Dear Mr. Shakespeare,
How are you? I am fine.
It's almost your birthday here in America. Happy birthday! Do you celebrate birthdays when you're dead? Is it weird that we celebrate your birthday? Do you measure time at all when you're dead? I am unsure. Are you in any discomfort? If so, I hope you don't measure time. Or maybe it would be better if you did. I am unsure.
I am currently, this moment, acting in a play you wrote: Hamlet. I think it's a very good play. My favorite part is the "What a piece of work is a man" monologue. I am playing Ophelia. She's a bit damp sometimes, but I guess it's a pretty good role. You should have written more stuff for women. I'm not sure what you really thought about us. All the tragic ones go mad and die. It gets a little repetitive after a while. I say this because I've kind of built half a career on your shoulders, so it's hard not to notice these things. I would like to play Hamlet one day, but everyone would make a big deal out of it because I'm a girl. I don't want to play him because I'm a girl; I want to play him because I think I get him. Ditto Richard III. His gender wasn't really your fault, though.
The last time I played Ophelia, my dad died. This time, my dad's dad died. Do you see them around? I don't really believe in an afterlife, but if you do see them, say hello for me.
People talk such a lot about Ophelia, which is funny, because she's not even on stage all that much, and she doesn't really do anything, aside from go mad and die. Hector Berlioz wrote Symphonie Fantastique after falling in love with an actress playing Ophelia, and he couldn't even understand what she was saying, being French and all. Did you know that already? Do you know everything when you're dead?
Anyway, happy birthday. I have a curtain call now. Thanks for your work.
P.S. What was your inspiration for writing Hamlet? Don't answer that, it was a joke question.
It's almost your birthday here in America. Happy birthday! Do you celebrate birthdays when you're dead? Is it weird that we celebrate your birthday? Do you measure time at all when you're dead? I am unsure. Are you in any discomfort? If so, I hope you don't measure time. Or maybe it would be better if you did. I am unsure.
I am currently, this moment, acting in a play you wrote: Hamlet. I think it's a very good play. My favorite part is the "What a piece of work is a man" monologue. I am playing Ophelia. She's a bit damp sometimes, but I guess it's a pretty good role. You should have written more stuff for women. I'm not sure what you really thought about us. All the tragic ones go mad and die. It gets a little repetitive after a while. I say this because I've kind of built half a career on your shoulders, so it's hard not to notice these things. I would like to play Hamlet one day, but everyone would make a big deal out of it because I'm a girl. I don't want to play him because I'm a girl; I want to play him because I think I get him. Ditto Richard III. His gender wasn't really your fault, though.
The last time I played Ophelia, my dad died. This time, my dad's dad died. Do you see them around? I don't really believe in an afterlife, but if you do see them, say hello for me.
People talk such a lot about Ophelia, which is funny, because she's not even on stage all that much, and she doesn't really do anything, aside from go mad and die. Hector Berlioz wrote Symphonie Fantastique after falling in love with an actress playing Ophelia, and he couldn't even understand what she was saying, being French and all. Did you know that already? Do you know everything when you're dead?
Anyway, happy birthday. I have a curtain call now. Thanks for your work.
P.S. What was your inspiration for writing Hamlet? Don't answer that, it was a joke question.
posted by Melissa Dunphyat
21:42
1 Comments:
Dear Melissa,
Thanks so much for the Birthday thoughts.
Since you have "died" in service of my stories a very many times, I thought that it might be a nice gesture for me to speak to you concerning the nature of "the undiscovered country."
You ask where I am now. I wish I could give you a solid, definitive answer. Unfortunately, giving a satisfying reply to this is a bit like trying to get that tiny bit of shell out of the white of an uncooked egg. Still, here's a go:
I'm mingled with the dust of Alexander, and together we are doing a fair job of keeping the beer inside of a barrel. We are deep in a tapster's cellar in this or some other age, in a world that is this one or at least one very like.
I'm a ghost in your head, which is where all ghosts are. If you think that makes them not real, I can merely answer that as with "good or bad", "real or not real" is largely a matter of what one thinks. I do think that, although I could be wrong. Or you could be. What do you think?
I'm beneath that fat statue of me in Stratford where I'm trying to get some rest, but that's difficult since apparently I didn't drop enough hints during my life to fool everyone into believing that I didn't actually write the plays with which I am credited. I was so sure that would work!
I'm conversing with a fellow named Presley who is stubbornly holding out in his struggle to remain dead.
He claims to be a King, yet has an odd brogue and carriage for one of that station.
I'm am in the afterlife, and there are all sorts of things about which I'd love to tell, but the rules of the place prohibit it. Still....when you come, bring a sweater.
I'm busy being the delusion of a channeled spirit that's running through the head of one odd fellow who, not unlike yourself as well as many others, has devised a way for me to pay his bills and debts. So. You're welcome.
Thanks for thinking about me, and I hope that this note has not given you excessive pause.
Sincerely,
A Friend of Mr. WH
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