The Faulkner estate recently sued
Woody Allen for misquoting Faulkner, presumably because Faulkner’s heirs ran
out of booze money. The quote was something like, “History isn’t dead. It isn’t
even history.” But here’s a way better Faulkner quote (that may or may not be
true, but let’s all just assume it is): so Faulkner was a fan of the drink, but
he never drank when he wrote. He would finish a novel in like a week or
something, then he and his wife would go on a bender. During one such binge,
his daughter came up to him and said, “Dad I think you should stop drinking.”
Faulkner then put down his beer bong, turned to his daughter and said, “You
know, no one remembers Shakespeare’s daughter.”
While
that quote is both hysterical and unfathomably cruel, the neatest part for me
is the insight into Faulkner’s motivation for writing: he wants people to
remember him. And who doesn’t? This was the motivation for Ovid’s Metamorphosis,
the poems of Horace, and the film Robocop. And those guys (especially whoever it was who wrote
Robocop) will now never be
forgotten. Unless we all die. Or their books burn up and we lose all record of
their works. Or there’s some kind of alien memory virus that comes to earth and
makes us all forget those three. Or youtube turns us all into drooling idiots
by way of kittens. Specifically this kitten: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIMvntC6pBc.
Who is that greasy little muffin? What was I blogging about again? I don’t
remember. I’ll just look to the past to see where I should go from here.
Ah
yes, history. I remember a story I once heard about history: this guy was
hanging out in France, and they made him emperor because he was good at boat
fights. Then he got too big for his britches, and tried to walk into Russia and
be all, “Hey broskies, I’m your king now!” The Russians then pointed out that
no one can live in Russia, and everyone died. Years later some Austrian was
hanging out in Germany, and they gave him an army for no reason. After taking
over France, this Austrian decided he would walk into Russia and say “Hey
broskies, I’m your king now!” The Russians reiterated that no one can possibly
live in Russia, and then everyone died again. The moral of the story is that
something about France makes people want to invade Russia. The sub moral is
that you, dear sweet reader, are going to make the same exact mistakes that
someone made years before.
Unless,
of course, you don’t want to be History’s bitch. History’s out there talking
smack about you up and down the block. History and Biology are hanging out in
the bathroom, smoking cigarettes and wearing leather jackets, and History says,
“Hey Bio, watch as I make this new asshole invade Russia just like those old
assholes.” And they laugh and laugh. At you. They’re laughing at you. Because
right then and there you’re saying to yourself, “Gee, I feel like the smart
money would invade Russia. I mean it really seems like the safe choice here.”
Then History pretends to cough, but really he’s calling you a chump, and the
teacher won’t do anything (there’s a teacher in the bathroom) because maybe he
was really coughing (because of the cigarettes). So there’s nothing you can do.
Wait, there is something you can do: DON’T BE A CHUMP! Make the dangerous
choice of wasting… no not wasting, INVESTING… your resources into taking
England. Yeah the Channel presents some problems, but half the fun of war is
the inventions that come from necessity. Stand up for your self and yell, “You
know what DAD—I mean-- HISTORY! I’m not going to do what you want me to do! I’m
going to make my own choices! I’m going to be a human being and not just a pawn
in your little game of checkers! I’m going to take England down, and eat ice
cream out of the King’s gold hat, or die trying! Because I know one thing for
sure History, if I walk into Russia, and say, ‘Hey broskies, I’m your king
now,’ everyone will die. Because no one can live in Russia.” Then you punch
History in the gut, and high-five Biology. Order is restored, because History
is your bitch, not the other way around.
So
what does this mean for those of us who have decide to pursue the creation of
theatre as we perpetually move toward our inevitable demise? I would say this:
please don’t let history make you its bitch. Please don’t march back into
Russia. Try England this time! Or maybe some sort of non-war option! Hoping to
be remembered in the future is a sham. Sure no one remembers Shakespeare’s
daughter, but soon we won’t remember Robert Lowell, and then a few years after
that we won’t remember Shakespeare. Just do something neat now. Use history,
but never worship it. And if we keep invading Russia, everyone will die.
To
accurately quote Faulkner, “You aren’t dead. You aren’t even you. Now hold my
legs so I can do a keg stand.”
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