Will the Quill is Dracula

He should be dead, but he keeps coming back.

Shakespeare suffers slings and arrows of SATS fortune. It’s been awhile since I saw a story like this in The Guardian. Obviously RSC profits are down and they need their major donors – schools – to return to the fold and fill their coffers again.

Jacqui O’Hanlon, the RSC’s director of education, said: “School managers will not release teachers for a day’s training because Shakespeare is no longer seen as a priority. If that’s the message being given to teachers and the message pervading schools, what impact is that going to have on the wider entitlement young people have to engage with Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare never was a priority, but because he’s been raised to semi-divine status, it’s heretical if anyone doesn’t think the sun shines out of his arse. And what’s all this about “the wider entitlement young people have to engage with Shakespeare”? What entitlement? Is it part of the con­sti­t­ut­ion? What utter nonsense.

Barry Sheerman MP, the committee chairman who raised the issue at a hearing this week, said: “It’s quite chilling if schools don’t want students to go and see Shakespeare if it’s not examined.” Government edicts on the curriculum were reminiscent of “Soviet Russia” and teachers were “too frightened” to complain in case they weren’t promoted, he said.

And how many of Shakespeare’s plays have you seen, Baz? In how many of them could you understand every word regardless of changes to the English lexicon over the past 400 years? How is it chilling if Shakespeare is neither seen nor heard nor examined? Oh, I see. You’re not really as bothered about Shakespeare as you are about chucking a few rocks at the government. What exactly do government edicts on the curriculum really have to do with Shakespeare? The agèd demi-god is being recruited for financial purposes by the RSC and political purposes by some Commons sub-committee chairman.

As I’ve said before, I think it would be rather a good thing if someone finally admitted that Shakespeare is largely incomprehensible to modern audiences and that it’s time to pick on some other antique, but more recent author as the focus of the literary world’s idolatry. Of course, there’s already someone to fill that role – Jane Austen. She’s two centuries old, a literary idol, being an author whom no one is allowed to dislike, and her English is at least generally comprehensible; but her limp satire on the painful social habits of the age won’t appeal to most boys, which would entail a specially edited volume for them. Thus, a revised opening to Pride and Prejudice:

IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a sniper rifle must be going to frag some Strogg.

However little known the accuracy or skillz of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the Makron’s minions, that he is considered as the rightful target of some one or other of the soulless mechanical puppets of Stroggos.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that the Strogg base is let at last?”

Now the boys are reading and they don’t even notice the subtle and insidious love story between a member of the GDF (Elizabeth Bennet; “Enemy infantry spotted!”) and a putrefying Strogg trooper (Mr Darcy; “I require stroyent!”). Whenever one of the Bennet girls captures a husband, she can say, “Spawn host created”.

Once again, I call for Shakespeare to be pulled down from his pedestal. School children can thank me later by buying my edited-for-boys version of Pride and Prejudice when it’s published. It’s also about time the RSC stopped thinking that it had some right to anything but an audience of fanboys; and it’s also about time it stopped trying to make people feel guilty for not worshipping Will the Quill.

The Play House

Joseph Addison.

Near to the Rose[1] where Punks[2] in Numbers flock,

To pick up Cullies to increase their Stock;

A lofty Fabric[3] does the Sight invade,

And stretches round the place a pompous Shade;

Where sudden Shouts the Neighbourhood surprise, (5)

And thund’ring Claps, and dreadful Hissings rise.

Here thrifty Rich[4] hires Heroes by the Day,

And keeps his mercenary Kings in Pay;

With deep-mouth’d Actors fills the vacant Scenes,

And drains the Town for Goddesses and Queens: (10)

Here the lewd Punk with Crowns and Sceptres grac’d

Teaches her Eyes a more majestic Cast;

And hungry Monarchs with a num’rous Train

Of suppliant Slaves, like Sancho[5] starve and reign.

But enter in, my Muse, the Stage survey, (15)

And all its Pomp and Pageantry display;

Trap-Doors and Pit-Falls from th’ unfaithful Ground,

And magic Walls encompass it around:

On either Side maim’d Temples fill our Eyes,

And intermix’d with with Brothel Houses rise; (20)

Disjointed Palaces in Order stand,

And Groves obedient to the Mover’s Hand,

O’ershade the Stage and flourish at Command.

A Stamp[6] makes broken Towns and Trees entire:

So when Amphion[7] struck the vocal Lyre, (25)

He saw the spacious Circuit all around

With crowding Woods, and rising Cities crown’d.

But next survey the Tiring Room and see

False Titles and promiscuous Quality

Confus’dly swarm, from Heroes and from Queens (30)

To those that swing in Clouds and fill Machines;

Their various Characters they choose with Art:

The frowning Bully fits the Tyrant’s Part;

Swoll’n Cheeks and swagging[8] Belly make a Host;

Pale, meagre Looks and hollow Voice a Ghost; (35)

From careful Brows and heavy, downcast Eyes

Dull Cits and thick-skull’d Aldermen arise.

The comic Tone, inspir’d by Farquhar[9], draws

At every Word loud Laughter and Applause.

The mincing Dame continues as before (40)

Her Character unchang’d, and acts a Whore.

Above the Rest, the Prince with haughty Stalks

Magnificent in purple Buskins walks:

The royal Robes his awful[10] Shoulders grace,

Profuse of Spangles and of Copper Lace; (45)

Official Vassals to his mighty Thigh,

Guiltless of Blood, th’unpointed Weapon tie;

Then the gay, glitt’ring Diadem put on,

Pondrous with Brass and starr’d with Bristol Stone.[11]

His royal Consort next consults her Glass (50)

And out of twenty Boxes culls a Face;

The Whit’ning first her sallow Looks besmears,

All pale and wan th’ unfinish’d Form appears;

Till on her Cheeks the blushing Purple glows,

And a false virgin Modesty bestows. (55)

Her ruddy Lips the deep Vermillion dyes;

Length to her Brows the Pencil’s Touch supplies,

And with black, bending Arches shades her Eyes.

Well pleas’d at last the Picture she beholds,

And spots it o’er with artificial Moles. (60)

Her Countenance complete, the Beaux she warms

With Looks not hers and, Spite of Nature, Charms.

Thus artfully their Persons they disguise

Till the last Flourish bids the Curtain rise.

The Prince then enters on the Stage in State; (65)

Behind a Guard of Candle-Snuffers wait.

There, swoll’n with Empire, terrible and fierce,

He shakes the Dome and tears his Lungs with Verse.

His Subjects tremble, the submissive Pit,

Wrapp’d up in Silence and Attention, sit; (70)

Till freed at length, he lays aside the Weight

Of public Business, and Affairs of State;

Forgets his Pomp, dead to ambitious Fires,

And to some peaceful Brandy Shop retires;

Where in full Gills his anxious Thoughts he drowns, (75)

And quaffs away the Cares that wait on Crowns.

The Princess next her painted Charms displays,

Where every Look the Pencil’s Art betrays.

The callow ‘Squire at distance feeds his Eyes,

And silently for Paint and Patches dies. (80)

But if the Youth behind the Scenes retreat,

He sees the blended Colours melt with Heat,

And all the trickling Beauties run in Sweat.

The borrow’d Visage he admires no more,

And nauseates every Charm he lov’d before. (85)

So the same Spear, for double Force renown’d,

Apply’d the Remedy, that gave the Wound.[12]

In tedious Lists ’twere endless to engage,

And draw at length the Rabble of the Stage,

Where one for twenty Years has giv’n Alarms, (90)

And call’d contending Monarchs to their Arms;

Another fills a more important Post,

And rises every other Night a Ghost.

Thro’ the cleft Stage his mealy Face he rears,

Then stalks along, groans thrice, and disappears; (95)

Others with Swords and Shields, the Soldiers’ Pride,

More than a thousand Times have chang’d their Side

And in a thousand fatal Battles died.

Thus several Persons several Parts perform:

Pale Lovers whine, and blust’ring Heroes storm. (100)

The stern, exasperated Tyrants rage,

Till the kind Bowl of Poison clears the Stage.

Then Honours vanish, and Distinctions cease;

Then with Reluctance haughty Queens undress.

Heroes no more their fading Laurels boast, (105)

And mighty Kings in private Men are lost.

He, whom such Titles swell’d, such Power made proud,

To whom whole Realms, and vanquished Nations bow’d,

Throws off the gaudy Plume, the purple Train,

And in his own vile tatters stinks again. (110)

Notes.

1. The Rose: The Rose Tavern was opposite the Theatre Royal. It was a resort for prostitutes and minor poets.

2. Punks: prostitutes

3. lofty Fabric: the Theatre Royal

4. thrifty Rich: A theatrical impressario and not a particularly generous employer.

5. Sancho: I’m guessing this is a reference to Sancho Panza who eventually got to be the governor of the Isle Barataria in the second part of Don Quixiote.

6. A Stamp: possibly a signal for a scene change.

7. Amphion: the son of Zeus and Antiope. His music was so charming that even the trees and stones moved to it.

8. swagging: swaying heavily to and fro.

9. Farquhar: a young Irish playwright. He was not initially successful and this may be his first favourable mention.

10. awful: awesome; awe-inspiring.

11. Bristol Stone: rock crystal cut to look like diamonds.

12. The reference is to Telephos who was wounded by Achilles. When the wound wouldn’t heal, the Delphic Oracle was consulted. Its reply was “he that wounded shall also heal”. Odysseus interpreted this correctly to mean the spear.

Billy the Bard – again

Oh that this too too overrated, antiquated Midlander…

Shakespeare in peril as Oxford rethinks English syllabus. In peril? Shake­speare’s plays may no longer be compulsory at Oxford in the future. Yeah, that sounds like peril to me.

“Well, Marlowe,” said Sir Francis, “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve summoned you.”
“A nice chat over tea and biscuits?” said Marlowe hopefully.
“Not exactly. We’ve heard that the English Department at Oxford is going to offer nothing but the study of Shakespeare to students.”
“Shakespeare? Who’s he when he’s at home?”
“Playwright of some sort. I’ve been asking around, but no one’s heard of him apart from the canteen staff. Apparently, he writes some fairly low-brow drivel that goes down a treat with the unibrow brigade.”
“What’s the job?”
“We want you to kill him, and we have an especially big gun for you to use on this occasion.”
Next week: Shakespeare in peril!

See, then Shakespeare would be in peril.

What’s Oxford going to do to Will the Quill? Put him in context. I know. Academia is a vicious world. Those bastards will stop at nothing. I’m sur­prised Inspector Morse hasn’t been wheeled out to investigate the case.

Meanwhile, all the luvvies are up in poiniards and down in doublets about the announcement. Poor things. It’ll be darkened rooms and smelling salts for the next couple of weeks.