Last night I finished reading Cleopatra: a life, Stacy Schiff's beautifully-written attempt to set the historical record straight (or at least straighter) about "the most wicked woman in history." I loved every word. I've long had a weak spot for even the bawdiest sorts of Cleopatra-related historical fiction, but this biography is even better. (I may be watching the super melodramatic 1999 Billy Zane and Timothy Dahlton miniseries on youtube right now. I'd certainly never admit it.)
So any one who knows me has heard me complain about how men (specifically Mark Antony) ruined EVERYTHING. After Antony's final defeat in Alexandria, he rides back (apparently) shouting that Cleopatra had betrayed him. Schiff doesn't outright dismiss this as apocryphal, and even suggest a few reasons why such a betrayal might have been in the young queen's best interest. She ultimately leads the reader away from this version of history, however, pointing to several flaws in the logic of these accounts and other circumstantial evidence to suggest that Cleopatra was, even to her detriment, loyal to her love until the end.
I have to admit that whatever feminist rage I'd been having 30 pages before seemed to vanish. I didn't want Cleopatra to have betrayed Antony in the end, no matter how foolish or weak he was. Maybe I relate best with a woman when I believe that she, too, would love a man like that even if it meant her ruin. Maybe it comforts me to think that if some one as powerful, intelligent and cunning as she can be consumed by love in such a self-destructive way than I can forgive myself for doing the same from time to time. Maybe I'm just a romantic sap who likes love stories and deeply tragic endings.
Romance aside, what Octavian hated and feared (and probably admired) most about her was her audacity to think herself the equal of a man. It's hard not to see the connections between the ancient Egyptian feminist and her steely, tough-as-hell descendants (in nationality if not by actual blood) in Tahrir square. Other things in this book seemed surprisingly relevant to the modern day. Particularly the evidence that, even a couple of thousand years later, the West still thinks of the East in sexualized, emotional terms. But I think what engaged me most about this book was not the epic view of history or orientalism or even feminism but the way Schiff takes but snatches of detail and whole stretches of silence to paint a picture of a real human being.
Tonight is an ugly night. I am trying to rise above my small, personal emotions and think about more important things. Instead, I feel like I'm drowning in memories. All day long I have drifted between rare moments of crisp, coherent clarity- trying to translate for an Arabic-speaking customer, catching a minor shoplifter, dispensing with thesis-related errands- in a sea of blind panic and anxiety, barely able to force air into my lungs. I want to put the past behind me. I want to breathe steadily. I want to rule my kingdom and wage my wars and not have to think about all the heartbeats in between the great events. Which is not to say I need to be important or great or even all that special, just that I'd like to be more a person and less a tempest of emotional turmoil. It is not Mark Antony's weakness that bothers me tonight, it is just my own. I know it will pass. And should historians ever record my life-love me, or hate me- they will not waste any words on nights like this one.
Liking your review of a book that I shall likely never read. History, not my cup of tea. But now I can hand sell this book that is doing just fine on its own.
ReplyDeleteThe rest of your post remains shrouded in mystery: in that it's personal but perhaps not personal enough (?) I can't quite feel what you are going through, even though I have had many of my own wild, reckless, emotional, and perhaps 'ugly nights.'