Mr. Kipling`s brilliant reconstruction of the genesis of the â€˜Tempest` may remind us how often that play has excited the creative fancy ...
Mr. Kiplingâ€™s brilliant reconstruction of the genesis of the â€˜Tempestâ€™ may remind us how often that play has excited the creative fancy of its readers. It has given rise to many imitations, adaptations, and sequels. But apart from such commentaries by poets and philosophers, the poem has lived these many generations in the imaginations of thousands. There, the enchanted island has multiplied and continued its existence. Shakspere created that land as the possession of each of us. Not far removed, but close to the great continent of our daily routine and drudgery, lies this enchanted island where we may find music and moonlight and feeling, and also fun and mischief and wisdom. There, in tune with the melody and transfigured as by the charm of moonlight, we may encounter the nonsense of drunken clowns, the mingled greed and romance of primitive man, the elfishness of a child, the beauty of girlhood, and the benign philosophy of old age. We may leave the city at the close of business, and, if we avoid the snares of Caliban and Trinculo, we may sup with Prospero, Ariel, and Miranda. How did Shakspere discover this enchanted island? From what materials did he create the â€œbaseless fabric of this visionâ€? What had London playhouses to do with these spirits of thin air? On what books or plays were these dreams made? Out of the issues of rivalry and profit which beset the Kingâ€™s company of players at the Globe and the Blackfriars, how came this â€œinsubstantial pageantâ€? We have been told that the Sonnets are the key with which to unlock Shakspereâ€™s heart; and perhaps if we could answer all these questions we might have the key to his imagination. I do not believe, however, that his imagination was lockt up. Rather it was open wide to many impulses, hospitable to countless influences. This apparently is the opinion of Mr. Kipling, who suggests that Shakspereâ€™s â€œvision was woven from the most prosaic material, from nothing more promising, in fact, than the chatter of a half-tipsy sailor at the theater.â€
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