Absurdity, Ideals, and Shakespeare's Bawdy Humor

Emily Andrews | April 20, 2020

I find absurdity hilarious. It’s dark–my husband could use your prayers–but is there anything funnier than an existential paradox? Consider an example I have been pondering recently: Shakespeare. We hold him in such awe. We teach his work throughout the curriculum, hoping to instill some small fraction of his eloquence and wisdom in our students. We study his kings to inform our political philosophy. We study his comedies to understand love. We study his tragedies to shape our moral bearings. We study his humor…

Have you ever taken a good look at the Bard’s humor? I mean a really good look. His bawdy jokes are among the foulest in the history of English literature – present day included. Why is it, then, that we shield our children from late night television, but place them in front of Shakespeare as often as we can? I’m giggling, but I’m also just as disturbed as you.

Now, in my defense, I try not to exclude myself as an object of my own humor. When I consider the paradox of Shakespeare’s art, I perceive that I share a measure of its dual nature in myself. By day I read Tolstoy and discuss Terrence Malick films, I converse about C.S. Lewis and recommend obscure existentialist philosophers. But after 5:00pm, I transform into a completely different creature. I enjoy Marvel movies, listen to Taylor Swift, and binge Suits. A quick perusal of my Facebook ads suggests that my top interests include Lip Sync Battles, baby otters, and Ryan Reynolds. Now, these entertainments aren’t “foul” per se (I’m still trying to preserve some dignity here), but I’m also not saying that I don’t laugh at a well-timed bodily joke.

Yet unlike Shakespeare, I often strive to suppress this side of myself in rooms where I hope to impress. As Megan said so well in her article on lite reading recently, some tendencies of the classical education movement have made a Jekyll and Hyde out of me. Influenced by an understandably eager pursuit to chase the Good and weed out all mediocre entertainments from the classical identity, I find myself juggling to hide the truth about myself: I am mediocre.

And I’m not talking about being embarrassed by a quotidian, homely nature. I’m talking about an active interest in utter inanities. By no means do I embody the classical education ideal.

Interestingly, my predicament reminds me of one of Shakespeare’s fictional creations, King Henry V. Talk about someone who couldn’t live up to their ideal. Critics have had a heck of a time trying to understand this guy over the years. Is he the model of a Christian king? Is he a Machiavellian tyrant? Norman Rabkin famously argued that your reading simply depends on the perspective you come to the story with, which I find a bit absurd myself. Thinking Henry is a virtuous hero doesn’t eliminate the troubling bits from the text, and thinking he is a cynical despot doesn’t wipe out the more heartwarming elements, either.

No, Shakespeare’s portrayal of Harry is a paradox. As readers we must wrestle with the bad alongside of the good in his character. We must take his barbarous tirade at Harfleur with his refusal to give the French ransom. A proper reading will hold these contradictions in tension.

Perhaps delving into Henry’s personal history will shed some light on the predicament. The thing is, his crown came with a lot of baggage. Not only did the nobility distrust him on account of his wild youth in the Eastcheap taverns, but his political claim to the throne was extraordinarily fragile. Henry’s father, King Henry IV, usurped the throne from Richard II, meaning that many believed young Hal was not England’s rightful heir. He had to protect himself from attacks on all fronts if he was to establish himself as king. And he found the best way to do that was to overawe everyone with his kingly strength and virtue.

We learn in the opening scene of Henry V that Hal has already enjoyed some success in this endeavor during the early days of his reign. The Archbishop of Canterbury marvels:

The breath no sooner left his father’s body
But that his wildness, mortified in him,
Seemed to die too. Yea, at that very moment
Consideration like an angel came
And whipped th’offending Adam out of him,
Leaving his body as a paradise
T’envelop and contain celestial spirits.
Never was such a sudden scholar made… (Henry V 1.1.26-33)

Upon ascending to power – behold! The old Adam, the old sin nature, has vanished! Henry has left the realm of Shakespeare’s bawdy jokes behind and stepped into his loftier themes. Now, however, he must never slip up. Facing the first consequential decision of his career as king, Henry’s instinct to keep up the performance is confirmed by his advisors. The Bishop of Ely calls his attention to the example of past English kings in pursuit of encouraging the king to declare war on France: “You are their heir, you sit upon their throne, / The blood and courage that renownèd them / Runs in your veins…” (Henry V 1.2.117-19). In order to deserve his position, Henry must live up to the standard of storybook ancestors who walked as demigods on earth. He must fortify himself against any weakness, lest insurrection and treason take their advantage.

The consequences are, of course, legendary. Henry conquers France at Agincourt with an outrageous minimum of casualties and continues on to become the most beloved and revered king in English history. Yet in Shakespeare’s portrayal, we are left to wonder if these laurels satisfy. Not only has his rise to greatness necessitated cold-hearted ferocity and bloodshed, but it has also caused severe isolation. In a moment of silence, we see behind Henry’s heroic facade as he laments, “Upon the King. / ‘Let us our lives, our souls, our debts, our care-full wives, / Our children, and our sins, lay on the King.’ / We must bear all. O hard condition…” (Henry V 4.1.212-15). Everyone looks to Henry to fulfill their desires. His soldiers hope for protection, just as his counselors hope for promotion. The king’s relationships are merely utilitarian.

Now, we do glimpse one moment of true friendship for Henry. Unfortunately, it comes from a rather disreputable source. Pistol, one of Hal’s former Eastcheap companions, declares of the King, “I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heartstring / I love the lovely bully” (Henry V 4.1.48-49). He says this when Henry is not there to reward him for his praise. Already rejected, with nothing to gain, Pistol maintains his former loyalty to the rowdy prince. Such friendship, however, does not fit into the King’s new vision of himself. In fact, just prior to this declaration, Henry has had their mutual friend Bardolph hung for theft without a single sign of sorrow, making Pistol’s continued affection all the more extraordinary.

So what is it that holds Pistol’s affection? A clue is found in the discrepancy between his language and the king’s performance in Henry V. An ideal monarch would hardly hope to be known as a “lovely bully” with a “dirty shoe.” Maybe he remembers the Hal of 2 Henry IV, who deeply struggled to reconcile his nature with his coming responsibilities:

PRINCE HARRY Before God, I am exceeding weary.
POINS Is’t come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attached one of so
high blood.
PRINCE HARRY Faith, it does me, though it discolours the complexion of my greatness
to acknowledge it. Doth it not show viley in me to desire small beer? (2 Henry IV 2.2.1-6).

In this moment, we glimpse a mediocre prince with a taste for mediocre pleasures. But Henry believes he must not “discolor the complexion of his greatness” after becoming king. All of his former entertainments, carousing with friends and pulling childish pranks, must be set aside and every minute filled with philosophy, military strategy, and policy. To achieve an ideal, Corona and Miller High Life must go the way of Mario Kart and Captain America.

The problem is, of course, that humanity is blemished. And so the pursuit of an ideal ultimately isolates as we strive to avoid contact with anything that might tarnish our identity. Therefore, while ideals are lovely to admire, at the end of the day creatures cannot shoulder their burden. There is only one Ideal, and our desire for small beer informs us we are not Him. Meanwhile, shared mediocrity often acts as a source of relationship on earth. Some of my favorite bonding moments have taken place over silly conversations about melodramatic soap operas. And is there anything that sets a room more at ease than a good poop joke? Our bodies are so fragile, so gross, and so absurd. They are also something we all have in common, leveling the playing field.

Absurdity is only offensive if it is what defines our identity, naming us as failures whose day-to-day reality does not live up to the Good, True, and Beautiful. But what if the Ideal is not crafted or manipulated or strived after? What if it is given, instead? Then we are liberated from the fear that contact with reality will corrode our value. We are freed instead to worship the Ideal, admire His good work in us and the world around us, and laugh at our mediocrity. Absurdity becomes a comfortable reminder that we are merely subjects of the Ideal already reigning on his throne. The king has already won the battle. We can relax.