The mad king finds me everywhere. As a ten year old rifling through my father's 'collected works of Shakespeare'. In high school feeling as though learning English had been for nought - what is this thou I said to myself, who is yonder and what has he to do with light? And is this boy dead or dying for there
rry her name but there's a story. A woman to question a king, to call him gutless to his face, to move him beyond the paralysis that often comes as introspection when one must choose the leafy shadow or the axe's shade.
How walking in Denmark on the coast I felt as though I'd seen Hamlet's very castle. And later standing in Shakespeare's small-doored kitchen in Stratford-upon-avon I was suddenly accosted by a fight between two actors, staged for my delight: a king and his lady in the midst of some familiar furor and how delighted I was to be able to say the words from memory. How at home I suddenly felt in literature. That other language no one had told me was a tongue within other tongues.
After much work and slightly more revelry (they do not tell you, but backstage, poets love to merrymake after they have hung all their dead and their skeletons upon some stage) he came for me again last night, that mad king with his question.
Not will I be pretty or will I be rich but will I be.?
I think the answer has always been yes, how glad to finally know it.