I’d die to go back in time.
To feel the hazelnut shells under my
feet. To smell the crush of groundlings’ bodies. To taste the air
of London. To see Gloriana herself up in the stalls. To hear the
words spoken for the first time.
To wonder with
Viola. To war with Henry. To die with Desdemona. To wash away the
blood with Lady Macbeth. To embrace madness with Ophelia. To drink
with Falstaff. To curse with Lear. To resurrect with Hermione. To
lust for power with Richard. To laugh with Dromio. To revenge with
Shylock. To love with Beatrice. To mourn with Cleopatra.
I’d die to stand just for a moment in
that little room above the teeming streets of London.
To hear the scratch of quill on
parchment. To see the inky fingers. To witness the birth of genius.
To feel the love and knowledge of humanity in all its sweat-stained,
tear-streaked, bloody glory.
I’d die to talk to him myself – to
tell him that after all this time, his words are still ringing, his
characters are still alive, his voice still speaks, and every word
means just as much or more as it did more than 400 years ago.
I want to tell him, I don’t care what
some people say, I know it was really him that wrote all those words
all along.
I want to tell him how’s he changed
me. Given me courage to love, permission to rage, grace to forgive,
humility to bow.
I want to tell him, Happy 449th
birthday, William Shakespeare. Thank you for everything you’ve
given to me and to countless others over all these years. And I want
to wish us all many happy returns. Here’s to next year, and the
450th!
