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We recognise the dramatic world that Shakespeare created. Whether its Macbeth or Iago , Kent or Gloucester , his characters soon start spouting in the
identifiable Shakespearean manner. We also have the synthetic myth of the world-renowned English writer , the schoolboy's bugbear , the Swan of Avon.
What we don't have is any real clue as to what sort of chap he actually was. Was he a charmer , a windbag , a boozer , a shmendrik ? The Canadian literary
critic Northrop Frye suggested that “the only evidence we have of Shakespeare's
existence , apart from the poems and plays , is the portrait of a man who was clearly an idiot.” There was also the second-hand bed bequeathed to his wife.
A skinflint ? Getting his plays produced at the courts of both Elizabeth and James I must have required a degree of schmoozing. Was he a yes-man to Power ?
And where did he stand in the class war ? What was his attitude to feminism ? Its not the plots of his dramas (largely borrowed from earlier sources) that
constitute his appeal to us but the 'verbal music' that animates them. We hear this music most poignantly in his sonnets , a collection of poems that weave
through the writer's passionate friendship with an unidentified young man , his friend's seduction by the poet's own mistress and , infamously , the writer's
humiliating infatuation with the 'Dark Lady' , who he describes as 'the bay where all men ride'. In our meretricious times , we can imagine a tabloid headline :
The Bonking Bard : His Exclusive Story. The following , Sonnet 73 , is an Elizabethan version of the Carter Family's song When I'm Gone or Roky Erickson's
You're Gonna Miss Me , written when he was with the 13th. Floor
Elevators :
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves , or none , or few , do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold ,
Bare ruined choirs , where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west ;
Which by and by black night doth take away ,
Death's second self , that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire ,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie ,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire ,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceivest , which makes thy love more strong ,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Of what relevance are the 'classics' of yesteryear to the modern , supercharged consumer economy ? Well , Vivaldi proved useful when automated phone-answering systems put you on hold. Not only pop-art but other well-known art-historical themes proved
useful to advertising. Yet no amount of 'modernising' the cast outfits (Chicago gangster suits , Silicon valley casual wear) can mitigate the difficulty of
Shakespeare's dramatic texts , dense and impenetrable to our monosyllabic ears. Televised versions of them are unlikely to find sponsored (or viewing) favour , beyond
an occasional 'prestige' production on BBC 2. Not so long ago - in my younger days - the political content of the history plays were regarded as pertinent commentaries
on the unchanging nature of political shinnanikins from his day to ours. Current times have seen politicians reduced to implementing the whims and policies of an
unelected cabal of financial interests. The insolence of office. We can find little leverage in some bald geezer's quill-scribed speeches placed into the mouths of
abdicating or aspiring kings , jealous rivals for power , fools in doublet and hose , scheming wives and ungrateful daughters. Appropriately then , his most-quoted
character became the brand-name of a relaxing cigar.
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