Memorization has its advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand it gives me something to think about in odd moments and sometimes rewards me with a sudden insight; on the other, I think I miss out on the context that comes from a straight reading. The other day I realized I don’t really get Sonnet 123.
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change. Thy pyramids, built up with newer might, To me are nothing novel, nothing strange. They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wond’ring at the present nor the past, For thy records and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste. This I do vow, and this shall ever be, I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
As I recall, I was attracted to this sonnet for two reasons. One was the obvious echo of Ecclesiastes: “There is nothing new under the sun.” I think this reaches for or implies something else I was thinking about at the time, from Lao Tsu, “Without going outside, you may know the whole world.”* The second reason was that I thought it might be the inspiration of one of will-o’-the-wisps of meaning glimpsed in the random pages of Borges’ Library of Babel, the phrase “O Time thy pyramids”.
What’s odd about this sonnet? It’s one of those I’ve remarked on before, that has little conspicuously attractive imagery. Then, between body and couplet (often an interesting transition), the poem switches from largely impersonal (the speaker may start out “I” but comes back to “we”) theorizing on history to strident declaration. Time in this sonnet is not just the ragged hand of winter defacing the poet’s love (Sonnet 6), but a subtler problem. In fact, I really think this poem is about something like what I have called “historical imagination”, the way knowledge of history informs our everyday thinking. I’d like to think that, but I just don’t know what it’s really saying. Some foolish people see a thing for the first time and think it’s the first time it’s ever happened. They must not be students of history. The speaker is too wise for that. That’s the second quatrain. But then he would also defy history’s lying records. So where does that leave him? With just that bold vow, I suppose. Is it a convincing renunciation?
There are other sonnets on time, of course, though none quite like this one. I thought of “When in the chronicle of wasted time,” (106) with which I am familiar enough, but realized on looking back over the sonnets that I had totally forgotten about the one right after 123 that starts
If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfathered…It’s tremendous. I still have a lot to think about.
* Tao Te Ching 47, trs. Feng & English