I was in the tenth grade the first time I read a play by Shakespeare. It was the first quarter of the school year, we read Romeo and Juliet aloud in class.
I quit going to high school the following quarter. I was not much in the habit of participating in school unless the subject interested me, most of it did not.
Rather than doing the work that my classmates were concentrating on I would usually sit quietly and read whatever was on my personal reading list, at that time in my life it was usually something in the genre of science fiction or fantasy, it might be a piece of classical history, metaphysics or mythology.
From my first encounter with Shakespeare I knew that he interested me. I took a reading role in class and I enjoyed the way the girls looked at me, because my allocution was good.
I realized that there was something special in Shakespeare, the mere mention of his name generated gravitas, so I began to read more of his plays, some of them like Hamlet and Mac Beth I would read over and over again, committing long tracks of his prose and many of his sonnets to memory.
If Chaucer is the father of the English language, and Boswell the midwife of the modern era, then Shakespeare is its high priest.
Later, in my adult life I steeped myself in his writing, carefully reading every word he ever wrote, as well as commentaries on his prose and verse, to include an exegesis of the philosophies contained therein.
Shakespeare’s expositions on the human condition are rivaled by few, but the sheer beauty of his composition sets him apart from everyone, which is why we call him The Bard.
There are many who claim that Shakespeare did not write all of the works attributed to him. Some who claim that he did not write any of them; it does not matter to me whether any of those conspiracies are true, it is only the work that matters, the body of it that we have inherited from his and have assigned to his authorship, the great works that will last through the ages.
These words below are among the works that have made him a hero of mine:
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Creeps in its petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time.
And all our yesterdays are but lighted fools,
on the way to dusty death.
Out…out brief candle,
For life is but a poor player,
Who struts and frets its hour on the stage,
And then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot,
Full of sound and fury,
Given First - 2020.04.23