Examiner column for June 4.
It was a typical Monday at Oakton. I was asking myself: where did the weekend go? Why do high school classes start at 7:20 a.m.? No one was answering because my colleagues and students were all asking those same questions themselves.
Then Daniela and Liz, two of my twelfth graders, arrived at my desk with smiles on their faces and a package in hand. “We went to see ‘Coriolanus’ this weekend, and it was great. And we brought you these magnets with Shakespearean insults on them!”
Thou smell of mountain goat.
I read a few of the magnets, and recognized gems I had come across in my Shakespeare studies. But many of these barbs were new to me, and I knew I couldn’t confine them to my refrigerator. “This is the nicest present I’ve ever gotten!” I said as I thanked them. I was touched that they would think of me, and impressed they knew I loved Shakespeare’s wicked tongue.
You scullion! You rampallian! You fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe!
Falstaff, who spoke the above insult, often invented words, but even when we don’t know what his words mean there is a brilliant comic energy. I wonder how many of us are possessed of a “catastrophe”?
Thou art like a toad: ugly and venomous.
I used to know teachers who Xeroxed a page of these insults and asked their ninth graders to stand and repeat them, in a loud voice, to one another. The whole class would be in stitches within the first few insults, and they got used to all those “thees” and “thous” in the process. The author of “Romeo and Juliet” ceased to be a dull, leaden icon. He had wit.
Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
What made this gift special was the sly sense of humor the two girls exhibited in picking the magnets in the first place. We had not looked at language like this when we read “Hamlet,” and generally I am not a champion of insults. But Daniela and Liz saw that these were different.
Thine face is not worth sunburning.
Why are our insults today so devoid of wit, so demeaning? Rather than poke fun at people, we dismiss them with a four-letter word or a hand gesture. Insults in Shakespeare are creative, charming, as much about the speaker as the intended target. Insults on the street or road are merely about venting.
Out of my sight! Thou dost infect my eyes.
Daniela and Liz gave me a thoughtful gift, but more importantly reminded me that Shakespeare at his silliest and most outrageous can teach us something about the art of the insult. Next time someone cuts you off in traffic, shout at the top of your lungs:
Thou crusty batch of nature.
The other driver may not hear you, but your scowl will turn to a smile and improve the rest of your trip.