This pocket sized study of Sir John Falstaff, the fat and boastful knight who enlivens Shakespeare's best known history plays, HENRY IV Part One and Part Two, is both great fun and essential reading. Harold Bloom is still going strong at eighty six, and the legendary scholar writes in an accessible style while going into amazing detail about every scene where Falstaff appears, analyzing every character and almost every line of the legendary Falstaff's witty dialogue. The connections between Shakespeare's plays and the sonnets he wrote for his private friends are especially fascinating.
I refuse to give this book five stars, however. The reason is stated clearly by Harold Bloom himself. It's not enough for him to enjoy Falstaff's humor, he finds it necessary to present Falstaff as completely lovable at all times, a symbol of everything that makes life worth living. There can be too much of a good thing in life, and in this book Falstaff is the good thing that gets to be too much. I don't want to come across like a total tight-ass, here. I mean, I'm no Malvolio. But by the end of this book I really felt like something was rotten in Denmark!
Take the title, for example. "Give me life." What does it mean? When Falstaff says "give me life," he's saying that he's going to stay alive as long as he can no matter what it takes. He's not concerned about the other guy. In fact Bloom admits that he's just led over a hundred men into a hopeless slaughter so he can collect their pay. But Falstaff has a way of slipping away at the right moment. That's part of life, I guess. But when he says "give me life" certain kinds of modern intellectual are a little too eager to be impressed. They see him as John Lennon saying "Give Peace A Chance" when he's really Jim Morrison saying "I don't know about you, but I'm getting my kicks before the shit house explodes."
It's easy for aging liberals from a certain type of background to see anyone who shuns danger and fears bodily pain as a saintly anti-war pacifist. But this way of looking at the world only obscures the real darkness and complexity of Shakespeare's vision in the history plays. To put it another way, Henry IV is no saint, but he's literally fighting for his life at Shrewsbury. He's not mean old LBJ dropping bombs on little Asian kids from ten thousand miles away. By the same token, when Falstaff leads his men "where they are peppered" and then slips away he's not Allen Ginsberg trying to levitate the Pentagon. Henry IV and his hard-hitting sons are hawks, all right. But Falstaff is no dove. In fact he's really more of a vulture. He hates war but he loves the spoils.
The fact that Harold Bloom and others of his ilk can't see this speaks volumes about their real contempt for the "pitiful rascals" who fight this country's wars today. Falstaff dismisses his men's sacrifice with contempt, saying "they'll fill a pit as well as better." A modern liberal like Anna Quindlen made much the same point when she described the soldiers of Operation Desert Storm as "some young men and women not smart, not rich, not directed enough for college." In other words, war is wrong when it threatens my interests, my position of privilege, but as for those people, to hell with them. Their lives are empty. They were born to be exploited. I don't really *want* to watch them being fed into the meat grinder, but then they're not special like me. The only thing they're good for is to fill a pit and line my pockets with gold. Give me life, indeed!
The fact of the matter is, when Falstaff cries out "give me life," he's on the same level as Scarlett O'Hara saying "with God as my witness, if I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, I will never be hungry again." Falstaff doesn't like going hungry, either. They're both resourceful parasites, and they both thrive on injustice. Scarlett is beloved by brain-dead modern feminists, (like Anna Quindlen) because she's their idea of a "strong" woman. But what Scarlett likes best is exploiting the weakness of others. She has her darkies, and Falstaff has his.
The fat knight is also a lot like Claudius in Hamlet. They're both fat men who like to drink. They both like women. Both of them want to stay alive at any price. "Oh yet defend me, friends, he hath but hurt me!" This is what the corrupt Danish king says in Hamlet after Hamlet stabs him at the end of the play. Things look pretty bad for Claudius at this point. He was just caught red-handed trying to poison his own nephew, after fatally poisoning his wife. Time is running out. But Claudius is still back-pedaling across the stage, still grasping at straws, still holding on, even as Hamlet closes in for the kill. You have to admire his gusto, his zest, his Falstaff-like spirit of survival.
Give me life, indeed!