Kahn's argument is an interesting one. The lack of a maternal figure for Lear's daughters does place more weight upon his role as their father. Of course he cannot fulfill all of their emotional needs and this may be one of the reasons he is rejected by Goneril and Regan after giving away his authority.
I think that the real evils in the play are pride, greed, and jealousy, not a lack of femininity on Lear's part. Presumably having been born into his monarchy, he knows very little of humility and compassion (traits not solely identified with the "weaker" sex). He expects shows of flattery from his daughters probably because that is what he is accustomed to. Goneril and Regan may have learned from an early age to use flowery language to win their father's affection. Their insincerity is likely related to Lear's obvious (and admitted) favoritism of Cordelia. She may be more genuine in her affections, and less concerned with artificially inflating them, because of her father's special treatment of her.
Goneril and Regan are clearly jealous of Cordelia, and perhaps rightly so. Have they been denied their father's love, and so turned to materialism for a sense of fulfillment? They greedily accept their inheritance and are more than happy to be given Cordelia's as well. That they eventually become rivals for Edmund's affection is a sad reminder of the sense of competition between them.
Cordelia's morality and eventual forgiveness of her father suggests that she was shown a more tender side of him than her sister's were. It is difficult to grasp Lear's true character when most of what we see of him is in the midst of his encroaching madness. That he is able to gain some wisdom while simultaneously losing his mind is incredible. His interaction with Edgar in particular seems to open his mind to the suffering of others and the true meaning of necessity. In the end I don't feel that he has become more accepting of his "womanly" traits but that he has realized his equally fragile place in humanity.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Persepolis
Within Persepolis there is a definite intertwining of the political world and the sentimental one. To say that "politics and sentiment don't mix" would, I think, be inaccurate in any country. But especially for the Iranian people, daily bombarded by oppression and war, it is virtually impossible to keep politics out of one's personal life.
Perhaps it is wishful thinking on Ebi Satrapi's part when he makes the aforementioned statement. It is indeed an odd thing for him to say, considering the way in which he is raising his daughter. Marjane Satrapi's upbringing is far from typical, even when compared to that of her peers. Clearly the life of a young Iranian girl during this time period, with the enforcement of veil-wearing and the like, is a far cry from that of most American girls. Yet Marji's family, in particular, fosters a rather unique environment for the development of a child's mind.
Her parents place a great deal of importance on Marji's education, and rightly so considering her precocity, including quite a bit of political knowledge. Tales of the persecution of not-so-distant relatives are told and Marji is even chosen to visit and converse with her uncle, Anoosh, before he is murdered because of his political views. And amidst a back-drop of revolution and war, Marji's parents give her a surprising amount of freedom (especially for her age).
Marji's mother oscillates between the desires to empower her and to protect her. She is also alternately willing to forgive and wanting to judge others for their actions. In her, Marji is able to see the conflict between trying to uphold political ideals and emotionally reacting to the atrocities of war. Marji's grandmother also tries to instill in her a higher moral standard. She is appalled when Marji uses an innocent man (though admittedly a rude one) as a scapegoat when she is accosted by the police. When Marji truly realizes the gravity of her actions, I can imagine she feels an enormous amount of guilt.
Guilt seems to be an overlying emotion during Marji's progression into adulthood. Having lived through so much as a child, being in a place of relative abundance and peace (Austria) is extremely difficult for her. She is unable to fully embrace her newfound freedom and reacts to the ignorance of the people with bitterness and disgust.
In returning to Iran, she becomes somewhat complacent to her countries plight until the death of a friend reawakens her drive to make a difference. Her guilt overwhelms her to the point that she attempts to take her own life. She recovers with a revived gusto for life. It is when she leaves her country for the second time that she realizes that she can better effect change from the outside rather than from within.
Satrapi, in writing Persepolis, has achieved a wonderful thing. She has stirred our hearts. I find myself filled with an enormous amount of empathy for the Iranian people. Not to mention knowledge of a culture/history about which I was almost entirely ignorant. For me to mourn the death of a woman I have never met (Niloufar) is a beautiful reminder of the universality of love.
Perhaps it is wishful thinking on Ebi Satrapi's part when he makes the aforementioned statement. It is indeed an odd thing for him to say, considering the way in which he is raising his daughter. Marjane Satrapi's upbringing is far from typical, even when compared to that of her peers. Clearly the life of a young Iranian girl during this time period, with the enforcement of veil-wearing and the like, is a far cry from that of most American girls. Yet Marji's family, in particular, fosters a rather unique environment for the development of a child's mind.
Her parents place a great deal of importance on Marji's education, and rightly so considering her precocity, including quite a bit of political knowledge. Tales of the persecution of not-so-distant relatives are told and Marji is even chosen to visit and converse with her uncle, Anoosh, before he is murdered because of his political views. And amidst a back-drop of revolution and war, Marji's parents give her a surprising amount of freedom (especially for her age).
Marji's mother oscillates between the desires to empower her and to protect her. She is also alternately willing to forgive and wanting to judge others for their actions. In her, Marji is able to see the conflict between trying to uphold political ideals and emotionally reacting to the atrocities of war. Marji's grandmother also tries to instill in her a higher moral standard. She is appalled when Marji uses an innocent man (though admittedly a rude one) as a scapegoat when she is accosted by the police. When Marji truly realizes the gravity of her actions, I can imagine she feels an enormous amount of guilt.
Guilt seems to be an overlying emotion during Marji's progression into adulthood. Having lived through so much as a child, being in a place of relative abundance and peace (Austria) is extremely difficult for her. She is unable to fully embrace her newfound freedom and reacts to the ignorance of the people with bitterness and disgust.
In returning to Iran, she becomes somewhat complacent to her countries plight until the death of a friend reawakens her drive to make a difference. Her guilt overwhelms her to the point that she attempts to take her own life. She recovers with a revived gusto for life. It is when she leaves her country for the second time that she realizes that she can better effect change from the outside rather than from within.
Satrapi, in writing Persepolis, has achieved a wonderful thing. She has stirred our hearts. I find myself filled with an enormous amount of empathy for the Iranian people. Not to mention knowledge of a culture/history about which I was almost entirely ignorant. For me to mourn the death of a woman I have never met (Niloufar) is a beautiful reminder of the universality of love.
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