The Guardian had a piece in 2010 mostly arguing against that Shakespeare´s plays were written by anyone other than William himself. I loved within it the actor Simon Russell Beale´s fond obsession with Shakespeare, as expressed by his priorities upon the end of the world:
I was watching a documentary about the effect of global warming and the imminent destruction of the planet, and my first thought was: 'What will happen to Shakespeare?'"
I think that´s the kind of prioritizing I can and do get behind. In the face of, well, real life, and its slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I do love a place of fiction, a place of make-believe, for:
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely Players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His Acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Reminds me of another William, that of Makepeace Thackeray What a middle name — Makepeace! His Vanity Fair or A Novel without a Hero from 1847/1848 also presents its story as a puppet theater, beginning in 1847 with:
As the manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on the boards and looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound melancholy comes over him in his survey of the bustling place.
[…]
And with this, and a profound bow to his patrons, the Manager retires, and the curtain rises.
LONDON, June 28, 1848
And ending in 1848 with:
Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied?—come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.
Speaking of ending the play and going home for the night, I´m reminded of Agatha Christie´s masterful Endless Night, and its title from William Blake:
Every night and every morn,
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night,
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
Oh, but of night, there is of course Dylan Thomas´s:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I think that´s one of the appeals of fiction, and it’s more rarified version: literature. That each is in dialogue with the other, and writers are speaking to each other across time, and to be party to the conversations, to eavesdrop, to be Publikum to, it´s a puppet theater worth going to, worth seeing, worth the price of entrance.