Showing posts tagged shakespeare

placetnemagistra:

placetnemagistra:

frauleindrosselmeyer:

My friends continue to be the best friends

well lower middle really i mean his da was mayor but yeah go fuck a duck oxfordians

(via thehoneyinthelion)

MIDDLE

elementary education jesus h

the headmaster of his school earned more than the headmaster of eton. he went to school from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. six days a week. his mother was an heiress who got a good education because she had no brothers - she was the youngest of 8 daughters and presumably her father’s favourite BECAUSE SHE INHERITED HIS HOUSE. she was even an executor of his will. it is a decent-sized house with a great deal of land because the Ardens were fairly well-connected landowners. Now, John Shakespeare was A RIDICULOUS CHANCER in that he was the son of a tenant farmer (who leased 80 acres of land) who married the heiress of his father’s landlord. at the time william was born, they had (I think - it might have been a bit after) bought the house they were renting, and the house next door to it. John did go bankrupt, but the evidence suggests all four of his sons went to the grammar school. As well as being mayor, he served as an alderman, a high bailiff (which meant e.g. being a justice of the peace and a coroner) before things got bad. One of his crimes was, um, usury! Like Shylock! So things did go downhill for them, later on (there was also illegal wool-dealing, if I remember correctly), but as early as 1569 he’d been after a coat of arms, which Will bought back for him. Will Shakespeare, who died the richest man in Stratford, in a twenty-room house, and whose brother acted as his property agent.

i mean, no, he didn’t go to westminster like ben jonson or cambridge like marlowe but he didn’t bury his food

okay tbh the class system confuses me a lot but um grand so looks nervous rolls away

YOU aisling are great. The class system is indeed massively confusing. My wrath is with the prevailing idea that Shakespeare was, like, massively poverty-stricken working-class hero (he wasn’t) and ignorant (HE WASN’T) and that it’s through this poverty and ignorance that Stratfordians can find the evidence to defeat the Oxfordians (even though I acknowledge that the Oxfordian argument is usually massively classist, which I naturally hate). Or the idea that a working-class Shakespeare is inherently more desirable (what’s TRUE is desirable), with the idea that we’re going for this version of Shakespeare because it’s better rather than because it’s true. When it’s NOT true that he was working-class and it’s ALSO not true that we even need to base arguments on the extent or otherwise of his education, because the authorship question is ludicrous and there isn’t a single scrap of positive historical detail in their favour. which, yeah, I know it’s all basic, it’s just guaranteed to warm up the blue touchpaper. 

plus I feel deeply and strangely protective of mary arden don’t mind me

(Reblogged from shinobi93)
(Reblogged from hotspurred)

bluebirdtweets:

marybrandybuck:

Every time.

Yes.  Yes yes.

(Reblogged from bluebirdtweets)

So it turns out when you write fanfic of people who spend their entire canon either in battle or in bars, you learn a lot about alcoholism and its side effects, like cirrhosis. (tw: potentially disturbing photo at link)

Read More

London. 1598.

shinobi93:

It’s a warm night, but Will is awoken by a sudden chill. He’s about to return to sleep when a noise attracts his attention. A cough, to be precise. An impatient cough.

He opens his eyes, expecting to see nothing but darkness, but instead a figure stands before him, glowing enough to cast a dim light around the room. No, he thinks, it cannot be. A trick of the mind, the result of much writing and sack and little else. He closes his eyes, counts slowly, then reopens them. Still there. Conjuring spirits as well as words now.

‘I am real, you clotpole,’ the spirit says with a roll of his eyes. 

Standing before Will like the diabolical creatures conjured by Faustus is a man five years dead, the only hint of this fact other than the glow being a smear of blood down the right cheek. The figure is grinning, like haunting Will Shakespeare is the best fun he’s had in years. There’s only one word Will can think of.

‘Kit?’

yes this is a good

(Reblogged from shinobi93)

question for shakespeare histories peeps

shredsandpatches:

Signups for this year’s Histories Ficathon are going to be opening in the near future. Any of you guys interested?

Obviously you don’t have to decide right now, and saying you  might be interested isn’t a commitment — and I’ll certainly make an announcement regardless when they open. I’m just curious as to how many more people we might possibly get this year — last year signups opened before The Hollow Crown aired, after all. It’s a very friendly ficathon, although it has traditionally been quite tiny. Plus every year I get at least one email from someone asking if their story idea is too cracktacular. I have yet to say yes to this question.

(Also, everyone is AU-crazy and there are lots of people who know where to look for historical resources, if you’re nervous about the whole “writing medieval people” aspect of it! IT IS SO MUCH FUN YOU GUYS. It’s the highlight of my fannish year. IT IS LIKE MY BIRTHDAY AND CHRISTMAS AND KITTENS AND PONIES AND RAINBOWS AND CUPCAKES AND SPARKLES ALL ROLLED INTO ONE. I mean, last year I got ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE RICHARD II FIC. It was so fucking brilliant.)

I’m in.

(That zombie Richard II fic is legit brilliant, btw.)

(Reblogged from shredsandpatches)

poins:

i am not sure what i just read but i think i liked it

Horatio has his own manservant now, who looks nervous but refills his cup with steady hands. He looks a little like Laertes from certain angles; at times Horatio wants to grab him and kiss him to see what he does. Laertes bit his mouth open and raked his nails down Horatio’s back as he broke open beneath him, but Horatio does not think his manservant will do the same.

I approve.

(Reblogged from borgevino)
(Reblogged from shredsandpatches)
(Reblogged from borgevino)

One does not forget time in these plays, for time is moral choice. The Prince does not; Falstaff does not. But Falstaff, who has tried to evade time throughout, as time is reckoning, speaks the final word on time in the plays, unaware of the comprehensive irony he speaks: “O, if I had had time to have made new liveries…” (2 Henry IV V. vi. 10-11).

It is in this double pattern of time for the Prince and Falstaff that certain scenes, long dismissed with a word or two as pure comedy, reveal their meaning as analogical structures similar to the first scene of Caesar. The first of these, that in which the Prince and Poins amuse themselves with Francis, the apprentice drawer, is initiated by the Prince with typical equivocation––he proposes the joke “to drive away the time till Falstaff come.” Unlike many readers, Poins eventually recognizes the ambivalence of this remark, for he asks after the joke, “But hark ye; what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer? Come, what’s the issue?” (1 Henry IV II. iv. 100-102).

The joke, as everyone knows, lies in Poins’s calling for the drawer from an adjoining room, and the Prince’s calling him back when he has responded, so that Francis is kept scurrying back and forth, each time crying “Anon, anon” to Poins. This is a variation of one of the oldest of farce routines, running about in some foolish way, and without doubt, it provided the usual hilarity for the general; the caviar, however, lies in what is said by the Prince and drawer between scurryings. What the Prince says, Francis does not understand, nor does Poins, who is in the next room. But much of the delight of the scene lies in the recognition by the discriminating, that in the context of the Prince’s most inward thought, “Anon, anon” has much meaning, which they are sharing with him.

The point, as the Prince says at the outset, is why Francis has given him a pennyworth of sugar. This has happened when the Prince, in joining the tapsters among their hogsheads, has been assured by them that he is no “proud Jack, like Falstaff”, and that he shall command them “when I am king of England”. The dialogue with Francis, however, deals with more than the gift of sugar; the Prince asks about his length of servitude, his feelings about abandoning it, his age, and finally the gift. If one remembers here Hamlet’s complaint about clowns, that “…there be of them that will themselves laugh to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered” (Hamlet III.ii.45-48), he will do more than laugh; he will consider and understand the necessary question. The way to understanding here, as throughout the two plays, lies in grasping the fact that the Prince is consistently introspective; that his personal inquiry is always what kind of ethical action marks a king, and what kinds of men kingship must deny and what kind take unto itself as constant and true. If here we know that the Prince’s questions are about himself, as well as about the least in the kingdom, we will have the answer to Poins’s question, “Come, what’s the issue?”

Five years is “a long lease for the clinking of pewter”. But how long is apprenticeship to the crown?

Analogical Probability in Shakespeare’s Plays, which is tragically unavailable for public consumption unless moneydollars are forked over because at some point over the course of human history for reasons I cannot fathom knowledge itself became a commercial product.