‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
Really, Juliet’s whole spiel reeks of one of those situations where you’re trying to justify bad behaviour to yourself. This is basically the equivalent of going, “well, I put skim milk in my coffee today, and yesterday I didn’t have a second piece of cake, so I can probably eat an entire rotisserie chicken for lunch” or “I have totally earned a break from work to sit on Facebook for an hour, because I did that big report this morning, and that guy was mean to me on the phone”. She knows it’s wrong. She’s going to do it anyway.
But we’re not here to do high school Shakespeare analysis, else this blog would be called “High School Shakespeare Analysis, with your host Kate, who does not really understand Shakespeare very well”.
The blog would not be popular.
I mean, it’s not popular NOW, because I haven’t told anyone about it. But at least I enjoy it, and so I’d consider that a 100% success rate with readers. What was my point?
Right, so Juliet talks all about how Romeo is hot, surname-withstanding. But it’s really not true, is it. If he were called Romeo Shithead, she might screw up her nose and take another look at that Paris dude. Which, if we’re going by the movie, would not be the worst idea…
So, I was thinking this morning about the word ‘binge’, maybe because last night I had two dinners (don’t worry, I justified it to myself at the time, Juliet-style). It really is a very pretty word. The ‘bih’ sound at the front could be the name of a wee pixie. And everyone loves an ‘inge’ word. It’s like squeezing jelly through your teeth, to get to say ‘inge’.
Yet, the connotations mean I can’t really give the name to a child.
Here’s a pic of me as a baby.
Most adorable thing ever, right? Just want to pinch those little cheeks and buy it something? Now imagine she’s called Binge. Now… nope. Less cute. You’re now thinking about second dinners, and lying on the couch groaning, and you’ve got that weird sweaty feeling, almost like the McDonalds special sauce is trying to make its way through your pores.
I don’t have a solution.
There is no conclusion.
I think the only logical thing to do is blame Shakespeare.