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432 pages, Paperback
First published April 11, 2017
“Do you blame Shakespeare for any of it?”
The question is so unlikely, so nonsensical coming from such a sensible man, that I can’t suppress a smile. “I blame him for all of it,” I say.
“But that is how a tragedy like ours or King Lear breaks your heart—by making you believe that the ending might still be happy, until the very last minute.”
Actors are by nature volatile—alchemic creatures composed of incendiary elements, emotion and ego and envy. Heat them up, stir them together, and sometimes you get gold. Sometimes disaster.
You can justify anything, if you do it poetically enough.
We cracked up. But we didn't really shatter until we came back together again.
“But that is how a tragedy like ours or King Lear breaks your heart—by making you believe that the ending might still be happy, until the very last minute.”
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“We felt all the passions of the characters we played as if they were our own. But a character’s emotions don’t cancel out the actor’s – instead you feel both at once.”
“Instead he was handsome the way you think of the devil as handsome – forbiddingly so.”
“Actors are by nature volatile—alchemic creatures composed of incendiary elements, emotion and ego and envy. Heat them up, stir them together, and sometimes you get gold. Sometimes disaster.”
“But that is how a tragedy like ours or King Lear breaks your heart – by making you believe that the ending might still be happy, until the very last minute.”
“You can justify anything if you do it poetically enough.”
“Nothing mattered much after that morning. Our two souls—if not all six—were forfeit.”
“My infatuation […] transcended any notion of gender.”
“How tremendous the agony of unmade decisions.”
“It’s easier now to be Romeo, or Macbeth, or Brutus, or Edmund. Someone else.”
“The real sky was enormous overhead, making our mirrors and twinkling stage lights seem ridiculous- Man’s futile attempt to imitate God”
“Which of us could say we were more sinned against than sinning? We were so easily manipulated - confusion made a masterpiece of us.”
"Do you blame Shakespeare for any of it?"
"I blame him for all of it."
“The sky was clear and quiet, stars peering curiously down at us from a wide dome of indigo. The water, too, was still, and I thought, what liars they are, the sky and the water. Still and calm and clear, like everything was fine. It wasn’t fine, and really, it never would be again.”
"Actors are by nature volatile— alchemic creatures composed of incendiary elements, emotion and ego and envy. Heat them, up stir them together, and sometimes you get gold. Sometimes disaster."
"The moral outrage we should have suffered was quietly put down, surpassed like an unpleasant rumor before it had a chance to be heard. Whatever we did—or, more crucially, did not do— it seemed that so no so long as we did it together, our individual sins might be abated. There is no comfort like complicity."
"The thing about Shakespeare is, he’s so eloquent… He speaks the unspeakable. He turns grief and triumph and rapture and rage into words, into something we can understand. He renders the whole mystery of humanity comprehensible." I stop. Shrug. "You can justify anything if you do it poetically enough."
"Surprising. After all, Shakespeare is poetry—most of it, anyway— and there’s a certain mathematical pattern to poetry, isn’t there?"
"I’m afraid," she said, after what felt like a year , speaking very slowly, "that I’m prettier than I’m talented or intelligent, and that because of that no one will ever take me seriously. As a person or a performer."
"You think it was Macbeth that fucker us up?"
"No." She stops at a red light and glances at me. "I think we were all fucked up from the start."
"Nothing about her had ever seen it simple, but she was, then. Simple and close and beautiful. A little tousled, a little damaged."
"We might have even look at each other, for a minute or two."
I knew by then the way the story went. Our little drama was rapidly hurtling toward its climatic crisis. What next, when we reached the precipice?
First, the reckoning. The, the fall.
"Anything can feel like punishment if it’s taught poorly."
"I think he was enamored with you because you were so enamored with him."
"The two of you. I never understood it."
"Neither did we. It was easier not to."
"What were we, then? In ten years I have not found an adequate words to describe us."
”So,” he says. “How much of what you told me about that night was true?”
“All of it,” I say, “in one way or another.”
A pause. “Are we going to play this game?”
”Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true,” I say.
“I thought they would have beaten that bullshit out of you in prison.”
“That bullshit is all that kept me going.” One thing I’m sure Colborne will never understand is that I need language to live, like food - lexemes and morphemes and morsels of meaning nourish me with the knowledge that, yes, there is a word for this. Someone else has felt this before.
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened? No performance. No poetics.”
“For us, everything was a performance.” A small, private smile catches me off guard and I glance down, hoping he won’t see it. “Everything poetic.”
Colborne is quiet for a moment and then says, “You win. Tell it your way.”
”A good Shakespearian actor - a good actor of any stripe, really - doesn’t just say words, he feels them. We all felt the passions of the characters we played as if they were our own. But a character’s emotions don’t cancel out the actor’s - instead you feel both at once. Imagine having all your own thoughts and feelings tangled up with all the thoughts and feelings of a whole other person. It can be hard, sometimes, to sort out which is which.”
“Secrets carry weight, like lead.”
“You think it was Macbeth that fucked us up?”
“No. I think we were all fucked up from the start.”
“You can justify anything if you do it poetically enough.”