My friends continue to be the best friends
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
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
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Characters: Oberon (Midsummer Night’s Dream) Puck (Midsummer Night’s Dream) Titania (Midsummer Night’s Dream) Helena (Midsummer Night’s Dream) Hermia (Midsummer Night’s Dream) Nick Bottom Original Characters
Summary: They said that questions pooled there unanswered, so that one could stay for ten years—or a hundred—and only gather confusion like a stone gathers moss. They said that a kraken slept curled at the foundations of the university, waiting for the deluge that would swallow the world. They said that one would have to be a fool to go to the University of Oxenfloode.
I think Hamlet would have been far happier had he lived in the age of the hipster.
Oh, totally. In my mental headcanon of how to modern AU early modern plays, Hamlet is…
so can we say that in this scenario horatio is a barista at an indie coffeeshop to help put himself through wittenberg and hamlet is a regular who can never seem to pick one way of taking his coffee and will launch into a twelve-minute monologue about the nature of humanity if you ask him whether he’d like milk with that? (he would, incidentally, but drinking it black and bitter is the right way of doing things, so he’ll order it like that and drain the concoction down to its acidic dregs and try to keep the dramatic grimacing to a minimum as it goes down.)
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)
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.
yes this is a good
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.)
(That zombie Richard II fic is legit brilliant, btw.)
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.
Play: Richard II
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Richard/Aumerle, Richard/Henry UST, Richard/Anne (past)
Warnings: AU. Zombie AU. Corpse Imagery. Fire. Tombs. Nightmares. Implied Sex. Richard POV.
Rating: R for imagery.
Notes: Historical age!Isabelle while everyone else really isn’t. Sorry…
Summary: When there’s an unidentified plague in Europe, shipping over a corpse from Italy just might be the most terrible plan in the history of terrible planning. Then again, who needs a reason to start setting things on fire? In which (mostly) everyone stays alive, brains are a highly prized commodity, Henry looks good in firelight, Richard is Richard, Edward is long-suffering, and no-one wants to know about Hal and the Percies.
((Yes. It’s a zombie apocalypse Shakespeare AU. And it WORKS.))
YOU STICK IT TO ‘EM, DAME JANET.
I mean. Jacobi and Rylance are two of my favorite actors, but they are wrong wrong WRONG on this issue. Jacobi especially annoys me because Rylance is by all accounts a cloudcuckoolander, so his Unfortunate Opinions seem less egrecious.
WHAT A SHAKESPEARE FIC?
victorian AU, conversation between Henry V and aumerle as Harry decides to reinter Richard.
“The ironic thing,” Harry told Edward later, “is that I only figured it out at all because it was important to my father that Richard should be buried in sanctified ground. It was the sort of thing he only really cared about after the fact.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair and smiled, after a fashion, the sort of fashion that requires only half of one’s mouth, and Edward nearly started: for a second, he’d seen Richard sitting there swishing his brandy about in a manner that was as bitter as brandy-swishing could possibly be. “Didn’t stop him from having him killed, after all.”
I AM DEEPLY IMPRESSED.
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.|