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The Shakespeare Notebooks

Page 13

by Justin Richards


  And on his Gravestone, this Insculpture.

  “Here lies a wretched Coarse, of wretched Soule bereft,

  Seek not my name: A Plague consume you, wicked Caitifs left:

  Heere lye I Timon, who alive, all living men did hate,

  Passe by, and curse thy fill, but passe and stay not here thy gate.”

  ALCIBIADES

  Dead Is Noble Timon, of whose Memorie

  Hereafter more. Bring me into your City,

  And I will use the Olive, with my Sword:

  We have learned that gold’s a poison serpent

  And must poorly profit from our losses

  Make war breed peace; make peace stint war, make each

  Prescribe to other, as each others leach.

  Let our Drummes strike.

  Exeunt.

  * * *

  Cry ‘God for Rassilon! Gallifrey and Time Lords!’

  * * *

  HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY

  The earliest known copy of Hamlet’s famous soliloquy from Act III Scene i in its final form is handwritten, but annotated with comments in the same handwriting. There has been some speculation that Shakespeare dictated the text, and the annotations were added by whoever took down his words. Earlier drafts of the text, with rather different wording, do exist – and indeed the annotations refer to these. But whatever the source, this is surely the earliest example of a critique of what is arguably the Bard’s greatest work.

  To be, or not to be1 – that is the question:2

  Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

  The slings and arrows3 of outrageous fortune

  Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,4

  And by opposing end them. To die – to sleep –

  No more; and by a sleep to say we end

  The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

  That flesh is heir5 to. ’Tis a consummation

  Devoutly to be wish’d.6 To die – to sleep.

  To sleep – perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub!

  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come7

  When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,8

  Must give us pause. There’s the respect

  That makes calamity of so long life.9

  For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

  Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,10

  The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,

  The insolence of office, and the spurns

  That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,

  When he himself might his quietus make

  With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels11 bear,

  To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

  But that the dread of something after death –

  The undiscover’d country,12 from whose bourn

  No traveller returns – puzzles the will,13

  And makes us rather bear those ills we have

  Than fly to others that we know not of?14

  Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

  And thus15 the native hue of resolution

  Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,16

  And enterprises of great pith and moment

  With this regard their currents turn awry

  And lose the name of action . . .17

  ACADEMIC NOTES

  As scholars are aware, the ambitious ‘Shakespeare Project’ set out to provide unrivalled academic notes and insight into each and every extant text by the great playwright. However, the project was abandoned under mysterious circumstances. The only work to have been completed seems to be this draft of the notes for a scene of Julius Caesar.

  JULIUS CAESAR ACT II, SCENE II

  CALPURNIA1

  Caesar,2 I never stood on ceremonies,3

  * * *

  The mind probe’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

  * * *

  Yet now they fright4 me. There is one within,5

  Besides the things6 that we have heard and seen,7

  Recounts most horrid sights seen8 by the watch.

  A lioness hath whelped9 in the streets;10

  And graves have yawn’d,11 and yielded up their dead;

  Simonides’12 fair warning has not been heeded13

  Those who worry least have most to fear14

  The strange and shapeless ones15 draw hungry near

  Fierce fiery warriors16 fought upon the clouds,

  In ranks and squadrons and right form of war,17

  Which drizzled18 blood19 upon the Capitol;20

  The city shook as though eternal lost,21

  The dome22 quite crack’d asunder. Time was lock’d;23

  The noise24 of battle hurtled25 in the air,26

  * * *

  Rassilon, the Master and the Doctor are of imagination all compact.

  * * *

  Horses did neigh,27 and dying men did groan,28

  And ghosts29 did shriek30 and squeal31 about the streets.

  All time has come,32 to grab the prize, pay the price.33

  O Caesar! these things are beyond all use,34

  And I do fear35 them.

  * * *

  Hast thou forgot the alien Sycorax, who with blood and thunder was thrown into the duel?

  * * *

  SMITH’S SYLLABLES & SONNETS (Appendix 4)

  Practical exercise: Rearrange the following into both blank verse and sonnet form:

  Young Lady, you are in the most dreadful trouble.

  The book that we spoke of I dare not touch.

  If you leave its leaves then you can never leave.

  It is printed on tragic paper. Paper that wefts and weaves

  Around the reader’s soul. It once was simply

  Psychick paper, but it read too much of its

  Owner’s heart, and cream vellum blacken’d.

  The writer is long dead, but enough of his dread

  Soul is stored within those pages, hidden in lines

  Waiting in words. Studying it is like

  Turning on a tap to his black soul

  Pouring it out into the world.

  It was never meant to come into his hands

  But now it is never meant to come into anyone else’s.

  Gentle reader, if this you see, my meaning now you know.

  * * *

  Once more unto the TARDIS dear friends, once more; or dose the time breach with our Time Lord dead.

  * * *

  YE UNEARTHLY CHILDE

  One of the stranger texts to have been discovered in recent years is what purports to be an account of a lost Shakespeare play titled ‘Ye Unearthly Childe’, although it seems unlikely that this was the title accorded the work by Shakespeare – if indeed it was written by him. The account is part of a set of diaries, badly damaged in the Great Fire of London (1666) and with no clue as to the identity of the author. The diaries were then lost until they were rediscovered in the 1960s. Even then, it was another fifty years before the possible importance of the text described was realised.

  Sadly, the text is incomplete – there are just a few fragments with brief explanatory notes linking them. It seems likely that the sequences were transcribed during a performance, but unfortunately the earlier pages that probably explained where and when this performance took place were lost to the flames.

  A ROOM OF LEARNING

  Enter CHESTERTON and MISS WRIGHT

  MISS WRIGHT

  She is a most unearthly child, methinks.

  CHESTERTON

  Who, Susan Foreman? Aye, methinks ’tis so.

  That girl knows more than I will ever know

  Of Science: all I teach she knows.

  It is all child’s play to her, no more.

  MISS WRIGHT

  In hist’ry too, Ian, she knows so much

  Of ev’ry period, like she were there.

  I wonder how it is she knows so much

  And yet so little by the same d
egree.

  CHESTERTON

  So little, Barbara? What knows she not?

  MISS WRIGHT

  How many pennies in a shilling are

  Nor shillings in the pound.

  CHESTERTON

  Can it be so?

  ’Tis strange, I’m sure, but is not sinister.

  I know not whence your worry for her stems.

  MISS WRIGHT

  ’Tis not in that, though strange it is, I know

  My worry from another aspect grows.

  So far ahead of her classmates is she

  That I offered to tutor her at home.

  As soon as I suggested such a thing

  She grew afear’d, and said her Grandfather

  Would not approve of it.

  CHESTERTON

  Well, he might not.

  MISS WRIGHT

  But why grew she afear’d? It worried me

  So went I yesterday unto her home.

  CHESTERTON

  You did what, Barbara?

  MISS WRIGHT

  I found her home,

  The Secretary gave me the address,

  But when I got there, all that I did find

  Was just a junkyard, nowhere was a home.

  CHESTERTON

  Perhaps you simply mistook the address.

  MISS WRIGHT

  I checked it, Seventy-Six Totters Lane.

  No home is there, this junkyard all there is.

  CHESTERTON

  Well this is strange and worrysome indeed.

  What purpose you to do about it now?

  MISS WRIGHT

  She waits outside . . .

  Here the extract ends. A brief note states that Chesterton and Miss Wright speak with the girl, Susan, and then follow her to the mysterious junkyard.

  The following extract appears to take place within the junkyard:

  MISS WRIGHT

  We saw her enter in, where has she gone?

  CHESTERTON

  She can’t have left; there’s only one way in.

  MISS WRIGHT

  But why should she come in here anyway?

  In this junkyard, which she, it seems, calls home?

  This muddied throne of junk, this rubbish isle,

  This mound of majesty, this seat of trash,

  This cluttered Eden, rodent’s paradise,

  This fortress built by clutter for herself,

  Against inspection and the will to search,

  This realm, this I.M. Foreman’s little world,

  Discarded stone set in an urban sea

  Which keeps within the circle of a wall

  Which acts as moat against the scavengers,

  This storage lot, this earth, this realm, this Junkyard?

  CHESTERTON

  Such clutter here there is would o’erfill

  The wildest dreams of hoarding clutterers.

  No purpose for this clutter can I see

  Save as objects of curiosity.

  See here, an ancient pram sits all alone.

  MISS WRIGHT

  The baby once within it now has grown.

  CHESTERTON

  Look here a lamp that once gave out great light.

  MISS WRIGHT

  And now, poor lamp, sit here through darkest night.

  CHESTERTON

  And here an organ, music came from this.

  MISS WRIGHT

  To hear music in this wasteland were bliss.

  CHESTERTON

  This vase held flowers once, and watched them bloom.

  MISS WRIGHT

  It now sits, barren, waiting for its doom.

  CHESTERTON

  This clock still ticks, its hands still keep good time.

  MISS WRIGHT

  Oh that its hands could Susan Foreman find.

  CHESTERTON

  You’re right; we must for Susan seek straight’way.

  No more distractions, no, no more delay.

  MISS WRIGHT

  We cannot find her! Oh, where can she be?

  CHESTERTON

  I know not. Wait! Do you see what I see?

  It’s a Police Box. What’s it doing here?

  Again, it is unfortunate that the extract stops here – the pages badly burned – as the use of the term ‘police’ seems on the face of it somewhat anachronistic, as indeed do other terms such as ‘junkyard’. Indeed, some academics claim the use of these anachronisms as sufficient to cast doubt on the validity and authenticity of the whole text.

  The transcription resumes with a short extract depicting the entrance of a strange Physician, who hears Chesterton knocking on the ‘police box’ as he searches for Susan:

  PHYSICIAN

  A knocking? And my hearts are filled with fear.

  The Sound of Drums is sounding in my ear.

  The drumming calls my oldest, closest friend

  And with him come the deaths of countless souls,

  The massacre of millions, and much worse.

  His coming and the drumming are a curse,

  A shadowy conflux of evil kinds,

  And death will stalk to ev’ry place he finds.

  4 knocks.

  He knocks 4 times

  Nor slow’r, no faster.

  I pray it be some man, and not the Master.

  CHESTERTON

  No sound within, and yet a sound without.

  Someone approaches, Barb’ra, hide yourself.

  PHYSICIAN

  Who’s there? Come out? Hmmm. I know that you’re there.

  The diarist’s notes describe the next, missing section only briefly:

  ‘Chesterton doth demand access to the Physician’s strange cabinet, and when refused determines to fetch a constable of the watch.’

  There is clearly some missing explanation as the next extract then takes place within, as the diarist has it, ‘a realm of mystery and dimension of wonder’.

  MISS WRIGHT

  What majesty and wonder lies within?

  PHYSICIAN

  Now quickly, Susan, back and shut the doors.

  SUSAN

  Miss Wright? Is’t you? And Mister Chesterton?

  What are you doing here?

  PHYSICIAN

  You know them, child?

  SUSAN

  They are my schoolteachers.

  CHESTERTON

  What is this place?

  It’s bigger on the inside than without,

  But that’s impossible, it cannot be.

  MISS WRIGHT

  And yet with our own eyes this sight we see.

  It’s like a bush where roses bloom in snow

  Or lightning hangs from trees like monstrous fruit.

  It is hot ice and wondrous strange snow

  This techno-Eden in a cupboard.

  From outside all of this fits in four walls,

  A tiny space, a cupboard in the street,

  Yet here the walls are distant, shining white

  With roundels on, and rising up so high

  That they might stand above the highest trees.

  This central console, on which controls gleam

  Contains a central column grown from glass

  And covered is with switches, lights and dials.

  And if this gleaming cavern weren’t enough,

  I can see doors that would lead further in

  Into the wilderness of this mad place,

  The corridors of this strange powerhouse,

  This techno-jungle, Eden of science.

  PHYSICIAN

  Yes all of that we see, well noticed, hmmm.

  And further I would add to what you see

  This is the dematerialiser,

  Over yonder the horizontal hold,

  And up there lies the scanner, these the doors

  And that a chair with a panda upon’t.

  Sheer poetry, my dear, now do be quiet.

  CHESTERTON

  But it’s impossible, I walked all round

  And saw its size, o
r rather lack thereof.

  It cannot fit within that small space.

  PHYSICIAN

  And yet it does, hmmm? Wizardry perhaps?

  Following this, there are just two more short extracts, with no explanation for how either fits into the overall narrative. The first seems to depict the Physician – although he is evidently more like a magician – describing himself and his travels:

  PHYSICIAN

  If you could the touch the alien sands, and hear

  The cry of strange, and wondrous monstrous birds

  That wheel through an undiscovered sky,

  Then would that satisfy you, Chesterfield?

  CHESTERTON

  But say you speak true? Why would you be here?

  What drew you to this place and to this year?

  PHYSICIAN

  Do you know what it’s like to be exiles?

  Cast away from your home? Your life? Your world?

  My granddaughter and I are wanderers,

  Across the fourth dimension do we roam

  To whereso’er we please, except our home;

  That once discovered country, to who’s bourn

  We one day shall return. Yes, one day shall!

  One day we once again will see those suns

  And walk between the silver leaféd trees

  And climb the snow-capped mountains of our home

  The Wild Endeavour continent to see.

  We’ll talk with hermits of the daisy flow’r,

  Of time and tide and webs of history,

  We’ll run with friends across the golden sands

  And dive into the shining crystal sea.

  We’ll stand again upon that blessed plot,

  That sacred star set in the firmament

  As though it were a diamond in the sky,

  The burning eye within Kasterborous,

  (As unto you that constellation’s known)

  That well-kept garden of eternity,

  That Ancient seat of Kings and Lords of Time,

  That throne of Rassilon and Omega,

  That Temp’ral jewel, that Gallifrey, that home

  To which we shall return one fateful day.

  Until that day we wander where we can

 

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