feigned amazement at Dad’s anguish—that the author of the works of “William Shakespeare” could not conceivably have been William Shakespeare, the semieducated part-time actor/part-time real estate speculator son of a provincial glove-maker from Stratford-upon-Avon, that no such person could have composed the greatest works of English literature, embodying the finest of all psychology, storytelling, artistry, linguistic brilliance, and so forth.
She came home from the Minneapolis public library with first one, then stacks of anti-Stratfordian books, each proving that Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon or the Earl of Oxford had written Shakespeare’s plays and then decided for obscure reasons to pretend they hadn’t. She studied the loony ciphers and the theories of angry outcasts, researched grammar school curricula in Elizabethan England, cross-referenced what those kids learned with what the playwrightshowed he knew in his plays, read dictionaries of falconry. She spent more time on this project than on her schoolwork and soon dropped her efforts at sculpture. She wrote letters to our father that she would revise and annotate and read aloud to me, to double-check their tone before mailing them. “I don’t want to sound
angry
,” she claimed sweetly as she composed letter after letter explaining to the friendless convict that his lifelong idol was a fraud and a loser (implicitly like him). The correspondence shuttled quickly back and forth, Dana citing her new books, reading as fast as she could to stymie him (with his limited library privileges).
“Dana, before I go into all the factual errors and half-truths behind every single one of these theories, I have to tell you that at the bottom of all of these notions is a mean idea: only the rich, only the university-educated or the noble can have an imagination, can feel empathy. I know
you
do not believe that, but you are reading books by people who do, and I want you to know where their hearts lie in this. Besides the obvious snobbery, does your own experience confirm it? What do you make of the well-educated rich in your world? In your school? In their houses on Lake Minnetonka? Are they more imaginative and empathetic than you, for example? Do they convince you of this theory?”
“Dad. You are missing the point and clouding the issue. I am sure a drunk street person
could
have written
Hamlet
, if he had the right tools. All I’m saying is: your guy didn’t have the tools. He didn’t leave any books in his will. Kind of weird for the greatest writer in human history.”
Dad replies: “Many people did not leave books in their will. Bacon, who some of your people credit for writing the plays, did not leave them either. That does not mean he did not read books or write them. It just means he did not distinguish them in his will any more than he itemized his socks. If I were to die tomorrow, I would not have a private library to distribute.”
“Well, exactly. You’re a criminal. That’s different. Nobody is claiming you should leave behind evidence of being the greatest writer in the world. But your man is supposedly reading Ovid and Holinshed and Seneca and Chaucer and Terence. Not bad if he can’tspeak Latin very well and dies without any books.
You’re
not expected to leave a will to anyone.
You’re
not expected to do anything.”
Tone slipped away from her a bit on that one. She did her best to keep the indictments disguised as literary criticism, waiting for his literary discussion in response to amount to an apology to her. She saved all the letters. I don’t see an apology in any of them, but maybe it’s in ciphers. (It’s also worth noting that anti-Stratfordian theories in some sense “expand the world’s possibilities,” but my father certainly couldn’t bear them.)
It was around this time that Sil and Mom had to sit Dana down for the talk about sliding grades and notes home from concerned teachers.
I still admire Dana for all
She came home from the Minneapolis public library with first one, then stacks of anti-Stratfordian books, each proving that Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon or the Earl of Oxford had written Shakespeare’s plays and then decided for obscure reasons to pretend they hadn’t. She studied the loony ciphers and the theories of angry outcasts, researched grammar school curricula in Elizabethan England, cross-referenced what those kids learned with what the playwrightshowed he knew in his plays, read dictionaries of falconry. She spent more time on this project than on her schoolwork and soon dropped her efforts at sculpture. She wrote letters to our father that she would revise and annotate and read aloud to me, to double-check their tone before mailing them. “I don’t want to sound
angry
,” she claimed sweetly as she composed letter after letter explaining to the friendless convict that his lifelong idol was a fraud and a loser (implicitly like him). The correspondence shuttled quickly back and forth, Dana citing her new books, reading as fast as she could to stymie him (with his limited library privileges).
“Dana, before I go into all the factual errors and half-truths behind every single one of these theories, I have to tell you that at the bottom of all of these notions is a mean idea: only the rich, only the university-educated or the noble can have an imagination, can feel empathy. I know
you
do not believe that, but you are reading books by people who do, and I want you to know where their hearts lie in this. Besides the obvious snobbery, does your own experience confirm it? What do you make of the well-educated rich in your world? In your school? In their houses on Lake Minnetonka? Are they more imaginative and empathetic than you, for example? Do they convince you of this theory?”
“Dad. You are missing the point and clouding the issue. I am sure a drunk street person
could
have written
Hamlet
, if he had the right tools. All I’m saying is: your guy didn’t have the tools. He didn’t leave any books in his will. Kind of weird for the greatest writer in human history.”
Dad replies: “Many people did not leave books in their will. Bacon, who some of your people credit for writing the plays, did not leave them either. That does not mean he did not read books or write them. It just means he did not distinguish them in his will any more than he itemized his socks. If I were to die tomorrow, I would not have a private library to distribute.”
“Well, exactly. You’re a criminal. That’s different. Nobody is claiming you should leave behind evidence of being the greatest writer in the world. But your man is supposedly reading Ovid and Holinshed and Seneca and Chaucer and Terence. Not bad if he can’tspeak Latin very well and dies without any books.
You’re
not expected to leave a will to anyone.
You’re
not expected to do anything.”
Tone slipped away from her a bit on that one. She did her best to keep the indictments disguised as literary criticism, waiting for his literary discussion in response to amount to an apology to her. She saved all the letters. I don’t see an apology in any of them, but maybe it’s in ciphers. (It’s also worth noting that anti-Stratfordian theories in some sense “expand the world’s possibilities,” but my father certainly couldn’t bear them.)
It was around this time that Sil and Mom had to sit Dana down for the talk about sliding grades and notes home from concerned teachers.
I still admire Dana for all
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