Poor old Macbeth. From Act V, Scene viii (for those of you in Rio Linda, that’s Act 5, Scene 8):
I bear a charmèd life, which must not yield
To one of woman born.
It’s important that you speak the accented second “e.” Otherwise it won’t scan. (Iambic pentameter, you know. Thank goodness Macduff is onboard, and fills out the second line with the remaining four syllables, “Despair thy charm.”)
I went looking for something to write about today, August 15, and encountered an embarrassment of riches. It’s the anniversary of:
- 1947–The independence of India
- 2021–The Taliban regaining control of Afghanistan
- 1998–The most lethal attack in Northern Ireland (29 people dead and over 200 injured) since the start of the 1960s-era “Troubles”
- 1979–The release of Apocalypse Now, a movie of seminal proportions on the Vietnam War
- 1948–The establishment of the South Korean Republic
- 1935–The deaths of Will Rogers and Wiley Post in a plane crash near Point Barrow, Alaska
- 1914–The opening of the Panama Canal
- 1879–The birth of Ethel Barrymore
And much else, I’m sure. No doubt each a postworthy event, all by itself.
But:
967 years ago, on August 15, 1057, Macbeth, King of Scots was killed by Malcolm Canmore at the Battle of Lumphanan, Malcolm being the son of King Duncan who was himself slain by Macbeth a couple of decades previous.
And that’s the event that caught my eye. One that referenced my favorite Shakespeare play.
Although, that’s not how I remember it.
In the play, Macbeth is killed by Macduff, who then decapitates Macbeth and delivers his head to Malcolm so that he can be recognized as the rightful King of Scotland.
Just before he kills Macbeth, Macduff announces that he was “from his mother’s womb untimely ripped,” that is, “not one of woman born” and Macbeth experiences (among many others of Shakespeares’s tragic heroes) that devastating moment of “anagnorisis” in which he recognizes that his vanity and pride has been his undoing and that he’s up for the chop, any minute now.
It’s never a question of bravery; that’s a given. Shakespeare’s tragic heroes are always brave. Foolhardy, but brave:
Lay on, Macduff,
And damned be him that first cries “Hold! Enough!”
Followed by one of the greatest stage directions in history:
They exit fighting. Alarums. They enter fighting and Macbeth is slain. Macduff exits carrying off Macbeth’s body. Retreat and flourish.
What it is, is always a question of understanding. Of maturity. Of humility. Of gratitude. Of a forswearing of envy and jealousy, of vanity and ambition. Of narcissism and indecision. Of putting aside the self in favor of the interests of the wider world, or, sometimes, simply, in the interests of one other.
Macbeth, Lear, Othello, Brutus, Hamlet and company–they couldn’t do it–until after the flash of their penultimate realization that it was just too late for them.
Sad.
They are a negative example to the rest of us. Not a model to follow.
“Don’t be that guy.”
No excuses.
