What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.
William Shakespeare
In playing his old friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern for beguiled fools, Prince Hamlet summons a poetic force that acknowledges the Planet’s mastery, proves his love of the creation and applauds the embodiment of humankind. But such is anger, paranoia and fear behind the mask. He dismisses the earth as something alien, a delusional realm of repugnant gases. Simultaneously, men and women, intelligent, heroic, and graceful as they can be, boil down and spoil to a jaded legacy. Smirk, if you must, I’m not here to jive — veracity is a liar, ain’t that the truth! How do I care for Earth if I am broken?
So the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abus’d. But know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father’s life
Now wears his crown.
Confronted by the haunting visitation of his father’s ghost, one might naturally be sceptical: Could it be merely a delayed reaction to the profound loss of a loved one, a manifestation of psychological turmoil, unsettling hallucinations, or simply a prince’s mournful lament? Why indulge in such sentimentality? The loss of a loved one is something profound, but the reaction is measured by how things were in the history of our lives.
Hamlet’s behaviour seems increasingly pitiable as he ensnares in sorrow and despair. Instead of wallowing in this self-indulgent melancholy, he ought to immerse himself in his studies or pursue a new hobby—anything to pull him from this emotional quagmire. Though we all feel sympathy for him, one must plead: for the love of God, for the sake of family, for the honour of mother and country—let’s find a way to move forward!
The thick atmosphere of grief and uncertainty persists until Hamlet orchestrates a play that vividly reenacts the tragic crime scene recounted by his father’s tormented spirit. This theatrical performance isn’t idle entertainment but a deliberate act of provocation designed to pierce through the court’s indifference. As the actor on stage strikes a resonant chord, the reaction from the assembly in Denmark’s court becomes palpable, setting an unstoppable chain of events in motion.
His uncle’s knee-jerk response to the play is tantamount to the admission of treason and murder. Now, even the most sceptical among us stand alongside the Prince’s revelation, his fear, revolt, and requital. Truth proves love, the closest of friends, is the maddest and saddest of heartbreak. The court’s descent into paranoid insularity is inevitable. His uncle, overwhelmed by moral decline and lust for power, counters Hamlet to the margins until death wields a venomous sword on the return. Protagonist and antagonist, duelling for retribution, poison the other, leaving the noble heartbroken and the fundaments of honour for us to read in the silence of our prayers.
Power and wealth you can have, but a calm heart and clear conscience may disband you.
I’ll have grounds
More relative than this—the play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.
Be it Shakespeare or the complexities and intrigue of another exporter of myth and verve, prince or pauper, titlist or thief, marked down as labour intensive as we were, we were unsuitable for such insight. Two up, two down. That afforded house is the son’s castle. Given our physiological prowess and wit, most weather-heads would have figured the plays completely, for we knew the trickery, faultiness and how to work or avoid an avenging encounter instinctively. Here lies the shame in fragmenting the fields of learning. Suppose we want to discover why insularity and jingoism are an overwhelming fixture of our lives. In that case, we must open our past to the present, our hearts and minds to other spectrums of schooling, an altogether different, holistic approach.
Can it be that we call our childhood years formative to live out a worn-out cliché in adulthood? Unapologetic in bigotry, duplicity, ascendancy, our right to overrule, and so on? Should we accept postulated values, rejig the blocking, pat ourselves on the back for getting the facts right, and continue with the same whitewash? Too loud to scream, too quiet to dream, the truth as we perceive it shatters a family’s trust.
The deep end of a play can reveal firsthand that the most honourable among us are not immune to terrifying and absurd disclosure. Working the moment, sorting out personal differences, catching emotional malfunctions en route, gaining trust for the other—only this time, the fellowship brings us together, with enough deference for that old paradigm of indifference and constant need for revenge to change.
Stage managing, lighting, set building, composing, design, psychology, painting, singing — Maths, English, Woodwork, Metalwork, Art, History, all subjects addressed and tested in the alchemy of making a play.
Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust. John Webster
Officer, actor, nurse, cadet, pilot, addict, bright, jaded, failure, success, whatever label adorns, we come together to tell a story plucked from the history of our lives. Immersed in a brilliant play, an emotional, psychological, and even dangerous challenge; exciting and profound to some, controversial, unthinkable to the other. The tale that unties the entanglement of past confusion and, indeed hurt, clears the air of ignorance. A possibility that brings insight to the absolutist in us stops us from being head-butted into inertia and distrust, not to mention losing the gift of life itself, basking in the awareness of Earth and its celestial spheres.
Let me know
Wherefore I should be thus neglected. Sir,
I serv’d your tyranny, and rather strove
To satisfy yourself than all the world:
And though I loath’d the evil, yet I lov’d
You that did counsel it; and rather sought
To appear a true servant than an honest man.
John Webster.
John Webster’s *Duchess of Malfi* delves into the darkest aspects of familial conditioning. While It presents a world steeped in horror, distrust, and despair, where bloodlust is both palpable and macabre, the intricate web of intrigue heightens the tension between the characters, ensuring the play’s insightful impact resonates powerfully even centuries later. This haunting narrative not only explores the tragic downfall of the matriarch but also highlights the disintegration of familial bonds. It reflects the corruption and disillusionment present in contemporary society, reminiscent of powerful fossil fuel magnates, insidious digital conglomerates, or charming yet treacherous neighbours—figures who manipulate our financial realities from their lofty positions. For those who pride themselves on their toughness, this harrowing tale serves as a chilling wake-up call, akin to being an evacuee thrust into an unrelenting landscape, realizing you may never return to the comforting embrace of loved ones again.
Step into the guts of Malfi, under the throw of such a gang, and go the length it takes to survive the bleakest corner — a full-on initiation worthy of heroism. The Duchess holds her own to the hands of her brother’s unending need for one over the matriarch. Warding off their savage hunger for control until death is an escape, preferable to the inevitable insanity and deterioration that follows. Crossing boundaries between genders and challenging the logic of masculine ascendancy. The jury is out. The trial alone would have been enough for us boys in the yard to draw light on our prejudices and transgressions, which were growing by the hour.
That which is subjugated today becomes beholden tomorrow.
Gentlemen were trained in eloquence and the arts of war; gentlewomen were urged to keep silent and attend to their needlework. In men, a will to dominate was admired or at least assumed; in women, it was viewed as dangerous or grotesque—a truism for much of our history. Webster was putting his life on the line in the publication and performance of The Duchess of Malfi in 1614.
Work as one, given the calm before the storm. Science, art, linear and nonlinear, heart and mind, struggling to heal rift and pain, the cause of vengeance. This versus that, you versus me, those versus it, take a side, with grief as the common denominator.
Our position in the social hierarchy holds little significance; it doesn’t matter if we come from a place of nobility or if our experiences are rooted in the distant past. What truly influences our actions in the present is our heightened sensitivity to the words and deeds of others. Whether they provoke warmth or discomfort, these shadow memories shape our responses and guide our choices, illuminating the intricacies of our relationships and interactions.
You might be an upstanding individual, a noble billionaire with a heart of gold, a regal king or queen, or an exceptionally talented artisan with unmatched skills. Yet, even the slightest insult can trigger a devastating blow that pushes us over the edge. The cleverer we are, the more cunning we can be at hiding ourselves from the outcome of our revenge.
Suppose you possess a sharp understanding of the law and have a way with words that flow effortlessly. In that case, justice is often just a well-chosen phrase away, allowing you to reclaim your dignity and emerge victorious.
On 22 September 1598, while his first successful play, Every Man in his Humour, was in performance, Ben Jonson was under arrest for killing the actor Gabriel Spencer in a duel. Jonson escaped the hangman’s tie because of a legal loophole granted by benefit of clergy — any man fluent in Latin stood as a cleric and therefore immune to secular law. A working relationship that ended a life to the tune of murder.
Bricklayer, soldier, rebel, scholar and master of the sword, he may have been, but it seems Ben Jonson’s extraordinary ability with words saved his head from the noose and assured his place in the chamber. Accused, acquitted and celebrated, Jonson became an acclaimed playwright, thought to be our first poet laureate, a comic muse, with a portfolio of plays only Shakespeare could match.
Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live
And we have wits to read and praise to give.
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn’d like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light.
Extract from the eulogy to William Shakespeare by Ben Jonson.
We find repose, apperception, execution and arbitration in the best and worst of humankind. Guilty or innocent? The past catches up with us until the day we are born, and only then does the present meet the future. A novice wordsmith snatches a line between life and death. Bang to rights doesn’t mean being scuppered if imprisonment provides a safe environment to get to the heart of the narrative.
Have I gone off on a tangent with the dramatist? Not quite! A model code, our rights and wrongs are born of fear and fortitude, tears and laughter, the comic and tragic trajectory drawn from history in our backyard.
I’m not sure I follow.
That’s my line.
What line?
Follow what?
The line.
Shall I look it up?
What?
The word
What word?
Line, I’ll look it up!
Sorry, what line?
I thought we were offline.
I’m going out. It may be a while.
With the tools available to me, I will do my best to stay on course in the complex terrain of the ocean. In an age of digital overload, where unlimited knowledge seems to provide perfect solutions to complex problems at the touch of a phone, how does anyone remain focused before reality descends into absurdity? Whether you travel through any strait, cross any mountain, or take a random route, tangents and offshoots are everywhere. So, gather the wind in your sails, steer toward the centre, and aim for the farthest reaches of the world.
