Blog 14: What were you thinking, Shakespeare?

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.