This makes me incredibly angry.
[ID: Screenshots of a Facebook post from user Advocatus Peregrini, which reads:
I was conversing with a fully-grown adult a few days ago, born and educated in the USA, who let this little gem drop:
âWell, itâs like Shakespeare said, âLove conquers all!ââ
I pointed out that Shakespeare never said that, Virgil did, (Eclogues X) and Chaucer after him (Canterbury Tales.)
She said, âOh Iâm sure Shakespeare said that. In Romeo and Juliet!â
I sighed. Iâve been in that play several times, in different roles, and even directed it. That text does not occur in it.
But the real grind-my-teeth moment here was that if Romeo and Juliet can be said to have a message, it is most certainly not âLove conquers all,â seeing as the lovers die by their own hands with a trail of their friends and relationsâ corpses in their wake.
Neither this fact, nor the fact that I knew the play, nor my explanation that Virgil and Chaucer used the phrase long before Shakespeareâs birth dented her determination that âLove conquers allâ came from Shakespeare.
âYou donât know ALL the versions!â she protested.
With every instinct screaming at me to let the matter drop, warning me that some horror that will not soon be absent from my nightmares waited around the next corner of this conversation. I pressed on.
It was a decision I was soon to regret.
I asked when she had first read âRomeo and Juliet.â She said she had only read it once, when she was in Junior High. In the version she was taught, Romeo and Juliet survive, are reconciled with their parents, and are married in the church with their friends Mercutio and Tybalt arm in arm in the wedding party.
âHelp me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint.â
It turned out that her school had their own âversionâ of Romeo and Juliet, with an âupliftingâ ending. This was printed and distributed by a religious education publisher. And it was the only version of the story that she had ever read. Of course she had HEARD other people say that the story was a tragedy, but she just assumed they were wrong.
And she did not see why MY version of Shakespeare should be considered better than HER Shakespeare, which, after all, had a much more wholesome ending.
I explained, in vain, that âmyâ version is definitive because Shakespeare actually wrote it (quiet, you Oxfordians. Donât make me stop this car) and the message of the play - that when adult stubbornness meets youthful impulsiveness tragedy ensues - is lost in the ersatz, happy-clappy ending.
She said the ending that had been Frankensteined onto Shakespeareâs play by the âChristian Educationâ publisher was better than the original ending, âif the ending is as sad as you say it is.â
At this point, I concluded that this was a person who deserved to go through the rest of her life ââŚsafest in shame! being foolâd, by foolery thrive!â I bid her adieu.
After the conversation, I wondered, darkly, if that was to be the fate of Shakespeare, and all other literature if the happy-clappy people get their way - as harmless and âuplifitingâ as a cheerleaderâs chant.
I wondered what these bowdlerizers would do with âHamlet?â or worse, âTitus Andronicusâ or âMacB-â Nothing wholesome, Iâm sure. Oh, thatâs right, what they canât appropriate, they ban. Or burn.
In trying to protect children, we leave them undefended from ââŚthe slings and arrowsâ that life will no doubt throw their way. Shakespeare raises the issues of tragedy - the fatal flaw, the last turning, the role of fate, as well or better than any author before or since. He is a gentle tutor, much to be preferred over that stern and dangerous teacher, Experientia Inopinatum.
But, as ever, it really isnât about the children. Itâs about the adults, and their desire to avoid answering difficult questions from agile young minds, who know no fear and swarm like eager flies around questions that have been boggling our best minds for millenia. To answer the questions that literature raises, you have to have thought deeply about them yourself. And that is something that few dare to do.]Â end id