In 1998, a friend of mine, Robert PinÂsky, who at the time was servÂing as the poet lauÂreÂate of the UnitÂed States, invitÂed me to a poetÂry evening at the ClinÂton White House, one of a series of black-tie events orgaÂnized to mark the comÂing milÂlenÂniÂum. On this occaÂsion the PresÂiÂdent gave an amusÂing introÂducÂtoÂry speech in which he recalled that his first encounter with poetÂry came in junior high school when his teacher made him memÂoÂrize cerÂtain pasÂsages from MacÂbeth. This was, ClinÂton remarked wryÂly, not the most ausÂpiÂcious beginÂning for a life in polÂiÂtics.
After the speechÂes, I joined the line of peoÂple waitÂing to shake the PresÂiÂdenÂt’s hand. When my turn came, a strange impulse came over me. This was a moment when rumors of the LewinÂsky affair were cirÂcuÂlatÂing, but before the whole thing had blown up into the grotesque nationÂal cirÂcus that it soon became. “Mr. PresÂiÂdent,” I said, stickÂing out my hand, “don’t you think that MacÂbeth is a great play about an immenseÂly ambiÂtious man who feels comÂpelled to do things that he knows are politÂiÂcalÂly and moralÂly disÂasÂtrous?” ClinÂton looked at me for a moment, still holdÂing my hand, and said, “I think MacÂbeth is a great play about someÂone whose immense ambiÂtion has an ethÂiÂcalÂly inadÂeÂquate object.”
I was astonÂished by the aptÂness, as well as the quickÂness, of this comÂment, so perÂcepÂtiveÂly in touch with MacÂbeth’s anguished broodÂing about the impulsÂes that are driÂving him to seize powÂer by murÂderÂing ScotÂland’s legitÂiÂmate ruler. When I recovÂered my equiÂlibÂriÂum, I asked the PresÂiÂdent if he still rememÂbered the lines he had memÂoÂrized years before. Of course, he replied, and then, with the rest of the guests still patientÂly waitÂing to shake his hand, he began to recite one of MacÂbeth’s great solilÂoÂquies:
If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
It were done quickÂly. If th’ assasÂsiÂnaÂtion
Could tramÂmel up the conÂseÂquence, and catch
With his surcease sucÂcess: that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all, here,
But here upon this bank and shoal of time,
We’d jump the life to come. But in these casÂes
We still have judgeÂment here, that we but teach
Bloody instrucÂtions which, being taught, return
To plague th’inÂvenÂtor.
(1.7.1–10)
There the most powÂerÂful man in the world—as we are fond of callÂing our leader—broke off with a laugh, leavÂing me to conÂjure up the rest of the speech that ends with MacÂbeth’s own bafÂfleÂment over the fact that his immense ambiÂtion has “an ethÂiÂcalÂly inadÂeÂquate object”:
I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
VaultÂing ambiÂtion, which o’erÂleaps itself
And falls on th’other.…
(1.7.25–28)[1]
I left the White House that evening with the thought that Bill ClinÂton had missed his true vocaÂtion, which was, of course, to be an EngÂlish proÂfesÂsor. But the proÂfesÂsion he actuÂalÂly chose makes it all the more approÂpriÂate to conÂsidÂer whether it is posÂsiÂble to disÂcovÂer in ShakeÂspeare an “ethÂiÂcalÂly adeÂquate object” for human ambiÂtion.
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