Ludwig Wittgenstein was a German scientist and architect who became an English philosopher. He was a client, in the Latin sense of that term, of Bertrand Russell. When Wittgenstein wrote his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, he thought he had solved the problems of philosophy. Russell was far from convinced and wrote a cautious forward. Wittgenstein later recanted, as age and experience begat modesty. His published output was later fragmentary.
One such work is Culture and Value. It is a collection of aphorisms jotted down over many years about logic, life, religion, music, and literature. If Russell had trouble following Wittgenstein when he was writing for the learned, we may have trouble when Wittgenstein is thinking aloud about the world at large.
Some of the aphorisms relate to Shakespeare. What might they say about the playwright or the philosopher?
Shakespeare displays the dance of human passions, one might say. Hence he has to be objective; otherwise he would not so much display the dance of human passions – as talk about it. But he displays it to us in dance, not naturalistically. (I got this idea from Paul Engelman.)
I’m pretty sure that I follow that. The first proposition contains a metaphor that I find enlightening. The suggested requirement of ‘objectivity’ is thought provoking, even if I’m not sure that the point is carried. But he returns to the idea of a dance. If he had referred to a ‘symphony’ or ‘fugue’ or ‘canvas’ of human passions, would there have been any different meaning?
It is remarkable how hard we find it to believe something that we do not see the truth of for ourselves. When, for instance, I hear the expression of admiration for Shakespeare in the course of several centuries, I can never rid myself of the suspicion that praising him has been the conventional thing to do; though I have to tell myself that this is how it is. It takes the authority of a Milton really to convince me. I take it for granted that he was incorruptible. – But I don’t of course mean that I don’t believe an enormous amount of praise to have been, and still to be, lavished on Shakespeare without understanding and for the wrong reasons by a thousand professors of literature.
I don’t follow that at all. The first sentence looks silly. If we do not see the truth of a statement for ourselves, of course we tend not to believe it. There is nothing remarkable there. If the author is saying that a lot people just toe the line on this part of high art, we could well agree. But does the fact that there is bullshit elsewhere disqualify our opinions, or, perhaps I should say, reactions? The reference to Milton appears to me to be at best adolescent, and at worst plainly rude. We can return later to the issue of ‘understanding’ Shakespeare.
It may be that the essential thing with Shakespeare is his ease and authority, and that you just have to accept him as he is if you are going to be able to admire him properly, in the same way you accept nature, a piece of scenery for example, just as it is.
If I am right about this, that would mean that the style of his whole work, I mean of all his works taken together, is the essential thing and what provides his justification.
My failure to understand him could then be explained by my inability to read him easily. That is, as one views a splendid piece of scenery.
These comments make you wonder how often the philosopher had seen plays by this playwright on the stage – or if he had ever gone to the theatre at all. The author wrote the plays for profit – obtained by people willing to be entertained by seeing these plays performed on the stage. The repeated references to Shakespeare, and the reference to ‘the style of his whole work’ and ‘all his works taken together,’ suggest, to my mind, that the philosopher is proceeding at a level of abstraction that is almost metaphysical – and for him, that is anathema.
But if the first proposition entails that we should be careful in trying to analyse any part of this artist’s work, I agree with it.
But what does it mean to say that the style of the work provides its justification? Why did Shakespeare have to justify King Lear – or any other part or the whole of his output?
And what does he mean by understanding Shakespeare? When we talk of understanding something, we talk of getting its meaning or significance. If I go to St Peter’s and see the Pieta of Michelangelo, or if I had gone to hear Miles Davis in the Vanguard in the 1950’s, or if I had gone to see Blue Poles chez nous, and someone had asked me if I had understood what I had seen or heard, I would have been at best confused. ‘Listen, Mate, I have come all this way, and at real expense, to experience a work of art, one of the title deeds of Western civilisation. Don’t ask me to relegate these masterpieces to the dustbin of the prosaic by trying to give what I think may the meaning of that art.’ To what extent is, say, Hamlet different to other works of art when it comes to understanding art?
There is, I think, a real problem here. I have hugely enjoyed reading commentaries on Shakespeare by people like A C Bradley and Tony Tanner, and they have greatly added to my enjoyment of experiencing the plays. (I have also come across truckloads of tripe.) In some loose sense those authors may have added to my understanding of the plays, but I very much fear that that sense is far too loose for a philosophical inquiry.
If you think that sounds woolly, I would plead guilty – but that is what I feel driven to. I would refer back to what I said about the need for care in trying to analyse any part of the work of this artist, or any other artist. Indeed, any one of us might be accused of tiptoeing around the volcano if hubris if we claimed to have found the ‘meaning’ of any play or poem of this playwright and poet.
Shakespeare and dreams. A dream is all wrong, absurd, composite, and yet at the same time, it is completely right: put together in this strange way, it makes an impression. Why? I don’t know. And if Shakespeare is great, as he is said to be, then it must be possible to say of him: it’s all wrong, things aren’t like that – and yet it’s quite right according to a law of its own.
It could be put like this too: if Shakespeare is great, his greatness is displayed only in the whole corpus of his plays, which create their own language and world. In other words he is completely unrealistic. (Like a dream.)
All of that goes clean over my head. Even Freud may have had trouble with it. It is worryingly symptomatic of a tortured ambivalence about Shakespeare. It calls to mind a summer school at Oxford about Wittgenstein. A very charming Indian lady was evidently finding it hard to come to grips with the subject. She was not alone. At the end she had a question for the tutor. ‘You have told us that Wittgenstein set out to cure our language of illness – could you be so good as to give us an instance where the cure worked?’ She also told the class that ‘in India, we don’t even have a word for God.’ I took her to be saying that for her, some things – like God – were out of reach of words. At least at one point, Wittgenstein would have agreed with her.
I do not believe Shakespeare can be set alongside any other poet. Was he perhaps a creator of language rather than a poet?
The short answer is that he was both. The long answer is that labels are at best dangerous and at worst presumptuous.
I could only stare in wonder at Shakespeare; never do anything with him.
There is a whole lot in the works of Goethe that I don’t ‘get’ (in part, because I am not receiving it as it was written – in German); it seems clear that Wittgenstein had the same problems with Shakespeare. We are nowhere near analysis or criticism. (When I use the term ‘get’ here, I am I think invoking a loose form of ‘understanding’ of the order I referred to earlier.)
It is not as though Shakespeare portrayed human types well and were in that respect true to life. He is not true to life. But he has such a supple hand and his brush strokes are so individual, that each one of his characters looks significant, is worth looking at.
Art is a lyrical reflection on the human condition. We know art is good if people keep wanting more of it. It is hard to think of an artist who has done this anywhere near as well as Shakespeare. He shows us as we are. To the extent that you can give meaning to the phrase ‘true to life’ in this context, it is dead wrong.
‘Beethoven’s great heart’ – nobody could speak of ‘Shakespeare’s great heart.’ ‘The supple hand that created new linguistic forms’ would seem to be nearer the mark.
A poet cannot really say of himself ‘I sing as the birds sing’ – but perhaps Shakespeare could have said this of himself.
The last proposition means nothing to me. The first is of the same intellectual calibre – zero – as a public bar discussion of whether Bradman was better than Trumper or Ronaldo is better than Messi.
May I go back to what I said about the need for care in claiming to analyse art and the danger of hubris? I’m afraid that the philosopher may be guilty on both counts. And the statement that ‘nobody could speak of ‘Shakespeare’s great heart’ looks suspiciously like a statement of fact. Richard Burton knew a good deal more about Shakespeare than Wittgenstein. Burton saw ‘staggering compassion’. The context is:
What chance combination of genes went to the making of that towering imagination, that brilliant gift of words, that staggering compassion, that understanding of all human frailty, that total absence of pomposity, that wit, that pun, that joy in words and the later agony. It seems that he wrote everything worth writing and the rest of his fraternity have merely fugued on his million themes…..
Well, if a man as bright as Wittgenstein sees fit to go into print on an issue that gives him such trouble, you may wonder what modern philosophy has done for us. Nor will you be alone there. At a later tutorial at the summer school I mentioned, the Indian lady – to whom I had taken quite a shine – said to the tutor, in the course of the class: ‘Thank you for being so kind as not to notice that I was falling asleep.’
But we should end on a softer, kinder note. I wrote elsewhere –
After a short visit to the United States in 1949, he [Wittgenstein] learned that he had cancer. He lived with various friends in Oxford or Cambridge until he died in 1951. He was, in common with our other heroes, at peace with himself when he left us. It says a lot for his character that the lodging in which he stayed at the time that he died was looked after by a landlady. Wittgenstein was in the habit of walking to the pub with her each night. Wittgenstein would be about the most un-pub sort of person that God ever put on this earth, but he went out with his landlady for the walk and, moreover, he would order two sherries. He would give one to her and, since he did not drink, he would pour his over the flowers. That is not the conduct of a man bereft of humanity. He had a most extraordinary intellect in a constricted character that made it nearly impossible to pass on to us the benefits of that intellect. His success in doing so is due to his extraordinary moral courage. Intellect alone is never enough.