I took my first beach walk of the season this morning, spotted:
– squid and jellyfish washed up on the beach
– two deceased horseshoe crabs
– dolphins feeding in the surf
– loads of pelicans
– and of course the gorgeous sunrise
When you're in love you want to tell the world
Spoiler Alert: Before you read this you should go see Jurassic World – and you should go see it.
In the original Jurassic Park, the message was that cloning dinosaurs from fossilized DNA was
2) a really bad idea
Everybody forgot about #2 five minutes after they left the theater and focused on #1, which is right and true and good. Cloning dinosaurs would be awesome if we could ever figure out how to do it.
Jurassic World is, by my best count, the fourth movie in the franchise but it essentially ignores installments 2 and 3 to focus on paying homage to the first movie and (for a regrettably short time) the first point above. As Jurassic World opens, we see John Hammond’s dream fulfilled. Amazed tourists ride aboard monorails, buses, even self-driven hamster balls through herds of herbivores as the enormous beasts serenely glide across verdant plains. Thrilled guests get splashed by an enormous mosasaur in the coolest moving theater anyone’s ever seen (eat your heart out, Carousel of Progress). The little ones even get to take dinosaur “pony” rides.
Combine these amazing attractions with high-tech touch screen storytelling and even a Jimmy Fallon tour guide bit (“spared no expense”) and Jurassic World looks like just about the coolest vacation spot anyone’s ever imagined.
And then, naturally, things go wrong. Blah, blah, dinosaurs eat people, blah, blah, damsel in distress, blah blah, hero must show his manhood. Whatever.
The whole Jurassic Park franchise is such an enigma. Every single movie, even the really awful 2nd and 3rd movies, are dedicated to the idea that when people meddle with nature, bad things happen. And yet no one goes to the movie to see those hubristic humans get their comeuppance. No, we all go to see what wonders Henry Wu and his colleagues can cook up next in that lab of theirs. We want to watch the babies hatch. We want to see the velociraptors hunt pigs (and maybe even bigger prey), we want to see what happens when we blend the size of a t-rex with the brainpower of a cuttlefish. Oops, hope I didn’t give away too much.
On the surface, Jurassic World – like its predecessors – is all about moralistic finger-wagging about the dangers of science gone too far. And yet, underneath, the entire time it’s winking at us knowingly. Nobody ever made a movie about the guy who said, “No, I better not.”
If (when?) Jurassic World opens its doors, I’ll be right there in line with all the other dinosaur freaks out there. You’re too frightened to attend? Good, more hamster ball rides for me.
I never realized how amazing Columbus is until last summer when I tried to see Shakespeare in the Park in Cincinnati.
Nothing against Cincinnati; I’m sure their Shakespeare in the Park program is good in its own way. When I and my family went to Cincinnati last summer to see Macbeth, we were disappointed to learn that
1) it was an all teenage cast
2) It would be performed entirely in a tiny pavilion with no stage and limited scenery.
3) It ended up getting canceled, anyway, due to lightning in the area.
We were disappointed that we didn’t get to see the play, but honestly we’d been spoiled by Columbus’ amazing Shakespeare in the Park program at Schiller, and I suspect that the Cincinnati version would have disappointed. That same summer (last summer) Actors’ Theatre did Hamlet and the Merry Wives of Windsor. Two really, really different plays, but we loved them both.
This Saturday we’re going to see Captain Blood – not Shakespeare, but it’s got pirates! And we’ll be going to Katzinger’s for our traditional Schiller Park picnic before the play. And we know we’ll see a great show in a beautiful park on a massive stage. Later in the summer they’ll be doing Richard III. If you’ve never been – or even if you have – you should check it out. Plays at Schiller are one of the things that make Columbus, well, pretty great.
Life is a symphony.
I’ve changed the name of my blog because I love the idea of a symphony, a harmonious blending of different elements to create something beautiful.
I started this blog as a celebration of science, sea turtles, and a sense of wonder. I still celebrate all those, but I want to write about so much more. I want to write about Shakespeare, and music, and art, and poetry, and love, and people. Amazing, amazing people.
I once wrote here that I hate fiction. Now I realize that it wasn’t fiction I hated at all. It was bad fiction. I felt like I didn’t have a way to argue against bad fiction. But of course that was never true. The argument against bad fiction is to celebrate good fiction. I’m reading more fiction than ever before. Shakespeare, yes. But also Faulkner, and Hemingway, and Pynchon, and Emily Dickinson and Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy and . . . and I’ll write about them here.
I’ll still write about science, too. I’m still in love with science, because it’s one of the things people do. Amazing, amazing people. When you’re in love, you want to tell the world. So I will.
Leonard Nimoy passed away Friday, which led me to revisit some Star Trek The Original Series (TOS) over the weekend.
There’s no doubt the influence Mr. Spock had on my childhood. By far my favorite TOS character even then, Spock was a role model for a nerdy little kid who often felt as much an alien as the pointy-eared First Officer of the Enterprise. Emotions are a funny thing when you’re a kid – much of your young life is a struggle to control your anger, your fear, your frustration, and of course usually you fail. In Spock we were presented a man – a hero – who struggled with his own emotions again and again, and who found a way to succeed.
On top of that, he was the Science Officer! How cool could you get? One got the feeling that Spock knew everything, and only ever held back so as to make Kirk and the rest feel that they weren’t doing so badly.
Having watched a few episodes over the weekend, I can only say – wow, TOS was really, really bad. The dialogue was wooden, the over-the-top dramatic music was matched only by William Shatner’s over-the-top phrasing and bravado, the same jokes were played out again and again and again . . . usually at Spock’s expense. Never, not even in its best moments, did TOS come anywhere near the best of TNG: Darmok; The Inner Light; I, Borg; All Good Things; The Measure of a Man; Chain of Command – and on and on.
By the way, looking at the list of TNG’s best and one thing is obvious. TNG was Jean-Luc Picard. While TOS explored humanity through the half-human Spock and the ridiculous Kirk, and TNG tried casting Data in the Spock role (and Riker in the Kirk role), I think it bacame quite obvious around Season Three that TNG was Patrick Stewart’s series. He made it special with his skill, his energy, his humanity. Through Stewart’s portrayal of Picard, TNG became something I think no one would have predicted – a true exploration of what it means to live a meaningful human life.
OK, this was supposed to be a tribute to Leonard Nimoy and his Mr. Spock. Instead it’s become a celebration of Picard. But maybe that’s fitting. So many people compare and contrast Picard with Kirk that it’s become an internet trope. It occurs to me, though, that it’s the wrong comparison. Spock, with his desire for logic, his love of peace and diplomacy, his boundless curiosity, was the true ancestor of Picard, who shared all those qualities and more. Picard, unlike Spock, wasn’t frightened of his emotions, but he was always in control of them. Picard, unlike Spock, didn’t run from his humanity. Instead, he embraced it, found ways to make it work for him. Picard took what Spock had begun and raised it to new, unexpected heights.
So goodbye, Mr. Spock. Thanks for making it possible for us to know Jean-Luc Picard, your true heir.
I just finished Steven Pinker’s book The Blank Slate. Good stuff, but the part that is sticking for me today is the poem by Emily Dickinson that he quotes in the final chapter.
The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—
The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—
I’ve drifted away from Emily Dickinson over the years. This is a poem that I don’t think I ever encountered in my Dickenson-philia phase. If I did, it made no impression. But this time I find it inspiring. It puts me in mind of David Deutsch’s view of the brain as a universal explainer, capable of modeling anything – for instance the inside of a quasar jet.
” . . . one physical system – say, an astrophysicist’s brain – contains an accurate working model of the other, the jet. Not just a superficial image (though it contains that, as well), but an explanatory theory that embodies the same mathematical relationships and causal structure. That is scientific knowledge. Furthermore, the faithfulness with which the one structure resembles the other is steadily increasing. That constitutes the creation of knowledge . . . Of all the physical processes that can occur in nature, only the creation of knowledge exhibits that underlying unity.”
In other words, the brain is wider than the sky, because it can model the sky, and still have room left over. That’s a remarkable fact about brains.
Of course the most important and difficult part of the poem is the final stanza. If you don’t read it carefully, it may sound like traditional religious sentiment. The brain is bigger than this, the brain is bigger than that, but the brain isn’t bigger than God. But Dickinson is tricky. Her religion is never traditional, her view of God anything but sentimental.
“they will differ—if they do—”
Here Dickinson throws doubt on the difference. Did God create man or did man create God? If the brain and God don’t differ, then is God just another model in our expansive brains? But the final metaphor is the crucial one.
“As Syllable from Sound—”
Whatever could that mean?
I think it is a sentiment familiar to Deutsch, familiar to John Gardner in Grendel when he calls humans “pattern-makers,” familiar to Shakespeare when he has Hamlet say of man, “In apprehension, how like a god!”
We are the Children of Tama. We create meaning. We carve “syllable” (sense, explanation, metaphor) from “sound” (nature, experience, event). We do that. If we are different from God (and Dickinson, as we’ve seen, isn’t so sure there’s a distinction to be made) then that difference is found here: we – these embodied brains trapped forever in these limited bodies, yet entirely because of our brains capable of traveling to the bottom of the sea, to the edge of the sky – we transform information into knowledge.
I need to read more Emily Dickinson.
Now I’ve done it. I’ve put the dreaded “God Particle” title on my blog after railing against it in the past. (And yes, I really did write that, even though my identity has been expunged. Another story. Better to be published without credit than to not be published at all, I suppose.)
Here’s my excuse. In his book Smashing Physics, which I just finished listening to, English (very English) physicist Jon Butterworth makes the following statement about the Higgs boson and the Brout-Englert-Higgs (BEH) field that gives mass to matter particles:
If you think this BEH mechanism is correct, then every time you measure the mass of something, you are seeing evidence for it. On the other hand, this becomes simply a matter of interpretation, since the BEH theory has explained the mass, but has made no unique prediction for any new phenomena that you can test experimentally. Maybe some other theory could also explain the mass. In fact, this is pretty much why the draft of Peter Higgs’ second paper on the matter was initially rejected by the journal Physics Letters. He then went and added an equation that essentially says something along the lines of, ‘Well, if this field is there, you can also make waves in it, and this will appear as a new scalar, i.e. spinless, particle . . .’
That is the famous Higgs boson, and that is why we have to see whether it’s there or not. It was this prediction that made it possible to demonstrate whether the BEH mechanism was just a neat piece of mathematics, or whether it really operates in nature.
It struck me the contrast between this statement and the ubiquitous proof of God given by believers. God, they say, is everywhere. Everything is evidence of Him.
What they fail to consider is that, as in the case of the BEH field theory, some other theory might explain the world just as well as the God theory. What testable prediction does the God theory make?
William Lane Craig, who is supposedly the best the apologists can put up, presents a version of the “evidence for God is everywhere” argument on his web site:
1. The fine-tuning of the universe is due to either physical necessity, chance, or design.
2. It is not due to physical necessity or chance.
3. Therefore, it is due to design.
How does Craig reach point 2, the key point in his argument? I’ll let you read it, but it essentially comes down to, “no one has yet thought of any argument that convinces me. Therefore, design.” That’s just an argument from ignorance, a God of the gaps. I can’t think of anything else, therefore God.
It’s fine to be skeptical of the multiverse, of inflationary cosmology, of the 10^500 possible worlds of String Theory. I certainly am.
Maybe the fine tuning is a physical necessity. Maybe it is chance. Maybe it’s something else, something we haven’t yet considered, including the idea that maybe the fine tuning is an illusion, caused by our incomplete understanding. The best current answer to the fine-tuning problem is, ‘we don’t know yet.”
Yet nowhere does Craig put his concept of God under the same skeptical microscope. And that’s the point I’m making here.
Note the key difference between physicists like Butterworth and theologians like Craig. Physicists are open to the idea they may be wrong. They devise tests that are vulnerable to failure. They don’t make their pet theory the default position.
Imagine if instead the physicists had taken Craig’s angle. They might have said:
1. Particle properties are caused by either the BEH mechanism, or by something else.
2. No one’s offered a “something else” that I find compelling.
3. Therefore, particle properties are caused by the BEH mechanism. Done!
But this isn’t what happened. Instead, physicists came up with an idea, then put that idea to the test. First, physicists crafted the BEH mechanism, an idea that fit the known data. But they didn’t stop there. Next they found real-world implications of their theory (the Higgs boson). Then they they devised tests. And finally, at the Large Hadron Collider, they performed these tests and examined the outcome.
This is what is so impressive about the discovery of the Higgs. The BEH prediction could have failed. The physicists could have been wrong. At any point the data might have pointed in a different direction. But it didn’t. The Higgs is really there, the BEH field is an accurate representation of reality. We humans have glimpsed something true, and real, and right about the universe. That is what science can do. God particle 1, God (still) 0.
I was recently in Hitchcock Hall at The Ohio State University with my daughter. Displayed in the lobby is a jet engine used in the Boeing 737.
To the left and the right of the jet engine were two mounted flatscreen monitors giving information about the engine and its operation. We started talking about these two inventions, which both in their own ways changed the world. My daughter made the point that in fact the flatscreen and everything it represents might be a more important invention than the jet engine, because it is the flatscreen and the explosion of information technology that has truly opened the world. It’s a good point. They’re both such amazing inventions, though, that I wanted to write a little about each of them.
How does a jet engine work?
What I’ll write here completely ignores the most important parts of a jet engine – the control systems, the sensors, the subtle ways in which we humans get the engine to do our bidding. Just as Wilbur and Orville Wright’s great contribution was not the physics of flight but the control of the airplane, the thing that makes a jet engine work is the way we monitor and control it. But I don’t know nearly enough to write anything about that.
What I do know is the basic physics of the engine. Much like your car’s engine, the jet engine burns fuel. As the fuel burns, heat is released, and gases expand. Unlike your car’s engine, though, the expanding gases in a jet engine don’t push on a piston. Instead, they push on the blades of a turbine, causing the turbine to spin around 1o,000 times a minute. The turbine is connected via a shaft to the huge fan at the front of the engine. This spinning fan pulls in air. Some of this air is compressed and pushed into the combustion chamber to support the burning fuel. Most of it, though, bypasses the combustion chamber and comes flying out the back of the engine, producing most of the engine’s thrust.
Here’s an animation from NASA showing the key pieces:
This air, mixed with burned fuel and air from the combustion chamber, flies out the back of the engine. That’s the action. The reaction is that the engine (and the aircraft it’s attached to) moves forward, into even more air. And the world flies.
OK, what about the flatscreen?
The same caveats apply. Ask me to build, or even fix, a flatscreen, and I’m lost. The true genius of modern flatscreen monitors lies not in the basic physics, but in the control, the logic, the functionality of the screen. And of these details I’m painfully unaware. Again, what I know is the physics.
Not long ago, televisions were electron guns. Electrons produced at the back of the television flew through a tube (the cathode ray tube) and struck the phosphors at the front of the screen, producing light. The technology worked, but the tubes were heavy, expensive, and used a lot of energy.
Today’s flatscreens depend on two technologies that sound similar but are in fact quite different. The light energy emitted from a flatscreen into your eye originates with light-emitting diodes, LEDs. The particular colors produced by the screen come from liquid crystal displays, or LCDs. Here’s a little about each.
LEDs are light bulbs that don’t use a filament. Instead, they use a sort of cliff, over which electrons fall. When electrons move from one material to another inside the LED, they fall into a lower energy state. You can imagine the electrons jumping off a cliff, shouting “cowabunga” or something as they fall, except the “shout” comes out as a piece of light, a photon. The difference in energy between the beginning material and the ending material determines the type of photon released. Phosphors in the LED turn those photons, usually of a very specific type, into a wide spectrum that our eyes see as white light.
LCDs are completely different. These in a sense reverse the action of the phosphor inside the LED. By absorbing photons of many colors and emitting photons of just one color, each liquid crystal can make a single dot of a single color on the screen.
The amazing thing, though, is that each color cell in the screen can be (and is) turned on and off very quickly with just a small electric signal, allowing each tiny piece of the screen to produce a particular color at a particular time. When added together, all these on and off signals add up to the picture. And the world sees.
Two world-changing technologies on display side by side. Ain’t science grand?
This weekend I watched and read along with Sir Ian McKellan’s version of King Lear.
This is a big play. Not just a long play (it is listed here as the seventh longest of Shakespeare’s plays – Macbeth, by contrast, is seventh shortest), but a big play. I feel overwhelmed by all that happens.
As usual, Asimov gives me context and Harold Bloom gives me direction in gathering my thoughts on this play, and they both have much to say. And yet after reading them, and many other thoughts and reviews, I still feel that I don’t know this play. Is it just too big?
Love. Love is a central theme of this play, which seems a crazy statement for a play containing so much misery, so much betrayal, and in the end so much, and so “untimely”, as one character says , death. But it is love that makes the betrayal and the misery so painful to watch.
In the famous opening scene (“nothing will come of nothing” which would have made a good subtitle for this play – more on that later), Lear demands public pronouncements of love from his three daughters. Cordelia, the youngest and up until now Lear’s clear favorite, loves her father too much to lie to him as her older sisters have done. In telling the truth, that she loves Lear as a daughter should love a father, “nor more nor less,” she draws Lear’s wrath – and indirectly causes all the disaster that is about to befall the characters of the play.
Love also pervades the other plot in this big play. Edmund is the bastard son of Gloucester. In the McKellan play, the pain Edmund feels when his father talks quite inappropriately about Edmund’s origin (“there was good sport in his making”) is almost physical. It’s clear that what Edmund really wants is love, the sort of love his older and legitimate brother Edgar has always received from their father. In fact, the pain and humiliation that Edmund unfairly experiences in this first scene makes it difficult to view Edmund as a true villain, even after Edmund’s betrayal of his father leads to the horrible blinding Gloucester is given by the truly evil Cornwall. In fact, Cornwall pointedly removes Edmund from this scene, and one wonders whether Edmund, supposedly so cold-blooded and cruel, could have stood by and watched this torture.
After Cornwall is killed by a servant – I think this is Shakespeare giving voice to every audience member who wants to destroy this eye-gouging monster the way you want to smash a bug with your boot – his wife Regan tries tempting Edmund with her love. At the same time Regan’s older sister Goneril (could Shakespeare have chosen a less attractive name?), wife of the “milk-livered” Albany, decides that she, too, loves Edmund. This, and not any dispute over land or power, sets the two sisters against one another, eventually leading to both their deaths.
When Edmund, mortally wounded by his brother, sees how powerful love can be, he has an amazing, and yet convincing, change of heart and tries to save Lear and Cordelia from the death that he has ordered for them. He dies without knowing that this reversal has failed; Cordelia is killed and Lear dies soon after.
In some ways one feels that Edgar, essentially the only survivor in the play, is the unluckiest character of all – left to clean up the mess of all this death and destruction. What good is all this love if all it leads to is death after death and misery upon misery? My only answer is the beautiful scene from Act Four, the scene where Lear and Cordelia are reconciled. Both Bloom and Asimov wrote that it is the most beautiful scene in all Shakespeare, and therefore in all the English language. With the possible exception of Huck Finn choosing to go to Hell, so far I agree. Though I knew it was coming, the scene brought tears to my eyes. It was played marvelously by McKellan and Romola Garai, and the original words that Shakespeare chose are so incredibly understated that it almost doesn’t feel like Shakespeare. Yet it so, so works:
as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
And so I am, I am.
Be your tears wet? yes, ‘faith. I pray, weep not:
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:
You have some cause, they have not.
No cause, no cause.
It still makes me cry to read it now. All the death and misery of this play is worth this one moment. And maybe that’s the point.
But back to Edmund, and to nothing. Nothing will come of nothing. I can’t help but think, when I hear and read Lear’s line to Cordelia as she refuses to give him the false love he demands, of Lawrence Krauss’s book A Universe From Nothing. And that makes me think about atheism and the moment many years ago when I first read these lines from Edmund:
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that,
when we are sick in fortune,–often the surfeit
of our own behavior,–we make guilty of our
disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as
if we were villains by necessity; fools by
heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and
treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards,
liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of
planetary influence; and all that we are evil in,
by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion
of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish
disposition to the charge of a star! My
father compounded with my mother under the
dragon’s tail; and my nativity was under Ursa
major; so that it follows, I am rough and
lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am,
had the maidenliest star in the firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.
And of course I was hooked. And then Edmund turned out to be the villain of the play. Pretty strong indictment of atheism there, right? Maybe, but maybe not. What I’m struck by in the play is the failure of any sort of real justice. Yes, Cornwall is killed by the “everyman”, but that everyman is then easily dispatched by Regan, and Cornwall’s death actually seems to fit in just fine to Regan’s plans. Gloucester was “blind” to his mistreatment of Edmund, but surely his own blinding was anything but justified by this, and of course neither Edgar nor Cordelia deserved any of the misery they received. Lear, it’s true, gets his comeuppance for his foolish treatment of his daughters, but it doesn’t ever feel like justice so much as the natural and predictable result of a foolish old man’s foolish choices. Is it justice to be burned by a fire when you stick your own hand in? Nothing would have come of nothing, but disaster comes of foolishness.
Lear realizes this in the storm. I looked hard in the storm scene for parallels to my favorite scene in Moby-Dick, but didn’t really find them. Here I see Lear not so much defying the gods as begging them to do him in, to end the pain and humiliation. But as usual the gods aren’t listening. Lear will have to make his own path. And, unlike Ahab, who fails to live up to the promise he shows in the storm, in the end Lear does find his way. And it truly is his way, his and Cordelia’s.
After he is blinded, Gloucester delivers as strong a renunciation of the gods as one is likely to find anywhere in Shakespeare:
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods.
They kill us for their sport.
I suspect that Shakespeare saved this line for a play that is pointedly pre-Christian, feeling he could get away with it in that context but perhaps no other. But notice how well this sentiment fits with Macbeth, with Romeo and Juliet, even with Hamlet. There is no supernatural help to be found in Shakespeare – nothing will come of nothing. The only redemption that is ever found is that built, created, invented between thinking, feeling, wise and foolish humans. Nothing will come of nothing, but something – something real, something valuable, something that, for at least a little while, can hold back the howling storm – can come from us.
This weekend I read and watched the St. Louis Shakespeare Company production of The Taming of the Shrew.
The play left me feeling much as I felt after reading and watching The Merchant of Venice, and also brought up some of the same troubling thoughts as did Prospero’s treatment of Caliban in The Tempest.
In this play, a rich nobleman named Baptista is trying to sell off his two daughters, Katherine or Kate and Bianca. While Bianca is sweet and demure, Kate (the “shrew” of the title) is loud, obnoxious, and apparently in need of correction. While several suitors vie for Bianca, only Petruchio, a poor man looking for money, agrees to take on Kate the shrew (and the considerable fortune that comes with marrying into Baptista’s family, of course).
The rest of the play consists of slapstick humor bookended by cruel mental and physical humiliation of Kate by our “hero” Petruchio. In the end, Petruchio wins a bet by demonstrating that of the three new wives at a gathering (his own Kate, her sister Bianca, and a rich widow introduced late in the play), Kate proves to be the most obedient and subservient. Kate’s closing speech shows that her will has been entirely crushed – she offers to place her own, soft hand below her husband’s boot. Lovely.
Immediately I sought some sort of explanation. Both Isaac Asimov, in his Asimov’s Guide to Shakespeare, and Yale professor Harold Bloom, in his Shakespeare: the Invention of the Human, made rather unconvincing excuses for this mess of a play. Bloom in particular seems to utterly disbelieve Kate’s own words. When Petruchio shows up late to the hasty marriage he himself arranged, Kate says,
I must forsooth be forc’d
To give my hand, oppos’d against my heart
Immediately after this passage, Bloom says,”(T)his is not the anxiety of an unwilling bride. Kate (is) authentically in love”
In other words, no means yes.
I don’t think any of this works. I think this play is exactly what it seems to be. It tells the story of a shrewish woman who is abused out of her shrewishness. It is about how a man should rule his wife and force her into the mold he desires. It is a symptom of a society that sees women as property, without a proper will of their own.
I think that later in his career Shakespeare will get better. He’ll learn more about people and he’ll become a more insightful critic of his own, often immoral, society. But here I think Shakespeare is just wrong.
More important, though, is our reaction to Shakespeare. We love Shakespeare for so many good reasons that it’s hard for us to deal with his moral failures, such as those in The Tempest, The Merchant of Venice, and here in The Taming of the Shrew. How do we deal with those failures? Either we do what Asimov and Bloom do – Shakespeare’s not really saying what you think he’s saying, he’s actually being ironic, he’s showing how Kate is really controlling the relationship, etc. – or we admit that Shakespeare was just wrong. Crucially, never do we say that Shakespeare and Shakespeare’s culture were actually right about women, about Jews, about slaves and servants. Why? Because we’re better now. Again in this play we see that compared to us, Shakespeare in some ways was a moral ignoramus. Compared to us. In other words, we’re getting better. And a moral disaster of a play like The Taming of the Shrew demonstrates the progress we’ve made. It’s something to be proud of.