ONE
Inner Order
Shakespeare's Sonnets are the greatest single work of lyric poetry in English, and many of the individual poems are as powerful as those in any language. Yet they are scarcely read, except for the few that are regularly anthologized. This is not necessarily surprising. The vogue for sonnets reached its height in England during the last decades of the sixteenth century, and while many major writers—including Milton, Wordsworth, Keats, Frost, and Auden—have at times used the form to great effect, it remains a rarity, especially in modern literature.
To be confronted with a sequence of 154 sonnets, therefore, is a considerable challenge, particularly if the poems are as complex as any work written by Shakespeare. To try to take the measure of each of these poems is an exercise for adventurous but also patient spirits. To grasp the contours of the sequence as a whole requires no less concentration. The effort, however, is more than simply rewarding, because the work consists of love poetry that is as passionate, daring, intimate, searing, and lyrical as any that we may ever encounter.
This book is intended as an introduction for readers who may have an interest in the Sonnets themselves, or in Shakespeare's work as a whole, or simply in lyric poetry. It makes no attempt to survey the broad range of comparatively recent interpretations, but does argue that the Sonnets are more carefully ordered—as a coherent sequence—than is the case in most other works of criticism and scholarship.
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A number of the best Shakespearean scholars have—over a great many years—shown how little evidence exists to support any number of hypotheses put forward by commentators with an interest in the historical or biographical background of the Sonnets. But these efforts were, for a very long time, largely ignored. The situation was such that in 1964 when W. H. Auden published an introduction to the sequence, he began not with the usual generalizations that characterize such essays, but with a full assault:
Probably, more nonsense has been talked and written, more intellectual and emotional energy expended in vain, on the sonnets of Shakespeare than on any other literary work in the world … It so happens that we know almost nothing about the historical circumstances under which Shakespeare wrote these sonnets: we don't know to whom they are addressed or exactly when they were written, and unless entirely new evidence should turn up, which is unlikely, we never shall.
Auden's piece was a swashbuckling venture in which he tried to scatter the tribes of all those who have searched, without persuasive results, for the person who is enigmatically called the "Onlie Begetter" of the poems, and whose initials (on the title page of the 1609 original edition) are "Mr. W. H." Auden also tried to sweep away speculation about the origin of the various "characters" in the Sonnets, including the young man (with whom the poet is in love); the so-called dark lady (the poet's mistress and object of his lust); and the "rival poet" with his "compeers by night." There is not, as Auden and others have rightly pointed out, a reliable piece of evidence to confirm the identity of any of these figures.
Finally, Auden tried to detonate any lingering belief that the Sonnets were autobiographical in nature, although he did—rather oddly—view them as a kind of diary written by the poet "for himself alone." In Auden's view, Shakespeare played no part in preparing the poems for publication: they were simply too intimate, and "Shakespeare must have been horrified" when they suddenly appeared in print.
Apart from biographical and more general historical matters, at least two other major issues have confronted commentators. These concern the order of the Sonnets and their dating. Although contemporary scholars and critics differ about the extent and nature of the Sonnets' order, many would agree that there are a number of tightly linked "clusters" of poems that focus on either a particular situation, or incident, or theme—and these clusters are clearly relevant to any intelligent reading of the entire work. Indeed, some editors, over many decades, have attempted to rearrange the sequence in an effort to create a more fully coherent and carefully structured narrative or drama. Not surprisingly, all of these attempts failed.
Sonnet sequences belong to no well-defined genre. If one compares the sonnets of Petrarch, Sidney, Spenser, Daniel, and Drayton, one grasps immediately how much latitude was offered to the poet who set out to write yet another "collection." Moreover, because some (not all) of these works were written over a period of years, there was ample time for digressions, turnings, and returnings to themes and preoccupations that could be initially explored in a few sonnets, temporarily set aside, and then taken up again at a later point. In addition, inexplicable (as well as explicable) gaps—or poems that seem to be entirely "misplaced"—can suddenly appear. As a result, the reader or critic may well conclude (as did Auden) that there is finally no clear order to Shakespeare's sequence.
By contrast, Richard Blackmur's essay on the Sonnets, published in 1961, offered a view that is helpful in a number of respects:
No one can improve upon the accidentally established order we possess; but everyone can invite himself to feel the constant interflow of new relations, of new reticulations—as if the inner order were always on the move … Furthermore … the sequence we have seems sensible with respect to [the poems'] sentiments, and almost a "desirable" sequence with respect to the notion of development.
For Blackmur, the unfolding pattern of the Sonnets' "sentiments" and the arc of the work's "development" seemed right. He believed that the order of the poems reflected Shakespeare's intentions, and he proposed that those who disagreed should try reading the poems in reverse order: "They will turn themselves round again of their own force." Although Shakespeare's role in arranging the poems remains open to speculation, some of the clusters of linked sonnets seem so tightly bound together that it is hard to imagine he played no substantive part in their formation.
If Shakespeare was concerned about giving some discernible shape to the Sonnets, there is no way to settle the question of his role in their publication. Perhaps his informal audience of friends was sufficient. Circulating one's poems privately was of course not unusual during the Elizabethan period: Sidney certainly showed no interest in publishing his own sonnet sequence, Astrophil and Stella, and Donne would almost certainly have been embarrassed to see his Songs and Sonnets in print. With respect to Shakespeare, there is simply no way to reach a persuasive conclusion: the case remains open, and is likely to remain so.
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Most scholars are inclined to date the Sonnets—at least in large part—to the early to mid-1590s, which is plausible on stylistic grounds. Moreover, Shakespeare made use of the sonnet form in some of his plays from the same period (such as Love's Labor's Lost and Romeo and Juliet), while he also explored situations in the Sonnets that resemble scenes from Two Gentlemen of Verona and A Midsummer Night's Dream. We know that a number of the sonnets had been written and were in circulation by 1598. Francis Meres, in a "review" of then-current literature, referred specifically to Shakespeare's "sugred sonnets among his private friends"; and two of the sonnets (138 and 144) appeared in a 1599 anthology.
Although many of the poems were composed at a relatively early stage in Shakespeare's career, it is hard to imagine that a number of them (especially after sonnets 107–108) were written much before the late 1590s, perhaps the early 1600s. Several of these later sonnets to the young man deal at a consistently deep level with the themes of infatuation, betrayal, self-betrayal, disillusion, and moments of attempted reconciliation and affirmation. Similar themes appear early in the sequence, but many poems (beginning with 109) reveal a density and relentlessness of torturous experience—with some obvious moments of asserted triumph but no final resolution.
There are many ways to approach the Sonnets, and several excellent scholarly books (and editions) in recent decades have highlighted one or another method. It is possible, for example, to analyze Shakespeare's Sonnets in the light of other sequences, reaching back to Petrarch; or to relate major themes in the Sonnets to those in selected Shakespeare plays; or to think of each sonnet as an individual lyric, with a formal structure of its own; or to emphasize the misogynistic aspects—or the homoerotic aspects—of the work.
It is rare to find consideration of the sequence as if it had some of the characteristics of a drama or narrative, and there are certainly reasons not to do so. The Sonnets have no fully substantial "characters" except for the poet: the others are accessible only through his eyes, so we must infer the feelings, motives, actions, and attitudes of the young man or the so-called dark lady from what the poet says. As a result, a great deal of what happens remains obscure. When the young man first betrays and deserts the poet (in sonnets 33–35), we learn only the most general nature of his transgression. If we try to trace an overarching line of development, we risk being drawn into something close to Auden's conception of the Sonnets as a kind of diary, written by the poet for "himself alone." And we may be tempted (for the sake of the work's continuity) to discover connections where there are none, or to find coherence when there may be only disorder. Consequently, many of the best Shakespearean scholars and critics have (in the past three to four decades) concluded that it is impossible to discover any substantial degree of unity in the Sonnets. Several have suggested that some of the sonnets attributed to the friend may have been written with a woman in mind, because many of the poems lack "gendered" pronouns. Still others find too many discontinuities—from poem to poem—to allow for much or any coherence at all in the work.
These are all relevant observations, and anyone who wishes to make the case for a particular kind of order in the sequence must assume (as this book does) that there is one male friend in the first 126 sonnets, and one mistress in 127–54; that some sections are concerned with identifiable themes, in contrast to quite well-defined specific incidents and situations; and that one can trace an overall progression of sentiments and a general development in the work, even though many individual poems do not strictly follow the subject matter of those immediately preceding them.
In considering this apparent lack of continuity, several points should be kept in mind. First, the love between the poet and the friend is sufficiently mutual—although not equal in intensity—that it survives any number of serious lapses or transgressions. Indeed, it continues to the very end of the first 125 sonnets, and is clearly alluded to in the final section of the sequence. This love is utterly transformative for the poet, and he remains firmly devoted to it, regardless of the friend's (as well as his own) unfaithfulness. Love binds the poet in an irresistible way, and he is willing to suffer any number of humiliations and temporary repudiations without seriously risking a full break in the relationship with the young man.
Although the relationship is defined primarily in terms of love, the poet becomes, very early in the sequence, the friend's chosen or favored writer, and this means he is initially drawn to create poems of praise intended to celebrate, engage, impress, and at times amuse the friend. Consequently, unless the poet is willing to renounce the relationship (which he is not), he must chart a course that will eventually include sonnets of suspicion, dismay, and accusation in the light of the friend's successive betrayals, as well as sonnets that are committed to a mode of compliment, praising the young man's beauty, "worth," and even constancy.
As a result, many of the poet's unexpected changes in stance, tone, and subject matter derive from his need to maintain these conflicting roles. He is at moments a critic and accuser of the young man, while he must also—if he is to remain "favored"—continue to satisfy the youth's desire for poetry, which is often difficult to distinguish from mere flattery. Given this situation, we should expect to find many instances of the poet shifting from recrimination—even verbal "attack"—to praise and even self-denigration, sometimes stressing the former quite fiercely, but soon reverting to the latter. Such a pattern emerges in the movement from sonnets 33–35 on the one hand, to 36–39 on the other; then again 67–70 followed by 71–74; and again 87 followed by 88–90.
Perhaps the most conspicuous of these examples occurs after the rival poet series (76–86) when the poet, having been rejected by the friend, bids "Farewell" (87) to the young man, ultimately accusing him of being a "mansion" of "vices" and a "base" jewel (95–96). This assault comes closer to causing a total break in the relationship than any previous incident, but it is followed by sonnet 97, which—in a completely different vein—is clearly a poem of strongly expressed love. We may well feel that we are faced with a radical "disconnect" that is inexplicable. But 97 starts with the line "How like a winter hath my absence been / From thee," and sonnet 98 opens in a similar way ("From you have I been absent"). These and other poems in this group make clear that a period of estrangement followed the poet's attack on the friend in sonnets 94–96, and this prolonged absence has finally led to a full reunion. Indeed, sonnets 97–108 include some of the most beautiful and marvelously lyrical in the entire sequence, and they celebrate a renewal of mutual deep affection when the poet praises not simply the friend's beauty, but his recommitment to the love relationship.
A note on the issue of patronage: throughout this volume, I refer to the poet as the friend's chosen or favored writer—terms that suggest a conventional patronage relationship. And the poet refers often enough to the young man as if he were indeed a patron of considerable status who would in some way reward him, if not financially, at least with the honor of having a "superior" person "accept" his work.
The Sonnets, however, present us with an exceptionally complex case. Important elements of patronage exist, but the poet's frequent critique of the friend, and the intimate nature of the love, take us well beyond anything conventional. The dedications to patrons by other Elizabethan writers (such as Spenser) are highly formal and characterized by unqualified praise. Nothing remotely approaching criticism appears, and there is certainly no presumption that there might be a close relationship between patron and writer.
The Sonnets exist, therefore, in their own realm: they often present the friend as a "lord" or a "sun" looking down on the poet's netherworld; by contrast, they sometimes define the friend as a near-equal in mutual love—or else as someone who is unfaithful, unfathomable, and even (as suggested) a "mansion" of "vices." As a result, I have avoided the terms patron and patronage, but have used chosen or favored writer to characterize the poet: this approach sacrifices a measure of precision, but it has the advantage of being descriptive without imposing a traditional (and more strictly defined) conception on the sequence.
Copyright © 2014 by Neil L. Rudenstine
