âFire At Seaâ - Richard Wilson
Fifty years ago Jan Kott imagined Prosperoâs island as a concentration camp: a âgarden of tormentâ designed by Bosch.[1] [2] And The Tempest has lately acquired a deadly specificity from the uncanny coincidence that the most likely geographical analogue for the isle has indeed long been identified as Lampedusa: the tourist trap, midway between the playâs Tunis and Naples, voted the worldâs best beach in 2013, that has become Europeâs purgatorial holding-centre for its African migrants.[3] Shakespeare read about a hermitage on the âfire islandâ of Lampedusa in Ariostoâs Orlando Furioso, it has been claimed.[4] But, if so, Prosperoâs fictional island has been changed utterly by its association with this factual place of terrible beauty.
Prosperoâs account of the deportation of the âdamned witchâ Sycorax from Algiers, when pregnant with her âfreckled whelpâ Caliban, and abandonment on those deceptive sands âby the sailorsâ [1,2,270-9], has been laden with horrific extra meaning due to the torture, rape and drowning of the boat-people of Lampedusa; and his image of a ârotten carcass of a buttâ is now shadowed by photos of the crammed hulks, with âNor tackle, nor sail, nor mastâ, that âthe very rats have quitâ, in which these Libyans or Somalians have been left âTo cry to thâsea that roaredâ [146-50]. âIf you think they risk their lives on a boat that cannot even floatâ, remarked a captain in the Italian rescue operation called âMare Nostrumâ, âIt opens your eyes to something you thought was differentâ, before he âtailed off, as if words cannot do justiceâ, The Guardian reported, to the catastrophe.[5] But it is to such a state of emergency in our sea that Shakespeare seems to want to open our eyes, when he has Miranda place responsibility for the disaster on her fatherâs art:
       If, by your art, my dearest father, you have
      Set the wild waters in this roar, allay themâŠ
                      O, I have suffered
      With those I saw suffer⊠O, the cry did knock
      Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perished.            Â
                                  [1,2,1-9]
 On October 27 2014 Baroness Anelay announced the British government would no longer support Mediterranean rescue operations, as âWe believe they create an unintended âpull factorâ, encouraging more migrantsâ. Prosperoâs repeated call to âCome away, servant, come!... Approach my Ariel, come!â [188-9], reminds us how much Europeâs power depends, however, on such âpull factorsâ, inducing guest-workers to enter, as Ariel sings, âPresently⊠Before you can say âComeâ and âGoâ, / And breathe twice, and cry, âSo, soâ, / Each one tripping on his toe / Will be here with mop and mowâ [4,1,42-7]. This is how he conjures a slave âat midnightâ from Bermuda [1,2,130]. The âdireful spectacle of the wreckâ [26] that fronts The Tempest therefore signals that this will be a play not only about colonialism, racism and slavery, but also the strange immunitarian ethics of hosting, guesting, and repatriation, in a catastrophic time like our own, of terrorism, mass-migration and anxious waiting for barbarians [1,2,1-98; 197-225; 237].
 Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, the true Prince of the Isle of Fire from which he took his name, finished his own lecture on Shakespeare reflecting that in The Tempest we encounter Shakespeare as âthe enchanter disenchantedâ, whose last testament is that âmy ending is despairâ [Epi, 15]. âThose are the final words the Lord of Smiles and Shadows addressed to us before his deathâ, is how the novelist rounded off his dark interpretation of the plays.[82] But Lampedusaâs lecture is here misleading, because these are not, of course, the last words of The Tempest. Prosperoâs Epilogue continues that his âending is despairâ unless he is ârelieved by prayer / Which pierces so, that it assaults / Mercy itself, and frees all faultsâ. So the play in fact closes on an appeal that is truly Derridean, with the enjoinder that it is for us to complete the onward passage from this catastrophic shore: âGentle breath of yours my sails / Must fillâ [10-11]. âIf we were all to accuse ourselves, there would no longer be an innocent person on earthâ, the French philosopher and critic Jaques Derrida warned us in his own late work On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, given that âwe are all heirs to persons or events marked by crimes against humanityâ.[83] Yet that is precisely the endless deconstructive project on which Shakespeare now asks us to embark and âthen take handsâ:
     As you from crimes would pardoned be,
    Let your indulgence set me free.
Professor Richard Wilson is the Sir Peter Hall Professor of Shakespeare Studies at Kingston University, London. His publications include Will Power, Secret Shakespeare, Shakespeare in French Theory, Free Will and Worldly Shakespeare. Influenced by continental philosophy, as well as Anglo-American criticism, he reads Shakespearean drama in terms of its agonistic conflict.