It says a lot about a man that doesn't
look up from his work. It says even more about the man who doesn't do
it when a stranger suddenly teleports into the room.
“Autographs are a fiver, signed
portraits are a tenner,” said the man, eyes barely leaving his
writings.
“It's you, isn't it?” said the
stranger eagerly. The man sighed and laid down his quill. It was one
of those people.
“You're
William Shakespeare!”
“So
I've been told,” said Shakespeare, still not turning to face his
guest.
“I'm
Tom, and I must say I'm your biggest fan. I mean Titus Andronicus-”
“Was
written to please the masses and make me a quick buck,” cut off
Shakespeare.
“Well
Macbeth-”
“Political
propaganda to keep my neck out of the noose.”
“Oh
and Hamlet. That whole To Be Or Not To-”
“Conceived
when I was debating about whether to pubically urinate or not.”
“Oh,”
said Tom, a bit disheartened. Then the obvious finally managed to hit
him in the face. “Here, how come you're not surprised to see me.”
“When
one has the status as the greatest writer of all time one gets use to
visitors from the future inquiring about one's person.”
“You
know I'm from the future?”
“I'm
hardly a fool. It became clear the umpteenth time one of your cohorts
inadvertently told me when I was in my youth.”
“Oh-”
began Tom, but Shakespeare was in his forte.
“And
ever since then I've been besieged by idiots who have wanted to know
the true meanings behind my plays. Or worse, offer their own
interpretation, as misguided and humorous as they could be. It
quickly became to become a bore to have yet another stranger
congratulate me on something I'd yet to write.”
“Well
surely the audience must like you?” ventured Tom.
“The
common man on the street barely knows who I am. The audience is
constantly packed with the likes of you lot, come to see my work when
it was 'authentic'.” He practically spat the word. “If it isn't
bad enough that you lot continue to fawn over me, you also do me the
unkindness of claiming that I didn't write any of it myself. Or worse
claim the work of lesser playwrights should be in my name instead!
There is more than one playwright around here you know. Or don't, as
so often the case.”
“Yes
I suppose-” tried Tom, but Shakespeare would have none of it.
“In
fact at one point I tried to destroy my work so at least I could get
some respite from being questioned about that. But no, soon there
came a flurry of people asking me what happened to Love Labours Won
and whether it existed in the first place. They'd even written their
own versions of it.”
“Well
why don't you stop writing?” countered Tom.
“You
didn't think that occurred to me you foolish man. The moment I vowed
never to put quill to parchment I was besieged with people wanting to
know why I'd stop. It eventually became simpler just to start writing
again so I didn't have to repeat myself.”
“Oh,”
repeated Tom, thoroughly disheartened by this encounter. However he
remembered one last thing he wanted to bring up. “What about your
sonnets?”
“Believe
me when I find the man who will publish my diary after my death I
will screw him quite firmly to the sticking place. Now begone with
you. This Winter's Tale isn't going to write itself, although some
buffoon already told me how it was going to end. So begone!”
With
that Shakespeare turned back to his work, ignoring Tom entirely.
Before Tom left he remembered one piece of wisdom his teacher had
told him before he left:
Never
meet your heroes, for you will always be let down.
