NOTES ON SHAKESPEARE’S OTHELLO
Notes accord with the text in Greenblatt, Stephen et al., eds. The Norton Shakespeare. 2nd edition. Four-Volume Genre Paperback Set. Tragedies. Norton, 2008. ISBN-13: 978-0-393-93152-5. Document timestamp: 11/6/2011 3:34 PM
Act 1, Scene 1. (435-39: Iago’s resentment, Brabanzio’s rage at loss of daughter)
Iago
may not be acting from world-historical outrage, but he sets forth two
reasons for his hatred of Othello: first, his sense of injured merit
because Othello has given the lieutenant’s job he coveted to Cassio
(435, 1.1.19ff), and the possibility (stated in Act 1.3) that his wife
has slept with Othello. Iago is a self-conscious Machiavel and a
consummate actor (like Shakespeare’s Richard III or Aaron the Moor in
Titus Andronicus). As he says to Roderigo, “I follow but myself” and “I
am not what I am” (436-37, 1.1.42-65): he may be Othello’s trusted
underling, but that isn’t how he sees himself “five years from now,” to
borrow a phrase from the corporate interview playbook. Iago may be
comfortable in his own skin, but he is not at peace with himself.
There’s something impish about him, too, something of the downright
evildoer—he seems to enjoy stirring up trouble for the hell of it, and
he shows no regard for the destruction he brings to Desdemona, whom he
knows to be innocent. He maneuvers with diabolical skill in the gap
between what he seems to be and what he is, turning everything that
happens to his own advantage. He and Roderigo regale Brabanzio with
race-baiting taunts to find his secretly married daughter. (437,
1.1.88ff)
Act 1, Scene 2. (439-442, Othello willingly arrested, off to Venice)
Othello
shows no fear of Roderigo or Brabanzio when they apprehend him: “Keep
up your bright swords…” (441, 1.2.60ff). On the spot, Brabanzio accuses
Othello of witchcraft: “thou has enchanted her” (441, 1.2.64), he tells
the Moor; otherwise, he insists, the girl would never “Run from her
guardage to the sooty bosom of such a thing as thou—to fear, not to
delight!” (441, 1.2.71-72) He can’t even imagine the attraction of the
foreign or the exotic, even though he’s been listening to Othello’s
stories with admiration, too. To Brabanzio, Venice is the world. (He’s
strangely provincial given that Venice is a cosmopolitan sea empire
that had long since known how to cut a deal or two with Arabs and
Turks.) Brabanzio immediately accepts Iago and Roderigo’s reductive,
grotesquely abstract “devil” and bestial “ram” characterization of
Othello. Othello hardly lacks charm, but the father welcomes Iago’s
stereotypes.
Act 1, Scene 3. (442-50, Othello vindicated, Desdemona strong, Iago enlists Roderigo)
Othello
carries the day when summoned to Venice because of his military bearing
and chivalric eloquence. When the Italians accuse him of witchcraft,
he promises to deliver a “round, unvarnished tale” (444, 1.3.90); but
then he romances them with his beautiful, moving words. Othello cuts a
dashing figure, and he is aware of his effect upon others. He is proud
of his conquest, like a soldier who has won the prize fairly. The tale
he delivers is anything but unvarnished. It is filled with romantic
extravagance. Perhaps he has been sold into slavery, fought tremendous
battles, and seen many remarkable sights. But did he really see
“Anthropophagi, and men whose heads / Do grow beneath their shoulders”
(445, 1.3.143-44)? No, these are tales he’s picked up and remembered
the better to build up an image of himself as an adventurer. He
exploits Desdemona’s interest in such stories, crafting from that
propensity a contract-in-hand to “beguile her of her tears” and to
“dilate” his life’s journey. What sanctifies Othello’s dilatory works
of art? Well, the fact that he sincerely loves Desdemona—he means her
only good, so it’s acceptable to incorporate some “make-believe”
elements into an already exciting account of himself: “she loved me for
the dangers I had passed, / And I loved her that she did pity them”
(445, 1.3.166-67). Othello is rather like Sir Philip Sidney’s good
Christian poet, whose “feigning” of “notable images” shouldn’t be
condemned just because the images aren’t literally true. Othello isn’t a
naïve other or a silent warrior but a poetical, confident man.
Perhaps
his tragedy will be that he just can’t imagine anyone wielding such
poetical power for anything but the good reasons that motivate him in
his courtship of Desdemona, or in his speech to the Duke and Senators
that frees them to return to considerations of State rather than
dwelling on private grudges and love affairs. His way of “seeming”
(i.e. embroidering his life story) is so pure that it’s folded into the
essential goodness of his being. In a sense, all poets are liars—Plato
tells us so, right?—but some feigning and pretending is nobly done and
not engaged in as a means to do evil, as it is with Iago. Othello’s
naivety, then, isn’t that he’s unable to speak anything but plain truth;
it’s that he can’t conceive of a man who willfully spins lies for base
purposes. A good man is free to gild the lily, but a wicked man ought
to show himself for what he is. In this sense, it’s fair to say that
Othello proves tragically unable to deal with the difference between
seeming and being. Then, too, Othello may be poetical, but he’s not
John Keats’ poet of “negative capability,” the kind who can throw
himself into doubts and uncertainties as if they were his own proper
element. Othello’s feigning seems more tactical and less supple, more
task-oriented, than that of the Keatsian “chameleon poet” who wants to
escape from his own skin.
Both the absolute otherness
imposed on Othello by men such as Brabanzio (who can scarcely process
the Moor at all) and the charismatic appeal of the man’s bearing and
language are at work early in Othello. Perhaps both, taken together
with the sad events later in the play, go a long way towards
demonstrating how difficult mutual understanding between cultures can
be. In spite of Othello’s wondrous gifts of bearing and speech, he is
easily destroyed by Iago, a man with the sort of knowledge of Venetian
society Othello lacks. Generalized virtues cannot permanently trump an
intimate knowledge of local cultural practices, symbolism, and
assumptions, at least not if someone is determined to use these
specifics against an outsider. Othello is a classic tragedy in that a
good man is destroyed by the virtues that have won him admiration—his
inability to comprehend how devious and selfish others can be. It’s
true that Othello has so far followed his personal desires, and we might
suppose that he’s putting Venice at risk if a tumult ensues. But he
deals so forthrightly with the Venetian authorities that the affair
blows over, and he is free to return to his work for the general
welfare. How, Othello might ask, could others be so petty as to damage
the public good for purely private reasons, like those of Iago?
Our
first glimpse of Desdemona shows us a strong-willed young woman who is
not afraid to act boldly and speak her mind, even in the presence of her
powerful father and Venetian statesmen. Her strength accords well with
Othello’s soldierly virtue. (446-47, 1.3.180ff, 247ff) Later,
Desdemona will be put in an impossible position—her considerable aplomb
doesn’t translate into an ability to charm Othello out of his
suspicions, so her goodness works against her. But with the devilish
Othello out to destroy her, it’s hard to see how anything she says, no
matter how skillful, would help. Terse protestations of virtue and
fancy talk alike would fail to overcome the “ocular proof” by which Iago
will falsely damn her.
Iago’s creed is worth noting.
To Roderigo’s passive, faux-suicidal blubbering about the defects of his
“virtue” (in this usage, it means “nature”), Iago blurts out “Virtue? A
fig! ‘tis in ourselves that we are / thus or thus. Our bodies are our
gardens, to the / which our wills are gardeners…” (449, 1.3.316-18).
In terms of Renaissance psychology, this means that while we are subject
to the pull of our appetites (which belong to the “sensitive” part of
human nature), we can control these appetites. We can let our
choice-making power, our “will,” be informed by reason and thereby
control the effects of appetite. (The elements of the rational part of
human nature are “understanding” or reason and “will” or rational
appetite, the inner power of motion that can incline towards God and
reason or towards our lower appetites.) Iago is suggesting that while
the body and the appetites may hold sway for a time in Desdemona, she is
bound, in due time, to become sated with Othello, and then her rational
element will lead her to despise this older man whose appearance and
culture are so unlike hers. (449, 1.3.342ff; also 455, 2.1.228-29)
Like will return to like. Well, Iago hardly puts Renaissance psychology
to the noble uses of Pico della Mirandola, who implies that the
grandest goal of humanity is to transcend itself for the greater glory
of God, but he knows how to craft a cunning scheme from its premises:
Roderigo need only “put money in his purse” and wait for Desdemona to
turn again to Venice.
Here Iago’s second motive comes
to light: he’s heard that Othello may have cuckolded him. And although
he may be patient in devising his wicked schemes, he shares Othello’s
disdain of long-continued suspicion: the mere supposition that Emilia
may have cuckolded him demands payback; the matter must be resolved.
(450, 1.3.367ff) He will wage a pre-emptive war against this man who
has already frustrated his hopes of advancement and who may also have
insulted his marriage. In some cold, calculating way, Iago himself is
subject to the cat-like “green-eyed monster” jealousy, and his way of
dealing with the discomfort it’s caused him is to pass it along. That
there’s also something to the “baseless evil” charge often leveled
against Iago, we may see from his brazen determination to “plume up” his
will “in double knavery” (450, 1.3.376).
Act 2, Scenes 1-2. (450-57, Iago sets up Cassio, airs his own suspicions)
This
scene turns on trifles: witty banter, smiles, and an innocently
flirtatious kiss between Desdemona and Cassio: how easy it is to weave
an unflattering tale, and take advantage of others’ insecurities. (454,
2.1.167ff) As Iago will say of the handkerchief in 3.3, “Trifles
light as air / Are to the jealous confirmations strong / As proofs of
holy writ” (473, 3.3.326-28). In the second act generally, Cassio, who
much values his martial reputation and is loyal, is easily typecast by
Iago first as the genial soldier, then as the quarrelsome drunkard, and
finally as the importunate suitor. Iago goes to work on Roderigo
against Desdemona’s character (456, 2.1.243), and prevails upon Roderigo
to assault Cassio and thereby anger Cyprus and Othello against the man.
Iago again mentions his second reason for hating Othello, stating
“nothing can or shall content my soul / Till I am evened with him, wife
for wife” (457, 2.1.285-86). He even has the same suspicion of Cassio –
“For I fear Cassio with my nightcap, too” (457, 2.1.294). An ambitious
man, Iago envies and opposes anyone who stands above him. Perhaps that
is the ultimate reason for his villainy.
Act 2, Scene 3. (457-65, Cassio dismissed, Iago moves forwards with his scheme)
Enter
Othello the honor-absolutist to render judgment. Iago plays Othello
like a fiddle, and the final lyrics are, “Cassio, I love thee, / But
never more be officer of mine” (462, 2.3.231-32). Now Iago advances his
diabolical scheme (463, 2.3.291ff) to advance Cassio’s suit by
Desdemona’s pleading. Iago delights in his own equivocations, and
triumphantly remarks, “So will I turn her virtue into pitch, / And out
of her own goodness make the net / That shall enmesh them all” (464,
2.3.334-36).
Act 3, Scenes 1-2. (465-66, Desdemona takes Cassio’s part)
Emilia
reports that Desdemona is making headway on Cassio’s suit: “The Moor
replies / That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus… / But he protests
he loves you… (466, 3.1.42-45).
Act 3, Scene 3. (466-77, Iago sows doubt, turns Othello against Desdemona)
While
Iago and Othello look on from a distance, Desdemona promises to
continue with Cassio’s suit to Othello (466-67, 3.3.20-22). She
converses with Othello to great effect: “I will deny thee nothing” says
Othello, and when she leaves, “Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my
soul / But I do love thee, and when I love thee not, / Chaos is come
again” (468, 3.3.77, 3.3.91-93). Chaos is Iago’s decreative aim, and he
immediately begins to set doubts in Othello’s mind: “Did Michael
Cassio, when you wooed my lady, / Know of your love?” (468, 3.3.96-97)
Cassio’s earlier usefulness as go-between in Othello’s romancing of
Desdemona now plays against him.
We should hear
alarm bells in Othello’s admission of his great fondness for Desdemona:
once Othello begins to suspect, he will be thrown off balance until the
end. Iago makes the Moor draw “the truth” from him, and reinforces the
Othello-principle that we must all be what we appear to be: “Men should
be what they seem, / Or those that be not, would they might seem none!”
(469, 3.3.132-33) Iago knows that Othello lacks (to borrow from Keats’
letters) “negative capability”—he can’t exist for an extended time in
the midst of uncertainty. If there’s a problem, it must be dealt with
presently, not left to fester. Othello is the kind of military man who
insists on gathering hard evidence and rendering a firm decision,
court-martial style, the way he judged Cassio. His lack of knowledge
about Venetian mores and subtlety (an English stereotype for the
Italians generally—subtle, devious, sly) makes him anxious, easy prey to
the overblown trifles in which Iago trades, and very susceptible to the
honest-sounding counsel his deceiver offers: “O, beware, my lord, of
jealousy? / It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock / The meat it
feeds on” (470, 3.3.169-71). Othello insists his trust in Desdemona and
in himself is great: “she had eyes and chose me. No, Iago / I’ll see
before I doubt; when I doubt, proof; / And on the proof… / Away at once
with love or jealousy” (470, 3.3.193-96).
But Othello
is older than Desdemona, and he is black: facts Iago exploits brutally
and masterfully (471, 3.3.233-43). Othello now seems uncertain that his
charm and rhetorical skill can hold his wife’s loyalty. Iago has
already told him, “In Venice they do let (God) see the pranks / They
dare not show their husbands” (471, 3.3.206-09). Generalized virtues
can’t trump knowledge of local culture, symbolism, and assumptions.
Othello is classical tragedy: a good man is destroyed by his virtues.
The play demonstrates how difficult mutual understanding between
cultures can be. Othello comes round to a characteristically absolute
statement: “If I do prove her haggard, / Though that her jesses were my
dear heart-strings / I’d whistle her off and let her down the wind / To
prey at fortune” (472, 3.3.264-67). Othello can’t reconcile his
honor-ideal with the messy, ethically dubious world of Venice.
Shakespeare
explores this rigid idealism often in his plays, and I believe he
considers it a trap. For example, Brutus in Julius Caesar, or the title
character in Coriolanus (as well as Antony in Antony and Cleopatra,
since his so-called eastern extravagance is the obverse of strict Roman
honor, and disables him from combating Octavius’ machinations), or comic
idealizers such as Orlando in As You Like It. There are many shades of
gray, nuances, roles a man or woman must play, imperfections and
exigencies to deal with. Idealism is noble, but it is a disabling
quality in a saucy, ever-changing world.
The
handkerchief device and marriage vignette (in which Othello and Iago
kneel and vow revenge) mark the height of Iago’s villainy. Disturbed
while talking with Desdemona, Othello drops his wife’s handkerchief
(473, 3.3.290ff); from there Emilia finds it and gives it to Iago, who
then resolves, “I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin, / And let
him find it. Trifles light as air…” (473, 3.3.325-28). At next
meeting, Othello is mad with jealous rage: “Villain, be sure thou prove
my love a whore” (474, 3.3.364-65). He demands absolute proof, as the
uncertainty has become intolerable: “I think my wife be honest, and
think she is not” (475, 3.3.389ff). So the fact that Cassio has been
seen to “wipe his beard” (476, 3.3.444) with Desdemona’s handkerchief
drives Othello to distraction. Iago kneels and swears undying fealty to
Othello (476-77), and his damnation consists in swearing by Christian
symbols to do the devil’s work. His words are pious, but his intentions
transform them into the markers of a black mass. Perhaps there’s irony
in his swearing by “yon marble heaven” (476, 3.3.463) since the
audience may see him swear by a painted image of the sky. Iago has
become Othello’s lieutenant, and is engaged to murder Cassio while
Othello plans Desdemona’s demise.
Act 3, Scene 4. (477-81, The Handkerchief! Emilia and Desdemona ponder cause)
Othello
expects the same romantic extravagance from Desdemona as he lavishes
upon her: the handkerchief, he tells her, is an emblem of the romantic
magic, the charm, that underlies his erotic fidelity. Its loss is
catastrophic now that it has come to symbolize her chaste loyalty.
(478, 3.4.53ff) Othello is a romantic idealist as well as a military
idealist. A version of the handkerchief’s history: it was given him by
his mother, who got it from a female Egyptian sorcerer, and its
possession guarantees loyalty in love. Its fatal consequentiality is
further underscored by the claim that it was “dyed in mummy, which the
skilful / Conserved of maidens’ hearts” (478, 3.4.73-74; later, he will
claim his father gave it to his mother: see 5.2.224.) Desdemona is
forced to dissemble (479), while Othello’s vocabulary moves towards
perfect accord with his obsession: “the handkerchief!” repeated several
times. (479, 3.4.90ff) Desdemona and Emilia ponder this strange
behavior on Othello’s part (480, 3.4.137ff). Michael Cassio closes the
scene by asking his girlfriend Bianca to make a copy of the handkerchief
because he wants the pattern before he returns it to the owner.
Act 4, Scene 1. (481-88, Othello rages over Cassio and Iago’s talk, strikes Desdemona)
Othello,
already driven into an epileptic fit at the loss of the handkerchief
(482b, 4.1.41), will now be subjected to one further supposed proof:
Iago engages Cassio in a conversation that Othello takes for lewd and
contemptuous talk about Desdemona when in fact Cassio is only making
jests about his relationship with Bianca (483, 4.1.79ff, 484-85).
Bianca brings in the handkerchief (485, 4.1.143ff), making Othello think
Cassio has given it to her out of contempt for Desdemona. Othello sees
this spectacle and becomes deranged with contradictory impulses: “O
Iago, the pity of it, Iago!” and “I will chop her into messes. Cuckold
me!” (486, 4.1.186, 190) Iago comes up with the idea of strangling her
in her “contaminated” bed. (486, 4.1.197-98) When he strikes Desdemona
(487, 4.1.235ff), Lodovico, who has come with a letter announcing that
Cassio has been installed in Othello’s place as commander in Cyprus, is
there to see it. He assumes Othello is an abusive husband.
Act 4, Scene 2. (488-93, Desdemona tries to defend herself, Othello unmovable)
Although
Desdemona has shown some Venetian subtlety, piety and honesty are the
hallmarks of her character. But Othello has been warped into taking
signs of virtue for their opposite: evidence of whoredom and cunning.
From now on, everything she says “can and will be used against her”; she
is under arrest without even knowing it. Her self-defense (489-90),
while moving, is rather feeble: “By heaven, you do me wrong” and “No, as
I am a Christian” (490, 4.2.83, 85). Simply being accused of certain
offenses (such as adultery) so strips a person of others’ good opinion
that it’s tantamount to conviction: guilty until proven innocent. (One
thinks of Kafka’s The Trial or the trials of 1984—to come under
suspicion is already to have no identity except that constituted by
one’s presumed malefactions.) It’s common in Renaissance plays for
virtuous characters to prove themselves helpless when abused by the
wicked and the cunning. If your name is something like “Bonario,” as is
the case for a good character in Ben Jonson’s Volpone, look out!
Emilia,
Iago and Desdemona hash out the sorry state of affairs – Emilia’s
enraged: “The Moor’s abused by some most villainous knave…” (491,
4.2.143ff), Iago unctuously in false accord, and Desdemona prayerful,
saying, “If e’er my will did trespass ‘gainst his love … / Comfort
forswear me” (491, 4.2.156ff).
Then Iago goes to work
the already angry Roderigo, egging him on to murder Cassio and thereby
keep Othello in Cyprus, along with Desdemona. (492-493)
Act 4, Scene 3. (493-95, Emilia’s strength, Desdemona’s loyalty)
While
Desdemona can only sing a sad song of frustrated love (“Willow, willow”
494, 4.3.38ff), Emilia proves more capable. A fit opponent for her
husband, Emilia tries to temper Desdemona’s moral absolutism, which
rivals that of Othello: advocating female adultery, Emilia argues, “I do
think it is their husbands’ faults / If wives do fall” (495,
4.3.84-85). Desdemona’s reply is a declaration of loyalty to Othello
(495, 4.3.76-77), an attitude she will maintain even as Othello
strangles her. Emilia’s bawdy pronouncements on gender relations are
the stuff of Shakespearian comedy (one thinks of Portia and Nerissa’s
“ring scheme” in The Merchant of Venice), but here they only deepen the
sense of impending tragedy.
Innocence can seldom defend
itself as eloquently or convincingly as evil can, even when the
innocent person is as intelligent as Desdemona. One remembers Yeats’
line in “The Second Coming” that “the best lack all conviction” while
“the worst are full of passionate intensity.” In Shakespeare, it isn’t
usually true that the best people lack conviction—what they sometimes
lack (consider Cordelia in King Lear as an example to set beside
Desdemona) is the right phrase, the moxy to take advantage of
opportunities to advance their good cause. And even if our good folks
have considerable linguistic capacity and courage, the disposition we
call “goodness” seldom, if ever, gains by rhetorical sleight—the problem
seems intractable. Lear’s daughter Cordelia may be a bit stiff and
clumsy as a speaker, but we all feel the rightness of her lament, “What
shall poor Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.” Or consider
Machiavelli’s characterization of the problem: to paraphrase what he
writes in Il Principe, “those who try to be virtuous in all things must
come to grief among so many who aren’t virtuous.”
Act 5, Scene 1. (495-98, Cassio wounded by Iago, who then silences Roderigo)
Iago
arranges for Roderigo to kill Cassio, but the bungler only manages to
wound Cassio in the leg, and Iago stabs Roderigo to death lest he blab
the truth. (495-97) Othello applauds from above: “Thou teachest me.
Minion, your dear lies dead, / And your unblessed fate hies” (496,
5.1.34-35). Iago insistently blames Bianca for the entire ruckus. (498)
Act 5, Scene 2. (498-507 end, Othello smothers Desdemona, dies on own terms)
Othello
resolves to kill Desdemona softly: “I’ll not shed her blood, / Nor scar
that whiter skin of hers than snow, / …Yet she must die, else she’ll
betray more men” (498, 5.2.3-6). Desdemona attempts to defend herself
from Othello’s crazed accusations and calls to beg forgiveness of God,
but there’s no chance of success, and he smothers her (499-501) in two
successive bouts. When Emilia enters, Desdemona’s dying words amount to
an attempt to remove all blame from Othello: “Commend me to my kind
lord” (501, 5.2.134).
Othello initially wrangles with
Emilia and engages in some waffling and denial: “You heard her say
herself it was not I” (501, 5.2.136). But the truth comes out in short
order, and Othello infuriates Emilia by accusing Desdemona of adultery,
thanks to Iago’s information. (502, 5.2.148ff) Things move quickly:
Iago mortally wounds Emilia for revealing the truth about that fatal
handkerchief (504) and Othello wounds Iago, who will not speak further
about his motives for working so much misery: “Demand me nothing. What
you know, you know” (505, 5.2.309). At last, with whatever small weapon
remains to him – he had been stripped of his sword a bit earlier --
Othello makes himself an example in all strictness, preempting Venetian
justice (In Cinthio’s Hecatommithi, Othello escapes, only to die
shamefully later.) Othello bills himself extravagantly as a man who
“loved not wisely but too well” (506, 5.2.353). His eloquence and
elegance reassert themselves in his final struggle. Othello’s death
seems right since his words and manner, as he understands, cannot make
up for the destruction of a faithful wife. His epigrammatic
self-description indicates a desire to control others’ interpretations
of his downfall; perhaps that’s a tragic hero’s right (see Hamlet’s plea
that Horatio should tell his story), but the ending remains disturbing.
Othello had twice let loose the question, “Ha, ha, false to me?”
(3.3.338, 4.1.190) as if especially incredulous that he should suffer
the indignity of betrayal. My sympathy goes to Desdemona, not to
Othello, in spite of his sincere horror at what Iago’s treachery has led
him to do.
How should we assess Othello as a tragic
hero? The moral quality of Shakespeare’s protagonists varies: Richard
III is an effervescent villain, Macbeth an introspective man who
appreciates from the outset the full evil of the path to power he
contemplates; Brutus and Cassius betray dueling motives against Julius
Caesar, noble and base; Romeo and Juliet die because of pitiable
misunderstandings rather than grievous faults; King Lear is brought down
in part by a fundamental confusion between his public and private
selves; Hamlet the revenger undergoes strange alternations of stricken
dawdling and rashness, Coriolanus isolates and debases himself in his
patrician rage, etc.
Othello takes his place
alongside them all, a warrior who becomes the victim of his own deeply
ingrained all-or-nothing attitude towards everything and everyone, an
exotic other who is the victim of cultural misunderstandings that put
him at the mercy of subtle Iago. As I mentioned earlier, Othello’s fall
from grace seems classical in that he is laid low and commits his
deadly errors because of his noblest qualities: a soldierly, unwavering
commitment to right conduct, fidelity and truth. His absolute
generosity of spirit towards Desdemona, once put in question by Iago,
gives way to cruel resolution and a refusal even to hear “the accused’s”
honest plea. It may be that what underlies Othello’s downfall is in
part the basic fact that if we turn heroic absolutist values over and
view their obverse, what we will find is an equally strong
counter-sentiment or counter-anxiety against which the heroic code is
posited. Only those who act from some level of awareness of this
unsettling relationship have any real chance of success: they are not so
likely as others to be trapped by the productions of their own heart
and imagination. Othello, it seems to me, lacks that awareness and
never – not even after the worst is known and all lies exposed before
him – shows an ability to mediate between the ideal and the anxiety that
both underwrites and threatens it. Ideals are necessary and noble, but
they’re also potentially lethal: “handle with care,” this play seems to
advise us.