Becca Rothfeld’s Exuberant Ode to the Risks of Rapture
“Tell me, my daughters,” says King Lear, announcing his intention to divest himself “of rule… [and] territory,” of “cares of state,” as he points to a map of his kingdom spread out before him. “Which of you shall we say doth love us most / That we our largest bounty may extend?”
In attempting to take love’s measure, to size it up and apportion its material reward, Lear touches off the tragic series of events that will eventually destroy his house and all who inhabit it. Tragedy is, by definition, a face-off between incommensurable spheres; it draws us round to witness the collision of two competing, equally worthy, yet mutually exclusive claims.
’s new book, , is not overly given to the tragic mode. On the contrary, her prose is robustly Rabelaisian, warm and mirth filled. Her beautifully crafted sentences are a testament to language’s sensuous abundance. Nonetheless, the book’s chapters might also be read as a series of exceptionally perceptive glosses
