Yesterday, I spent all afternoon re-reading "Othello." Necessary for the course I'm TAing, I took frequent breaks and several naps in an effort to extend the pleasure. Yes, yes. More sex and drugs tomorrow. I think the play is my favourite Shakespearian tragedy, perhaps because in some recess of my decidedly unimaginative soul (order, please), I maintain a quaint penchant for realism: there are no ghosts haunting this one.

Yet I am disgruntled. This time around, I was struck by the fact that the most tragic part of the play is also the funniest. Post-smothering, Othello eloquently, pathetically reassures himself as to the justice of his murder, but must face a broken-record of an Emilia trying to digest the news that it was Iago who planted the idea of Desdemona's infidelity into the Moor's head. "My husband?" she keeps asking, stupidly. Othello, trying to wax eloquent about "perfect chrysolite" and the nobleness of his deed done for all men wived, must keep interrupting himself to peevishly reassure Iago's wife that, yes, her "honest, honest" husband indeed proved to him his cuckoldom. Othello struggles more than ever to maintain his status of tragic hero in the face of such awkward disbelief. I am disgruntled because I am embarrassed for him.

Of course, Iago remains the centre of attention. Having read Bloom on the subject, I was for awhile convinced that I'smain motivation was suspicion of Emilia's fidelity. Prof. S. suggested yesterday that the villain had so many motivations as to be motiveless. Always framed in such negative terms. I can't help but think that he is as life-affirming a character as Falstaff, despite his cynicism, selfishness, and fundamental emptiness. He preaches self-love: narcissism is always attractive. Though a terrible quality of life, a tragic life, his self-centredness precludes suicide (not a trait shared by very many of the other characters). Though he will later kill Roderigo, he urges him not to drown himself (in part, of course, to preserve his source of income, but I think there is an earnestness to the scene). I started a poem, from the problematic, too-forgiving Desdemona's perspective:

“No more of drowning,” you said.
I felt a contraction in my heart
As when a baby kicks the womb
Anxious for life’s air
Then knew the murders killed you.

So I love you Iago
Like my husband
You will not believe me.