TOWARD A BETTER UNDERSTANDING OF SHAKESPEARE

In my early adolescence I discovered English literature, as such was very well-represented in both of my parents' book shelves. And for someone young, the goofy phrasing of the romantic poets, bad grammar with later versifiers, and sheer dense gibberish in the writings of the fifteenth through eighteenth centuries, is immensely liberating. Almost as good as the Science Fiction which littered the upstairs living room, and the tall bookcase in my quarters which my mother had commandeered.

I was a voracious reader, partly because I wasn't altogether sociable, partly because I craved stimulation. Not having a television in the house (due to my mother's thoroughly disapproval of the beasts), I found the sex and violence that a young man naturally required in Shakespeare.

It is marvelous how the voice of a sixteenth century scribbler, autodidact, Jack of all trades, and minor law-breaker (!) carries across the centuries.
I first discovered his sonnets, which were more splendid poetry than much that is written in the English language -- quite unlovely for verse -- and once I had devoured them, I started reading his plays.
The wit in his comedies was easy to appreciate, as well as the sly delicious references to matters of the flesh. The impact of his dramatic work took a little longer.

"From this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother..."

That was the day and age, after all, in which I had read Voltaire's Candide, in search of a naked breast. It was on the cover of the paperback, and it seemed both logical and natural that companions should lurk within.
They didn't. Very disappointing.

A full understanding of better texts requires that one finally grow up.
Which at that time I had not even considered doing.


Unlike the works recommended by teachers (one of whom suggested that I should read Victor Hugo, fercrapsakes!), there is no deep meaning to anything Shakespeare wrote except his last will and testament, in which he mentions a bed. Everything else can be called much ado about nothing.
His plays are either lyrical romps through the shared sense of humour and pretentiousnesses of his audience, or passion-arousing historical out-takes, whose characters live more brightly for having been so well brought back.

Taming Of The Shrew -- Henry V -- MacBeth (a comedy!) -- Julius Caesar -- Merchant Of Venice -- Two Gentlemen Of Verona -- Measure For Measure -- Othello.

By reading Shakespeare's works, one gets to know the man.
His characters speak, but his is the voice that stays


A TIGER'S HEART, WRAPPED IN A PLAYWRIGHT'S HIDE

It took me the better part of the next two decades to realize that his words are so quotable. Growing up as one of the few English-speaker my age in the Netherlands, there was little scope for citing the bard, and his language was quite beyond my high-school classmates, who found even their own tongue hard. The gentlemen hired to teach us English were not of the same metal as our French teachers -- one of whom was the gay luftmensch who considered Hugo appropriate reading material -- and seldom even matched the average foreign engineer employed by Philips Electronics in Eindhoven for either written or spoken fluency, let alone understanding of the language they were reputed to have mastered. There was no audience outside the family for a well-read teenage smart-aleck, and within our household, literacy was rather unfortunately taken for granted. "Of course the younger son can spew passages from any number of writers! We rather wish he'd shut up occasionally!"
The problem at that time, you must understand, is that one sentence might be regurgitated Herrick or Pope, and the very next things out of my mouth would be verses from Charlotte the Harlot or the Winnipeg Whore.
Followed by an explanation of the life-cycle of the Horseshoe Bat, if I had been reading "that" reference book again.

The key to coming off as a hardcore smartypants is modulation.

It's been a few decades since I first forayed there.

Yes, I'm still gaining experience in that field.

It could yet take a while to master.


If I were still trying.


In San Francisco, the competition is fiercer than it was in Valkenswaard. Not because people are the equals of the students attending Atheneum and Gymnasium at Hertog Jan, many of whom were brilliant as blazes and capable of inspiring astonished admiration, but because San Francisco is a city at the end of the known universe, and very much the catch-drain for all the wonderful weirdoes who come out west; this is the last stop before you fall off the edge of the earth. There is a larger population here with a greater variety of literacies in a feast of languages, than you will find almost anywhere else.


Shakespeare, if he were here today, would find the city as stimulating as sixteenth century London. And he would set about trying to impress everyone with his wit, his cleverness, and his erudition.
He would be determined to wow this metropolis.

The sad thing is that he could not succeed, his vaulting ambition would come a cropper. We're much too cynical, and we drink the liquor that stills the music within ourselves. We are far more impressed with what our place represents than people four centuries ago could have ever been.


The fault, dear William, is not in our stars; the world has become too wide, and the times are out of joint.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================