Micah J. Marrapodi

Philosopher first, litterateur later, artist overall; I have a why—bring on the how

[micahjmarrapodi]

[‘25 Summer Abroad] Independent Blog Post 5/5: ‘Storming the Castle’

Recently, I had the pleasure of visiting Warwick Castle, a place that felt like a living storybook. From the weathered stones to the soaring towers, the arrow slits, the trebuchet, and even the knights in gleaming armor, something about this visit healed a fragment of my inner child. I have long been enchanted by the architecture, customs, and pageantry of the castle era.

Standing on the ramparts, gazing out over the surrounding landscape, I felt an extraordinary sense of security and preparedness—as if, were a medieval siege to occur, I occupied an almost impenetrable vantage point. My imagination conjured battles long past, but my present self was content simply to observe: watching the trebuchet hurl a hefty stone across the river and into the woods, I considered how meaningful this spectacle must be for the younger visitors.

As I wandered the grounds, I saw children as enthralled as I once was at their age—gripping swords, twirling princess dresses, and reveling in the fantasy of their surroundings. Their energy seemed boundless, a vibrant counterpoint to my own quieter amusement. I found a bench, opened a book, and allowed myself to look up occasionally, delighting in the sight of youths fully inhabiting the roles of kings, queens, knights, and princesses in a real castle.

If fortune ever places me in a parental role, I hope to provide my children with the same kind of wonder and opportunity that Warwick Castle offered those visiting young hearts.

@shakespearesengland

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[‘25 Summer Abroad] Independent Blog Post 4/5: The Beauty of Bruges, Belgium

In stark contrast to Amsterdam, whose streets teem with litter, houseless folk, and the scent of Peruvian parsley, Bruges, Belgium feels idyllic, comforting, and pristine. From the charming cobblestones to the soaring castle and cathedral towers, from stretches of greenery to the forty swans (apparently, unless there are more than forty, the sea will sweep them all away), and the horse-drawn carriages gliding quietly along the canals—this city is a halcyon vestige of a fairytale past. Every resident seems intent on keeping it wonderful and inviting, proving that “pretty is as pretty does.”

Despite our woefully short time there, I managed to savor a waffle and Belgian fries, visit a Salvador Dali exhibition (serendipity strikes again!), glimpse a relic of the Holy Blood in the Basilica of the Holy Blood, browse the treasures of a quaint flea market, and admire a statue by Michelangelo (see pictures below!). We even heard a joyful cheer from inside a church as a couple exchanged vows—a moment that still brings a tear to my eye.

Of course, no rose is without its thorn. I got hopelessly lost—three times. Our erudite and endlessly charming tour guide, Mike, recounted the tale of a bridge that none of the locals had ever heard of: a young woman, believing her lover dead at war, leapt to her death—only for him to return later. According to Mike, almost everything he shared was true, but some stories were simply for delight. I’ll allow this one.

Would that I could live forever in Bruges. Would that I could.

@shakespearesengland

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

['25 Summer Abroad] Independent Blog Post 3/5: Hanlon's Razor & The British Museum

I visited the British Museum, and from the outset—standing outside—it struck me with all the grandeur of the Grecian Parthenon. The irony, of course, is unavoidable: not only is this museum filled with objects often pilfered or appropriated, but even its exterior design is a kind of architectural plagiarism. It might feel trite to point out that much of the collection was taken from elsewhere—but it was.

Yet there is room for optimism. Despite the often violent and chaotic histories surrounding these objects, they have survived. The museum’s galleries now showcase a remarkable diversity of cultures, nationalities, and histories—from African to Mexican to Roman—preserving culturally significant artifacts that might otherwise have been lost.

In considering the British Museum, I also find Hanlon’s razor useful: “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.” In our metamodern era, it is tempting to judge the actions of our predecessors harshly, even though they are the very people whose labor, curiosity, and sometimes blunders made our modern lives possible. The British colonial collecting practices were, by today’s moral standards, deeply wrong—but they were also a product of ignorance, not necessarily deliberate evil. Humanity has, across time, engaged in acts both horrific and noble; theft, conquest, and destruction are only part of the story.

That said, there is a moral question that remains: should we return these artifacts to their countries of origin? Perhaps, if we value justice and cultural sovereignty, we should. Yet if we also value the ability to witness, study, and celebrate the world’s cultural diversity in one place, the decision is not so simple. The British Museum, with all its flaws, is simultaneously a testament to human curiosity, human ignorance, and the complexity of our shared history.

@shakespearesengland

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

['25 Summer Abroad] Independent Blog Post 2/5: Impressive Impressions & Demystifying Scrutiny

While on a delightfully prolix Oscar Wilde-themed guided tour in St. James’s, I was struck by a building that seemed lifted from a science fiction film: bronze pillars, glossy glass, a flash of the ultramodern nestled among centuries-old stone structures. The contrast was arresting. The tour moved on, but I returned later and discovered it was the Stern Pissarro Gallery, which features impressionist, modern, and contemporary art.

At first, the combination of avant-garde architecture housing an equally innovative gallery felt deliciously meta. Yet, like many impressionist works, closer inspection dulled that initial thrill. The interplay between building and gallery, while clever, insists too much upon itself. That audacity is part of the allure—certainly what drew me back—but, like gilding that overwhelms a flower, it risks crushing the organic beauty at its core.

This, I’ve found, is a familiar experience with impressionism. The true joy lies in the audience’s first impression—fragile as a whisper, lush as a dream, high-octane as a song. Prolonged scrutiny can extinguish that wonder as swiftly as a pinch snuffs a candle. The Stern Pissarro invites exactly that kind of demystifying inspection. I wouldn’t visit again; I prefer to preserve the soulful flutter of that first encounter. In this case, the impression is far more valuable than the actual.

@shakespearesengland

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[‘25 Summer Abroad] Independent Blog Post 1/5: Mushroom Market

Having visited several markets, one in Bruges and two in London, my experience at Portobello Road Market was, frankly, disenchanting. Don’t get me wrong: I loved Notting Hill (1999). But aside from the movie-themed merchandise, most of the stalls offered the same wares I’d seen before. Notable exceptions included a book tent, a record shop, and a display of Zippo lighters. Beyond that, it was the usual flat caps, scarves, necklaces, and rings—the same items, replicated over and over.

This at least eased the choice paralysis that often accompanies street markets, but it did nothing to quell a nagging sense that many of the shops were selling products of dubious quality. Perhaps it was the combination of low prices and questionable value, but when a loquacious shopkeeper tried for the fifth time to sell me a leather jacket, I was seized by the funniest, most mischievous impulse: to steal something. Swiftly and unnoticed, I slipped away, leaving the stall—and my urge—behind.

@queerandwilde

@shakespearesengland

[micahjmarrapodi]

[‘25 Summer Abroad] Theatre Performance Review: Shakespeare's Utterly Ironic Titus Andronicus

For ENGL 350/550, we read Titus Andronicus. For our fourth blog post, we discussed the play’s violence. Last night, our merry band of travelers attended a live performance at the Swan Theatre. We sat in the front row (see photos below), and I left the theatre with a swirl of thoughts.

In my blog post on the play’s violence, I emphasized its multifaceted nature. I argued that two seemingly contradictory things can be true at once: the play is both a commercially driven piece and a pointed social commentary on power, pride, and violence. Having now seen it performed, I would add a third layer: the production can also be read as purely ironic.

When I first encountered the play, I listened on Audible. Yes, utterly shameful. One of the most disturbing moments involves Lavinia, who is raped, then has her hands cut off and her tongue removed (mercifully, off-stage). In the audiobook, the lead-up to this assault was accompanied by the attackers’ gleeful giggling. I felt a strange admixture of disgust, fear, and helplessness—and had to turn it off.

Seeing it staged was a very different experience. The production felt deliberately raw and unfinished—from stage design to acting to props. There was blood, yes, but not the gruesome realism of a modern war film. Instead, it recalled a trashy old kung fu movie: over-the-top, impossible to take seriously. The production presented the play as entirely ironic.

Despite the brutality, I was drawn less to the content than to the form. The acting was superb, though several performers broke character—one young boy stifled a smile and stared at his shoes; Aaron, Demetrius, and Chiron couldn’t make it through a scene without slipping into laughter. The audience was addressed as if we were the Roman people. Knives functioned like guns, extending invisible force into victims. Titus’s bat literally had “BAT” written on it. The baby was obviously a doll, and its prerecorded cries were hilariously unconvincing, outdone only by Lavinia’s unbelievable stumps.

I loved these details because they felt intentional. Every choice—from actors to audio-visual cues to direction—seemed designed to break audience immersion. Titus Andronicus turns Lavinia’s horrific suffering and the play’s dismemberments into a spectacle. By leaning into absurdity, the production forces us to confront the uncomfortable reality that we are laughing at violence.

The performance was self-conscious at every level; it knew it was a performance. Titus Andronicus, I would argue, is deeply ironic: its deaths, dismemberments, and melodrama delivered sardonically. The deliberately unfinished staging redirects attention to the play as form—a staged, stylized process—rather than a lived narrative.

In this way, it reminded me of Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof (2007), which similarly uses excessive violence for layered effect. Perhaps my response reflects me more than the production—I may have over-intellectualized, failing to allow full emotional immersion. Yet that inability, I argue, is part of the design: the constant disruptions, comedic undertones, and exaggerated gore prevent total suspension of disbelief. For example, when Marcia says to Titus, "This was thy daughter," and he responds, "Why, Marcia, so she is," the emphasis on "is" is emotionally moving—but Lavinia's unconvincing stumps immediately shattered the moment.

Shakespeare wrote a play that reads one way on the page and performs in multiple ways—one of them deeply ironic. Last night’s production made that irony unmistakable. Or perhaps, as an unconscious coping mechanism, I simply noticed it.

@shakespearesengland

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[‘Summer Abroad] Unique Cultural Experience: Lifts

Tasked with documenting a unique cultural experience, I made an honest mistake when I first entered the elevator—or “lift,” as it’s called—in the Stratford-upon-Avon travel lodge where we’re staying on the first leg of our study abroad journey. Staying on the third floor, I didn’t feel like taking the stairs, so I stepped inside. The button panel had four choices; the lowest was labeled “0.” In the United States, we often have “Basement” or “Ground” floors, so I assumed “0” meant basement. When I arrived at the first floor, one story above the lobby, I was momentarily confused but quickly figured out my error. Now I use “0” whenever I want breakfast, unless the button is broken, which it was today.

Another delightful observation came at breakfast yesterday. The hostess addressed one of my fellow guests with a simple, clipped phrase: “Hello are you okay?” No pause between “hello” and “are,” spoken almost like “‘Ello ah yew ow-kay?” For a United Statesian like myself, “Are you okay?” usually implies someone is hurt or in trouble. Here, however, it was more like a brisk “Good morning! How are you?” The efficiency was striking. Serving many clients in a time-sensitive environment, she communicated warmth and attention in the fewest words possible, a masterclass in concision.

I admired both the phrasing and the delivery. It was precise, courteous, and just a touch charming—chef’s kiss, to borrow metamodern parlance. Perhaps I’m the kind of American on whom a British accent works to project intelligence, or perhaps I simply appreciate efficiency when it’s executed with such finesse. Either way, I was delighted.

@queerandwilde

@shakespearesengland

[micahjmarrapodi]

[‘25 Summer Abroad] Historical Site: Shakespeare's Birthplace

I visited Shakespeare’s birthplace yesterday (06/05/2025) with my classmates and professors. It was a quaint cottage with short beds and even shorter doorways. I was especially taken by the stone floors and the secret room in the attic (see photos below). Overall, it was fascinating to see the relatively small space Shakespeare came from, particularly in contrast with the massive property he was eventually able to purchase.

The introductory exhibit was wonderful. Relics from the past—books, paintings, a wooden weasel, the 1759 Plan of Stratford-upon-Avon, and other items—helped situate us in Shakespeare’s world. Throughout the tour, I felt that his heritage was being celebrated seriously and historically, a stark contrast to the more commercialized parts of the town.

One of the most striking aspects of Stratford-upon-Avon, however, is the ubiquitous emphasis on Shakespeare—not as a historical figure, but as a financially beneficial one. While it is his birthplace, the insistence can feel excessive. Multiple locations are preserved because Shakespeare lived or visited them, yet the town’s businesses go further. Quotes from his plays adorn cafes and shops with Shakespearean-themed names: The Tempest Caffé, Shakespaw Cat Cafe, Prospero Lounge. Even The Udder Guy (a burger joint) and The Encore Pub & Restaurant feature his likeness. After seeing all this, the statue of Shakespeare (photo below) feels both a tribute to his international legacy and a token enhancing the value of nearby wares.

It’s as though a Shakespearean aura has been captured to inflate the worth of associated products. To clarify, I’m no Marxian, and I approach capitalism with nuance. Free markets have undeniable benefits, like reducing poverty—my own ‘hangriness’ being indirect evidence. That said, the omnipresent invocation of Shakespeare as a sales tool is tiresome. The suggestion that his very soul imbues products with value is a bit much; the town doth protest too much, methinks.

This financially motivated Shakespearean insistence struck me more than the historical celebration organized by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust. While sitting in the Rose & Crown pub, surrounded by Shakespearean memorabilia, I referenced Karl Marx’s concept of commodity fetishization. In essence, this is the act of attributing a commodity with a “transcendent…use value” beyond its practical purpose (p. 47). Marx called fetishism “the religion of sensuous desire,” because it is “the ‘crudest form’ of religion,” which does the opposite of “raising man above his sensuous desires.” The wares in Stratford-upon-Avon, whether plastered with Shakespeare’s image or quotes, are modern examples of this phenomenon—and I confess, I bought something.

Even more striking, Professor Holl reminded us that this focus on Shakespeare only began with David Garrick’s Shakespeare Jubilee of 1769, over a century after Shakespeare’s death. Knowing this strengthened my sense that the commercial emphasis has drained the place of mystery and spirit—the intangible essence found in sublime spaces, particularly natural ones. The town feels desanctified, with Shakespeare’s likeness functioning as a financial idol rather than a cultural beacon.

Of course, perhaps the townspeople are simply proud of their heritage, and the financial aspect is secondary. I cannot adjudicate which element dominates in their hearts, though to me, the commercial emphasis seems primary.

@shakespearesengland

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 350/550] Blog Post #4: Violence in Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus

Two things can be true at once. Perhaps no play is as violent as Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. Dismemberment, defilement, and death appear throughout, revealing themselves as progeny of despotism.

For this blog post, we were tasked with considering the nature and function of the play’s violence. Is it gratuitous and gimmicky? A parody? Social commentary? Or something else entirely?

Again, two things can be true simultaneously. Given that Shakespeare’s predecessor, Christopher Marlowe, was known for violent plays, it is unsurprising that Shakespeare would embrace an exaggerated through-line of violence here. In class, we watched clips from Titus (1999), a cinematic adaptation of the play, which prompted discussion of audience and spectacle. At one point, after a particularly deliciously gruesome sequence, it is revealed that the play, at least in part, had been staged for an audience in a coliseum.

While it is reasonable to assume that Shakespeare intended his violence to be spectacular and entertaining, it is equally reasonable to see it as commentary on corruptive power ("Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely"), tyrannical overextension ("Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall"), and the proliferative nature of violence.

What happens when you fight fire with fire? You get more fire. Violence begets violence. Worse, it escalates (n + 1; n = violence). This play fully demonstrates the corrosive quality of power, the consequences of prideful tyranny—matriarchal and patriarchal alike—and the self-perpetuating nature of violent acts.

Combine power, pride, and violence, and what emerges is the annihilation of what you value most, the collapse of hope for a better tomorrow, and the unraveling of your personal consciousness.

Shakespeare operated on multiple levels with this work. He sought both commercial success and a vehicle for social commentary. Two things can be true at once.

@shakespearesengland

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 450/560] Blog Post #4: Activism, Intersection, and the "Iron Lady"

For the fourth and final blog post of this first leg of ENGL 450/560, we were asked to examine the intersection of queer and labor activism during Margaret Thatcher’s tenure, considering whether the two movements were complementary or in conflict.

Drawing primarily from our in-class viewing of Pride (2014), the two activist groups are represented by LGSM (Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners) and the miners themselves, participants in the 1984–85 UK miners’ strike under Thatcher’s government. During this period, the movements were complementary in many ways, united by a shared experience of abuse and marginalization—“the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” The film documents this clearly: the miners ultimately joined the gay pride march, repaying the support LGSM provided through funding and publicity.

Tensions did exist, however. Some miners were reluctant to associate with so-called “perverts,” reflecting the social prejudices of the time. Nevertheless, the two factions were fundamentally aligned in their opposition to Thatcher’s policies, and their collaboration highlights how intersectional activism can arise from shared struggles.

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 350/550] Blog Post #3: Elopement, Love Potions, Queer Theory, & Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream

The inducement associated with the love potion in Act 2, Scene 2 of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream is the focus of my queer analysis for this blog post, with the coinciding elopement as a secondary focus. (As Professor Holl explains, queer theory fundamentally concerns the subversion of conventional norms, particularly regarding sexuality and gender.)

In Act 2, Scene 2, Lysander and Hermia—a star-crossed Athenian couple—attempt to elope, defying both patriarchal and societal dictates. Yet this elopement, though rebellious, is not the most queer element of the scene. To set the stage for that, the couple rests in the woods, maintaining modesty. Meanwhile, Oberon, King of the Fairies, instructs Puck (Robin) to magically induce love in an Athenian youth. The catch? The potion “will make or man or woman madly dote / Upon the next live creature that it sees” (2.1.177–178).

By chance, the potion is intended for Demetrius, but Puck mistakenly applies it to Lysander’s eyelids. When Lysander awakens, the first person he sees is Helena, setting off a magically induced obsession. Elopement is one thing, a love potion is another entirely.

What could be queerer than a three-dollar bill? How about love without free will?

Lysander’s enchanted fixation is queer because it subverts conventional ideas of romantic love and sexuality. Induced sexual attraction is not genuine attraction in the usual sense—it is manufactured, a product of impaired free will. The difference is qualitative: one is autonomous, the other manipulated. The effect is profound; Lysander remains himself, but he becomes a marionette, subjected to magical circumstance. He is qualitatively different from a human being exercising free will, in a way more striking than ordinary development such as aging or maturation.

Alongside elopement, this temporary, magically dictated love is extraordinary and unconventional. It challenges our expectations of romantic agency and desire.

As Oscar Wilde writes in The Decay of Lying, “Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates life” (10). One wonders whether life has ever imitated—or ever could imitate—this ‘induced love’ of Shakespeare’s invention. I sincerely hope not.

@shakespearesengland

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 450/560] Blog Post #3: Metaphorical Cartography & The Buddha of Suburbia

Part One of Hanif Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia is titled “In the Suburbs.” On the very first page, Karim introduces himself: “Englishman I am (though not proud of it), from the South London suburbs and going somewhere” (3). For this third blog post, my classmates and I were tasked with identifying a pair of prominent places mentioned in the novel.

Suburbia is important because, for a young, bored, and eager adult like Karim, it represents a slower, calmer, and more orderly existence than city life. As he observes on page 8: “In the suburbs people rarely dreamed of striking out for happiness. It was all familiarity and endurance: security and safety were the reward of dullness.” 

While this orderliness might be ideal for settling down, it is less suitable for adventure. The suburbs are a staying place—until Karim begins to see them as a “leaving place” (117). The comforts of suburban life, limited as they were for him, became a springboard for his twenty-year-old fantasies and experimentation: “In bed before I went to sleep I fantasized about London and what I'd do there when the city belonged to me…there were parties where girls and boys you didn't know took you upstairs and fucked you; there were all the drugs you could use” (121). For Karim, suburbia is more purgatory than paradise; his ennui drives him to seek excitement elsewhere.

Coincidentally, when I searched for “South London suburbs” on Google Maps, Street View delivered me to a literal dead end (see image below). It was a serendipitous and uncanny moment, perfectly encapsulating Karim’s metaphorical dead end—a small, suburban cul-de-sac reflecting the limitations and restlessness of his early life.

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 450/560] Blog Post #2: Metaphorical Cartography & The Picture of Dorian Gray

Tasked with identifying a pair of prominent places in The Picture of Dorian Gray, I chose Euston Road, where Sibyl Vane lives. The road is referenced twice in Chapter V and once in passing in Chapter IX. The first description calls it “dreary”: “They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled down the dreary Euston Road.” The second hints at its lower-class status: “At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to their shabby home in the Euston Road.”

Viewing the modern Euston Road via Google Maps Street View, I was met with a very different scene: a bustling, vibrant area filled with cars and dozens of young pedestrians. The opposite of dreary, it is lively and energetic. Far from shabby, the street now features brightly colored sheds and, in the distance, a diamond-blue building. The area is clean, polished, and active—a far cry from Wilde’s original depiction.

It seems that this metropolitan space has grown into itself over the decades. Perhaps its working-class roots fostered a conscientious attitude that keeps it tidy, functional, and popular today.

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 350/550] Blog Post #2: Metamodernity's Memetic Revivification of Shakespeare

William Shakespeare is a historical figure whose character—qua legacy, reputation, and name—both is and continually becomes. As part of the collective ensemble of cultural impressions, conscious and unconscious alike, Shakespeare is continually revived in modern depictions, such as the 1998 film Shakespeare in Love. Another example appears online in Shakespearean memes. Incidentally, these modern portrayals mirror what Shakespeare himself did to historical figures. As Charles Caleb Colton wrote in Lacon: Or, Many Things in Few Words, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

When Shakespeare depicted historical figures, he highlighted defining traits, behavioral tendencies, and prevailing public sentiment. For example, his portrayal of Richard III emphasizes both the king’s idiopathic scoliosis—confirmed by the 2012 discovery of his remains—and his murderousness, including the supposed deaths of Edward V and Richard, Duke of York. Shakespeare's characterizations, rather than caricatures, engage with the dynamic, meaningful context (Derridean différance) surrounding these figures. In doing so, he revivifies history, updating our collective impression of them for better or worse. Shakespearean memes operate similarly, but the focus is Shakespeare himself.

Shakespeare’s works are rich with ambiguity and irony, and their dated language can make them challenging for modern readers. Additionally, his academic status makes ridicule feel almost sacrilegious. Consider, for example, the following meme:

Here, Shakespeare’s name is given a literal reinterpretation: “William shakes pear.” The meme transforms a literary genius into the punchline of a simple pun. It plays on several defining elements of Shakespeare: his likeness, his iconic status, his use of irony and ambiguity, his archaic language, and the mythos surrounding him.

This mirrors what Shakespeare did to historical figures, but in a way that subverts the gravitas typically associated with him—a layer of irony at the heart of metamodern expression. Including Shakespeare in this memetic mode simultaneously acknowledges his enduring cultural significance and playfully mocks those who take him too seriously. As such, it exemplifies metamodernism: “an oscillation between…a modern sincerity and a postmodern irony.”

These and other memes constitute metamodernity’s memetic revivification of Shakespeare. Whether a byproduct of my exposure to this particular meme or grounded in intuition, I suspect Shakespeare would appreciate it.

@shakespearesengland

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 450/560] Blog Post #1: The Marrapodian Aesthetic Manifesto

For one of my graduate courses this summer, I was tasked with writing an aesthetic manifesto. The only requirements were that it should be reminiscent of Oscar Wilde’s (as featured in The Picture of Dorian Gray), and answer three questions:

What is the purpose of art?

What is beauty?

Is art related to morality?

What follows includes a set of principles that answers these three questions and guides my artistic consideration and creation.

A work of art—visual, literary, musical, performative, etc.—is a) created and b) able to be considered by another. In creating, a creative both is and becomes; so too the considerate in considering. I am myself—become myself—when I consider or create art.

Being is not becoming—and vice versa. Art is both. Art marries being and becoming, making whole the trinity of past, present, and potential. Art being becomes; art becomes being. Nothing comes of nothing.

Art is, and becomes, lovely—good, true, and beautiful. Definitionally, it cannot be evil, ignorant/false, or ugly, for the intersection of those is indifference: the antithesis of love, and therefore of all that makes creation and consideration possible. (Art can contain representations of evil, ignorance, ugliness, indifference, inconsideration, etc., but the map is not the territory; procedurally, productively, and thus definitionally, art can depict but cannot be of indifference. Likewise, art can depict but cannot be of inconsideration, and is thus distinguished from the byproducts of thoughtlessness.)

As Oscar Wilde wrote in The Decay of Lying: “Life imitates art far more than Art imitates life.” Thus, as art must be and become lovely, and since “love is the ultimate antidote to the manifold adversity that besets the adventure of human being [that] facilitates flourishing,” art betters being and becoming.

While bettering being and becoming is the byproduct of art, what is its purpose? The general purpose of art is to bridge the gap between being and becoming. Personally, art is supposed to fill me and likeminded mine with love (love that we live in, for, and by, whether through creation or consideration).

What is beauty? In actuality, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. (I too—as Friedrich Nietzsche wrote in The Gay Science—"want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful.") In abstraction, beauty is both the opposite of ugliness and one of love’s three necessary elements—alongside goodness and truth. Beauty tempers truth and enhances goodness, just as a) goodness ensures the utility and beneficence of truth and beauty and b) as truth reveals beauty and turns the path paved with good intentions away from hell and towards heaven.

Is art related to morality—right and wrong? Right and wrong for whom or what? When? Where? Why? How? Right and wrong are relative; the dynamic, meaningful context that is Derridean différance swirls so a given action is right one moment, wrong the next, and both, depending. Holding my breath is right for making this point, but wrong for sustaining consciousness. It is right underwater, above, not so much; right for calming nerves, but only briefly.

Beyond right and wrong, better and worse, good and evil, and all other binaries—seeming opposite in abstraction—is dynamic, meaningful context. Between these ostensible opposites lies actuality (like the edge of a coin lies between heads and tails), which contains the exceptions that prove, improve, or disprove abstract rules. Art accounts for all, and especially for the exceptions. Art can update, refine, and even dismantle moral frameworks. In this way, art is related to morality.

Moreover, the adventure of human being and becoming is beset by manifold adversity. My governing principle—consider and live in, for, and by love—frees the will from the strings of circumstance and base instinct. It facilitates flourishing. It enables my ability to endure, overcome, ameliorate, and even preclude adversity.

Artistic creation and consideration fills me with the love I live in, for, and by. Thus, art is related at least to my morality. From my governing principle to my broader philosophical system, whether I am creating it or considering it, art is essential. As either critic or artist, engagement with art aids my retaining a Nietzschean "why of life" which enables me to bear almost any how.

When I create or consider art, I do so in love, for love, and by love. I also keep the necessity of exceptional acknowledgement in the back of my mind. I consider love in a paradigmatic mode and divide it into acceptance and accountability, essence and activity, etc., in an attempt to better myself, others, and, insofar as art makes both being and becoming better, everything: past, present, and future.

Procedurally and productively, whether engaging with philosophy, literature, visual art, or any creative medium, I remain aimed by my governing principle: Consider and live in, for, and by love—goodness, truth, and beauty, simultaneously.

Except…

@queerandwilde

[micahjmarrapodi]

[ENGL 350/550] Blog Post #1: Biographical Revelations

In Palladis Tamia, Francis Meres writes: “[T]he sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in mellifluous and hony-tongued Shakespeare, witnes his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his private friends, &c.”

What does this passage reveal about Shakespeare, about Meres, and about the culture that shaped Meres’s review? 

Beyond praising Shakespeare’s skill, Meres’s comparison of his writing to confectionery delights seems as much a reflection of his own sweet tooth as an insight into Shakespeare. Yet his references to poetic giants of the past, paired with descriptors like “sugred” and “hony-tongued,” suggest that Meres recognized a timeless quality in Shakespeare’s work. He perceived a blending of the venerable and the novel—producing writing that was pleasant, harmonious, and tasteful.

This passage also hints at Shakespeare’s popularity among his contemporaries, despite controversies such as Robert Greene’s Groats-Worth of Wit. Moreover, Meres’s review offers insight into how art was valued both personally and culturally. His account appeals less to logic than to sensibility—reminding us that art, at its core, is meant to evoke feeling.

@shakespearesengland