#Shakespeare Discussion

[bitletsanddrabbles]

WIP Okay It's Wednesday Now!

Off all the short pieces I wanted to get finished this month after the novel, the 'Phillip arrives on the Island' piece I have going for @alex51324 's Island of the Gays is at the top of the list.

Hell of the Island pieces I have going, that's the one I want to finish most.

I think the boys know that, because while they will argue along nicely when I'm not in a position to write, the second I have a keyboard or a pen or anything, they clam up and sulk like the little brats that they are.

Yesterday, though, Rouse managed to coax a bit out of Thomas, so I thought I'd share...

...it actually being Wednesday and all.

-

-

“Hey Thomas, what’s going-oh.” He turned to find that Gordon had stuck his head out from the press room and was now giving Rouse dubious looks. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.” The doctor agreed.

“It’s him,” Thomas added, feeling that a moment this ridiculous called for some actual comedy. With a deep breath he said, “I’m going to go with him for a bit. He and Dr. L. want to talk to me.”

“Wot about?” the Printer’s Devil asked, scrunching his nose up as if the idea actually stank.

Thomas gave Rouse a quick side look and replied, “Just some questions I’ve had lately. It shouldn’t take too long.” He handed the oil and rag over to the younger man. “Here, put these by the press, alright? I’ll deal with it when I’m back.”

“Awright.” Taking the items in question, Gordon vanished back through the doorway.

Thomas turned to Rouse. “You win. Lead on, MacDuff.”

“Thank you.” It might have been Thomas’s imagination, but the doctor sounded almost grateful. He turned and opened the door to the Beacon, stopping and holding it for Thomas to walk through. Once they were both out of the building, he seemed in less of a hurry, stopping to fish out his cigarettes and light one. “Want one?” he asked, offering Thomas the pack.

Thomas took one without a word and lit it with his own lighter.

“By the way,” Rouse said, blowing smoke into the air. “Never say that to toffs, or the Theater crew for that matter.”

“Never say what?” Thomas asked, reviewing the conversation, trying to figure out what he could have said that would offend either party.

“Lead on, MacDuff,” the other man replied. He turned and started to walk toward the main house, although once again, he didn’t hurry. It was as if for all of his insistence, he didn’t want Thomas to talk to Phillip either. Thomas fell into step beside him. “I know it’s what most people say, but it’s wrong. It’s ‘Lay on’, because MacBeth and MacDuff are about to get into a sword fight, you see? You don’t want your enemy to have the lead there, because it gives them an edge. ‘Lay on’ is just a challenge.” He took another drag. “Those that know the right way can be supercilious arseholes about it, and I’ve enough on my plate without you and Syl going at it again.”

Thomas could only imagine what Syl would say about an error like that, and frankly, he was in no mood to stir that particular pot. “Good to know, thank you.”

#downton abbey #downton abbey fanfiction #thomas barrow #wip wednesday #island of the gays #frank rouse #terrance gordon #shakespeare discussion

[ladymacbeths]

macbeth related posts/articles/essays masterlist

hi! here's a list of almost every single anaysis Thing I've come across in like two months of being insane about the scottish play. Most are about lady macbeth/the gender theme btw.

‘He has no children’: The centring of grief in The Show Must Go Online’s Macbeth - Gemma Allred: on the misogyny that frequently surrounds conversations around Lady Macbeth

this post by @amillionmillionvoices: Same topic as the previous one, but goes more in depth, explains ladymac’s motivations as mostly coming from love not self-serving ambition.

this post by @dukeofbookingham: also explains the prior point very prettily— that ladymac is (mostly) motivated by love, but also makes the case that many of it is guilt born from not fulfilling societal expectations

On the character of Lady Macbeth - Dr. Emil Pfundheler: paper that explains the same point made in the previous post, using the text to explain. Written in 1873 so explains gender as a dichotomy, but once you take that out, its points are very good.

Characteristics of women: moral, political, and historical - Anna Jameson: aka Why Lady Macbeth is not inherently evil— same topic and the other two, but focuses a bit on the fact that she is A Woman. Not my favorite, but worth reading I suppose. Also includes analyses of many female Shakespeare characters. It does include some very bad history in the beginning— Gruoch did not orchestrate Duncan’s murder. That’s something Hector Boece made up.

Lady Macbeth: “Infirm of purpose” (from The Woman’s Part: Feminist Criticism of Shakespeare) - Joan Larsen Klein: on how she both fits and doesn’t fit the idea of a reinassance wife— doesn’t fit because she isn’t aligned to god (this read more like a Christian analysis than a feminist one if I’m being honest), but fits them because she behaves like one, only subverts them because she’s like, the evil murder girl version of the Wife. The essay right after this one is also very good.

The Hysteria of Lady Macbeth: required reading if you wanna play her Btw not kidding. Analyzes her character thru the lens of freudian psychology. Screws up the text of the play a bit but provides an actual in-depth explanation of how sonnambulism works. Note that "hysteria" is not a current psychological diagnosis, but a symptom of other conditions. Still extremely interesting.

The Macbeths - G. K. Chesterton: analysis of their relationship, makes some interesting point on the differences of the nature of their ambition and desire to kill the king

Shakespeare’s tragic frontier; the world of his final tragedies - Willard Farnham: this one is long but oh boy does it go deep. Talks about the lore of the witches, explains historical context to find out how the real events were so screwed up, makes an interesting point about Macbeth’s conscience against Lady Macbeth’s, and lastly talks about the tragic world of Macbeth compared to other tragedies.

Women’s fantasy of manhood: a Shakespearean theme - D. W. Harding: exactly what it says on the tin, using ladymac and her skewed (and I’d call romanticized) idea of what a man is that she pushes on Macbeth. So yeah, talks about the gender theme. Also talks about Goneril from Lear, Cleopatra, and Volumnia from Coriolanus and how they fit the theme— although ladymac is the only one who goes downhill from it.

Unnatural women in William Shakespeare’s Macbeth - Elizabeth Klett: I’ll be honest I didn’t love this one a lot. Basically talks about how every woman in Macbeth defies gender roles. Doesn’t go too deep however. But the book has a ton of essays analyzing female characters in classic lit.

#macbeth #shakespeare #william shakespeare #lady macbeth #classic literature #english literature #classic lit #billy shakes #king lear #coriolanus #there u go. the result of 2 months on insanity #i hope this helps someone or that u have fun at least. i did #also if anyone wants to add anything about any of These feel free bc i dont know much about. most of the things discussed

[lauriemarch]

friedrich was so funny when he gifted jo shakepeare’s folios and then turned around to say he doesn’t like her stories for having too much killing and salaciousness

#like yes ‘i’m no Shakespeare’ ‘thank goodness we already have him’ #but also too much killing? babygirl let’s discuss any of the tragedies #no one will forget jo march #jo march #friedrich bhaer #little women #dark academia #light academia #studyblr #booklr #studying #light acadamia aesthetic #study notes #book blog #poetry

[petruchio]

i joke that i should get an honorary degree for my hunger games analysis on tumblr but it’s low key hilarious that i was just like casually getting a masters degree in literature in real life and also basically doing a second one online with my tumblr mutuals. like the way i was just like on here writing fully cited essays and having text based discussions about these novels with the same level of intensity and dedication (perhaps more) that i was giving to my actual real life degree

#i feel like this makes it sound like im embarassed but it’s actually so cool #and if im being honest i think all the literary analysis we did together really helped me in my degrees #but like yeah that is … a thing that i did #like i was getting 2 degrees simultaneously and writing a 60+ page thesis about shakespeare #and on top of that … i was basically attending hunger games discussion seminars online #and regularly writing essays about it. FOR FUN #girls when theyre a little bit crazy. and a little bit insane. 🤡 #caroline speaks

[house-of-mirrors]

@awordbroken @thedeafprophet IT WHAT

i gotta psychoanalyze it now... Lady Macbeth....

Act 1 Scene 5 comes to mind first:

Thou wouldst be great, Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false And yet wouldst wrongly win. 

Summary: Lady Macbeth has learned the witches have predicted Macbeth will be King of Scotland. She believes he has ambition but lacks ruthlessness to take the crown, that one must be willing to do unholy things to get what you want. Continuing--

Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood. Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts And take my milk for gall, you murd’ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief. Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry “Hold, hold!”

Summary: Lady Macbeth asks the spirits to remove her feminine kindness and replace it with cold, heartless ambition. One must be completely compassionless to rule. The last two lines particularly fascinate me in relation to Fires and the crimes against the stars.

And uh. Yeah the part. Fires talks about having been good at bearing children and. Yeah

Ahhhh but Fires you forget Act 5 Scene 1... Lady Macbeth gets what she wants, she gets all the power and glory, but the guilt of what she had to do to take the throne, and what she has to keep doing to maintain power, destroys her (I believe Fires knows, to some degree, that what it's doing is wrong, it gets all defensive when you bring up particularly nasty crimes in LF)

Why then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

[...]

To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.

[...]

DOCTOR Foul whisp’rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles. Infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician. God, God forgive us all.

Or does Fires, deep down, know its trajectory of ambition and conquest will only end with it undone... yet it still continues to do so anyway because it doesn't understand how it could pursue any other ending... It's a tragedy? Always has been

(Folger Shakespeare Library Updated Edition of 2013 text used)

#i have an english minor and macbeth is one of my favs #shakespeare is my thing #lore discussion

[irate-iguana]

Hello Shakespeare nerds. Does anyone have any Shakespeare-related podcast recommendations?

#reading and watching and discussing shakespeare is not enough. i need to listen to other people discuss it on my daily commute #shakespeare #original post

[brother-emperors]

Marieke Audsley: What do you think Cassius wants out of this scene?

Martin Hutson: Well I think it shifts. I think the beginning of the scene, [Cassius] simply wants out of his, sort of, frustration and being hurt; he wants to confront Brutus and say, 'what is going on between us? Why are you behaving in this way?' It might be that Brutus tells him that he's had enough of him, and that's the end of it and the friendship's dying

literally I have not known a single moment of peace since listening to him talk about this scene, I am devastated by it, what the fuck

and on Cassius and Cicero’s friendship: an excerpt of a letter from Cicero to Cassius [Cilicia, late October, 51 B.C.]

My last point bears upon what I have already put before you; it is the strengthening of our friendship, as to which there is no need of further words. You, when a boy, sought me out, while I felt that you would always be a source of distinction to me. You were also a protection to me in the days of my deepest gloom. There came too, after your departure, my friendship with your relative Brutus, and it was of the closest. It is therefore in the ability and energy of you two that I have a rich prospect of delight and distinction.  I ask you in all earnestness to confirm that impression by your devotion to me, and to send me a letter not only immediately, but, on your arrival at Rome, as often as possible.

society6 | ko-fi | redbubble | twitter | deviantart

#like waldmann's discussion on the seduction scene where brutus is more of the instigator makes me scream too #but this specifically hurt me in a way i did not know this scene could hurt. i cant watch JC without crying now lmao #Shakespeare's Julius Caesar #marcus junius brutus #gaius cassius longinus #marcus tullius cicero #komiks tag #drawing tag #long post #(SLAMS HANDS ON TABLE) FINALLY FUCKING FINISHED im going to take a nap now #roman republic tag #are they (you know) conspirators?

[eukaryotesrool]

Do any of y'all actually believe the Ghost was just a figment of Hamlet's insanity, or is that just a neat different version of the story?

I need to catch back up on Hamlet, but that theory seems so wild to me, lads.

#hamlet #shakespeare #I swear I'm not trying to be pretentious #Like how would that even make sense? #It feels like the Ash is in a coma level of theory #But blatantly disproven in the play #The concept of it is kinda neat. But doesn't work in the raw vanilla play #Meerkat post is coming friends! #questions #FanboyMode #The ghost #theory discussion

[cakemoney]

had the opportunity to watch the phantom of the opera musical yesterday and had some thoughts about it

#laughs awkwardly #phantom of the opera #shakespeare #literature #greek mythology #jujutsu kaisen #what a set of tags. anyway i am open to discussion

[crow-in-springtime]

Me and my father talking about our feelings:

(there’s no picture because we don’t do that)

Me and my father talking about different potential versions of Hamlet in the kitchen at 11:43 PM:

#why bond with your father in a normal way when you can instead discuss a play written centuries ago in the most #unacademic way possible? #I made this is a while ago and it’s just been sitting in my drafts and it doesn’t really apply anymore but whatever I think it’s funny #hamlet #shakespeare #gif #ky’s gallery

[grabyourpillow]

Just saying

I mean both Dream and Hob have me going insane for obvious reasons because 600 years of dates with a stranger and flirting and yadda yadda we've been over this. But I am going equally insane over Dream and Calliope like. The forehead touch????? The Aknowledgement of Growth? The lingering tenderness??

Like obviously, Calliope needs time to heal. A lot of time. Which good cause that's what they all have plenty of. And Morpheus needs time to grow.

If there's one thing Hob is pretty good at — besides the pipe organ and claquettes — it's reading people. So he manages to push reluctant Morpheus to Orpheus's grave and to get Calliope there at the same time (he did so by sending Matthew to tell her Dream is finally ready go talk).

And he just leaves them there as they stand in awkward silence in front of the grave.

Eventually Calliope raises her head. "You wanted to talk?"

And they do. There are a lot of tears. Years of old resentments and bottled up guilt and grief spill out. In the end, though, they are nothing more than crumpled newspapers, burning in a fire place. Maybe they have forgiven each other some time ago.

In the beginning Calliope is weary of Hob – who now wanders freely about the Castle, the Library especially, under the watchful yet kind gaze of Lucienne — Hob Gadling, a man, just like the one that kept her locked up all these years, just like Roderick Burgess who kept Dream in his basement.

Hob seems warm, and it prickles under her skin and makes her uncomfortable, for warmth, for the last hundred years, has been nothing but a tool for humans to get what they wanted out of her.

Oneiros is glacier ice and frozen water from Mount Olympus, the absolute zero of the universe and he expects nothing.

"χαῖρε Hob Gadling, farewell," she tells the man everytime nonetheless, and disappears before he can even open his mouth to speak.

_

Hob starts to write. Because his heart is warm, and he holds so much love he needs to put it somewhere lest it threatens to burst out of him and swallow him whole. He wants to do a little something for his students. Most are like he is, still wandering about, some without the same joy he has. He wants to give Morpheus a gift.

He writes and writes but the right words just won't come, clumsy blotches of ink under his feather (nothing has yet to replace the scrapy feel of the tip of feather on paper). What he is writing about is bigger than what his words can express.

_

When Calliope visits The Dreaming, she takes Morpheus's arm, a gesture of intimacy and trust, and Morpheus inclines his head in aknowledgement and seems nothing but grateful for it. Even from afar, they look regal, a king and a queen wandering about, taking long walks through parts of the Dreaming Hob can only, well, dream about.

Hob watches them as Morpheus bids his goodbyes, kneeling, and softly kissing her hand, reverend. For, once Morpheus has started loving, he never stops.

He usually comes back from these encounters teary-eyed, but light(er)-hearted.

_

Morpheus kisses Hob in the throne room.

Under the scattering light of the stained glass windows, he tilts Hob's head upwards as Hob stands a step beneath him, as they can never be equals, but Morpheus, Oneiros, Dream of the Endless and King of Dreams loves him nonetheless and Hob explodes in colors under the weight of that love. Morpheus kisses him and kisses him until Hob gets dizzy and drops to his knees.

Morpheus looks upon him through half-lidded eyes. Distant, but not unkindly. Above, yet not judging. Not unlike a God standing as an elevated statue in a stone altar in front of a worshipper.

Slowly, Dream removes his cape, the smooth, dark, velvety fabric of the universe gliding across Morpheus's moonlight shoulders. His other clothes are gone in the same swift, movement, and he stands in front of Hob, bare, his unfathomably deep vastness barely held together by the shape of his physical form.

Hob leans his head against Morpheus's thigh, and presses a light kiss there. He rises slightly and presses a kiss on Morpheus stomach.

Gods need worshippers because they are lonely. But it never really helps, does it. So Hob Gadling can not be a worshipper only. He arrives at Morpheus' clavicle. He kisses Morpheus's jaw, as his friend stands there, unmoving. Then, finally, Hob stares Dream of the Endless in the eyes, and he dares.

_

Hob continues to write. He tries to write of colors, of light and dark, of a cold press of lips and sinewy skin, and of the warmth in his belly. Most of the words are botched, and ugly. Some things are missing, things he doesn't dare write about. Because they're scary. Because they're silly.

"May the muses bless my writing this time," he thinks tiredly.

Only the silence answers.

___

The next time Calliope is in front of him, she looks at him with assessing eyes. "You have a question, Hob Gadling."

Hob shifts awkwardly, and scratches his cheek. "I didn't know if, I didn't want—"

"One is always allowed to ask."

"Okay. Well I'm trying to write, you see, and" he laughs, "I have read, many, ohh so many many great things. I want the piece I write" — for him —"to be beautiful, too." He wants it to be perfect. He raises her eyes at her. "Can you help me?"

She gauges him briefly, and Hob is a pond in a glass container. Springy fish play hide and seek between green aquatic plants, rustling in clear waters. There are glistening stones on his shore, that children from there bordering fishermen's town are happy to play ricochet with. Hob is the town, from which laughter and music and dancing is coming from as well.

The thumping from the villager's feet gets louder, and louder, too loud, and Hob realizes, it's the beating of his heart. The villagers's steps are trampling the skulls of the corpses buried deep, so deep under the ground one could almost pretend they were never there. The plants draw their roots in murky waters, fed by the detaching particles of silently decomposing corpses. But the dead are wailing, and refuse to be forgotten. Calliope sees all of him, and Hob gasps when she stops looking.

"Answer is no," she states, then disappears.

Hob sighs and picks up his feather.

___

"I do not understand." Calliope tells Morpheus one time. "He is just like the others."

"He is," Morpheus replies. "They are, all, human."

"What is it he has that holds so much value to you?"

Morpheus considers it. He is silent for a long time. "Time," he answers eventually. "And will. To learn."

Calliope observes the answer in her mind. Humans are like double faced coins. No, like a dôdekáedros, not with two, but with twelve, with thousand faces. Maybe the good ones outnumber the bad, for most.

She nods.

__

She catches Hob writing one time. She waits until he leaves the small wooden desk he has been hunched on for hours, at the warm light of an outdated desk lamp, and can't resist picking up the parchment.

She bursts into laughter, and when Hob comes back and leans against the doorframe, for the first time she looks at him. Really, looks at him.

"This is not very good."

"No," Hob concedes. He does not look offended, simply amused by her own laughter. It had been a long time. "It isn't."

There is a pause, a comfortable one.

"Ask me again," Calliope commands, before she can think about it.

"Uhm," Hob startles, searching her face. She maintains her will, eyes blazing like gemstones.

"Okay," he inhales. "Can you help me?"

"I..." Her chest tightens. It hurts. Still. She hates what Richard Murdock has taken from her. The ability to trust. The ability to give.

"No," she answers, and turns away.

___

Hob goes a long, long time without hearing from her. He hasn't given up on his little project, but the muses have told him no, so he does not ask again.

Hob knows Morpheus sees her though. He reads to Hob stories in Greek more often than not.

___

One day, Hob finds a little note, written in clear letters, a cursive with the reader in mind.

"I enjoy Oneiros's taste, but I do find even his lacking in some areas. You may find hereafter—

It is a note with precommendations. Songs, books, plays, and much, much more.

Sad ones, hopeful ones.

The note ends on,

"Writing requires a great offering.

It requires Truth.

Be honest, Hob Gadling."

___

Hob writes as in a frenzy. He writes anything and everything going through his mind. He writes down his dreams. He writes different endings to his favorite books where everything ends up alright. Painful stories his students have told him. Stories that make no sense at all. When he reads them, he sounds like an overly excited child, and it makes him happy. He is having so much fun.

"You are smiling," Morpheus remarks. He is sprawled lazily in the bed of Hobs tiny Bedroom, only his hair sticking out from the mass of blankets and he has no idea how this makes Hob's heart leap in his chest.

It definitely means "What are you writing?"

Hob knows his stories do not show up in the Library of the Dreaming, Lucienne told him so. Hob lays down his pen and smiles.

"I don't know yet."

___

Hob's home is now as much in the Dreaming as it is in the real world. He has become accustomed to small creatures flying in through the windows, and strange happenings.

Still, when Calliope hums appreciatively from behind him, Hob almost jumps out if his skin. The first time.

Then, it her appearances happen so often he becomes accustomed to it.

Sometimes, her eyes will look like murderous lightning spears, and nothing Hob writes works no matter how hard he tries.

After a three-day-long struggle where she refused to talk to him, he regretfully strikes out entire paragraphs, and starts anew. She smiles at him in approval.

She still can't help him, not really.

But humans have always been able to create on their own.

___

"I liked this one very much," Hob tells Calliope, pointing to a title on the list she has given her.

They are in Napoli, for a work visit supposedly. Hob has a meeting with a wine producer for the his tavern, pub, guesthouse, café, – he really isn't sure, despite being the owne.

Right now, they are seated on the balcony of the AirBnB Hob has rented, and though the owner had seemed surprised to see three people turn up instead of one, he had graciously accepted the change.

And that is how, Hob Gadling finds himself on the balcony, enjoying the warm summer evening, the sun sinking over the vast yet still clear evening sky, and the row of vignes and olive trees on the sandy soils of rocky mountains, and most of all, the company of his wonderful, wonderful friends, Morpheus and Calliope.

The wine makes them lively, and Hob lets himself be drawn in a literary debate with the Muse of Creation he knows he has no chance of winning, while Dream listens intently, for he was never much of a talker.

Hob manages to slip in that Shakespeare was never that good anyway and watched in satisfaction as a horrified expression crosses Calliope's Features, while an amused smile tugs at Dream's lips.

Later, Calliope tells them of her travels through the worlds, uniting her sisters in assemblies, gathering knowledge and experiences to change the unjust laws by which one like her can be bound like property.

Hob and Dream are utterly silent as she talks.

Only the flicker of a candle flame lights their faces when she finishes talking, fierce and angry, and hopeful, and herself.

Hob looks up at her in admiration, as she stands there, blazing with creation, and she looks at him. Morpheus fades into the surrounding darkness, leaving space for the story to unfold.

Calliope pulls Hob Gadling up, plants a brief kiss on his lips — her gift, freely given, finally hers again — and hauls him to the tiny wooden desk on the room, and seats him, his hand next to his favorite fountain pen.

"Pick it up," she orders.

"And now, γρᾰ́φου. Write."

Hob Gadling does.

___

Hob writes the story of a little girl called Naïma who loses the ability to dream.

***

Naïma is 12 years old and 4'2 and has impossibly big dreams like building an airplane that looks like Leonardo Da Vinci's so she can fly, and teaching her sister how to fight with a wooden sword, as she chases the yelling kid around to do just that. Naïma reads a lot of books that feed her colorful imagination, and every night, she has the most vivid dreams, filled with the flutter of bird wings, the scent of flowers after the rain, and magical creatures fighting epic battles.

You're a good girl, Naïma's parents and teachers tell her. Naïma and her friends write stories — that weirdly resemble the latest movie that is all the rage among the kids their age —and it's so easy and their characters are wild and free and flawed and perfect and the stories just pour out of them. Naïma is inspired, and the Muse smiles.

They read each others' stories in awe and they already dream of the day they will get their books published.

Naïma is 16 years old and has big dreams, but she also has a path to walk. Surely if she follows the steps, she will reach the sky and be able to fly with the birds.

Naïma is 18 years old and 5'0 and is so little and in a world that is too wide, and so many voices talk over each other that she forgets the sound of her own. The paths mingle and suddenly she has no idea where to go. She picks one at random.

Her teachers tell her she is clever. She feels like she knows nothing. Along the way, the dreams get lesser and lesser, and the walls on either side of the path get higher and higher, more inescapable.

Naïma writes a poem about rain. "The world is bright," she writes "And I am grey."

Naïma is in her twenties when she loses the ability to dream.

Speaking of walls, there is one behind her called Time, who keeps pushing her forward, not allowing her to slow down and look back. Without dreams, every day is the same, and the rest of her life stretches before her in a bleak, empty nothing. She lays in her bed staring at the starless ceiling, thinking "is this really all there is?" And "If it is so, doesn't Death seem kinder than life?"

***

Hob briefly sets the pen down, his hand trembling. He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. He breathes out, taking in the cool air of the night. Dream is sleeping in Hob's – their — bed, or something close to sleep, as far as Hob can tell.

Calliope is nowhere to be seen, but Hob feels this unrest, this trepidation in his fingers and push to keep going, the need to empty his mind and spill all his thoughts onto the page lest he is driven insane. He sets his cup down onto the desk — his hand now more or less steady —, and grabs the pen once again.

***

Death stands before Naïma, maybe in a dream, maybe not, and smiles upon her kindly. She seems fair and just, exactly like Naïma had pictured. The shadow of her wings grows and stretches until it is all encompassing behind her, eclipsing the sun.

"Do you want to go?" Death asks, and her voice is kind, but it is absolute.

Naïma hesitates, shifts on her feet. But this is weird. "I didn't think we had a choice in the matter?"

"Well, it's not your time yet. So you do."

Naïma lowers her eyes. "I..." Death gauges her carefully. "I don't know."

Death gives her a minute, but Naïma doesn't come up with another answer.

Death smiles, as if Naïma had somehow come up with the right answer and her wings are gone and the sun is visible again, and she takes Naïma's hand. "I need to show you something."

A flutter of wings and they are in a dark room, no, not not room. Space. For there are no borders. No floor Naïma is walking on. No walls. In the center of the space, are square, vertical panes, each the size of maybe four records, set up vertically next to each other, forming a a circle. A circle of these glass slices, floating. As Naïma gets closer, she can discern shifting patterns of colorful smoke inside of each square, pinks and blues and aquamarines.

"Pick one," Death tells her. Naïma looks at her, uncertain, but Death just signals her to go ahead.

So Naïma extends her hand, slowly approaches her fingers and, as they come in contact with it... colors explode everywhere, and the space expands and she finds herself in a nebula of holographic colors and glistening stars.

"Whoah," is all she can say. "What is that?"

"He, is called Laurent." Death introduces him "She spreads two of her finger and zooms in on a spot of the nebula, as one would navigate a touch screen. "This is his love for gardening. This here?" A particularly bright star. "His favorite meal. This?" She points to a black hole. "His mother's death." Next to the black hole is a ring of light. "He rekindled with his sister and met his niece. She remained the joy of his life, for the entire duration of it.

"These," Death double taps the nebula, and it folds in on itself as if sucked into a vacuum, back into is original square shape and place among the others. "These are all the people that have lived. Are living."

Death presses on one and once again, colors spread across the room. "This is the one of a man called Hob Gadling."

Where the other had had one or two dominant hues, this one had all the colors of the rainbow. It also had darker—

***

"Writing about yourself? Slightly pretentious."

"Jesus Christ," Hob jumps. Maybe not that accustomed to Calliope sneaking up in him after all. "You scared me. Could you, could you not look? This time? It's" He scratches this cheek and chuckles. "Embarrassing."

"I will know it all the same," Calliope answers.

"Is all of this yours?" Hob deflates. "Do you know everything I'm going to write?"

"It is as much yours as it is mine," Calliope answers. "And I cannot know until it is written.

Keep going, Hob."

***

This, glass panel had all the colors of the rainbow— more colored than any of the panels Naïma could see. Some of the colors were uglier. Less harmonious. Some were darker.

Death swipes the color palette away and Naïma stiftles a cry, as she could have kept looking for an eternity, but Death is already opening another.

"Now this one, my sweet, sweet girl, this one is yours."

Naïma flinches, and turns her head away. Death waits, patient, encouraging.

Naïma forces herself to look.

And, of course.

Her color palette is... unremarkable. Unfinished.

There are tiny specks of color, that look like nothing much really. It could have been pretty, once, but the rest of the painting distracts because... "There is absolutely nothing here," Naïma gestures, and she cannnot hide the disappointment. Compared to the other ones, this one was... Not enough. Her life was no good.

"It's empty." This was same black she saw every night in the corner of her eyelids when she pictured the future. She didn't need to be reminded of that.

Death shakes her head. "It's not," and she punctuates the word, "empty, silly." She flicks Naïma's forehead. "Quite, the contrary actually. It's full. With potentialities. Endless potentialities. Who knows which color you are going to put on there tomorrow?"

And Death gives her a minute to let that sink in.

"I'm going to ask you again, Naïma Goldenberg. It is not your time. Do you still want to go?"

"No," Naïma shakes her head. "No I don't think I want to."

Death smiles. And behind her, someone else, a man with pale skin, huddled in a dark cape, smiles as well.

***

Dream stirs slightly. He seems content. A good dream, hopefully.

***

Naïma wakes up to her dark ceiling. She pastes glow stars on it and turns on her bedside lamp, and suddenly it's not so dark anymore.

She can't dream but she realizes, she can read. She grabs the first book on her shelf, and suddenly Naïma is twelve again.

A year goes by. Naïma hasn't found her dreams but she keeps searching. She reads books that make her feel like she's dreaming and fill her waking life, listens to stories that people are eager to tell her. She fills her life with the dreams of others, and even tries some of them out, like slipping on a different gowns. Today she is Naïma the rock climber, nature conqueror who sleeps in a tent – she gets a cold, and finds slugs in her clothes. Yesterday she was Naïma the fancy, mingling with some high-society people, laughing along with them in her glistening champagne and feeling like this dream didn't fit her at all. The day before that? She had been Naïma the poet, reading books in a warm-hued Café enjoying a scone and a cappuccino, while occasionally gazing at the raindrops splattering on the window and on the pavement outside.

She learns more about herself. Or re-learns really. She learns that she loves rain and books, that she likes rock-climbing occasionally, and with friends, and that she really hates sparkling events where people talk too loud. That she really likes listening to stories. She likes writing stories too.

Naïma is thirty when she falls in love with a girl called Ζωή that is completely wild and colorful. Zoé loves with all her heart and crashes deeper and flies higher and takes Naïma with her.

***

Hob writes of music. He writes of laughter, he writes of pain, he writes of joy. He writes of a desire to do better.

***

"Goldenberg." A voice she has known forever, a voice she had missed, calls to her.

And finally, Naïma dreams.

She dreams of which songs, which plays, which adventures Zoé will show her tomorrow. She dreams of magic. She dreams of writing a book.

***

Hob writes and there is space between the lines of his love that needs to be filled.

Until the morning hours, Hob writes alongside Naïma. He fills the path she takes with new Dreams, new Stories, and that is how she paves her way until she meets Death again, in due time. (Not everyone can be like Hob, not even his characters).

For Dreams, Stories, and Art, Hob has found, is what makes it worthwhile everyday, to live for another.

That, alongside the smell of freshly baked bread, wine that is warm on the tongue, and the smile of a friend.

.

Smile, his friends do, when months later, he hands each of them a copy of the finished book he has bound himself.

Some threads hang loose from the cover and he is pretty sure that — despite his best efforts — some spelling mistakes are left in, and it is far from perfect, but it's done, and it's his.

"It has been a long time since anyone wrote a song for me," Calliope speaks, eyes glistening.

"The Library, will be honored."

Thank you, Hob Gadling, they both tell him.

_

The book is called "Ζωή."

The book is called Life.

#told you #this got out of hand lol #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #calliope the sandman #the sandman netflix #very long ass fucking post #writing #long post #i mean this was supposed to be a meme y post #text was barely two paragraphs long and just like how calliope and hob and dream would be in italy discussing plays #and ranting over shakespeare lmfao #☑️ task failed successfully #dream x hob #dreamling #dream x calliope #calliope x dream x hob #is that a thing? #it's not a thing apparently #well now it is #dream x hob x calliope #hob x dream x calliope

[soldatrose]

ok i'll probably have comments about the donmar warehouse prod later on but my emotions are a bit all over the place right now so i'll focus on specific Shakespeare Reads Plutarch thoughts and:

why did shakespeare decide to have antony proscribe "publius, who is [his] sister's son" rather than the plutarchian (and generally more common) version of his uncle lucius caesar. what was his source? (which must have been relatively accurate since antonia cretica apparently did marry publius vatinius, although i couldn't find mention of a child)

similarly, in antony and cleopatra, why did shakespeare change the "caesar answered antony had many other ways of dying" into octavian saying he himself has other ways to die? either it's a conscious choice or a mistake on thomas north or shakespeare himself's part, because the thomas north translation goes "Caesar answered him, " That he had many other ways to die than so."" which is admittedly pretty unclear. if it's the latter, then it's the most interesting genuine mistake that could have been made.

#the lucius caesar one i genuinely don't know but it also fascinates me a little bc antonia cretica (like many other roman women obv) is so #absent from most sources and narratives around antony? and suddenly she's in shakespeare? as a passing mention but still? #but if anyone has found discussions on the second point!! please send them my way!! #shakespeare #julius caesar #my posts

[galacticlamps]

'to thine own self be true (and thou canst not then be false to any man)' Polonius tells his son Laertes in Act 1 - and it's so trite a saying that we quote it on everything from greeting cards to jewelry and almost laugh to stumble upon it in its original context

and then Laertes goes and spends the rest of the play - and let's face it, what little of it came before that as well - playing the foil to its tragic hero until it kills them both in Act 5 (and through the means of his own deception too)

#i am soooo normal about laertes (i'm lying) #one day i'll write a book about how normal i am about him but for now have this textpost #anyways nobody asked but i think that's probably the shakespeare quote i have the biggest love/hate relationship with #because we talk about it so much but hardly ever actually talk about IT #and even when we do it's mainly to be like 'oh polonius you with your empty maxims you!' (& we do need to remember that part too) #but it's also: #'oh polonius you are in conjunction with that & in more ways than one the very thing that dooms your son and therefore all of them' #it's the quintessential hashtag-its-not-that-deep quote #while at the same time being bitterly ironic and rarely do you get to discuss how both of those things can be true at once #so i Love it but i also Hate that i could undoubtedly find it on a t-shirt without much effort yk? #(and before anyone points out that there are multiple shakespeare quotes for which the same can be said re: the whole #itssodeep-noitsnot-actuallymaybeitisforadifferentreasontho dance #trust me i know but i refer you back to the first tag & how extremely normal i am about the character of laertes in general)

[justnerdystuffs]

So. Imagine post reunion Hob is in the Dreaming library being shown around by Dream. We've been there, right? And thennnnnn. They run into the famous inhabitant of the Dreaming, and contributor to the library, William Shaxberd.

And Hob, who spent CENTURIES trying to get Dream's attention, approval, a measure of affection, hell even just his NAME. Hob, who was stood up in 1589 for this prick who clearly got some favour that Hob didn't deserve....

Who thought he was over his grudge against Shaxberd, he truly did, the man was long dead, we aren't jealous of the dead, turns to Dream, looks him in the eyes and just asks.

'Et tu, brute?'

#Ehm #Happy soon to be Ides of March #this is not my fault #dreamling #Listen I 100% believe that Hob consumed Shakespeare's media at some point because inavoidable really #Also he had a point in doing so to learn about the Stranger #And after this they totally end up having a long proper discussion about why Hob feels so hurt and betrayed by this #And why Dream actually left that night which just leaves them a lot more understanding of each other #Or do they??? #Damn it now I might write thid #Or at least a ficlet #We'll see #Feel free!!!

[burinazar]

i’ve not linked the Ganja squad server on here recently for The Usual Reasons but i currently have a free trial of fancy nitro so i boosted the thing and, by member request, immediately added a completely irresponsible amount of new emojis that will most likely perish in a few weeks. if you like the gang weeders ganja squad characters join us and use our ((checks)) …S I X DIFFERENT Despairing Belaf emojis while we have em. (link) (note: please be 18 or older!)

#vueko #belaf #wazukyan #belavue #wazubela #pakkovue #irumyuui #pakkoyan #it's been really active lately but goes through laid back periods but we collectively can't calm down this week idk why #'The Usual Reasons': feeling vaguely awkward- yet resolute - about it being 18+ andalso i’m not at all lookin to grow it for growth’s sake #but i hope anyone who Needs It can find it. it spotlights fanwork/discussion of a very special arc/group with sparse but devoted fans #though short and concluded their story is (to me. maybe to you?) endlessly analyzable and interesting. like a shakespeare tragedy is lmao #this is the approximate reason i have tagged this post with character and ship names #if you like this gang enough to be looking up charas by name or even KNOW these ships (note: they have their own channels) you may like it #If You are also Abnormal about Vueko And Belaf And Their Child and Friends. Join Us. #orphan hole tag

[gay-jesus-probably]

Will you ever reveal your 911sona to us king (gender neutral)?

Anon, I would LOVE to. Tragically, the only documentation of the life and death of my 9/11sona existed entirely on maybe 3 sheets of paper, written a decade ago for two linked school assignments that at the time I found wildly embarrassing, and honestly kind of offensive; if grade 9 wasn't one of the major milestone years for Canadian education (PAT's, baby!), I would have refused to do the assignment entirely, as inventing fake victims to mourn in a very real and (then) somewhat recent tragedy felt extremely fucked up. And it's still fucked up, it's just also really funny that someone thought that was an appropriate school assignment.

Anyways, my point is, while all this is hilarious in hindsight, at the time I was genuinely ashamed to have done the assignment, and once it was over I wanted to stop thinking about it, because if I acknowledged how much I hated that teacher, I WOULD start shit, and that would tank my grade for the year. Language arts is a wildly subjective subject, and so if you piss off your English teacher, you're absolutely fucked, because that grudge WILL show in how they grade you. So as soon as the 9/11sona assignments were marked and returned, mine went directly into the trash as I tried to scrub the whole nightmare from my memory. The overall situation remains seared into my brain to this day, but the details of my 9/11sona have, unfortunately, been lost to time. It wasn't nearly as interesting as the concept implies though; I sure as hell wasn't feeling any sort of passion for the project, so I'm pretty sure my 9/11sona was literally just some generic guy working some generic office job in one of the towers.

...Though the real punchline to this side of the story is that after a whole miserable year of gritting my teeth and holding back arguments to put up with this awful english teacher to ensure she marked me fairly, all of it became even more infuriating when I wound up getting into the exact situation I had been afraid of, literally on the first day of grade 10 english. As in, it was my first class after lunch, and I got in there about ten minutes early because I was worried about getting lost. Before the bell rang to start class that day, my brand new english teacher had informed me to my face that I specifically would be singled out to be marked on a considerably harsher curve than anyone else in the class. She fucking meant it too, the whole semester, apart from multiple choice tests, every single one of my english assignments had a strict grade ceiling of 79%, I never made it into the 80+ range by her standards, which was the most infuriating possible way to lose what had, until that point, been a perfect record of always ending a school year with my english mark in the 90's. I put up with making a fucking 9/11sona to maintain that record, and then lost it the next year to a snap judgment one teacher made literally less than ten minutes after I walked into her classroom.

...But that's a story for a different time.

#can you tell i'm still bitter about my grade 10 english teacher #BECAUSE I'M VERY FUCKING BITTER THANK YOU #i mean credit to her at least she had arguably the best grade 10 shakespear unit in the country #specifically bcause she thought romeo and juliet had been done to death and made us do Merchant of Venice instead #that was really cool honestly there was some really interesting discussions about the history of antisemitism #and how the plays depiction of shylock compared to other plays portraying jewish characters at the time #very interesting stuff! much more interesting than any discussion i've heard for romeo and juliet lmao #like i loved her class she was a great teacher. BUT SHE WAS ALSO A COMPLETE DICK TO ME SPECIFICALLY #english was always my best subject! i'd literally just failed my first class ever (math) the semester before! #I DID NOT NEED HER TO DESTROY MY CONFIDENCE. IT WAS ALREADY GONE #SHE WAS JUST KICKING ME WHILE I WAS DOWN AT THAT POINT