Lai Lingyun, a friend of mine in Xiamen New Oriental , is erudite in both occidental and oriental cultures ,especially in western literature, he used to be a doctoral candidate in Belgium's most famous university, he is also fluent in French, English and Italian.I also share some Latin and Greek knowledge with him sometimes, and he is now holding a reading club in Xiamen, here are some details:
We shall read two pieces of Shakespeare’s verses this Saturday. Both of them are about life in general, but in very different styles and perspectives. The first one, All the World’s a Stage, might be well acquainted to most of you: witty, a bit cynical, and realistic. The second one, an extract from Henry VI, was one of my favorite lines back to early college years: idealistic, affective and less philosophical. Many believe we are all imprisoned in our own vocabularies. We discern and comprehend the world within the boundary of our vocabularies, established nevertheless by others. Shakespeare emancipates us in some degree by presenting us a world we wanted to see but have never seen with his mastery of words. Let’s rediscover the greatness of Shakespeare together this Saturday night.
If you wanna share something else with us, feel free to bring them. This reading club focuses on Western Canon, the works having stood the test of time. Practically speaking, it’s less disputable: they were great for many people through generations; the chance of being great for you can be higher than other random works, assuming the most inner parts of our hearts speak alike. We do so also because we wanna honor those great authors, whose names are fading in modern society. We don’t read them any more, not only in China but also in Europe, a land where classic studies had been flourishing for centuries. I was in sorrow when spotting the dusty classic books at the Libraries of University of Leuven, pondering what’s the point of becoming a great author like Chaucer if nobody reads him.
William Shakespeare (from As You Like It 2/7)
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
History of Henry VI, Part III
Act II, Scene 5
O God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean:
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Pass’d over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle.
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince’s delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.
The club is not open to everyone , if you wish to join, please contact me first, it is a pure place prepared for those who are ready for it.
