Falstaff: Give Me Life

By Harold Bloom

From Harold Bloom, one of the greatest Shakespeare scholars of our time comes “a timely reminder of the power and possibility of words [and] the last love letter to the shaping spirit of Bloom’s imagination” (front page, The New York Times Book Review) and an intimate, wise, deeply compelling portrait of Falstaff—Shakespeare’s greatest enduring and complex comedic characters.

Falstaff is both a comic and tragic central protagonist in Shakespeare’s three Henry plays: Henry IV, Parts One and Two, and Henry V. He is companion to Prince Hal (the future Henry V), who loves him, goads, him, teases him, indulges his vast appetites, and commits all sorts of mischief with him—some innocent, some cruel. Falstaff can be lewd, funny, careless of others, a bad creditor, an unreliable friend, and in the end, devastatingly reckless in his presumption of loyalty from the new King.

Award-winning author and esteemed professor Harold Bloom writes about Falstaff with the deepest compassion and sympathy and also with unerring wisdom. He uses the relationship between Falstaff and Hal to explore the devastation of severed bonds and the heartbreak of betrayal. Just as we encounter one type of Anna Karenina or Jay Gatsby when we are young adults and another when we are middle-aged, Bloom writes about his own shifting understanding of Falstaff over the course of his lifetime. Ultimately we come away with a deeper appreciation of this profoundly complex character, and this “poignant work” (Publishers Weekly, starred review) as a whole becomes an extraordinarily moving argument for literature as a path to and a measure of our humanity.

Bloom is mesmerizing in the classroom, wrestling with the often tragic choices Shakespeare’s characters make. “In this first of five books about Shakespearean personalities, Bloom brings erudition and boundless enthusiasm” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review) and his exhilarating Falstaff invites us to look at a character as a flawed human who might live in our world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribner
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781501164156

Harold Bloom

Harold Bloom is Sterling Professor of Humanities at Yale University. He has written more than sixty books, including Cleopatra: I Am Fire and Air, Falstaff: Give Me Life, The Western Canon, Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, and How to Read and Why. He is a MacArthur Prize fellow, a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and the recipient of many awards, including the Academy’s Gold Medal for Criticism. He lives in New Haven, Connecticut.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Prelude

I fell in love with Sir John Falstaff when I was a boy of twelve, almost seventy-five years ago. A rather plump and melancholy youth, I turned to him out of need, because I was lonely. Finding myself in him liberated me from a debilitating self-consciousness.

He has never abandoned me for three-quarters of a century and I trust will be with me until the end. The true and perfect image of life abides with him: robustly, unforgettably, forever. He exposes what is counterfeit in me and in all others.

If Socrates had been born in Geoffrey Chaucer’s England and had gone to Eastcheap, a London street, to purchase meat, he might have stopped for ale or sack at the Boar’s Head Tavern. There he would have encountered Falstaff and traded wit and wisdom with him. I have not the skill to portray that imaginary meeting. Only a fusion of Aristophanes and Samuel Beckett could manage it. Decades ago, sharing Fundador with Anthony Burgess on a Manhattan evening in 1972, I suggested he would be able to venture on the task but he demurred.

A lifelong Falstaffian at eighty-six, I have come to believe that if we are to represent Shakespeare by only one play, it ought to be the complete Henry IV, to which I would add Mistress Quickly’s description of the death of Falstaff in act 2, scene 3 of Henry V. I think of this as the Falstaffiad rather than the Henriad, as scholars tend to call it.

Shakespeare never surpassed the alternation between the royal court, the rebels, and Eastcheap in these three plays. The transitions between high and low are so deft they seem invisible.

Is there in all Western literature a portrayal of ambivalence to match Hal/Henry V? In regard to both the King, his father, and to Hotspur, his rival, the Prince is a whirligig of contraries. Toward Falstaff his long gathering ambivalence has turned murderous. Hal’s imagination is haunted by the wishful image of Sir John Falstaff on the gallows. The wretched Bardolph is hanged by his new King and former companion, in Henry V, without regret. Had Falstaff not departed for Arthur’s bosom, Mistress Quickly’s poignant mistake for Abraham’s bosom, he would have dangled by Bardolph’s side.

More than a few scholars of Shakespeare share Hal’s ambivalence toward Falstaff. This no longer surprises me. They are the undead and Falstaff is the everliving. I wonder that the greatest wit in literature should be chastised for his vices since all of them are perfectly open and cheerfully self-acknowledged. Supreme wit is one of the highest cognitive powers. Falstaff is as intelligent as Hamlet. But Hamlet is death’s ambassador while Falstaff is the embassy of life.

The heroic vitalists in literature include Rabelais’ Panurge, Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, and Cervantes’ Sancho Panza. Falstaff reigns over them. John Ruskin taught that the only wealth is life. Sir John Falstaff, the Socrates of Eastcheap, embodies that truth.

What is the essence of Falstaffianism? My late friend and drinking companion Anthony Burgess told me it was freedom from the state. Anthony and I never quite agreed on that though indeed no societal standards ever could abide Falstaff. I recall telling Burgess that for me the essence of Falstaffianism was: do not moralize. Computing Falstaff’s flaws is trivial: he bulges with them. Hal, like his father Bolingbroke, is the essence of hypocrisy. They are Machiavels. Bolingbroke, who becomes Henry IV, is a usurper and a regicide. His nonsensical obsession is that he will expiate the murder of Richard II by leading yet another crusade to capture Jerusalem. He dies indeed in the chamber of his palace called Jerusalem. Hal, when he becomes Henry V, leads a land grab to capture France. A crusade is what one might expect of Prince Hal, who hungers like Hotspur for what both call honor. Falstaff destroys the validity of that appetite in a reply to Hal in act 5, scene 1 in the first part of Henry IV:

Hal: Why, thou owest God a death. [Exit.]

Falstaff: ’Tis not due yet; I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? No: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. ’Tis insensible, then. Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism.

act 5, scene 1, lines 126–40

If there could be a religion of vitalism this would do very well for its catechism. Falstaff mocks faith, killing the insane notion that we owe God our death. Knowingly he also mocks both Hal and himself. Disreputable and joyous, he speaks to a world that goes from violence to violence.

Falstaff immediately became the most popular of all Shakespearean personalities, and remains so. The audiences at the Globe and the readers who purchased quartos found little to moralize against in Sir John. His being overflows and that excess brings new meanings to our minds. Exuberance in itself is a shadowy virtue and can be dangerous to the self and to others, but in Falstaff it generates more life.

I am weary of being accused of sentimentalizing Falstaff. I once told a benign interviewer:

Remember, there are three great poets whom neither you nor I would want to have lunch or dinner with, or even a drink—François Villon, Christopher Marlowe, and Arthur Rimbaud. At the least they would rob us, at the most they might kill us. Sir John Falstaff wouldn’t kill us, but he would certainly gull us one way or another, and perhaps pick our pockets very adeptly.

In that sense the sublime Falstaff is bad news. Against myself I cite Orson Welles, whose Chimes at Midnight remains a neglected masterpiece. Welles made the film, an adaptation of the Henriad, and played it as tragedy. The film had a supporting cast of brilliant stars including Keith Baxter as Hal, John Gielgud as Henry IV, Jeanne Moreau as Doll Tearsheet, Margaret Rutherford as Mistress Quickly, and Ralph Richardson as the Narrator. Welles called Falstaff a gloriously life-affirming good man . . . defending a force—the old England—which is going down. What is difficult about Falstaff . . . is that he is the greatest conception of a good man, the most completely good man, in all drama. His faults are so small and he makes tremendous jokes out of little faults. But his goodness is like bread, like wine.

I may be unique in my total agreement with Orson Welles. Is there anyone else in Henry IV whose goodness is like bread, like wine? They are scurvy politicians like the King and the brilliant Prince Hal and most of the rebels. They are smug thugs like Prince John and high-spirited killing machines like the captivating Hotspur and Douglas. Falstaff’s followers—Bardolph, Nym, the outrageous Pistol—are entertaining rogues, and Mistress Quickly and Doll Tearsheet are better company than the Lord Chief Justice. Justice Shallow is charmingly absurd and his crony Silence augments the irreality.

Falstaff is as bewildering as Hamlet, as infinitely varied as Cleopatra. He can be apprehended but never fully comprehended. There is no end to Falstaff. His matrix is freedom but he dies for love.

Oliver Goldsmith in his A Reverie at the Boar’s Head Tavern, Eastcheap is a beacon:

The character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, gives me more consolation than the most studied efforts of wisdom. I here behold an agreeable old fellow, forgetting age, and showing me the way to be young at sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so comical as he. Is it not in my power to have, though not so much wit, at least as much vivacity? Age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone! I give you to the winds. Let’s have t’other bottle; here’s to the memory of Shakespeare, Falstaff, and all the merry men of Eastcheap!

Falstaff is possibly closer to seventy-five than sixty-five. Dr. Samuel Johnson, who discovered and fostered Goldsmith, similarly celebrated Falstaff while expressing moral disapproval. Maurice Morgann is the true ancestor of all Falstaffians. His An Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff, published in 1777, was criticized by Johnson, who facetiously suggested Morgann should next try to prove Iago a good man. The issue was the supposed cowardice of the Fat Knight. It is an accusation first made by Prince Hal, who fiercely needs to persuade Falstaff to confess his cowardice. Why?

Crossing the threshold to the sinuous consciousness of Hal/Henry V, second King of the Lancaster line, we confront the wavering presence of ontology itself, the immanence of Sir John Falstaff. Why did Shakespeare invent Falstaff?

Literary character is always an invention and indebted to prior inventions. Shakespeare invented literary character as we know it. He reformed our expectations for the verbal imitation of personality and the reformation appears to be permanent and uncannily inevitable. The Bible and Homer powerfully render personages yet their characters are mostly unchanging. They age and die within their stories but their modes of being do not develop.

Shakespeare’s personalities do. The representation of character in his plays now seems normative and indeed became the accepted mode almost immediately. Shakespeare’s personalities have little in common with those of Ben Jonson or Christopher Marlowe. Shakespeare’s originality in portraying women and men founds itself upon The Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer.

Throughout Shakespeare, vitality transmutes into doom-eagerness. Richard II, the protagonist of the history that begins the Henriad, is a moral masochist whose luxurious self-indulgence in despair augments his overthrow by the usurper Bolingbroke, who thus becomes Henry IV. In the personality of Richard II, Shakespeare prefigures that element in all of us by which we render bad situations even worse through our own hyperbolic language.

Falstaff is different. His zest for life pervades his torrent of language and laughter. Hotspur is the incarnation of doom-eagerness. His mode though is opposite to that of Richard II. His vaunting language assaults the frontiers of what is possible. Hal, his father’s son, distrusts his own vitalism, and yet goes to Falstaff to be confirmed in it. The royal pupil proves unforgiving toward his teacher. Kings have no friends, only followers, and Sir John Falstaff is no man’s follower.

Directors, actors, playgoers, readers need to understand that Falstaff, most magnificent of wits, is tragicomic. Unlike Hotspur and Hal, he is not one of the fools of time. Dr. Johnson said that love was the wisdom of fools, and the folly of the wise. I cannot think of a better description of my hero Sir John Falstaff.

CHAPTER 2

Playing Falstaff

I first performed the role of Falstaff on the evening of October 30, 2000, with the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Robert Brustein, who then headed the ART, played ancient Pistol, Will Lebow did a number of parts including Bardolph, while Thomas Derrah was Hal and Karen MacDonald, Mistress Quickly, and I was Falstaff. The director Karin Coonrod and I prepared a text drawn from the two parts of Henry IV and Mistress Quickly’s lament for Falstaff in act 2, scene 3 of Henry V.

I composed an epilogue to what I had named the

Reviews for Falstaff

[antao-3 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

What makes us free? What makes me free is the capaciousness of Shakespeare’s soul. He is the knowledge of what we were and of what we have become.”In “Falstaff: Give Me Life” by Harold Bloom“Weird" is the word that comes to mind after having finished his take on Falstaff. We all know about his fixation on Falstaff. No problem with that. I’ve also a kin interest on Hamlet. So, what? My problem with Bloom lies on a different plane. “Weird Ideas”. That’s Bloom all over. His ideas can be interesting - and, at their crankiest (as in “A Map of Misreading”, Shakespeare: Invention of the Human and his Genius book) quite funny - but there's far too much of Bloom the frustrated bard-oracle in them, which is why they fail to stand up beyond the books in which they appear. Show him a half-decent poet and he'll construct around him a new view of human history centred on an ancient Gnostic text and full of juicy prophetic names for things already perfectly well named (e.g. "The Chaotic Age" for the 20th century). There's an element of trying to out-crazy the crazy totalising schemes of Blake or Yeats. Bloom trying to out-poet the poets, or at least match them in inspired, over-learned nuttiness. That’s why his take on Falstaff seems far-fetched. if you asked me to name some critics that I thought were provocative, well-read, and 'advanced scholarship' I would perhaps list Zachary Lesser, Anne Ferry, Andrew Hadfield, Louis Montrose, Roger Chartier, and Alexandra Gillespie from the top of my head - with some heavy bias in there for the renaissance, given my own reading. While I'd love to see their works being praised (or even read) by those outside of the academy, I'm not sure that they really deal with work, authors, or issues 'popular' enough to attract that attention. I don't begrudge a Bloom or a Vendler their success: academia is going to have to try quite hard to prove its relevance with the big changes to higher education coming. But when their work gets talked about as if they were the only one’s writing, it can get a little frustrating. Bloom wasn't much of an original thinker, borrowing heavily from Northrop Frye in much of his work and, in the case of Anxiety, a book called The Burden of the Past and the English Poet. Basically, Bloom just took Bate's book (which is primarily concerned with the anxieties felt by pre-Romantic writers) and jazzed it up with a bunch of Freudian rigmarole about wanting to kill one's father. This was not a convincing angle to take at all, but it was really the only thing "new" that Bloom brought to the table. Put another way, using his own terminology Bloom was not a "strong" critic. I think the anxiety of influence he described was probably something he personally felt as an academic. My favourite word to describe him is "weird" as stated, but we need some sort of superlative for someone who is a perverse in his judgments as Bloom: Othello never consummates his marriage to Desdemona; Orlando knows all along he is talking to Rosalind in disguise; Parolles is "the spiritual center" of "All's Well That Ends Well"; Portia, like Bassanio, is a yuppie lightweight, while Antonio is Shylock's evil twin; Kate tames Petruchio and dangles him like a puppet. Here's for "Measure for Measure": "It is difficult to decide who is more antipathetic, Angelo or Duke Vincentio. . . . Lucio is the only rational and sympathetic character in this absurdist comedy (except for the superb Barnadine)." Bloom simply announced these findings; he no longer argues; he is too Olympian for that. His notorious misogyny may be the key to many of these ludicrous sallies: Desdemona as castrating intimidator; Kate as emasculating manipulator. Bloom says that Shakespeare invented us, which implies that, as a demigod, he was too elevated to be anxious over much of anything. But surely he was stimulated by an Oedipal rivalry with Marlowe; "two competing young playwrights from strikingly similar origins egged each other on to do better, and more original, work." No, I'm sorry, they were the same age but Marlowe died in May, 1593, by which time Shakespeare, egged on by the supposed competition, had written exactly none of the plays that make him the Bard: had he died the same year, he would be about as famous today as Beaumont or Fletcher. Marlowe was quicker to attain box office success, which is the success that Shakespeare cared about, so Shakespeare copied him shamelessly. That isn't exactly rivalry or competition. Bloom, on no evidence whatsoever, pronounces "Titus Andronicus" a parody of Marlowe. A knockoff is not a parody. Such a genre did not even exist at the time. The audience wanted its pornography of violence straight up, not with a smirk, and the audience was Shakespeare's deity.Calling Bloom "overrated" doesn't even begin to say it, but the fault is ours, not his: I wouldn't expect him to see himself as we should have seen him.3 stars for the book due to the quote at the beginning of this post.

[fleetsparrow-728975 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I received a digital copy of this book from NetGalley. What follows is my honest review.

I was introduced to Shakespeare the way most of us were: through terrible high school English classes that sucked all the joy and dick jokes out of them. While I'm sure the dick jokes would've helped pass the time, I've come to the conclusion that teenage me would still have never enjoyed it. Shakespeare's something I've had to grow into (occasionally kicking and screaming).

I'm so happy I have. Between MST3k's episode of Hamlet and Good Tickle-Brain's scene-by-scene Macbeth and King Lear, comedy has led me to love the tragedies, so it makes some sense that the tragedy of the history plays would lead me to love the joy of Sir John Falstaff.

I say all of this to set the scene, so when I say that this is the most enjoyable nonfiction book I've ever read and that the sheer love Bloom has for Falstaff comes through in every line, you know that this is said by a complete n00b to Shakespeare. If this book had been required reading in high school (or college, for that matter), my descent in to Shakespeare would've began years ago.

Falstaff: Give Me Life is the first in the Shakespeare's Personalities series, short books that focus on one character and how they connect with our world and theirs. With Bloom's insight and energy, these books are perfect for all fans, new and old alike.

I had no experience with the character of Falstaff, except for the vague awareness that his character was drunk and bawdy -- known more for his vices than his virtues -- but within the first pages of Falstaff, Bloom proves that there's much enough depth and complexity (and, in course of events, tragedy) in Sir John to rival any of the more popular Great characters of Shakespeare. He compares Sir John with Hamlet in what is possibly my favorite sentence from the book:

"But Hamlet is death's ambassador while Falstaff is the embassy of life."

Falstaff is almost Dionysian in his embrace of life and all its pleasures, though with none of the distemper of the gods. He has seen the horrors of life and has chosen to focus on the joys of it. When we throw off the blinders of Western Christian society, we embrace his so-called vices for what they are: freedom. How can living to excess be a greater sin than the scheming and hypocrisy of kings? "...The essence of Falstaffianism [is]: do not moralize," says Bloom, and I can think of no better fitting statement.

I can't even explain how much I love this book, when my head screams, "Poetry!" and my soul cries, "Life!" I've never been so enamored with a character, or more delighted by a scholar than with Harold Bloom's Falstaff. I cannot recommend it enough. Legit, I want to buy it for all my friends and vague acquaintances so they can discuss this with me.

[booktsunami · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'd heard about Harold Bloom ...literary critic...and, Maybe confused him somewhat with Leopold Bloom ...the character from Jame's Joyce's Ulysses..who also had some literary aspirations. (Though more or less parasitic on Steven Daedelus who was the real literary scholar). And I's heard about Falstaff,,,though my impressions were not much more than he was a stout and comical figure from Shakespeare's plays. But in this collection of essays, Harold Bloom (American) takes Falstaff apart and examines the character from every angle. He does mention that he has played the roll of Falstaff himself and in many ways identifies with Falstaff. He seems effortlessly well read and able to drop into the mix references to: Ben Johnson, Dr Johnson, Orson Wells, John Gielgud, Anthony Burgess, St Jerome's vulgate version of the Bible ..and on and on. Clearly he writes well. Beautifully? Hmm not sure about that because the flow (in this type of review/critique) gets interrupted by the quotes.....and the quotes can be rather complex to figure out. In fact, that's the major task for Bloom: to expound upon the quotations and explain what Shakespeare was getting at.Falstaff is a kind of larger than life figure ...with no compunctions about regarding honour in battle as a poor substitute for survival. He's witty, charismatic, loves his Sherris Sack (What is this "sack"? I just checked it out. Sack is an antiquated name for fortified wines imported from Mainland Spain and the Canary Islands. And eventually the Cherris Sack (from Jerez de la Frontera) became known as Sherry in Britain.)I just listed to an interview with Bloom. He is not a great speaker. What he says is fine but he says it rather poorly. I wonder what he was like as an actor playing the role off Falstaff? He speaks of Orson Wells playing the part and "Relished the goodness of every phrase, tasting it as if it were bread and wine". Not sure that I could see Bloom managing this.Anyway, there is a wealth of material in this collection of essays and the character of Falstaff is subject to forensic evaluation. Rather a fun book to read. I give it four stars.