tween them, nor that of King Lear to Othello to the possibility that Macbeth may have intervened. But somehow the idea that King Lear was written before Mac - beth seems to involve more than this. It is a bit like thinking that The Brothers Karamazov was written before Crime and Punishment. The analogy is not a casual one. Macbeth, like Crime and Punishment, is a study of evil through a study of murder. Each is its author's most rapid, concentrated, terrific, and possibly sublime work. Each is a prolonged nightmare lifted into the realm of art. King Lear and The Brothers Karamazov are also studies of evil; but if they sound no lower depths, they do climb to greater heights than Macbeth and Crime and Punishment. All four fight through again the old war between light and darkness. But in Macbeth and Crime and Punishment we have "night's predominance," as Shakespeare phrases it, and the light is that of a star or two in the blackness, while in King Lear and The Brothers Karamazov the stars are morning stars and there is dawn on the horizon. I know how preposterous this will sound to those who consider King Lear the pessimistic masterpiece of the ages. II If it be true that all art aspires to the state of music, the opening of Macbeth approximates perfection. The contention of the elements and the battles of men are the themes of the witches' colloquy. But their lines are more overture than scene, and the drama has a second opening in the account given by the wounded Sergeant of Macbeth's conquest of the rebels. The passage is like a smear of blood across the first page of the play. The double opening defines precisely what we are to expect: a work dedicated not to the supernatural nor to blood but to the relation between the two. (The modern-reader who is afraid of the word "supernatural" may substitute "unconscious.") Passion means originally the capacity to be affected by external agents. In this sense Macbeth is a play about human passion. It is significant that the witches choose for their fatal encounter with Macbeth not the hour of battle but the moment When the hurlyburly's done.
War plows the soil. Who wins is not what counts. It is what seeds are planted When the battle's lost and won
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