When my boyfriend inquired into my reading earlier today, and I informed him that I was reading The Witch of Edmonton, the first thing he asked was, "So is it a real witch?" Good question. I had just begun Act II, and I could not tell him. A familiar included in the character list seems to imply "real" supernatural action, but at the beginning of the second act, Mother Sawyer appears to be no more than a weary old woman. If our studies this semester have taught me anything, it is that the line between being and seeming is questionable, and I could not pass judgment.
I know now that Elizabeth Sawyer is indeed a witch, but my hesitation in bestowing the title was well-founded: she was not at the time Clayton asked. In her first entrance, she bemoans her undeserved reputation, claiming that her fellow citizens "go about to teach" her how to be a witch by goading her to curses with their constant accusations. To be fair, she is not exactly the spirit of courtesy and longsuffering, but she may have been once; we enter her story too late to tell. At the point we meet her, she is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Years of distrust have made her untrustworthy.
We are given only a couple of pages in which to pity Mother Sawyer, but it is enough. She is unfairly judged, and dangerously so, for her time. It is her cursing that brings the devil upon her, but it is persecution that brings the cursing. "Tis all one To be a witch as to be counted one," as she puts it. People will believe what they want to believe. For a woman accused of witchcraft, however, those beliefs could be deadly. Endangered by her fellow people, it is small wonder Sawyer should turn to the devil for "protection."
This suggests an interesting third element to the being/seeming issue. We must also deal with "becoming." A thing which holds power in our minds holds power; it does not matter whether it warrants the power we give it. Part of the draw of the supernatural is that it does not have to be real to be kinetic. In Mother Sawyer's case, she becomes what she seems to be. That is, seeming leads to being. I find her occult powers to be as much a punishment on her accusers for their persecution as on herself for her cursing. A misplaced belief can be a dangerous thing. Now, more so than in earlier works we read, we glimpse something that is not fate, but a terrifying human power to create what it will.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
A World of Her Own
Diane Purkiss brings up an interesting point, particularly in light of the literature we have been discussing this semester, regarding the gender specificity of fairy stories. In the Renaissance, as now, fairies were women's territory. The majority of fairy lore revolved around things like childbirth, children, and caring for the sick and the dead - feminine areas of expertise - so men had significantly less leeway into the fairy realm than did women. Nevertheless, to some men the female world of birth and death beckoned with the magic of the unfamiliar.
One position offering men a glimpse into this other world was that of the "cunning" man, a village "counselor, healer, and diviner" who combatted black and reclaimed lost magic (Purkiss 134). This man's implicit interaction with the ill and dying forced him to confront those facets of life normally sealed off to his sex, and, in turn, increased his chances for a fairy encounter. In most stories of men's dealing with fairies, however, there is an underlying current of unease, the sense that the man (more so than women in similar situations) enters territory that may be best left untouched. Often encounters with the fairy queen belittle masculinity; for the fairy realm, in contrast with the outer world, exists under the dominion of woman.
Some men, however, welcome their glimpse into this hidden kingdom. We can see one such example in the case of Andro Man, a Scottish cunning man and one of few men tried for witchcraft. He first encounters the fairy queen when she comes to deliver his mother of a baby when he is a child. At that time she promises him the knowledge to treat and cure all sorts of sickness. He continues to commune with her, and as he grows, she requires sex of him. This is typical of fairy stories - many are highly sexualized - but, of course, the human half of the relationship is usually female. Fairies throughout lore seem to be fascinated with human children (changelings are one example) and to want them for their own, so when a woman gives birth to a fairy's child, the fairy will often try to claim it though the woman does not want to let it go. Andro's case is simpler because he can give the queen babies without any parental attachment. His role is masculine, but his intimacy with the queen offers him special insight into a feminine realm. Not only does he gain the abilities to heal and counter enchantments, but he becomes known especially for his skills in treating women's diseases.
I have mentioned in at least a couple of other entries my fascination with the Renaissance portrayal of women as "other." This idea of a world where man is the outsider, where he must become more like woman in order to thrive, is an intriguing counter. I think I may be beginning to see a trend in the folks with whom fairies sympathize. They root for the underdogs - the weak, impoverished, and oppressed of society. Perhaps much of their reputation for darkness comes from the fact that their stories appear most often among those whose lives are dark to begin with. To those people, they may well have brought light. At a time when women hardly had a voice, the other world gave them power. Whether that world was a fantasy was irrelevant, so long as they believed in it.
Now I am curious. Did stories of fairyland spring up among quiet women whose unspoken desires wove their way into their tales? Or was fairyland's feminine reputation planted by men whose opinion of women mixed awe and disgust? Either way, it is clear that the original fairies were a thing of female empowerment.
One position offering men a glimpse into this other world was that of the "cunning" man, a village "counselor, healer, and diviner" who combatted black and reclaimed lost magic (Purkiss 134). This man's implicit interaction with the ill and dying forced him to confront those facets of life normally sealed off to his sex, and, in turn, increased his chances for a fairy encounter. In most stories of men's dealing with fairies, however, there is an underlying current of unease, the sense that the man (more so than women in similar situations) enters territory that may be best left untouched. Often encounters with the fairy queen belittle masculinity; for the fairy realm, in contrast with the outer world, exists under the dominion of woman.
Some men, however, welcome their glimpse into this hidden kingdom. We can see one such example in the case of Andro Man, a Scottish cunning man and one of few men tried for witchcraft. He first encounters the fairy queen when she comes to deliver his mother of a baby when he is a child. At that time she promises him the knowledge to treat and cure all sorts of sickness. He continues to commune with her, and as he grows, she requires sex of him. This is typical of fairy stories - many are highly sexualized - but, of course, the human half of the relationship is usually female. Fairies throughout lore seem to be fascinated with human children (changelings are one example) and to want them for their own, so when a woman gives birth to a fairy's child, the fairy will often try to claim it though the woman does not want to let it go. Andro's case is simpler because he can give the queen babies without any parental attachment. His role is masculine, but his intimacy with the queen offers him special insight into a feminine realm. Not only does he gain the abilities to heal and counter enchantments, but he becomes known especially for his skills in treating women's diseases.
I have mentioned in at least a couple of other entries my fascination with the Renaissance portrayal of women as "other." This idea of a world where man is the outsider, where he must become more like woman in order to thrive, is an intriguing counter. I think I may be beginning to see a trend in the folks with whom fairies sympathize. They root for the underdogs - the weak, impoverished, and oppressed of society. Perhaps much of their reputation for darkness comes from the fact that their stories appear most often among those whose lives are dark to begin with. To those people, they may well have brought light. At a time when women hardly had a voice, the other world gave them power. Whether that world was a fantasy was irrelevant, so long as they believed in it.
Now I am curious. Did stories of fairyland spring up among quiet women whose unspoken desires wove their way into their tales? Or was fairyland's feminine reputation planted by men whose opinion of women mixed awe and disgust? Either way, it is clear that the original fairies were a thing of female empowerment.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Perks: Health, Wealth, and Rewards of Fraternizing
Fairies embody fears and grant wishes. Naturally, then, their specific character roles change according to the fears and wishes of the culture relating their stories. Dealing with fairies is a risky business, so there must be some reward to make the risk worthwhile, and in the case of the English, this motive is as straightforward as cold, hard cash.
We can find some of our best documented fairy lore in records of early modern witch trials. These are especially prominent in Scotland, but England, too, has its share. The English fairy stories tend to show a greater spirit of optimism than those of the surrounding areas. English encounters with the fairies are not necessarily less dangerous than those of the Scottish, but they have less guilt in their fraternizing and a stronger sense of the potential perks.
One example of this, recorded by John Webster, involves a very poor and simple-minded man who overcame his poverty through the use of a mysterious white healing powder. He was accused of witchcraft, and when asked on trial how he had come about the powder, he informed the judge that it was a gift of the fairies. According to his tale, a fair woman came to him while he was sitting in heavy-hearted ponderance as to how to provide for his wife and children. She asked him why he was so sad, and when he told her, she told him to meet her again the next night. He did as she commanded. The woman then led him under a hill, where he was given a box of the healing powder by the fairy queen herself. By charging others for the miraculous stuff, he was able make a fair sum and save himself and his family from destitution. In the end, the jury could find no evidence for his tale beyond the numerous healed, and as that was no reason to hang a man, he was acquitted.
Purkiss lists three reasons for fairies' association with treasure: 1) their tendency to gravitate to ancient monuments, likely hiding spots for real treasure, 2) their link with the dead, and 3) their association with wild places where "finders are keepers" (Purkiss 125). The common idea that fairies lived underground would have given them knowledge of buried treasure as well as burial spots (often linked with hidden wealth; think mummies). Also, the tie between wealth and healing is a common one. Today, we would expect the man or woman to cure cancer or the common cold to reap massive financial success, and a doctor's is among the highest paying of jobs. Likewise, in those days, anyone who could combat the rampant diseases that affected cities and villages could have expected a steady livelihood. Further, wealth was a kind of healing itself. In the case of the man mentioned above, it saved his entire family from starvation. There was a sort of reverence for the "other" people who had the means to acquire these things at their very fingertips.
It is also worth noting here that fairies are not always heartless tricksters. I have tried to emphasize that the fairies of this time were not fluffy little angels of goodness, but that did not automatically make them demons. Here we see an example of a fairy sympathizing with a man in need and asking nothing in return (which appears to be rather uncommon). He is one of the lucky ones. I think it is fair to say that fairies are the possessors of great secrets, and what we want, they probably have. Whether we will risk witchcraft accusations or a hundred years of sleepy enchantment in another world - that is another story.
We can find some of our best documented fairy lore in records of early modern witch trials. These are especially prominent in Scotland, but England, too, has its share. The English fairy stories tend to show a greater spirit of optimism than those of the surrounding areas. English encounters with the fairies are not necessarily less dangerous than those of the Scottish, but they have less guilt in their fraternizing and a stronger sense of the potential perks.
One example of this, recorded by John Webster, involves a very poor and simple-minded man who overcame his poverty through the use of a mysterious white healing powder. He was accused of witchcraft, and when asked on trial how he had come about the powder, he informed the judge that it was a gift of the fairies. According to his tale, a fair woman came to him while he was sitting in heavy-hearted ponderance as to how to provide for his wife and children. She asked him why he was so sad, and when he told her, she told him to meet her again the next night. He did as she commanded. The woman then led him under a hill, where he was given a box of the healing powder by the fairy queen herself. By charging others for the miraculous stuff, he was able make a fair sum and save himself and his family from destitution. In the end, the jury could find no evidence for his tale beyond the numerous healed, and as that was no reason to hang a man, he was acquitted.
Purkiss lists three reasons for fairies' association with treasure: 1) their tendency to gravitate to ancient monuments, likely hiding spots for real treasure, 2) their link with the dead, and 3) their association with wild places where "finders are keepers" (Purkiss 125). The common idea that fairies lived underground would have given them knowledge of buried treasure as well as burial spots (often linked with hidden wealth; think mummies). Also, the tie between wealth and healing is a common one. Today, we would expect the man or woman to cure cancer or the common cold to reap massive financial success, and a doctor's is among the highest paying of jobs. Likewise, in those days, anyone who could combat the rampant diseases that affected cities and villages could have expected a steady livelihood. Further, wealth was a kind of healing itself. In the case of the man mentioned above, it saved his entire family from starvation. There was a sort of reverence for the "other" people who had the means to acquire these things at their very fingertips.
It is also worth noting here that fairies are not always heartless tricksters. I have tried to emphasize that the fairies of this time were not fluffy little angels of goodness, but that did not automatically make them demons. Here we see an example of a fairy sympathizing with a man in need and asking nothing in return (which appears to be rather uncommon). He is one of the lucky ones. I think it is fair to say that fairies are the possessors of great secrets, and what we want, they probably have. Whether we will risk witchcraft accusations or a hundred years of sleepy enchantment in another world - that is another story.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
A Useful Breed of Heathen
A Proper New Ballad Entitled
The Fairies' Farewell: or God-A-Mercy Will
To be sung or whistled to the Tune of "The Meadow Brow" by the learned; by the unlearned to the tune of "Fortune."
Farewell, rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late for cleanliness
Finds six-pence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old Abbeys,
The fairies lost command.
They did but change priests’ babies,
But some have changed your land,
And all your children, sprung from thence,
Are now grown Puritans,
Who live as changelings ever since
For love of your demesnes.
At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had.
When Tom came home from labor,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily, merrily went their tabor,
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary’s days
On many a grassy plain;
But, since of late Elizabeth,
And later James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies
Were of the old Profession.
Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession.
But now, alas, they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And who so kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished sure.
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue.
O, how the commonwealth doth want
Such justices as you!
Now they have left our quarters,
A register they have,
Who looketh to their charters,
A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.
I marvel who his cloak would turn
When Puck had led him round,
Or where those walking-fires would burn
Where Cureton would be found.
How Broker would appear to be,
For whom this age doth mourn,
But that their spirits live in thee,
In thee, old William Chourne.
To William Chourne of Staffordshire,
Give laud and praises due,
Who every meal can mend your cheer
With tales both old and true.
To William, all give audience,
And pray ye for his noddle,
For all the fairies' evidence
Were lost if that were addle.
This ballad, written by clergyman and minor poet Richard Corbett (1582-1635), gives insight into the waning popularity of fairy beliefs that occurred during the Renaissance. While Corbett takes a humorous approach to the situation, and there is no clear evidence that he was a believer himself, he bemoans the loss of fairies on a practical front. Imagination is its own kind of magic, inspirational and entertaining, and the disposal of old lore has a stifling effect on those who have nothing better to fill its place.
It is obvious that Corbett is also using his lament for the fairies to mourn the fall of the Catholic Church of England to which he belonged. In the second verse, he references the tale of the changeling, supposedly used on a regular basis to explain away illegitimate children appearing on priests' doorsteps. Then he flips this imagery to compare to changelings those who converted to Puritanism for material gain. In short, Puritans are malignant outsiders disrupting the functional community.
In the fourth verse, he comments on the lack of fairies reported since the reigns of Elizabeth and James (both Protestants), by which, he claims in the fifth verse, we see that fairies must be Catholic. Of course this is not meant to be taken seriously, but it pinpoints the ridiculousness of the entire concept of outlawing fairies. Fairies are neither Catholics nor Protestants; they are stories. And they are not hurting anybody. They gave maids a reason to keep a good house, and they saved priests from scandal. They were useful. Why subject them to religion?
The William Chourne mentioned in the last verses was a servant of Corbett's. While traveling through what he believed to be fairy country, he advised his fellow travelers (including Corbett) to turn their cloaks inside out to avoid Puck's mischief. When they did so, a mysterious man appeared to lead them out of the woods. Corbett praises his sort, the last holdouts of the old traditions, "who every meal can mend your cheer." On the other hand, he can only hope that they should not be proven crazy. Once they are, all hope in the fairies will be gone for good.
We see here to what extreme fairy lore was wrapped up in religious matters, but at the same time, a new sense of modernity was chipping away at supernatural beliefs in general. Things were no longer so simple as ring dances and six-pence in the shoe. Reason was replacing imagination and literature was replacing lore. People could not return to the age of the fairies because they knew too much. As Corbett, they could only look back in nostalgia and bow their heads to its passing.
(A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Ed. Gail Kern Paster and Skiles Howard. pp. 313-116)
The Fairies' Farewell: or God-A-Mercy Will
To be sung or whistled to the Tune of "The Meadow Brow" by the learned; by the unlearned to the tune of "Fortune."
Farewell, rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late for cleanliness
Finds six-pence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old Abbeys,
The fairies lost command.
They did but change priests’ babies,
But some have changed your land,
And all your children, sprung from thence,
Are now grown Puritans,
Who live as changelings ever since
For love of your demesnes.
At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had.
When Tom came home from labor,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily, merrily went their tabor,
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary’s days
On many a grassy plain;
But, since of late Elizabeth,
And later James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies
Were of the old Profession.
Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession.
But now, alas, they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas,
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And who so kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished sure.
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue.
O, how the commonwealth doth want
Such justices as you!
Now they have left our quarters,
A register they have,
Who looketh to their charters,
A man both wise and grave.
An hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.
I marvel who his cloak would turn
When Puck had led him round,
Or where those walking-fires would burn
Where Cureton would be found.
How Broker would appear to be,
For whom this age doth mourn,
But that their spirits live in thee,
In thee, old William Chourne.
To William Chourne of Staffordshire,
Give laud and praises due,
Who every meal can mend your cheer
With tales both old and true.
To William, all give audience,
And pray ye for his noddle,
For all the fairies' evidence
Were lost if that were addle.
This ballad, written by clergyman and minor poet Richard Corbett (1582-1635), gives insight into the waning popularity of fairy beliefs that occurred during the Renaissance. While Corbett takes a humorous approach to the situation, and there is no clear evidence that he was a believer himself, he bemoans the loss of fairies on a practical front. Imagination is its own kind of magic, inspirational and entertaining, and the disposal of old lore has a stifling effect on those who have nothing better to fill its place.
It is obvious that Corbett is also using his lament for the fairies to mourn the fall of the Catholic Church of England to which he belonged. In the second verse, he references the tale of the changeling, supposedly used on a regular basis to explain away illegitimate children appearing on priests' doorsteps. Then he flips this imagery to compare to changelings those who converted to Puritanism for material gain. In short, Puritans are malignant outsiders disrupting the functional community.
In the fourth verse, he comments on the lack of fairies reported since the reigns of Elizabeth and James (both Protestants), by which, he claims in the fifth verse, we see that fairies must be Catholic. Of course this is not meant to be taken seriously, but it pinpoints the ridiculousness of the entire concept of outlawing fairies. Fairies are neither Catholics nor Protestants; they are stories. And they are not hurting anybody. They gave maids a reason to keep a good house, and they saved priests from scandal. They were useful. Why subject them to religion?
The William Chourne mentioned in the last verses was a servant of Corbett's. While traveling through what he believed to be fairy country, he advised his fellow travelers (including Corbett) to turn their cloaks inside out to avoid Puck's mischief. When they did so, a mysterious man appeared to lead them out of the woods. Corbett praises his sort, the last holdouts of the old traditions, "who every meal can mend your cheer." On the other hand, he can only hope that they should not be proven crazy. Once they are, all hope in the fairies will be gone for good.
We see here to what extreme fairy lore was wrapped up in religious matters, but at the same time, a new sense of modernity was chipping away at supernatural beliefs in general. Things were no longer so simple as ring dances and six-pence in the shoe. Reason was replacing imagination and literature was replacing lore. People could not return to the age of the fairies because they knew too much. As Corbett, they could only look back in nostalgia and bow their heads to its passing.
(A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Ed. Gail Kern Paster and Skiles Howard. pp. 313-116)
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Mass Migration, Destination Unknown
Maybe it is the culture. Maybe it is religion. Maybe it is a matter of simple overcrowding. Whatever the reason, the general consensus among all storytellers at all times is the same: there are not as many fairies as there used to be.
Tales of the fairies' departure are common. Usually there is the crossing of some river or lake (I am reminded of the Elves sailing from the Grey Havens in The Lord of the Rings), but the final destination is unnamed. After all, where would they go? Do they leave this world entirely, passing through the mists into another realm as Bradley's Avalon? I do not know, and I do not think I am supposed to. The moment we know where they are, and can go there and find that they are not, the illusion will be shattered.
A commonly given reason for the migration of fairies from a particular community is the sound of church bells, and they are apparently more tolerant of Catholics than Protestants (perhaps because the Catholic Church has a more supernatural aura to begin with?). Many blame the Reformation for the decided lack of fairies in the world nowadays. In a literal sense, this may not be far wrong.
Literature has also had a tremendous role to play in fairy deconstruction. The twentieth century Puck of Pook's Hill, by Rudyard Kipling, depicts Puck as the last of his kind. "There's no good beating about the bush: it's true," he says. "The people of the hill have all left" (Ashliman 35). That is true enough, if not in the way that Kipling meant it. Since Shakespeare's Puck, the fairies I have been discussing these last weeks have become rarer and rarer, finding replacements in a newer, more user-friendly version of themselves.
Another issue, of course, is the expanding human population. More than other supernatural beings, fairies share space with us (in but not of the world, as it were). Sometimes they live in hills or mounds, sometimes simply underground. The lurk in graveyards and around ruins. According to Diane Purkiss in At the Bottom of the Garden, it is a well-established notion that fairies live in the past, and they tend to link themselves with locations where entropy is visible (Purkiss 151). In an increasingly modern world, they are increasingly out of place.
It is my opinion that this is the real reason for their leaving. It is symbolic of their psychological graduation from the regions of possibility to those of imagination.We have not been able to reconcile our world with fairies for many years, since the Renaissance and before, in some cases, but if we believe that the fairies have left, we can also believe that they were once here. It is more magical to believe that they were than that they have never been.
Again, this desperation to make magic believable! It intrigues me.
Tales of the fairies' departure are common. Usually there is the crossing of some river or lake (I am reminded of the Elves sailing from the Grey Havens in The Lord of the Rings), but the final destination is unnamed. After all, where would they go? Do they leave this world entirely, passing through the mists into another realm as Bradley's Avalon? I do not know, and I do not think I am supposed to. The moment we know where they are, and can go there and find that they are not, the illusion will be shattered.
A commonly given reason for the migration of fairies from a particular community is the sound of church bells, and they are apparently more tolerant of Catholics than Protestants (perhaps because the Catholic Church has a more supernatural aura to begin with?). Many blame the Reformation for the decided lack of fairies in the world nowadays. In a literal sense, this may not be far wrong.
Literature has also had a tremendous role to play in fairy deconstruction. The twentieth century Puck of Pook's Hill, by Rudyard Kipling, depicts Puck as the last of his kind. "There's no good beating about the bush: it's true," he says. "The people of the hill have all left" (Ashliman 35). That is true enough, if not in the way that Kipling meant it. Since Shakespeare's Puck, the fairies I have been discussing these last weeks have become rarer and rarer, finding replacements in a newer, more user-friendly version of themselves.
Another issue, of course, is the expanding human population. More than other supernatural beings, fairies share space with us (in but not of the world, as it were). Sometimes they live in hills or mounds, sometimes simply underground. The lurk in graveyards and around ruins. According to Diane Purkiss in At the Bottom of the Garden, it is a well-established notion that fairies live in the past, and they tend to link themselves with locations where entropy is visible (Purkiss 151). In an increasingly modern world, they are increasingly out of place.
It is my opinion that this is the real reason for their leaving. It is symbolic of their psychological graduation from the regions of possibility to those of imagination.We have not been able to reconcile our world with fairies for many years, since the Renaissance and before, in some cases, but if we believe that the fairies have left, we can also believe that they were once here. It is more magical to believe that they were than that they have never been.
Again, this desperation to make magic believable! It intrigues me.
Pinpoint Optimism
What a rich, surprising work The Duchess of Malfi has turned out to be. It was gruesome, tragic, a brutal portrait of reality, and yet, at the end, I find myself counting it one of the more optimistic stories we have read this semester. Written in the Jacobian period (under King James, rather than Queen Elizabeth), it falls along what Dr. Staub describes as a "festering" portion of the literary timeline. But I think it offers an independency of hope that we have seen nowhere else to date.
I did not think so at first. The storyline grew darker and darker as the play progressed. Ferdinand pulled a Hamlet, the Duchess I had learned to love died imprisoned, the rest crumpled in her absence... Then, at the eleventh hour (and fifty-ninth minute - literally the last page), Webster introduces a solitary heir to her legacy in a single son to escape the massacre. To be fair, the first time I read it, I was not impressed. It was the quintessential "too little, too late." As usual, our class discussion gave me a broader view of the topic.
The Duchess of Malfi is a tale about aspirations against all odds. We saw this too in Dr. Faustus and Paradise Lost. In those, however, the protagonists' struggles ended in utter, irredeemable tragedy. Granted, the Duchess did not appear to fare much better, with one child left to carry on her name, and hardly a body standing to support him, but a single flame means a great deal compared to unbroken darkness. She diverted the patrilinear cycle; the child of a commoner took the throne. Her love had but a few years, but in those years it thrived, and triumped over tradition. She took the reins of her own life, and though she suffered the consequences, fate could not claim her.
Another interesting difference between this text and that of Dr. Faustus and Paradise Lost was that the protagaonist seemed to die with visions of heaven. This had two curious implications for me. For one, the Duchess was not damned for her actions. To her, at least, her death was not an end except to suffering, though others did not fare as well. Also, the fact that the Duchess saw heaven as a haven made something beautiful of it (I, for one, trust her opinion). In other works, all we have seen of heaven is force and judgment.
In The Duchess of Malfi, then, we get in its unpolished view of humanity not only a taste of free will that may not go entirely awry, but a promise of a second reality that may be sympathetic. There is no fairy tale happy ending, which would be, at any rate, too incredible for comfort. But there is a taste of hope, albeit faint and unexpected. That is a start.
I did not think so at first. The storyline grew darker and darker as the play progressed. Ferdinand pulled a Hamlet, the Duchess I had learned to love died imprisoned, the rest crumpled in her absence... Then, at the eleventh hour (and fifty-ninth minute - literally the last page), Webster introduces a solitary heir to her legacy in a single son to escape the massacre. To be fair, the first time I read it, I was not impressed. It was the quintessential "too little, too late." As usual, our class discussion gave me a broader view of the topic.
The Duchess of Malfi is a tale about aspirations against all odds. We saw this too in Dr. Faustus and Paradise Lost. In those, however, the protagonists' struggles ended in utter, irredeemable tragedy. Granted, the Duchess did not appear to fare much better, with one child left to carry on her name, and hardly a body standing to support him, but a single flame means a great deal compared to unbroken darkness. She diverted the patrilinear cycle; the child of a commoner took the throne. Her love had but a few years, but in those years it thrived, and triumped over tradition. She took the reins of her own life, and though she suffered the consequences, fate could not claim her.
Another interesting difference between this text and that of Dr. Faustus and Paradise Lost was that the protagaonist seemed to die with visions of heaven. This had two curious implications for me. For one, the Duchess was not damned for her actions. To her, at least, her death was not an end except to suffering, though others did not fare as well. Also, the fact that the Duchess saw heaven as a haven made something beautiful of it (I, for one, trust her opinion). In other works, all we have seen of heaven is force and judgment.
In The Duchess of Malfi, then, we get in its unpolished view of humanity not only a taste of free will that may not go entirely awry, but a promise of a second reality that may be sympathetic. There is no fairy tale happy ending, which would be, at any rate, too incredible for comfort. But there is a taste of hope, albeit faint and unexpected. That is a start.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Morgan
Since I mentioned in my last blog the Arthurian link to fairies, and since the Arthurian legend is such an enormous part of English supernatural lore, I think it fitting to elaborate upon the key fae creature of those stories: that is, Morgan le Fay.Morgan's name gives an interesting perspective on her character. "Morgan" is, in Celtic terms, a man's name, with "Morgaine" the female equivalent. Additionally, in Celtic mythology, the Morrigan was a triple goddess of death, who flew shrieking over battlefields to claim the heads of slaughtered soldiers. Her name, then, represents power to the point of masculinity. ("Morgan Le Fay" http://www.arthurian-legend.com/more-about/more-about-arthur-8.php)
"Le Fay," of course, refers to her fairy origins, though depending on which version of the story we use, the exact nature of this label changes. Some suggest that she was a fairy turned into a woman who became a sorceress in order to retain her powers. In early texts, Morgan was the chief of nine magical sisters who dwelt in Avalon, and had the abilities to shapeshift and fly with wings. At times she is portrayed as malignant towards Arthur, and she is the mother of Mordred who slays him, but she is never utterly wicked. She is beautiful, seductive, and a healer, and she is usually reconciled with Arthur in the end. In fact, she is traditionally one of three women who carry Arthur to Avalon to be healed.
Morgan is a good representative of the ambiguity of the pre-Shakespearean fairy. She is neither good nor evil. Her role alternates between friend and foe. It is not even clear at what point she ceases to be human and becomes fae, or vice versa. She embodies both us and them.
Speaking of "them," it is worth noting the feminine empowerment of fairy culture. Morgan is a powerful character in the Arthurian legend, in both name and legacy. She is usually unhappily married to a man Uriens, yet this does not stop her from taking lovers, orchestrating plots, and living her own life. (How many of us remember Uriens, after all? But everyone has heard of Morgan.) In the fairy realm, the female rules. If Avalon has rulers, they are women, just as the fairy queen is a far more popular folkloric figure than the fairy king.
Again we see fairies uniting separate parts. They are equalizers.
(Picture courtesy of http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Morganlfay.jpg.)
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Avalon Fading
One of the greatest struggles in this project so far has been trying to separate European fairy belief into its composite parts. In theory, I am discussing Early Modern British lore, but most legends overlap between countries, and most were becoming outdated by the Early Modern period. So far I have been struggling to pin down a strictly British theme, ignoring the obvious just in front of me: the Arthurian legend. I had forgotten, caught up in the complicated metaphor, that The Faerie Queene was structured around tales of King Arthur.
Although I spent a full semester last year studying Arthurian legends, the fairy connection did not come to me quickly for, I think, the same reasons I mentioned in my first frustrating attempts to find pre-Victorian pictures of fairies. Compared to our modern ideas, the fairies of Arthurian legend do not seem much like fairies at all. In Ashliman's Fairy Lore, however, the author lists Avalon as among the most popular depictions of fairyland, or faerie. While Arthurian fairies (i.e. Morgan le Fay) are vaguely sinister in their most favorable portrayals, the fairyland itself is more reminiscent of Eden than anything else. It is the Paradise in which Arthur will linger as he waits to rise again.
According to Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote The Life of Merlin in the late middle ages, Avalon, or the Island of Apples, produces all things of its own accord. None there labor for their livelihood, and those dwelling there live one hundred years or more (Ashliman 15-16). The location of Avalon changes from one source to the next. In the modern novel The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, Avalon is akin to a parallel universe juxtaposed with our own and fading gradually into complete separation. I like this idea, as it captures the discomfort in and desperation for a closeness with supernatural realms. Since 1191, the physical site of Glastonbury Tor in Somerset, England, has also been associated with Avalon. In that year, Benedictine Monks from the nearby Abbey of St. Mary discovered what was said to be the grave of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Many believed that the Tor, once almost entirely surrounded by water, could have been the enchanted island. It continues to be popularly linked with paranormal phenomena.
In fact, many traditional accounts place fairyland beneath the ground, including in grave mounds and natural hills (17). This emphasizes yet again the closeness of these particular supernatural creatures to common humanity. Some lore even plays upon the idea that we are competing with the fairies for space, a perhaps influential concept in the consensus that there are less fairies now than there once were. Fairies cannot coexist indefinitely with the Church, with reason, with the modern world. And so Avalon fades.
(Picture courtesy of http://photos.igougo.com/images/p361833-Glastonbury-Glastonbury_Tor.jpg.)
Although I spent a full semester last year studying Arthurian legends, the fairy connection did not come to me quickly for, I think, the same reasons I mentioned in my first frustrating attempts to find pre-Victorian pictures of fairies. Compared to our modern ideas, the fairies of Arthurian legend do not seem much like fairies at all. In Ashliman's Fairy Lore, however, the author lists Avalon as among the most popular depictions of fairyland, or faerie. While Arthurian fairies (i.e. Morgan le Fay) are vaguely sinister in their most favorable portrayals, the fairyland itself is more reminiscent of Eden than anything else. It is the Paradise in which Arthur will linger as he waits to rise again.
According to Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote The Life of Merlin in the late middle ages, Avalon, or the Island of Apples, produces all things of its own accord. None there labor for their livelihood, and those dwelling there live one hundred years or more (Ashliman 15-16). The location of Avalon changes from one source to the next. In the modern novel The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, Avalon is akin to a parallel universe juxtaposed with our own and fading gradually into complete separation. I like this idea, as it captures the discomfort in and desperation for a closeness with supernatural realms. Since 1191, the physical site of Glastonbury Tor in Somerset, England, has also been associated with Avalon. In that year, Benedictine Monks from the nearby Abbey of St. Mary discovered what was said to be the grave of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Many believed that the Tor, once almost entirely surrounded by water, could have been the enchanted island. It continues to be popularly linked with paranormal phenomena.
In fact, many traditional accounts place fairyland beneath the ground, including in grave mounds and natural hills (17). This emphasizes yet again the closeness of these particular supernatural creatures to common humanity. Some lore even plays upon the idea that we are competing with the fairies for space, a perhaps influential concept in the consensus that there are less fairies now than there once were. Fairies cannot coexist indefinitely with the Church, with reason, with the modern world. And so Avalon fades.
(Picture courtesy of http://photos.igougo.com/images/p361833-Glastonbury-Glastonbury_Tor.jpg.)
Saturday, November 15, 2008
No Man's Woman
The portrayal of women through the stories we are reading continues to baffle me. Honestly, we may as well be discussing another mythical creature. I suppose the fact that most published writers of the Renaissance were male contributes to the mysticism surrounding the "other" sex, but the whole thing is most amusing. I have said before that the tone of the writing from this time often seems almost intimidated by women, and though this may be only wishful thinking or residual sexism on my part, I think it is worth looking into.
Thursday's discussion of The Duchess of Malfi focused on astrology and Renaissance ideas of women. Normally I would not categorize those two together, but putting them side by side got me thinking about possible links. For instance, the zodiac is broken up according to cycles of the moon, a cycle to which many women maintain a physical connection. I have always found that fascinating, but is it possible that some may have found this tie to a virtually unknown outer world disturbing? There is a sort of power in it. Alternately, many animals have a greater sense than humans of the movement of the earth - seasons, direction, and such things - so perhaps it could be argued that there is something of the animal in a woman's bodily awareness.
Speaking of animals, I was also struck by the idea of the hyena as hermaphrodite, used to insult the Duchess. A hermaphrodite embodies both the male and female reproductive organs, which, depending on context, may make it an oversexed monster or a sexless divinity. In the case of the Duchess, of course, it is monstrous. But if man is superior to woman, as was the general consensus, wouldn't the best woman be the woman most like a man? This seems to be a contradiction.
In fact, the Duchess is not a hermaphrodite at all. She is no Elizabeth. She is a wife and a mother as well as a ruler. She lies, she contradicts herself in the space of a scene, and she goes through all the gritty reality of pregnancy and childbirth. She is not a saint, and she is not a man's woman. The curious thing about the Duchess is that she manages to fulfill many of the negative characteristics (besides passiveness) ascribed to women of the time, while still gaining our empathy and respect. A truly hermaphroditic woman is generally considered a strong character, but I feel that a woman who must make herself a man to be noticed only conforms to a man's world. The Duchess does no such thing. She is woman to the core, and proud of it.
Is this a fearful thing? I wonder if there is a little awe in Webster's writing. Even as he seems to deface women with graphic images of vomit and bloated stomachs, his honesty towards a real woman, and not an idealized image, lends its own sort of glory to the sex. Perhaps that is why the Duchess is never given a name. She is "other," she is "something else," but she is a little too real for comfort. She must not be made too personal.
I muse only, and perhaps we all read what we want to read. But I'm terribly fond of this woman. I really am.
Thursday's discussion of The Duchess of Malfi focused on astrology and Renaissance ideas of women. Normally I would not categorize those two together, but putting them side by side got me thinking about possible links. For instance, the zodiac is broken up according to cycles of the moon, a cycle to which many women maintain a physical connection. I have always found that fascinating, but is it possible that some may have found this tie to a virtually unknown outer world disturbing? There is a sort of power in it. Alternately, many animals have a greater sense than humans of the movement of the earth - seasons, direction, and such things - so perhaps it could be argued that there is something of the animal in a woman's bodily awareness.
Speaking of animals, I was also struck by the idea of the hyena as hermaphrodite, used to insult the Duchess. A hermaphrodite embodies both the male and female reproductive organs, which, depending on context, may make it an oversexed monster or a sexless divinity. In the case of the Duchess, of course, it is monstrous. But if man is superior to woman, as was the general consensus, wouldn't the best woman be the woman most like a man? This seems to be a contradiction.
In fact, the Duchess is not a hermaphrodite at all. She is no Elizabeth. She is a wife and a mother as well as a ruler. She lies, she contradicts herself in the space of a scene, and she goes through all the gritty reality of pregnancy and childbirth. She is not a saint, and she is not a man's woman. The curious thing about the Duchess is that she manages to fulfill many of the negative characteristics (besides passiveness) ascribed to women of the time, while still gaining our empathy and respect. A truly hermaphroditic woman is generally considered a strong character, but I feel that a woman who must make herself a man to be noticed only conforms to a man's world. The Duchess does no such thing. She is woman to the core, and proud of it.
Is this a fearful thing? I wonder if there is a little awe in Webster's writing. Even as he seems to deface women with graphic images of vomit and bloated stomachs, his honesty towards a real woman, and not an idealized image, lends its own sort of glory to the sex. Perhaps that is why the Duchess is never given a name. She is "other," she is "something else," but she is a little too real for comfort. She must not be made too personal.
I muse only, and perhaps we all read what we want to read. But I'm terribly fond of this woman. I really am.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Changelings and Maiming Babies
I think I can trace my love of changelings back to a book called The Moorchild, which I read sometime in elementary school. It caught me at the perfect time, on the cusp of dress-up games and Pre-Algebra, and it dealt, predictably, with an adolescent girl who could not fit in. To make it interesting, this particular girl was in fact a fairy, unknown to herself, deposited in a human cradle in exchange for its original occupant. I think I would have grown out of fairies if it were not for that book. Until that time they had been frillsome little things with wands and wings, a tad too flat to hold the interest of a graduate from the Disney movie phase, but this new (actually much older) breed of fairy struck in me something that has never quite left.
Maybe it is that basic human emotion that wells up every so often to convince us that we were dropped into this world unprepared and in completely unceremonious fashion, the idea that we are "other" ourselves, a justification for the incurable loneliness of space between the stars and us. Maybe it is that vague hope that there is a practical reason for the weirdness of ourselves relative to our surroundings (or vice versa). To me, there is an eerie comfort in the idea that I our world may mingle with another, and I am sympathetic to the changeling. But the original tellers of these tales would have taken a much different approach. The changeling was an upset in the routine, a thing to be feared and prevented, and the results of these beliefs were often tragic.
Accounts of stolen children were one of the most popular types of fairy stories across Europe. Traditionally, a fairy would snatch away a child while the mother was not looking and replace it with one of its own kind. It would then tote its human captive back to the fairy kingdom, where he or she would remain unless someone could convince the fairy to come reclaim its own child. Infants in their first six weeks were considered especially vulnerable. To avoid this misfortune, mothers were cautioned to keep young children under constant supervision. Impious mistakes, such as failure to baptize a child in due time, were also linked to fairy kidnappings (Ashliman 26).
Some speculate that the fear of changelings was put into mothers in order to ensure that they took good care of their children. While this idea has merit, the atrocities committed towards children that were suspected of being changelings seems to outweigh its value, to my mind. According to Ashliman, "Symptoms specifically described in the legends include a swollen head, strangely staring eyes, a flat nose, incessant crying, misbehavior, failure to learn to talk or walk, and a voracious appetite" (25). By this account, it is likely that many children suffering from autism, Down syndrome, and other mental disabilities or physical deformities would have been labeled changelings. The standard approach to getting rid of a changeling was torturing it until its fairy parents came to save it, though other methods involved coaxing it to laugh or to utter an exclamation of surprise that would reveal its true identity and force its parents to return its mortal counterpart (27-29).
Legends of changelings end happily more often than not, offering hope to a period rife with birth defects and infant disease. As may be expected, true accounts were often far less positive. One woman who was tried in Ireland for drowning her four-year-old grandson, both mute and crippled, insisted that she had not meant to kill the child, but to "put the fairy out of it" (27). To give an idea of the punishments inflicted on these poor children, I must include one more quote from an Irish story, "The Brewery of Eggshells":
"Although its face was so withered, and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still a strong resemblance to her own boy. She therefore could not find it in her heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose off with red hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow on the roadside, notwithstanding these, and several like proceedings, were strongly recommended to her for the recovery of the child" (27).
Legends of changelings were immensely popular and persisted in certain areas into the early 1900s (25). Such beliefs not only explained why some children were not "normal," but excused a family's unwillingness to support these children, who would have been deadweight in a society where all members of a family were expected to contribute their share of labor. Though it is not fair to hold these people at fault for their ignorance, it reveals the darker side of the pre-Victorian fairy story.
One facet of these tales that my sources have not explained, and that fascinates me, is the simple question of why fairies would steal children in the first place. What would a fairy want with a mortal? And yet that is a common theme in other branches of lore as well. Heartbreaking as it is to think of the abuse of handicapped children, I cannot help but return to my original curiosity at the idea of "other" among us. What do they want from us? With luck, more on this later.
Maybe it is that basic human emotion that wells up every so often to convince us that we were dropped into this world unprepared and in completely unceremonious fashion, the idea that we are "other" ourselves, a justification for the incurable loneliness of space between the stars and us. Maybe it is that vague hope that there is a practical reason for the weirdness of ourselves relative to our surroundings (or vice versa). To me, there is an eerie comfort in the idea that I our world may mingle with another, and I am sympathetic to the changeling. But the original tellers of these tales would have taken a much different approach. The changeling was an upset in the routine, a thing to be feared and prevented, and the results of these beliefs were often tragic.
Accounts of stolen children were one of the most popular types of fairy stories across Europe. Traditionally, a fairy would snatch away a child while the mother was not looking and replace it with one of its own kind. It would then tote its human captive back to the fairy kingdom, where he or she would remain unless someone could convince the fairy to come reclaim its own child. Infants in their first six weeks were considered especially vulnerable. To avoid this misfortune, mothers were cautioned to keep young children under constant supervision. Impious mistakes, such as failure to baptize a child in due time, were also linked to fairy kidnappings (Ashliman 26).
Some speculate that the fear of changelings was put into mothers in order to ensure that they took good care of their children. While this idea has merit, the atrocities committed towards children that were suspected of being changelings seems to outweigh its value, to my mind. According to Ashliman, "Symptoms specifically described in the legends include a swollen head, strangely staring eyes, a flat nose, incessant crying, misbehavior, failure to learn to talk or walk, and a voracious appetite" (25). By this account, it is likely that many children suffering from autism, Down syndrome, and other mental disabilities or physical deformities would have been labeled changelings. The standard approach to getting rid of a changeling was torturing it until its fairy parents came to save it, though other methods involved coaxing it to laugh or to utter an exclamation of surprise that would reveal its true identity and force its parents to return its mortal counterpart (27-29).
Legends of changelings end happily more often than not, offering hope to a period rife with birth defects and infant disease. As may be expected, true accounts were often far less positive. One woman who was tried in Ireland for drowning her four-year-old grandson, both mute and crippled, insisted that she had not meant to kill the child, but to "put the fairy out of it" (27). To give an idea of the punishments inflicted on these poor children, I must include one more quote from an Irish story, "The Brewery of Eggshells":
"Although its face was so withered, and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still a strong resemblance to her own boy. She therefore could not find it in her heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose off with red hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow on the roadside, notwithstanding these, and several like proceedings, were strongly recommended to her for the recovery of the child" (27).
Legends of changelings were immensely popular and persisted in certain areas into the early 1900s (25). Such beliefs not only explained why some children were not "normal," but excused a family's unwillingness to support these children, who would have been deadweight in a society where all members of a family were expected to contribute their share of labor. Though it is not fair to hold these people at fault for their ignorance, it reveals the darker side of the pre-Victorian fairy story.
One facet of these tales that my sources have not explained, and that fascinates me, is the simple question of why fairies would steal children in the first place. What would a fairy want with a mortal? And yet that is a common theme in other branches of lore as well. Heartbreaking as it is to think of the abuse of handicapped children, I cannot help but return to my original curiosity at the idea of "other" among us. What do they want from us? With luck, more on this later.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Antithesis of a Ghost
I could not decide upon which character to focus this final entry for Hamlet. Initially, I meant to write a bit more on our old friend the ghost. Then I toyed with the idea of covering the eternally popular Ophelia. At last, however, I have concluded that the most fitting end to this discussion is the same as the end of most others: the grave-digger.
The grave-digger in Act five offers the first spoken possibility that Ophelia committed suicide. I find his opinion a particular curiosity because he is the first character we encounter who is entirely outside the influence of the court. The increasing mania in Denmark's royal circle denies us any certainty in the events that take place among them. In fact, the general tone is so strongly uncertain (and that comes very near to being an oxymoron) that we find our own sanity tremulous as it pertains to this story that sweeps us into itself. If Hamlet's murder of Polonius is the point at which he passes beyond all hope of redemption, Ophelia's madness is that same point for the story as a whole. When innocence becomes corrupt, the final net gives way. But at that point we are too bewildered by the ironies of despair to recognize the trap. The grave-digger, speaking as an unaffected observer, pulls us from this reverie into a world that will outlive our own minds.
As closely associated with death as he is, the grave-digger is scarcely affected by it. He chucks up skulls with good humor, no less alive for the reminder of his eventual fate. Hamlet may touch on a key point when he admits, "'Tis e'en so, the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense." He and his companions deal with little in the way of physical labors, so their minds are free to run themselves to distraction, while the grave-digger's more intimate connection to the natural world keeps him firmly grounded in its patterns. The grave-digger is the antithesis of the ghost. He does not muse; his riddles have answers. Death to him is not an unknown, but a physical absolute. That is all. He is real and solid and willing to let the world run as it will.
To call Ophelia's death an accident is to say that it was inevitable, but we know that was not the case. Hamlet, Laertes, Claudius - all are consumed by abstracted emotion, whether of their own accord or misleading by others, and because there is no certain protection against abstracts, they bind themselves to helplessness. The grave-digger is familiar with death, so it does not frighten him. Hamlet, on the other hand, has only his fantasies - his ghosts - to satisfy his morbid curiosity. The results of his brooding are, unfortunately, far more real than any of the quandaries themselves. It is easy in the world of the mind to create one's own lonely universe, but that does not stop the real one from following its usual course.
The grave-digger in Act five offers the first spoken possibility that Ophelia committed suicide. I find his opinion a particular curiosity because he is the first character we encounter who is entirely outside the influence of the court. The increasing mania in Denmark's royal circle denies us any certainty in the events that take place among them. In fact, the general tone is so strongly uncertain (and that comes very near to being an oxymoron) that we find our own sanity tremulous as it pertains to this story that sweeps us into itself. If Hamlet's murder of Polonius is the point at which he passes beyond all hope of redemption, Ophelia's madness is that same point for the story as a whole. When innocence becomes corrupt, the final net gives way. But at that point we are too bewildered by the ironies of despair to recognize the trap. The grave-digger, speaking as an unaffected observer, pulls us from this reverie into a world that will outlive our own minds.
As closely associated with death as he is, the grave-digger is scarcely affected by it. He chucks up skulls with good humor, no less alive for the reminder of his eventual fate. Hamlet may touch on a key point when he admits, "'Tis e'en so, the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense." He and his companions deal with little in the way of physical labors, so their minds are free to run themselves to distraction, while the grave-digger's more intimate connection to the natural world keeps him firmly grounded in its patterns. The grave-digger is the antithesis of the ghost. He does not muse; his riddles have answers. Death to him is not an unknown, but a physical absolute. That is all. He is real and solid and willing to let the world run as it will.
To call Ophelia's death an accident is to say that it was inevitable, but we know that was not the case. Hamlet, Laertes, Claudius - all are consumed by abstracted emotion, whether of their own accord or misleading by others, and because there is no certain protection against abstracts, they bind themselves to helplessness. The grave-digger is familiar with death, so it does not frighten him. Hamlet, on the other hand, has only his fantasies - his ghosts - to satisfy his morbid curiosity. The results of his brooding are, unfortunately, far more real than any of the quandaries themselves. It is easy in the world of the mind to create one's own lonely universe, but that does not stop the real one from following its usual course.
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