What were you thinking Shakespeare when you set off to London to
become an actor? Were you trying to distance yourself from the age gap that separated
Anne and you? Did you really poach a deer? Those always seem so dramatic to me.
Were you trying to find yourself in your salad days? I think about you in these
moments, unsure of what lies ahead, possibly penniless, your head filled with
ideas. Did you always have ideas? Did you dream of Rosalynd, of Titania? Were
you nightmares ruled by Iago, or furtive vision of Caliban? Did you steal any material?
I’m sure Marlowe appreciated the shout outs, but I have a feeling Greene would
not have been crazy about The Winter’s Tale.
What were you thinking when you wrote Lear? Did it pain you to send
Cordelia into her eternal rest in such a way? Did it delight you? Did you
always intend for Romeo and Juliet to die? Did you secretly wish Lady Macbeth
could have gotten away with it? What did you think about love? That one puzzles
me, I must say. You give us Beatrice and Benedick while Othello and Desdemona
lurk in the horizon, and behind them Leontes and Hermione. Were you excited to
pull a fast one in the statue scene? Was that your attempt at reconciliation? Is
the real enemy time, unrelenting, tireless, time that cruelly transforms the Ephesus
of our youth in the deserted islands of our autumns?
Or were you just doing your job, writing your own hybrid stories for
coterie and audiences, trying to figure out the next trend and stay ahead of
new, hungrier reflections of yourself? I can’t think of this possibility for
too long. It breaks my heart to tell you the truth when I do not imagine you
passionately hunched over a candlelit table, paper and quill in hand,
frantically marking the enchanting cadence of Portia, Hamlet. That too is
pretty dramatic, I know. But your shadow looms so large that it’s hard not to
give you the god-like treatment, every now and then. The creator of worlds and
the strange people in them. Did you see yourself in anyone you wrote? People
are too quick to tie you to your characters and speculate on your mood, but it’s
hard to resist (I know for a fact you were hung over when you wrote Macbeth).
Harold Bloom says you invented us, and as much as it pains me to admit it,
sometimes I think he’s right. Do you know Harold Bloom? If not, don’t waste
your time. Read Mike Bristol, Barbara Freedman, and Stephen Orgel instead.
What were you thinking about the world you lived in? Did you have
any regret once you called Stratford your home again? Did Jonson owe you money?
Tom Stoppard wrote about your last days, and it’s disturbing because a lot of it
goes against the image of you that I crafted for myself, but it somehow feels
so accurate. Did you struggle to finish The Two Noble Kinsmen and ask
Fletcher for help? Was he stuck on Henry VIII and came to you? Did you
have anything to do with Cardenio? I don’t think you would have relegated Don
Quixote to that subplot. May be you just did not have the energy anymore.
I wonder what you would do or say in today’s world. What you would
write about it. Would you be amused? Fascinated? Disgusted? Things never
change, I suppose. If a captain of the guard cannot escape the color of his
skin, what chance does a kid in a hoodie have? What would you be doing today,
Shakespeare? I often wonder. You’d be litigious, I know that much. Copyrights
seem like your thing. I have a feeling you would like the internet and rail
against reality TV (until you get you own show). Would you still write? Would
you disown anything you’ve created? No one will call The Two Gentlemen of Verona
a masterpiece but it has strong qualities. I have strong qualities but I
sometimes struggle in your shadow. In my mind I know you and write for you
(don’t tell anyone), and that’s hard. And it’s rewarding. And it’s common, too
common on occasion. I read what you wrote and I get it more than I get myself
sometimes. I see what you wrote performed and I am moved to set off to my
London, poach my deer and adorn beautified feathers.
I think of you, Shakespeare, in those times where things are grim
and when sound and fury signify nothing. I thought of you when my sister left
us too early after being with us for too long and I think of you as my father
fades away, fumbling his sheets. I also thought of you the day I married Emily,
the moment where I held my godson in my arms for the first time and yes, odd as
it may seem, I think of you when I watch baseball, where the world is a stage
and the men are players. Sports remind me of you, mostly in the way we think
about it and the people that play it. You are a big part of my life. I read
you, write you, I teach you to students. I quote you, sometimes out of
pleasure, sometimes to sound smart. There’s so much more I want to ask you, but
doing so would take a lot of fun out of it, like meeting some of your favorite
books but realizing the mundane world in which they exist. I guess the rest is
silence at this point.
Thanks,
J. F.
PS: I am applying for a tenure-track at Yale and I’d love if you could
serve as one of my referees.
