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Whatness of Allhorse
Agenbite Misery
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Urbane to comfort them
The quaker librarian purred
Glittereyed, rufous skull
Sought the face
Bearded amid darkgreener shadow, holyeyed
Art has to reveal to us ideas
Formless spiritual essences
The supreme question about a work of art
Is out of how deep a life does it spring
This verily is that
I am the fire upon the altar
I am the sacrificial butter
Unsheathe your dagger definitions
The maelstrom
The sumptuous murder
The goad of the flesh embittered
Hathaway's bed
The play begins
A player arrives
It is the ghost, the king and the player is him
To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body
Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever
I want to know that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion
You are the dispossessed son
I am the murdered father
Your mother is the guilty queen
Her ghost at least has been laid forever
She died, for literature at least, before she was born
Horseness is the whatness of allhorse
The maelstrom
The sumptuous murder
The goad of the flesh embittered
Hathaway's bed
The play begins
A player arrives
It is the ghost, the king and the player is him
He wrote Hamlet in the months that followed his father's death
He carried a memory in his wallet: The girl I left behind me
It is a mystical estate,an apostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten
Founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void
That memory, Venus and Adonis, lay in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London
Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured
Hortensio calls her young and beautiful
Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a passionate pilgrim
Had his eyes in the back of his head that he chose the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to he withal
Good: he left her and gained the world of men
But I
Survive
But I, entelechy
Form of forms
Am I
By memory
Prize of their fray
Agenbuyer
I paid my way
I paid my way
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