund, who are engaged in a constant struggle between faith in the divine and worldly ambition. The audience is called to both love and hate Edmund through his conflicted characterisation, Shakespeare utilizes Edmund’s soliloquys to provide insight into the prejudices he endures due to his identity as a bastard and encourages them to empathise with his plight, however, this sentiment is quickly inverted as the plot develops and his duplicitous scheme is revealed. Shakespeare further employs bitter irony to demonstrate the power of ones identity on their fate through characters like Albany’s servant, Kent, and the Fool. Each of whom offers sound and thoughtful counsel to their masters, but is severely punished by people or by plot, highlighting the prevailing truth of their context, that Edmund only learns by the stroke of Edgars blade: the great chain of being must not be broken. In contrast with modern viewers, who love to see the underdog win; Shakespeare’s audience would splatter the walls of the Globe theatre with rotten fruit if a character got away with overcoming their caste, and this is clear in unfortunate fates prescribed to those who dare overstep their role. Interestingly, parallel with asserting the importance of identity, Shakespeare utilizes duplicitous characters and deception to critique the superficiality of the Jacobean view of identity. In this, Shakespeare mirrors the philosophy of Edmund, whilst still painting it as wrong in the context. He first alludes to this with Lear’s willingness to accept blatantly hyperbolic declarations of love from Regan and Goneril and attempting to coerce Cordelia to “mend [her] speech” before banishing for refusing to “heave her heart into her mouth”. This contrasts Shakespeare’s own typical contextual lens and challenged his audience to consider whether their superstitions were truly supernatural in nature, or little more than self-fulfilling prophecies. Lear’s apparent wilful blindness could be further considered a double entendre, referencing the public scandal of William Allen who mistakenly divided his wealth among three daughters. Or alternatively, when coupled with the motif of Lear’s madness, it could allude to the case of Brian Annesley whose daughter attempted to steal his kingdom by having him ruled insane, only for him to be saved by another daughter, incidentally named Cordell.

When all is said and done, and the death march plays, it is ultimately in the sentiments of the audience that the true importance of context is revealed. To the modern audience, the storm is still raging and the world is still out of order – however to the Jacobean audience, justice has been done and order has been restored. The guilty have been punished for their hubris and only the righteous ascend unscathed from the maelstrom to “grow” and “prosper”. It is this distinction that not only reflects the overwhelming influence of context on King Lear, but more significantly, proves the true power of its construction by engaging audiences across the vast divides of chronology and context. It is in Shakespeare’s ability to so effectively connect context with the issues of the broader human condition that the Jacobean context outlives its inhabitants and is forever immortalized in the words of the play.

If Shakespeare penned two King Lears, he created three King Lears. There is the Quarto's hero, the Folio's hero, and the hero who exists somewhere in the interplay. The last of these is not the same Lear who emerges variously in various conflated editions. That Lear is an editor's creation. The Lear I refer to contradicts himself at one and the same moment, could never be seen on any stage, and dies two very different deaths.

In an essay on Hamlet's textual problems, Stanley Urkowitz wrote that comparing Q1 to Q2 is "rather like [perusing] a museum or a gallery showing the variant states of the great Rembrandt etchings... Each can stand alone, but when viewed side by side they show how the work grew and altered, and we can better appreciate the particular virtues of each trial." At this hypothetical Rembrandt exhibit a visitor to the museum might also concern himself with the question of what the differences between the etchings mean in themselves. A mole on an attractive woman's nose that grows bigger from etching to etching suggests something about Rembrandt's conception of beauty. The revisions might say as much about Rembrandt's art as his discreet productions.

There are many important differences between The History of King Lear of the 1608 Quarto and The Tragedy of King Lear of the 1623 Folio. As every critic who has written on the matter has pointed out, the Folio "lacks some 285 lines and contains some 115 not found" in the Quarto. The mock-trial scene of 3.6 is entirely missing from the Folio. Albany and the Fool's parts are substantially cut. Edgar's character is often argued to be given more importance. The emphasis on the war between France and Britain in F shifts to the civil war between Albany and Cornwall in Q. As the tide of criticism has tilted, since the publication of Gary Taylor and Michael Warren's Division of the Kingdoms in 1983, to the belief that these differences represent an authorial revision, high-ranking commentators like Urkowitz, E. A. J. Honingman, and Stanley Wells find Q and F each to be consistent and coherent in its own right. R. A. Foakes, under the "general editorship" of David Kastan, attempts both to conflate and to preserve the two versions in his Arden edition. "Words and passages found only in the Quarto are framed in this edition by superscript Q, and words and passages found only in the Folio by superscript F." This half-hearted contrivance hides the problem cleverly enough - until Lear dies in 5.3.

What I wish to do in this essay is to take a closer look at Lear's two deaths, and to speculate on what they mean taken as an incongruent whole. From the criticism I have encountered, it seems that most scholars content themselves to argue that, indeed, Lear's two deaths put two different Shakespearean spins on the play, that these spins are to a greater or lesser degree incompatible, and that therefore there are two different plays. All this is important, and I will attempt to deal with it on firm textual grounds, but what appears to me to be most exciting - and, maybe, a tad original - is the idea of this third death, this third Lear, and this third King Lear. I will suggest a possible reading of such a Lear, if only to open up an interesting (and perchance new?) way of looking at the King Lear and the King Lear that every reader senses living and dying behind these veils of text.

In both Q and F, Albany delivers his ignorant proclamation of poetic justice just moments after Lear walks in carrying Cordelia's dead body: "All friends shall taste / the wages of their virtue and all foes / the cup of their deservings" (5.3.301-3). Having assumed a greater authority, he feels that it is within his power to meet out grace and perdition. This would be laughable, if only the audience could laugh. "All foes" have already tasted "the cup of their deservings." Edmund, Goneril, and Regan each died a violent death. And certainly Cordelia's corpse indicates that at least one "friend" shall never "taste the wages" of her "virtue," especially in a pagan world devoid of Christ's heavenly shadow. Besides showing Albany to be an idiot, the line strikes the most painful of contrasts with what Albany presumably points at when he shrieks, "O see, see!" (5.3.304)

There, Lear says in both texts, "And my poor fool is hanged" (5.3.304). The "And" conjoins Lear's declaration and Albany's foolishness for the audience. It also hints at the possibility that Lear is directly "and" consciously refuting Albany. This sarcasm would hardly be out of character for the bereaved father, who now more than ever is a man "more sinned against than sinning." The reference to the "poor fool" is usually taken as Shakespeare's (as opposed to Lear's) allusion to the real fool who disappears in 3.6, as "poor fool" is also a term of endearment. But it seems plausible, given Lear's mental state, that he is actually suffering from a momentary hallucination. Lear hallucinates many times over the course of his madness, most notably in Q's mock-trial scene, and there are tens of references to faulty vision. Shakespeare has also prepared us for how deeply Lear would grieve over his fool's death, when Lear says at the heath, "Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart / That's sorry yet for thee" (3.2.72-73). This line jives nicely with Lear's last line in Q, "Break, heart, I prithee break" (Q 5.3.303), of which more will be said later.* A hallucination here would paint Lear as in part ignorant of his own miserable state. It would be much the worse to lose his daughter than his jester. Though F and Q share the ambiguous line, the question of Lear's ability to grasp how low is his lot and how terrible are the gods that made his world is answered differently in the two original texts.

"No, no life" are Lear's next words in Q, and "No, no, no life" in F. The Folio echoes the extra "no" later with two extra "never[s]," the cumulative effect of which is to make Lear a little less in control of his language. "No, no life" is an assertion, implying in part some resignation to the fact; "No, no, no life" sounds more like the defensive cry of a lunatic. If I appear to exaggerate the distinction, it may help the reader to say the words aloud. In any case, Q's three nevers against F's five should make the point clear. The two variations, each consistent in itself, together suggest a dramatist revising his text for the clear purpose of imbuing a dying king with the final touches of an insanity he has suffered from for the last three acts.

"Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life / And thou no breath at all?" asks Lear of Cordelia's corpse (and probably of the gods as well) in both Q and F. This is a good question, to which Lear never receives a reply. Technically speaking, the answer most likely lies in Albany's forgetfulness. "Great thing of us forgot!" (5.3.235) he said, some 60 lines earlier, Lear and Cordelia having strangely slipped his (and Edgar's) mind. Had he remembered earlier, he might have gotten Edmund to confess his sinister order for the heroes' deaths in time to save them, which might well have been the premise of Nathum Tate's infamous and popular rewrite. In a sense then, Albany and Edgar deserve Lear's overanxious condemnation in F: "A plague upon you murders, traitors all" (5.3.230). In another and more important sense, nobody really does. To borrow Deepak Chopra's definition for synchronicity, "a conspiracy of improbabilities" is responsible for the tragedy that is 5.3. A thousand little things, a thousand coincidences, all came together to kill off Cordelia. Why was she captured? Why was the hangman on hand so willing to carry out his task? What in the stormy world of the play necessitated this inexplicable end to Lear's only love. Just as Shakespeare made it rain "too rough / For nature to endure" (3.4.2-3), it is as if Shakespeare, above any of his characters including Edmund, has sent Cordelia off to die. The very absence of a compelling reason becomes the reason. It is a gratuitous death in the most disturbing sense of the phrase. It has no meaning other than the one that Lear will - or will not - bring to it.

"O thou wilt come no more," Lear says in Q (and similarly in F), without attempting an answer to his question. "Never, never, never. Pray you, undo / this button. Thank you, sir" (also in F). There is only one other use of the word "undo" in King Lear. It comes as blind Gloucester pontificates to his disguised son on the material inequalities of the world. He asks the gods to "Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man... feel your power quickly: / So distribution should undo excess / And each man have enough" (4.1.72-74). At the moment Lear utters the word, he stands as a once "superfluous and lust-dieted man" (no longer, for sure), who by his politeness and deference to an inferior (be it a servant, Kent, or Edgar) does to a certain extent "undo excess." Lear has learned the lesson of respecting inferiors as equals. But the application of the lesson is out of all proportion to the circumstances. Whoever does or does not undo his button would probably interpret Lear's deference as the rambling of a king who has lost all sense of self. The request itself is also a little insane. Shakespeare is clearly referring back to the storm, during which Lear tries to throw off his "lendings." This connection makes sense inasmuch as first, we assume it refers to Lear's button and not one on Cordelia, and second that we read into it the idea that Lear is once again exposing himself to the harsh rain of the gods. Perhaps Lear is making the connection in his own (unconscious or conscious) mind.

This last line of thought holds much better for the Quarto, in which Lear ends the verse with, "O, O, O, O!" This is the first obviously significant difference between the two death scenes. "O, O, O, O!" might give an audience a way to understand the button request; Lear may simply need more air to fully feel and air his grief, just as he needs to be naked to fully feel the wrath of the Heavens. What emerges from this reading of Q is a mature Lear, mostly in control of his faculties, capable of understanding that his loss is permanent, inexplicable, and beyond words. "O, O, O, O!" resonates with the fool's first act jibe that Lear is an "O without a figure; I am better than thou art now. I am a fool, thou art nothing" (1.4.183-5). Lear realizes he is an "O," if you will. He has become the man who can answer his own haunting question: "Who is it who can tell me who I am?" (1.4.221). Putting aside for the moment the fact that, in his awful and aware grief, Lear is literally reduced to "nothing" (zero, 0, O), an audience at a performance of the Quarto's play gets to see a Lear who has come to terms with himself, and just like Shakespeare's other great tragic heroes will die at the point where he knows he has reached the end of his journey.

In this context, Lear's very last line before his death in Q, "Break, prithee, heart break," reads and plays like the last willful command of a dying king who is somehow, against all odds, still in control of himself. If the gods haphazardly rule over the world in spite of kings, then a king asserts himself against the gods by ruling over himself. An ornery Lear had said to Regan, "I have full cause of weeping, but this heart / Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws / Or e'er I'll weep" (2.2.473-75). Now, Lear has lost control of his weeping ("O, O, O, O!') but gained control of his heart. As Lear himself puts it, in the Quarto he "die[s] bravely, like a bridegroom," ("smug bridegroom in F")(Foakes, 4.6.194). A bridegroom, one assumes, faces marriage like a man.*

This triumphant death is the more triumphant in counterpoint to Gloucester's unsuccessful suicide attempt. "This world," he says, thinking himself atop a cliff that Edgar has laid out in his imagination, "I do renounce and in your [the gods'] sights / Shake patiently my great affliction off" (4.6.42). An audience that has never before seen King Lear will learn in a few moments that these lines are, to put it crudely, pathetic. Gloucester fails in the most "wretched" and absurd way, mocked by his son and the gods for his pride and his blindness. By an implied contrast, Lear deserves what pride he has left - or, to pick a better word than pride: dignity - and can see clearly at the moment of his death.

What Lear sees in the Folio, at this same moment, is false. "Look on her, look, her lips, / look there, look there!" Earlier in the scene, Lear held a real or imagined feather to Cordelia's lips and said in both Q and F:

This feather stirs. She lives. If it be so,

It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows

That ever I have felt. (5.3.262-4)

This suggests that what Lear sees on Cordelia's lips is exactly what Lear wants to see on Cordelia's lips. If earlier in his insanity Lear erroneously claimed in the Folio that he "ha[s] the power / to seal th'accuser's lips," (4.6.164), now in F his imagination claims for him the power to make move again the lips of a dead innocent. As Cordelia says, "restoration hang / thy medicine on my lips," (4.7.26) Lear looks to her lips for the antidote to his agony when he says five times "never." Although "it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows / That ever I have felt," it is an illusion. This is the last moment Shakespeare, in F, gives us of his great fallen king. To redeem all of Lear's sorrows by a hallucination is to suggest that the greatest of our sorrows are transcended only by the comforting contrivances of the imagination.

Many have argued that Lear's last utterance in F serves much the same purpose as his last in Q, that by drawing attention to Cordelia's lips Lear shifts the focus from himself and, in full recognition of the tragedy of the moment, dies an even nobler death of greater awareness. If it is true that Lear fully understands Cordelia is dead in F, it seems clear, however, that this is hardly triumphant. Shakespeare has already told us in no uncertain terms that Lear is capable of the most profound pathos. To label his dying words as a miserable reiteration of that fact would be to deprive Lear of what Shakespeare only tells his audience about him in Q: the ability to lay claim to his own self, even in, or perhaps as a result of, grasping the full horror of the world. Also, Lear's last words in F prohibit both Lear's audience on stage and Lear's audience in the bleachers from watching him stride valiantly to his end; we are told to "look there," to look elsewhere, at the bleakest image of a paradise lost.

The argument that Lear knows Cordelia to be dead falls short as well. In a scene where Lear is constantly alternating between sanity ("My poor fool is hanged" is true) and insanity ("My poor fool is hanged" is hallucinatory), the jerky and grammatically confused line "Look on her, look, her lips, / look there, look there!" certainly seems like the last blurting out of a man who has given over into a wish-fulfilling madness. Furthermore, the play provides a model for the joyous death we may assume Lear passes through, if as I am arguing he believes Cordelia alive again in F. According to Edgar's account, Gloucester's "flawed heart, / Alack, too weak the conflict to support, / Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, / Burst smilingly" (5.3.195-197). Notably, this is upon discovering that his once lost and ever beloved son Edgar is alive and well.

There is another example of a heart "Twixt two extremes of passion, / joy and grief," which might be argued to imbue Lear's death with a beauty of its own. Upon receipt of Kent's letter, Cordelia apparently took on the following aspect, as reported by an unbiased gentleman:

You have seen

Sunshine and rain at once, her smiles and tears

Were like a better way. Those happy smilets

That played on her ripe lip seemed not to know

What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence

As pearls from diamonds dropped. In brief,

Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved

If all could so become it. (4.3.17-24)

Rain figures so prominently in Lear, while sunshine bursts through the clouds explicitly only here, that to find the two reconciled together in Cordelia's face underscores the unbearable horror of Lear's loss. The pretty passage also suggests that Shakespeare somehow believes the sheer poetry of Lear's hallucination of "breath" on Cordelia's "ripe lip" might transcend the void her loss creates. Only an audience could validate such a Shakespearean hypothesis; a critic will always have a near impossible time forcing his clumsy apparatuses around these lofty vapors. But even if Lear's final "sorrow would be a rarity most beloved / if all could so become it," his death in F is, at best, insanely beautiful in a play that only once, only in the gentleman's passage above, contains the idea that beauty can somehow compensate for purposeless misery. Unless, of course, the entire Folio edition of King Lear is supposed to be so beautiful that it should compensate us for our misery. In either case, Shakespeare's art becomes the locus of all values, subverting the possibility of any real redemption or any reality-based happiness in a real world. The meaning of the Folio edition becomes the meaninglessness of the Folio edition. Cordelia lays dead and Lear stupidly follows her into nothingness for no other reason than that "sorrow" can be gorgeous. This is Shakespeare the nihilist, engaging in his art to trick his audience, as he does Lear, into looking at something so beautiful that we forget there is nothing "there," upon silent lips.

If Shakespeare, as the new revisionists argue and hopefully my analysis in some small way supports, thoughtfully turned Q's draft into the work we know as F, at least so far as Lear's death is concerned, he has resolved in two distinctly different ways the problems the story of King Lear presents. In Q, Lear dies as Gloucester wishes to; in F, Lear dies just as Gloucester does. The problem with this analogy - besides the fact that Shakespeare never intended for anyone to make it - is that when Gloucester attempts to jump from a cliff that does not exist, he is still under the illusion that Edgar may be dead and gone, whereas in Q, Lear dies with the full knowledge that Cordelia is truly no more. And when Gloucester's heart finally does "burst," it bursts from the knowledge of Edgar's healthy presence, whereas in F, Lear dies under the illusion that Cordelia lives yet again. In Q, Shakespeare counterbalances the ridiculousness of Gloucester's suicide attempt with the power and triumph of a decisive Lear deciding he has had enough. In F, Shakespeare denies both men any power over their respective fates, leaving the absurd suicide attempt as the paradigm of man's power over himself. Gloucester in the Folio would be inarguably correct when he says famously, "As flies to wanton boys, so are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport" (4.1.41-2), if only there were proof of his assumption of some form of divinity anywhere in Lear's divided Britain. That Shakespeare changes his mind on the matter, while managing in either case to produce a coherent and convincing piece of drama, shows first how tenuously King Lear holds on to its ethos of the regenerative power of suffering, and second how flimsy the distinction is in Shakespeare's mind between the nature of tragedy and the tragedy of nature.

The question of the validity of that distinction occupies the whole of King Lear, be it in Q or F or both together or in some hodgepodge critical conflation. Lear knows full well by act three that both he and Gloucester are characters in an Oedipal-like tragedy:

Nothing could have subdued nature

To such a lowness but his unkind daughters.

Is it the fashion that discarded fathers

Should have thus little mercy on their flesh?

Judicious punishment: ?twas this flesh begot

Those pelican daughters. (3.4.66-71)

It would take Hamlet, Macbeth and Othello, not to mention Oedipus, the entire length of their respective plays before being able to conceive of the idea that their lot was a "Judicious punishment" for their own faults. The label that Lear assigns to his particular fault, "this flesh [that] begot / Those pelican daughters," may seem to dodge any real responsibility, but given Lear's later rambling that "But to the girdle do the gods inherit, / Beneath is all the fiend's: there's hell, there's darkness..." (4.5.121-2) it is clear he really does hold it a terrible sin, worthy of the punishment of an earthly damnation ("hell"), to have had sex with his daughters' mother. So if Lear has a firm grasp of his own tragedy, what then is the purpose of continuing on with the play, other than to show that the world itself is tragic? This rhetorical question is especially penetrating if Lear correctly holds fecundity accountable for all the wrongs that fall on his head; fecundity is life itself, the endless cycle of nature. While Q suggests that the purpose of tragedy is to overcome it, F's vision seems an infinite bleakness, moderated only by illusion. The tension between Lear's death in the Folio and his death in the Quarto is the same tension that drives King Lear, as a single play, forward.

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Putting Q and F next to each other sheds an interesting light on what Shakespeare hopes to accomplish in Lear. At the very least, it elucidates the meaning Shakespeare makes of illusion, both within King Lear and with King Lear. When Edgar leads Gloucester to a cliff that isn't there, Gloucester thinks he is going to jump into a void. Instead, he jumps into nothing at all, not even the nothingness of the chasm in his mind. This seems to me to be the primary distinction between Lear's death in the Quarto and Lear's death in the Folio. In the first case, Shakespeare creates an imaginary void only for the audience, in the second both for his characters and the audience. Together, the two contradictory versions of the void make for an all-encompassing void. They lead to the idea that we can never be quite sure whether or not the void Shakespeare seems to assume we are all standing over is really ever there, or if when we fall we land on a ground that is neither solid nor shifting, a place that is only and purely theatrical. Worse than nihilism is the uncertainty of it all.

Deception, greed, and manipulation would be acceptable terms to describe the avarice Prophet who rose amongst the people of New York City during the 1830’s. King Matthias, as he was self-proclaimed, shaped a society built upon “no market, no money, no buying and selling,…no economic oppression of any kind (Johnson Wilentz 96). This creation was a foundation provided to poor men living in New York City during a period where economic stability, individual consistency, and the ability to accumulate wealth for ones family was necessary. Robert Matthews sought to transform this appearance of existence as he generated a new form of religion, one that people who despised and depicted of his ideology, would consider madness! It was ridicule, deviant, and profane for Matthias to sway the weak-minded people of New York City in the 1830s into becoming his disciples. During his reign, Matthias acculturated several followers, ones of which who were already in need of a “savior and others who would be considered gullable to his cunning tongue. The cult that was created was infamous for the peculiar practices that they engaged in and doctrines that were discovered.

On the contrary, many citizens repelled from his teachings and ways of living, for it was blasphemous and irreligious based on the scriptures in the bible. Matthias appearance and self-assurance had now come into sight as his kingdom arose. Manipulation gave power to Matthias, for it gave him all the wealth and riches he desired. With the money from his followers, he made an appearance in Manhattan in which he wore a "black cap of japanned leather shaped like an inverted cone; a military frock coat ... decorated with gold braid, frogs, and fancy buttons (Johnson Wilentz 98). Matthias was more vexed on looking like a King, rather than a God. His wardrobe, throne, and home was needless, and Christians who saw Matthias on the street or attended his sermons were appalled (Johnson Wilentz 99). Not only was Matthias attire unfit for a God, in Matthiass kingdom, women were considered to be suppressed to the power of men. Women had no say and "Every thing that has the smell of women," as Matthias pronounced, "will be destroyed," and only "real men will be saved; all mock men will be damned (Johnson Wilentz 93). According to Matthias, the women of the Kingdom were only to stay home, clean, cook, and carry out sexual favors for the patriarchal leaders of the homes.

Matthias made known that everything placed upon the earth, including the earth itself, was a possession of God, and due to him being alive with the spirit of God, it all belonged to him. Matthias teachings were becoming obscene and contradicted those of Christian preachers in regards to women of equality. Matthias expresses his un-acceptance of the female sex when he mentions that All women, not obedient, had better become so as soon ass possible and let the wicked spirit depart (Johnson Wilentz 93). Passing his own judgment, Matthias created a list in which he had condemned anyone that opposes the life of Jews, disobedient women, and Christian devils. This forced the Christian preachers to act upon his un-holy ways by systematically stealing women and children from fathers…and putting them into churches and prayer meetings (Johnson Wilentz 95). His teachings were corrupting the city of New York in the 1830s. Based on the people who entered his Kingdom, Matthias appeared to have had a particular attraction for other psychologically wounded men, and for needy women that were submissive to his preachingas. Matthias Kingdom was an example of reformation based on his own sexuality. He sought to create a religion in which he could re-incarnate the patriarchal life style that he was exposed to during his time of aging.

The Kingdom that he constructs conveys the time era in the 19th century during the Second Great Awakening, a time when the country was experiencing new religious revivals. For the duration of this time period, new religions cults were being founded and we notice a dramatic growth of existing spiritual denominations. Matthias perceptions were not accepted by everyone and it ruffled others feathers by his teachings and rituals. In spite of this, Matthias Truth did have an impact on several individuals, Elijah Pierson, who sought God and realized Christianity and prayer was non-beneficial, had become a strong follower to the words of Matthias. Furthermore, Matthias was a powerful king, versus a God, and the removal of his beard showed him that his power can be taken from him.

Every text is a confluence of other texts, containing parallels and fragments that give meaning and timelessness through prevalent themes that transcend generations. An exploration of explicit and implicit connections between a pair of texts enhances an individual’s understanding of the ideas, values and attitudes pronounced. This alters the way an audience may interpret the original text and validates common themes of power, duplicity and morality in a contemporary light. This relationship is evident in a critical analysis of Shakespeare’s 1591 historical play King Richard III and Al Pacino’s 1996 docudrama Looking for Richard. The context of each text is reflective of the respective time periods in which they were made and elucidate the cultural issues and philosophical paradigms of humanity as a whole.

Religious paradigms that underpin society shape texts. The purpose of the manifestation of metaphysical evil elucidated through deformity of the body is easily understood by an Elizabethan audience, due to the supernatural and religious context of the time. This personification of evil was employed by Shakespeare to construe Richard III as not merely a conniving villain, but the embodiment of a Machiavellian character, shrouded in duplicity. “I clothe my naked villainy…and seem a saint when most I play the devil.” Allegorical representations force us to recognize the Machiavellian qualities of Richard as he metaphorically connects himself to the devil towards the end of Act 1. The themes of duplicity and moral complexity evident throughout King Richard III can be found in contemporary society through political figures seeking power by any means regardless of consequence. This indicates the modern relevance of the themes prevalent in Shakespeare’s work as they timelessly transcend beyond the Elizabethan era. The issue of political manipulation, achieved through deception is further explored by Pacino in his docudrama Looking for Richard.

Al Pacino utilizes Looking for Richard to portray his interpretation of appearance versus reality explicitly through a contemporary medium of production, that is relevant to his audience in the 1990s. Pacino aims to educate the American populous on the value of Shakespeare’s play King Richard III and the enduring relevance of the playwrights themes. The use of documentary techniques, such as street interviews, communicates the actors desire to intimately include the audience’s opinions in his modernized rendition of the play. Pacino conveys the power of manipulative language, skilfully employed irony and flattery in the deception of others and the audience. This is particularly evident in the scene of wooing Lady Anne. Pacino emphasizes the moral weakness of Lady Anne and strongly victimizes her character by choosing a young actress. This is further conveyed through stichomythia dialogue and the cinematic technique of dissolving close-ups which highlight the trance like state Lady Anne falls into as she is seduced by Richard. The audience is reminded of Richard’s villainy through his soliloquy where he states, “Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?” This is supported by Pacino’s implementation of low key lighting to symbolize evil. The use of a docudrama makes Shakespeare’s play more accessible to a modern audience and enhances an individual’s understanding of the themes, values and attitudes pronounced.

Providentialism dictates that King Richard’s acquisition for power will result in his downfall, as he is not truly deserving of power and his methods break the chain of being that forms the basis of all aspects of Elizabethan England. Queen Margaret reminds the personas and the audience of Gods will and the detrimental ramifications that are to follow King Richards devious acts. She does so by bitterly cursing the members of the House of York, particularly King Richard: ‘If heaven have any grievous plague in store…then hurl down their indignation on thee…’ In doing this Margaret foreshadows the downfall of King Richard after he has wrongfully attained the throne through murder. The strict hierarchy of Elizabethan society means that Shakespeare’s audience would have been very familiar with the repercussions of breaking this order. Shakespeare would have included this theme in his play to create tension to entrance the audience and to increase entertainment value. In Act Four, Elizabeth reinforces King Richard’s doomed destiny as she joins Margaret in cursing him: ‘Help me curse that bottled spider, that foul bunch-backed toad.’ This strong metaphor highlights to the audience the true nature of King Richard behind his mask of lies. The context of Shakespeare and his target audience had a huge impact on how the play was written.

The significance of context is further reflected in Pacino’s choice to modernize the play to make it understandable and interesting to a contemporary audience. Conversely, Al Pacino down plays the supernatural element of the chain of being in his docudrama, as this theme is not hugely relevant to a modern audience. Instead Pacino focuses on the idea that King Richard is not fit for power as he used villainous methods and deception in its attainment. This is presented through King Richard’s only explicit display of conscience before the final battle. Pacino elucidates the humanity of King Richard and the many flawed characteristics in his personality through deeply emotive close-ups of the King’s face, laced with fear and possible regret as he realizes that his short reign is about to come to an end. The low key lighting used in this scene displays how the doomed character’s mask of lies that protected him previously has been shattered and his evil nature now shows itself and surrounds him in a cloak of darkness. This cinematic technique was used by Pacino as it would captivate the audience and cause them to consider the repercussions of moral evil. The context of Pacino has therefore heavily influenced the presentation of power and its consequences through his contemporary docudrama Looking for Richard.

A critical, comparative analysis of the texts King Richard III and Looking for Richard has revealed the significance of the context of the time period in which each text was written; through the representation of ideas about power. The religious and philosophical paradigms that fabricate society change over time; however, the themes addressed by Shakespeare and Pacino have effectively transcended generations to be relevant to both audiences.

Introduction

"The Poisonwood Bible," by Barbara Kingsolver, uses the character of Nathan Price to address the effects of western supremacy and one's personal superiority, specifically fueled by religion. The Price family travels to the Congo on a mission trip, is only a year before the country secedes from Belgium, leaving them in great need of assistance. Nathan was determined to give them this help by will or by force, all while dragging his family along with him. The way each child handles this is dependent on their personality and viewpoints. Kingsolver uses Nathan's three daughters and their personal perspectives to address the dangers of disregarding others' viewpoints with the idea of one's own superiority.

Leah’s Perspective

The morality of imposing one's personal values onto others without regards for opposing viewpoints creates a toxic circumstance that can lead to closed minds forming dangerous misconceptions. Kingsolver addresses this by using the narrative structure of switching between perspectives to make the toxicity of superiority evident throughout the text. However, she specifically leaves out Nathan’s perspective so that readers can see how his behavior affects different types of people. Nathan Price is almost immediately introduced as a radical Christian, close minded individual who believes he owes his entire existence to the pleasing of God. The delusion that his God sees a strict divide between right and wrong is very dangerous for someone like Nathan – a man who is determined to spread the word of God for his own personal gain. When the Price family ventures to the Congo, they are not welcomed as Nathan's western superiority is very evident in the way he treats the Congolese but the way that he reacts to them during a time of need. The fact that they are not quick to accept him and the word of God only intensifies his personal feelings of superiority and makes him even more defiant than before. However, the way that this intensity is accepted is different with each character. Leah, a teenage girl that holds her image of her father close to her heart, thinks highly of her father – even stating that “[Nathan’s] devotion to the church, was the anchoring force” in her life” (Kingsolver 64). She even goes as far as to state that "his wisdom is great" (42). This hero-like view that she has of her father makes the church and her faith something of great importance in her life, only fueling Nathan and his idea of himself as someone of notable value. This egocentric characteristic leads Nathan to overlook not only the “centuries of customs and survival” but the reality that “daily struggles focus on survival, not redemption” (Ognibene).

Despite all of this, Leah still has a positive view of her father, and her childlike perspective leads her to truly believe all that he does is for the betterment of the Congolese. She believes the world is beautiful through her naïve eyes and longs to “exult in God’s creation” – a viewpoint that is very different from the perspective of the Congolese as their society is in chaos (Kingsolver 149). The world is not beautiful to the Congolese, and they believe God has given them nothing - something that Leah’s sister Rachel also seems to agree with. As Leah grows older, she begins to resent her father, and the guilt within her heart is nearly crippling. She mentions the "stirring of anger against [her] father for making [her] a white preacher's daughter" because it set her so far apart from the Congolese (115). It is difficult for her to process the fact that it is "frightening when things that you love appear suddenly changed from what you have always known," (236). Her whole life she had seen her father as a hero, "walking in his footsteps her whole life" and now her whole perspective changed, leaving her to "fall in line behind [her] mother" (393). As she grew, Leah began to see her father's inability to accept other cultures and embrace the differences in those that were different than him.

Rachel’s Perspective

While Leah had a tendency to see the good in the people around her, including her father, Rachel’s viewpoint of the Congolese is very negative as she tends to only see the beauty in herself. She is very in character with the stereotypical teenage girl in that she is very concerned with herself and her appearance. She finds no interest in things that do not benefit her in some way or another. Upon arriving in the Congo, she complains of being "sore at Father...for having [them] be there in the first place" (49). Rachel also speaks negatively of those who do not share her western idea of fashion and privilege, referring to the Underdowns as “plain janes” with their “economical home haircuts and khaki trousers,” (Kingsolver 159). Even though the Underdowns have English-speaking in common with the Price’s, Rachel still refuses to accept them as her equals – a trait that is very similar to the way that her father behaves when in contact with those unlike him. This leaves no surprise when she speaks poorly of the Congolese and their customs, even complaining about their tradition dress. She states that there was no need for them to be “so African about it,” making it clear that she rejects the thought trying to accept or validate cultures that differ from her own (45).

Not only is Rachel unaccepting but she is rather insensitive to the cruelties that take place around her. Ruth-May’s death was something that took a toll on every member of the family, no matter how they dealt with it. However, Rachel’s personal superiority does not fail to shine through even during this tragedy as she declares that she is “still alive and not dead like Ruth May” leaving her to believe that she “must have done something right” insinuating that Ruth May had done something to cause her own death (405). This insensitivity and self-entitlement are a derivative of her father’s behavior and lack of exposure of other cultures for his children. Rachel even declares that her own father would "sooner watch [them] all perish one by one than listen to anybody but himself" (169). Nathan is so involved with his faith and his mission to spread the word of God that the family is able to pick up his traits, good or bad, and create their own personal agendas. Rachel’s mission is to be in a place of superiority compared to those around her. She sees things the way she wants to as long as it benefits her, and this trait does not leave her even as she gets older. On her way to leave the Congo, she states that she “cannot remember giving a second thought to when I would ever see [her family] again, if ever” because at the end of the day, if it does not involve or benefit her in some way, it does not matter.

Adah's Perspective

The view Adah has on life is very different than the viewpoint of her other sisters. Being disabled physically does not at all hinder her mental ability to process and understand the world around her – in fact, she could be referred to as the most insightful of the entire novel, though she rarely speaks for a majority of the book. This may, however, be on purpose as she refers to herself as not being able to "speak as well as [she] can think" (Kingsolver 34). Having a disability that made her seemingly 'less superior' than her family left her heart open for the people of the Congo, viewing them as people similar to her with bodies that were more vessels rather than another way to prove her self-worth. She even states that she has a "strong sympathy for Dr. Jekyll's dark desires and Hyde's crooked body" (55). She believes the Congolese "have their own handicap", making her perspective very different than that of her family (11). Her belief that a handicap is not a curse makes it even more miraculous when she ages and discovers that she was not diseased at all, and her limp was simply "a misunderstanding between [her] body and [her] brain" (312). All these realizations are in complete contrast to her father and his behaviors, something that was admittedly unexpected as she spent a majority of the novel simply watching those around her. Adah describes herself as "a voice screaming in the desert," as no matter what she does or says, it tends to be undermined by her father's inability to sympathize with others and her sisters' talkative and opinionated personalities. However, as the novel continues on, Orleanna practically goes mute leaving Adah to use speaking as "a matter of self-defense" (407). Between her mother not speaking and Adah's own inevitable personality change, it is clear that Nathan's behavior is negatively effecting the people around him with or without his own awareness.

Conclusion

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Kingsolver's, "The Poisonwood Bible," expresses the dangers of imposing viewpoints on others without regards for others' personal values through the character of Nathan Price and the effect he has on the people around him. By dividing between the perspectives of characters, the book shows that the marks that Nathan leaves on those that he tries to touch are just as negative as it is strong. Kingsolver uses the narrative structure of multiple first person perspectives to address the idea that the morality of imposing one's personal values onto others without regards for opposing viewpoints is a toxic circumstance which can lead to closed minds forming dangerous misconceptions.

In the documentary “What the health” by Kip Anderson, Kip investigates why the nation’s leading health organizations recommend foods that can cause a health issues such as cancer. Kip Anderson questions what these organizations are hiding after receiving no answer when he questions why they are recommending foods that can cause health issues.

Kip Anderson informs the audience by telling them that diabetes is not caused by sugar but instead fat in diets is the main cause. In the documentary one of the physicians and researcher Kip interviews named Dr. Neal Barnard states that, ‘Diabetes is not and never was caused by eating a high carbohydrate diet, and it is not caused by eating sugar. The cause of diabetes is a diet that builds up the amount of fat into the blood.” In fact, sugar is not harmful to the body. As discussed in class, sugar is beneficial. Sugar is stored as glycogen and not fat. Dr Neal then continues to state that, “You can look into the muscle cells of the human body, and you find they’re building up tiny particles of fat which is causing insulin resistance. What that means is the sugar that is naturally from the foods that you’re eating can’t get into the cells where it belongs. It builds up in the blood and that is diabetes.’ Basically, depending on one’s diet the build up of fat inside a person blood can disrupted the function of sugar. The fat blocks the sugar from being absorbed and used as energy source. With the fats blocking sugar the sugar will remain in the blood stream which will cause diabetes. As stated in class diabetes can be a chronic disease. Diabetes can be caused excessive amount of sugar found in the blood. The documentary shows how one’s diet can cause diabetes and how people misunderstand the real cause of it.

Kip Anderson also mentions that processed meat can lead to cancer. He wants to know why people are not talking about this. Health organization are claiming to put out helpful information for people that can help with their health. They provide “healthy” recipes for them to include in their diet. But the World Health Organization states otherwise. They state that consuming meat can be the same as smoking cigarettes. They classify processed meat as a Group 1 carcinogen that can be seen to be in the same group as cigarettes, asbestos, and plutonium. The scary part that they mentioned in the documentary is since meats is in the same category as cigarettes it can be seen like giving young children cigarettes every day.

In my opinion I believe that organization shouldn’t be giving out false information. An organization suppose to help and give information to help those who are suffering with issues like cancer and heart diseases. As stated in the documentary, Kip noticed that large health organizations only cared about the money and they were taking money from food brands that are not good such as fast food restaurants. The money was from meat and dairy companies that are associated with the causes of these diseases Anyone can be influenced by money and it shouldn’t be like this for organizations that have people lives in their hands. Organization shouldn’t be thinking about money. Money should be the least of their problem. As an organization their job is too informed people with the correct information to live a better lifestyle.

In conclusion, Kip Anderson gets his point across that health organization are not always telling the truth. They give out false information because they are under the controlled by money.

Works Cited

1. Anderson, K. (Director). (2017). What the health [Documentary]. A.U.M. Films & Media.
2. Esselstyn, C. B. (2014). Prevent and Reverse Heart Disease: The Revolutionary, Scientifically Proven, Nutrition-Based Cure. Penguin Books.
3. Hu, F. B. (2002). Dietary pattern analysis: a new direction in nutritional epidemiology. Current Opinion in Lipidology, 13(1), 3-9.
4. Leitzmann, C., & Willett, W. (2003). Cancer and diet: quantity and quality of the evidence. Nature Reviews Cancer, 3(11), 845-858.
5. Michaud, D. S., & Giovannucci, E. (2005). Sugar-sweetened beverage consumption and the risk of cancer: a review of observational studies. Cancer Causes & Control, 16(6), 173-186.
6. Mozaffarian, D. (2016). Dietary and policy priorities for cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and obesity: a comprehensive review. Circulation, 133(2), 187-225.
7. Pan, A., Sun, Q., Bernstein, A. M., Schulze, M. B., Manson, J. E., Willett, W. C., & Hu, F. B. (2012). Red meat consumption and mortality: results from 2 prospective cohort studies. Archives of Internal Medicine, 172(7), 555-563.
8. World Health Organization. (2015). Q&A on the carcinogenicity of the consumption of red meat and processed meat.

In Jane Austen’s Emma, Mr. George Knightley chooses to live at Hartfield with Emma Woodhouse, the protagonist and heroine, after their marriage, instead of moving her to his elaborate estate, Donwell Abbey. This decision is significant because of what the choice reveals about their relationship. Typically, in a Jane Austen novel, married women move out of their family home into the house of their husbands, adopting their husband’s life as their own. However, Mr. Knightley makes the sacrifice to leave his substantial property to live with Emma because of her anxious, ill father who must remain at Hartfield. The decision proves the importance of Emma in his life as well as the depth of his love, and the decision works in accordance with the close friendship the two have always had with one another. The event is also significant in its consistency with Emma’s marital wishes for herself that she expressed to Harriet at the beginning of the novel. Despite the unusual living arrangement of the couple, their situation reveals great depth of love, is consistent with Emma’s character needs and wants, and makes sense once the history and dynamics of their relationship is considered.

Emma and Mr. Knightley marry for love and even relinquish some of their prestige by not living at Donwell, and therefore proving that their relationship is based much more on emotion that on material wealth and success. Mr. Knightley makes the considerable sacrifice to leave his grand property to be with her and to keep her happy because abandoning her father, Mr. Woodhouse, would make Emma miserable. Emma recognizes how lucky she is to marry a man so willing to give up his home for hers. Emma knew that “in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with” (417; Chapter 51). Even when Emma tries to convince Mr. Knightley to rethink the plan, he insists that “he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject” (417; Chapter 51). Their relationship is shown to be even deeper in love with Mrs. Weston’s thoughts of “How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!” (434; Chapter 53). While most marriages at the time are focused on the male: his desires, successes, fortunes, connections and more, Emma and Knightley’s marriage focuses mostly on her, or at least, on their mutual happiness and comfort from their deep love and attachment after their long friendship.

The effects of Mr. Knightley’s sacrifice are also consistent with Emma’s initial wants for marriage for herself from the beginning of the novel if she ever decided to get married. By marrying Mr. Knightley, Emma is able to marry for love, while maintaining her wealth, comfort, power at home, and closeness to her father. Emma’s marriage to Mr. Knightley is significant with the pattern of her character as a woman who knows what she wants and tends to get what she wants eventually. Emma enjoys power and attention, which her position at Hartfield with her ill, nervous father gives to her. Emma explains to Harriet the significance and importance of her life at Hartfield as a reason why she will never marry, saying, “I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in my father’s” (79; Chapter 10). Emma initially did not plan to get marry for numerous reasons based largely on her own fortune and social status so she did not need a man’s title or money to make her wealthy; however, she also specifically states that the power, position, and attention she receives as mistress of her own home, Hartfield, with her father’s constant adoration, is better than any marriage or husband’s home she could be in. Yet, she does state that only love would entice her to marry, and “without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine.” (79; Chapter 10). Therefore, Mr. Knightley’s final choice to give up his grand estate to live with her at Hartfield secures Emma the same position of power she has always had in her home, as well as the constant praise of her father along with the added affections of Mr. Knightley. This conclusion for their marital living together at Hartfield is then significant because not only is it consistent with Emma’s character because she achieved the ability to maintain her present situation of power, affluence and happiness, along with the bonus of truly loving Mr. Knightley; but it also provides evidence of Mr. Knightley’s love for her and the satisfaction of the marriage for both characters.

While the choice to live at Hartfield over Donwell Abbey is good for the main characters of Emma, and provides a satisfactory ending for the audience, there is more significance to the choice than just a happily ever after. A main significance of the decision is how opposite the event is from the typical convention and propriety of marriage in Jane Austen novels. Consistent with Jane Austen novels, Emma, just like Austen’s other heroines, does have a happy ending with a lovely marriage at the conclusion of the story with “the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.” (450; Chapter 55). However, Emma differs in the fact that her situation and position remains the same, except for her new husband joining in her life. In essence, besides the change of last name and the vows that make her a married woman, Emma’s life does not drastically alter, while all other Austen heroines or supporting female characters do. For example, in Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, Elinor, Marianne, and Elizabeth Bennett all move out their homes to live with their husbands. These women leave their parent or parents behind to slip into their husband’s lives and begin a new life as a missus. In Emma, Mr. Knightley makes the sacrifice to leave Donwell to live with Emma which gives her advantages of power and situation; Hartfield has been her home all her life and she has been the mistress of the home since the marriages of her sister and her governess. Emma essentially took on the male or husband role of being in charge of the home, the servants, and the inhabitants of the home, including her father. In essence, Mr. Knightley moves into her territory, differentiating their relationship and situation from those of other Austen novels.

The reversal of gender roles in regard to class, propriety, and wealth could possibly be a potential issue for Emma and Mr. Knightley if it weren’t for the particulars and history of their relationship. While Mr. Knightley would appear to have little power by sacrificing his home to live in Emma’s; the women’s; the wife’s; the respect and influence that he has always had for and over Emma due to their long friendship balances out the strange exchange. Mr. Knightley is Emma’s senior by sixteen years, and they allude often in the novel of his constant, well-intended criticisms of Emma when she behaves improperly or arrogantly. For example, Mr. Knightley scolds Emma when she behaves rudely to Miss Bates, by telling her “it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now” (349; Chapter 43). Mr. Knightley always has Emma’s best interest at heart and corrects Emma in her manners and behaviors. While at first Emma is usually resistant to his words, she eventually recognizes them as correct; “The truth of his representation there was no denying,” and she feels her shame; “she felt it at her heart,” and then she adjusts her behavior, proving her strong, mutual respect for him as well (349; Chapter 43). In this way, the power he has over her to adjust her manner and maturity, balances out the superiority that Emma may have by remaining in her own home instead of moving into his at Donwell.

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Mr. George Knightley and Emma Woodhouse’s marriage in Jane Austen’s Emma is unusual in its untraditional manner. Mr. Knightley chooses to move out of his extravagant estate, Donwell Abbey, to live with Emma and her ill, nervous father at Hartfield. This sacrifice of Mr. Knightley’s, the male in the relationship, is unique and therefore has many significances for the novel and their relationship. Mr. Knightley’s sacrifice for Emma and her father not only proves the true depth of his love and commitment towards her, but it also reflects on the strength of their relationship as a partnership, based on their many years of previous friendship and the driving forces of respect and care that have always kept the two concerned about the other. Finally, Mr. Knightley’s sacrifice is consistent with Emma Woodhouse’s character, in that she retains the same level of power, wealth, class, and authority that she has always had by remaining mistress of her home, and the only adjustment is simply the added benefits of being in love with her best friend who helps her mature while also departing from the typical husband and wife roles of Jane Austen novels.

Works Cited

1. Austen, J. (1815). Emma. London, England: John Murray.
2. Butler, M. (2007). Jane Austen and the War of Ideas. Oxford, England: Clarendon Press.
3. Copeland, E. (1994). Women Writing about Money: Women's Fiction in England, 1790-1820. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press.
4. Johnson, C. L. (1995). Jane Austen: Women, Politics, and the Novel. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
5. Jones, W. (2011). A Companion to Jane Austen Studies. West Sussex, England: Wiley-Blackwell.
6. Johnson, C. (2017). Jane Austen's Cults and Cultures. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
7. Litz, A. (1965). Jane Austen: A Study of Her Development. London, England: Chatto & Windus.
8. Pinch, A. (2006). Strange Fits of Passion: Epistemologies of Emotion, Hume to Austen. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.
9. Poovey, M. (1988). The Proper Lady and the Woman Writer: Ideology as Style in the Works of Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley, and Jane Austen. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
10. Southam, B. C. (1995). Jane Austen's Literary Manuscripts: A Study of the Novelist's Development through the Surviving Papers. Oxford, England: Clarendon Press.

Despite its glorified accounts of the chivalrous lives of gentlemen, the Knight's Tale proves to be more than a tragically romantic saga with a happy ending. For beneath this guise lies an exploration into the trifling world of the day's aristocratic class. Here, where physical substance is superseded by appearance, reality gives way to disillusioned canon and emotion is sacrificed for honor. Nave idealism emerges as the dominant characteristic of the seemingly flawless knight and we, as the reader, are asked to discern the effect of this fanciful quality on the story as a whole.

To further investigate this argument one basic premise must be established as the groundwork: Theseus is the character with whom the knight most closely associates himself. Upholding "trouthe and honour" in their conquests of battle and noble rule, both epitomize the sacred rite of "chivalrie". In the Knight's Tale, nearly all the attributes with which he is praised in the Prologue are directly used in correlation with the duke. Thus, the language and actions of Theseus throughout the story can be superimposed onto the knight. These connections, along with the selective narration of the knight, allow the reader to observe the essence of their gallantry and the disparities that exist in this lifestyle. Undoubtedly Chaucer intended this to be a biting attack on the aristocracy, which to so many seemed impeccable.

Generalized and idyllic, the voice of the narrator offers the first clue into the puzzle of the knight. With well-chosen words, he tiptoes through the plot, careful never to pass any judgement on the characters and their actions. His high language all but excludes physical description, relying on the casting of people into types (i.e. the fair maiden, the young princes, the worthy duke). In perhaps the most stunning lack of significant detail, his blazon on Emily recounts only the color and length of her hair and uses cliches to portray her:

That Emelye, that fairer was to sene

Than is the lylie upon his stalke grene,

And fresher than the May with floures newe

For with the rose colour stroof hire hewe,

I noot which was the fyner of the two (ll 1035-1039)

And the vacancy of any real emotion (save that of love and grief, which are here more action than feeling) lends an air of superficiality to the story. For even Emily and Palamon, in the resolving conclusion, are reactionless, serving as mere instruments for the advancement of the plot. The only passionate portraits depicted are those of the theater/arena and the funeral pyre inanimate objects whose symbolic importance seemingly takes precedence over the players involved. All these qualities united together paint the picture of a man out of touch with reality, direly in need of truth.

This noble style remains far from eminent at times and gives another important insight into his character. The continuity of his speech is often interrupted with lapses of proverbial wisdom, abrupt scene changes, and the inability to see humor in his phrasing. His affinity towards the trite stalls his exalted discourse on numerous occasions, most ostensibly on the prisoner's longing for home:

We faren as he that dronke is as a mous.

A dronke man woot wel he hath an hous,

But he noot which the righte wey is thider,

And to a dronke man the wey is slider. (ll 1261-1264)

So too his impulsive transitions from Theseus to the cousins and vice versa inhibit the ability of the reader to enter the flow with which the majority of his commentary permits. And the unconscious humor that he often stumbles upon, especially in the repetition of queynte (ll 2333-2336) while Emily prays for her virginity to be spared, lend to the notion that his ideal blocks his vision of what is going on. As he regresses from chivalric tone to these lapses, the reader must be aware of the errors as they naturally occur. For these glimpses show us a man who falls from his loft, only to climb back up without noticing the stumble.

If not as important as the knight's diction (than more so), the idealistic conduct of Theseus sheds new light onto the ambivalent nature of knighthood. In action he visibly displays the disparities that exist in the knight's diction. From his self-centered glorification of his own pride to his contradictory handling of situations, the duke comes off as anything but enviable. His attachment with Mars and insistence upon order in a perfectly chaotic world ultimately prove that his noble intentions are blinded to the happenings of genuine reality. If any doubts remain about his loftiness, they are eliminated once and for all by these ideals.

As the knight begins his tale, the contradictions in character are thrust into the forefront. For upon returning from his victorious crusade, Theseus is greeted by the most unbearably painful lamentations that human ears have ever heard. Rather than responding to the distraught women with a voice of concern, he sneers at them with disgusted arrogance:

What folk been ye, that at myn homcomynge

Pertuben so my feste with criynge

Quod Theseus. Have ye so greet envye

Of myn honour, that thus compleyne and crye (ll 904-908)

But perhaps more revealing to the understanding of knighthood is the blind judgement with which Theseus follows this initial gesture. As he tramples on Thebes, he recreates the same atrocity that he was avenging:

Hath Creon slayn and wonne Thebes thus,

Still in that feeld he took al nyght his reste,

And dide with al the contree as hym leste.

To ransake in the taas of bodyes dede,

Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede,

The pilours diden bisynesse and cure

After the bataille and disconfiture. (ll 1002-1008)

These lines mirror those of the widows in their wailing of their deceased (ll 940-947). In the eyes of Theseus this vindication is in keeping with the precepts of chivalry, for it is done in retribution and more importantly, he is victorious.

Another breach in the Theseus philosophy is his coalition with the god of war, Mars (ll 975-979). By innocently presenting the duke with a statue of the deity as he rides into battle, the knight unwittingly sets up the reader for a scene where the naivete of their crusade shouts out to all, save those involved. For in the great theater, where the omnipotent Mars is illustriously illustrated, the harsh reality of his force is broken down into its basic elements:

The smylere with the knyf under the cloke;

The shepne brennynge with the blake smoke;

The tresoun of the mordrynge in the bedde;

The open werre, with woundes al bibledde (ll1999-2002)

"Drede", "Compleint, Outhees, and fiers Outrage" govern the mural that is the essence of Mars (ll 1998, 2012). Neither Theseus nor the knight is capable of comprehending this heinous scene; to them it elegantly portrays the "redoutynge of Mars and of his glorie" (l 2050). Here, the reader must question the stark blindness of these "great" men who are worthy enough to govern the lands, yet are so oblivious to reality that they praise exactly what they condemn. What gives them the divine providence to sit on such an eminent perch?

So far, the chivalrous ideal has proven to be its own worst enemy. In their struggle to protect all sacred and honorable, an enwrapping effect has distorted their vision of reality--causing truth to mesh with false pretenses. And in the most poignant case against their ideals, Chaucer proclaims utter futility on their case, for Theseus relentlessly pounds order into a world that is ruled by turmoil. The knight resonates "Fortune" and "Destinee" throughout the entire course, yet he and the duke cannot see that the world is ruled by "aventure". All attempts by Theseus to construct a semblance of method turn bitterly frivolous. In Thebes, his rule is marked with heaps of body and destruction. His lifetime imprisonment of the cousins results in both their escapes. And in his grand scheme to decide the consort of Emily, where none shall be mortally wounded, "jelous strokes on hir helmes byte/ Out runneth blood on bothe hir sides rede" (ll 2634-35). Ultimately, the winner, Arcite, pays the final price in Theseus perfectly constructed event. The true winner that emerges is chaos.

When all hope of a reversal of the duke's idealistic nature is seemingly lost, Chaucer bestows a redemptive chance to Theseus in the form of his final speech. But this, as is the case with all his undertakings, is overridden with his lofty motives and ignorant view of the world. By decreeing that, "What maketh this but Juppiter, the kyng/ That is prince and cause of alle thyng" (ll 3035-36), Theseus exhibits his strict compliance to order despite the powerful rulings of Saturn. The ensuing "happy ending" suddenly becomes another fateful step towards mishap, for the marriage of Palamon and Emily is not for love, but rather a decree in the name of allegiance.

Perhaps the best way to conclude is through Chaucer's depiction of the knight in the Prologue:

He nevere yet no vileyne ne sayde

In al his lyf unto no maner wight.

He was a verray, parfit gentil knyght.

But for to tellen yow of his array,

His hors were goode, but he was nat gay.

Of fustian he wered a gypon

Al bismotered with his habergeon,

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For he was late ycome from his viage,