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Scipio Who?

August 29, 2017

In 2001, Roger Stritmatter earned his Ph.D. whilst fomenting rebellion: he identified Shakespeare as an erudite member of the Elizabethan nobility whose name was not William Shakespeare or even William Shakspere. This nobleman with the wrong name left behind some intriguing evidence which Stritmatter had the temerity to study.

Before Stritmatter’s brazen act of defiance, a united academia had ebulliently tarred and feathered the “authorship question.” Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. Period.

Stritmatter made only a tiny crack in the Great Wall built by academia: logic and evidence are still endlessly Trumped by social considerations. We are still waiting for the second authorship doctorate.

The triumph of rationality may be inevitable, but quick it is not.

(“Must it always be so?” you ask. Probably yes. After witnessing this rather stunning example of academic blindness, you might find Thomas Kuhn’s turgid little book interesting.)

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Lovely central Massachusetts where the lawless bloody book of forg’d rebellion was sealed.

A Kuhnian World

It’s a simple question really: How do you know a person was a writer as opposed to someone whose name (approximately) appeared on title pages? We know the man born “Benjamin Johnson” was also the author “Ben Jonson” because he wrote letters about writing, received letters about writing, gave inscribed books as gifts, went to jail for writing, was paid for writing, visited noble patrons who were interested in his writing, left behind dozens of pages of handwritten manuscripts, et cetera. When Ben Jonson died, he was buried in Westminster Abbey next to Beaumont, Spenser, and Chaucer.

Jonson also owned books.

Ben Jonson’s Library

In 1974, David McPherson — a heroic figure in the annals of famous private libraries — published the still-definitive “Ben Jonson’s Library.” Some interesting excerpts follow:

Although the books once owned and annotated by Ben Jonson are scattered all over Western Europe and America, his habit of inscribing his name and motto has enabled scholars to reconstruct his library. 

In 1614, Jonson’s library was called “well-furnisht” by the great scholar John Selden, who would not use the term lightly. Because only 206 extant books can be safely placed on the genuine list at present, it seems likely that many of his books were destroyed in the fire of 1623 which he immortalized in the poem “Execration Upon Vulcan.”

Jonson’s habit of selling his books explains why they are so widely scattered today.

He owned so many anthologies that it has been impractical to insert cross references to individual authors contained therein. It is safe to assume, however, that Jonson owned works of every single Greek and Latin Poet of any importance whatsoever.  

Personal libraries of about five hundred books seem to have been fairly common in the first half of the seventeenth century. 

We suspect the man born William Shakspere was NOT the author William Shakespeare because Shakspere was a businessman, not a writer. Shakspere was deeply involved with theater — as an investor. If he was really the most famous writer in England, it is a bit odd that his extensive paper trail is ALL about business.

It took generations for a major university to countenance a discussion. Stritmatter, now Dr. Stritmatter, can thank Samuel Clemens, Walt Whitman, Henry James, Nobel laureate John Galsworthy, Sir John Gielgud, Sir Derek Jacobi, Mark Rylance, Jeremy Irons, Louis Powell, Harry Blackmun, Antonin Scalia, John Paul Stevens, and Sandra Day O’Connor — a diverse group of not-exactly-crackpots.

Famous heretics aided and abeted by ungrateful students have been slapping the mainstream’s face for a hundred years. Clemens (aka Mark Twain) called the mainstream’s certainty a “fetish.” Blackmun, author of Roe v. Wade, called the doubters’ case “almost fully convincing.” Dr. Stritmatter scolds his colleagues as evidence and support continue to build: “Ignoring something won’t make it go away.”

Clemens, Blackmun, and Stritmatter were and are aware that the man who died rich in Stratford in 1616 had some version his name on the title pages of what eventually became the Shakespeare canon: thirty-six plays, two epic poems, and 154 sonnets. They also knew and know all about what happened seven years after the businessman left his real estate holdings to posterity: he was identified, for the first time, NOT as a grain dealer, moneylender, landowner, and theater investor, but as the author William Shakespeare!

They knew and know, but weren’t and aren’t buying it. Yes, the successful investor from Stratford-upon-Avon owned part of two London theaters and was a shareholder in a London acting company. Yes, his name was sometimes spelled “Shakespeare.” But he wrote nothing, not even letters.

He signed a number of legal documents, however. Mainstream biographers aren’t sure exactly what it was that caused his signatures to come out so badly and so inconsistently, but they have posited many theories whose level of desperation you can judge for yourself (see below).

In any event, the biography of a great writer must not begin with illiteracy.

The signatures excused, the Shakespeare biographer must produce sufficient text to fill hundreds of pages while facing the Sahara Desert of Shakspere’s all business all the time documentary record. In a Jonson biography, a single paragraph can easily contain more evidence about Jonson’s life as a writer than exists in toto for Shakspere.

This commonplace evidence for Jonson (from Rosalind Miles’s biography) . . .

When his “Poetaster” was published, he sent Camden a gift copy with the inscription: “Alumnus offin, acternum amicus” — “a pupil once, now a friend forever.” Another copy went to an equally important recipient in another way, his patron the Countess of Bedford. For this copy, Jonson had a special dedication printed and bound in with the text: “Go little book, go little fable unto the bright and amiable Lucy of Bedford; she that bounty appropriates still unto that County . . . But with a kiss (if thou canst dare it) of her white hand; or she can spare it.” 

. . . would bring a Shakespeare biographer to his or her knees.

But mainstream biographers soldier on. One of them, Park Honan, late of Brown University and University of Leeds, author of Shakspeare: A Life, found Shakspere’s literary record so barren he concluded Shakespeare had annihilated the sense of himself.

Yes, really.

Shakspere’s “self” was indeed utterly disconnected from writing, poetry, art, and music (to say nothing of falconry and Italy). But he must have been the author. The posthumous evidence says so.

From this magical seed, the mainstream has grown a bizarre Jack-and-the-Beanstalk biography. Honan’s exasperation is only the lowest limb. Welcome to biographical surrealism.

We know Shakespeare sometimes reworked old classics giving the stories his own unique twist. But Frank Kermode, late of Cambridge University, editor of The Arden Shakespeare, tells us the great author outright plagiarized the work of lesser writers “using it sometimes almost verbatim.”

A 1588 novel called Pandosto is essentially copied in The Winter’s Tale. Shakespeare must have plagiarized Pandosto because Shakspere turned sixteen in 1580 and The Winter’s Tale is considered a mature play. Kermode’s conclusion: “the picture is inescapable of a Shakespeare [who was a plagiarist.]”

All indications of Shakespearean literature dating to the 1580’s must be denied. What look like literary echoes of Love’s Labours Lost in 1590 must actually be sources used by “an accomplished parasite.” Nashe’s 1589 quip about “whole Hamlets of tragical speeches” actually refers to another play.

Nothing in the documentary record is startling enough to cause a mainstream scholar to question the premise. Samuel Schoenbaum, late of the University of Maryland, author of Shakespeare: A Documentary Life, marveled that London’s “admired poet of love’s languishment” was regarded in his hometown of Stratford merely as “a man shrewd in practical affairs.” His neighbors didn’t know who he was. 

It’s amazing. Sap from the beanstalk flowed into every nook and cranny of mainstream thought. It hardened to amber, utterly permanent, dogma. Messrs. Honan, Kermode, and Schoenbaum are encased in that amber, frozen in eternal certainty.

Mainstream academia worships at its sacred shrine. The shrine is guarded by a jealous giant, an ugly monster born of social interactions and financial considerations. Not to put too fine a point on it, but four hundred years ago a hard-nosed businessman who had trouble writing his name hoarded grain during a famine. Today, we witness the spectacle of closed-minded scholars controlling journals and funding.

We shall escape the tyranny of certainty. We offer you, dear reader, the belly of a sheep and a waiting ship. Come. The occasional rock may splash off the gunwale: pay it no mind.

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And don’t worry, we shall not succumb to dogmatism ourselves.

Will Shakespeare, aka Will to boot and Will in over-plus (Sonnet 135), may really have been the grain-hoarding poet of love’s languishment. The genius-poet and the money-man might, for all we know, be all one ever the same (Sonnet 76) despite lingering questions.

What are the odds?

The present account favors single digit percentages. You may at length disagree. Please do. These nine thousand words we offer humbly. Facts, tarnished ever so slightly by author’s bias, will, polished with a moment’s thought, gleam like gold — raw material for your keen insight.

Should you wish for hundreds of thousands of words, for all the treasure you can gather, for two views of the universe well and truly represented, look no further than the two finest modern authors on the topic: Diana Price, mistress of rationality, and Professor James Shapiro, master of plutonic rock.

Regular Person Diana Price’s book is packed with information, scholarship, analysis, and discussion pertaining to Shakspere-Shakespeare’s disputed biography. Columbia Professor James Shapiro’s book is a brilliant, erudite-but-never-dull, must-read overview of the whole history of the authorship question.

A shameless plug for “Contested Will” by James Shapiro

It is your privilege to read and censure. Do so. But buy it first. Indulge your six-pence-worth and your wisdom. But, whatever you do, buy.

Shapiro’s delicious takedown of Mark Twain, his spirited attack on Stritmatter’s dissertation, and his stinging dismissal of Price and “her followers” are not to be missed. The book is a miracle for the ages, a castle of erudition standing in the swamp of reality.

Shapiro’s beautiful work is a monument to Thomas Kuhn, our ever-living philosopher.

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We are the reasoning race, and when we find a vague file of chipmunk tracks stringing through the dust of Stratford village, we know by our reasoning powers that Hercules has been along there. I feel our fetish is safe for three centuries yet. — Samuel Clemens aka Mark Twain 1909

The Mythical Writer

Shakspere — that’s his family name, the name he was baptized with, the name of his seven siblings, the name of his three children, the name on his burial record, and the (first) name of his grandchild — couldn’t write his own name.

Of six extant signatures, one is a blotted scrawl. Shakspere’s next two signatures appear on two copies of a real estate document, but they don’t match one another — not even distantly (!) — and neither matches any of his other signatures!! Shakspere’s final attempts to write his name, on his will, are also deeply unconvincing. See for yourself below.

None of the signatures is spelled “Shakespeare.”

Still, Shakespeare could easily have been his stage/publication name. In fact, a number of legal documents created in London refer to Shakspere as “Shakespeare” or even as “Shakespeare of Stratford.” So Shakspere really was Shakespeare.

He didn’t use this stage/publication name, if that’s what it was, in his personal life, but so what? That was his choice. And it may seem like he couldn’t write his famous name, but there are uncertainties. Maybe his health was failing. Maybe the four extant versions of his signature are indicative of irrepressible creativity.

Eminent Shakespeareans, quite reasonably, care little about the signatures and care even less about the name difference. It has been far more imporant for them to find evidence that Shakspere-Shakespeare could write a complete sentence.

Seek and ye shall find.

The posthumous evidence identifies the businessman from Stratford as the playwright. The published work itself is therefore evidence that he could write not only his name and complete sentences, but a million beautiful words. The title pages are brimming with printed Shakespeares — a simple fact that cannot be denied — and they constitute “overwhelming evidence” (Shapiro, page 225; yes, really). Therefore, Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. QED.

WARNING: You are entering a place of imagination, a dimension of mind where logic and reason are bit part actors in a universe of mythology. It is a place we call the “Title Pages Zone.”

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Enter the Title Pages Zone.

In the Title Pages Zone, the businessman from Stratford must have been a writer. He went to London around 1592 where his name was spelled Shakespeare and where he became a shareholder in the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. This acting company, later called the King’s Men, put on Shakespeare plays (among others). Shakspere-Shakespeare must have been writing for this company.

It is March 1616. The writer Francis Beaumont has died. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. March passes. April comes. William Shakspere dies in Stratford. The astute businessman’s illiterate wife and two illiterate daughters and their husbands hear the will. Shakspere’s eldest daughter and her husband are named executors. The great investor has left his heirs all that they could wish for: boatloads of cash; five houses; zero books.

Even in the Title Pages Zone, professional writers didn’t own more houses than books. But don’t worry.

Shakspere’s bookless mansion shall be explained. We know the plays and poems come from a place of unparalleled learning and depth. Scholars say so many books “echo through” Shakespeare’s works that even the Queen’s own library would not have been sufficient to satisfy the needs of the great author. But don’t worry.

The money-man was far richer than Ben Jonson, richer, in fact, than any ten Elizabethan writers put together. But don’t worry.

Shakespere-Shakespeare must have had a magnificent library in his twelve-thousand-square-foot house. He simply didn’t mention it in his will. You see? All is well.

Of course, no McPherson will heroically catalog Shakespeare’s collection of books as they have all, unfortunately, been lost. But his signatures are still with us. So are the signatures of Ben Jonson, Edmund Spenser, George Peele, Christopher Marlowe, and many others.

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Blotted scrawl, court document.

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Signature, real estate transaction.

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Signature, same day, same transaction.

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Signature, will, page 2.

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Assisted signature, page 3.

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The assist.

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The last word.

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Ben Jonson’s signatures were consistent.

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Edmund Spenser’s flow.

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Clearly George Peele.

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Marlowe’s evident skill.

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With this inscription I hereby celebrate my ability to wield a quill without assistance.

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There was a book in Shakspere’s house! In 1642, James Cooke walked into the humble abode and was pleased to acquire a handwritten manuscript. He bought it from Susanna Shakspere Hall who, according to Cooke, didn’t recognize her late husband’s handwriting. Cooke did, however. He translated and published Dr. John Hall’s medical records. The work written by Shakspere’s son-in-law found its way from the big house to the British Museum.

Scipio Who?

The signatures can be explained. The will, with its plethora of bookless detail — cash, real estate, a sword, a bowl, and a bed — might read the way it reads and detail what it details by happenstance: other book owners left bookless wills. The daughters’ illiteracy may be ascribed to any number of versions of fatherly neglect.

But what of the letters? Regarding the missing letters, the mainstream offers its usual incisive analysis: “So what?” Andrew Hadfield of the University of Sussex, writing for the collection of essays called Shakespeare Beyond Doubt, tells us that “Personal letters did not survive in an age when paper was scarce and expensive, and so was invariably re-used for a host of purposes.”

We humbly ask how many Elizabethan writers besides Jonson — whose extensive paper trail we learn is merely fortuitous — can be proven to have written letters.

Nashe, Daniel, Spenser, Massinger, Peele, Harvey, Drayton, Chapman, Drummond, Marston, . . . STOP! I think that’s enough. We don’t want to hold things up too much.

The mainstream will object at this point that not every Elizabethan writer wrote letters that survived. Sustained.

Scott McCrae is a professor at SUNY Purchase and wrote a book called “The Case for Shakespeare: The End of the Authorship Question” in which he argues for the businessman passionately and well.

Either he didn’t sign his name very often and thus his autograph never developed a consistent pattern, or he was a man so creative he never let it become static, or both. The autographs are curious, and it’s easy to see how one might question them. But they don’t prove the man who signed them wasn’t a writer. Their oddness might just as easily reveal their maker’s teeming imagination.

. . . other factors — like unsharpened quills, arthritis, ill health, or writer’s cramp — may have contributed to the imperfect state of his autograph . . . none of the extant signatures was penned before 1612; they may all post-date his writing career. 

If he were the only writer of the time with few biographical traces, then we would have cause to be suspicious . . . we know less about Marlowe, Kyd, Dekker, Heywood, Fletcher, or Webster — to name just a few. 

In the interests of completeness we must include the following: Three weeks after Marlowe’s death, George Peele wrote a tribute to him praising his verse. Kyd wrote a letter noting his experience writing with Marlowe. A letter written by Dekker to Edward Alleyn survives as do numerous records of payments to Dekker for writing. Heywood’s “The Escapes of Jupiter” still exists in its original manuscript. Fletcher and Webster were repeatedly paid for writing and the payments were documented.

If we assume Shakspere was writing for the King’s Men, then, as a shareholder, his writing would have benefitted him financially. Professor Shapiro speculates that Shakspere’s share would have been “a disproportionate one.” 

No doubt he spent the money on books.

The mainstream readily agrees Shakespeare’s literary biography is rather thin. Our betters remind us that the current absence of books, of letters, of manuscripts, of inscriptions, and of anything approaching the signature of a professional writer, is NOT, logically speaking, evidence of absence of these items then.

We bow to the mainstream’s experience, knowledge, and impeccable logic and concede this point.

But people living, working, and writing in Elizabethan England knew the theater big shot was not the author of similar name.

The mainstream has gone to fantastic lengths — twisting itself into complex rhetorical knots and gouging its own eyes out when necessary — in its battle to force the contemporary references to conform to precious tradition. The brave Shakespeareans have already taken their place amongst the fiercest fighters in all fields in the neverending battle against heresy.

The bloodiest battlefield in the Shakespeare authorship world is called, ironically, The Scourge of Folly, by John Davies.

John Davies of Hereford was a teacher, specifically a writing master — he wrote The Writing Schoole-Master, a popular manual that saw its 16th edition in 1636. In 1611, he published a series of 292 epigrams about various timely topics and numerous real people, including Shakespeare whom he called “Shake-speare.”

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The List of Davies’s Friends

Fifty-five of the 292 epigrams in The Scourge of Folly addressed by name or by initials individuals that Davies either knew or knew of. The addressees are earls, knights, fellow writers, friends, students, and the author’s wife.

Thirty-six salutations included one of the following words: “friend,” “deere,” “beloved,” “loving,” “wife,” and “pupill.” These thirty-six people were named by Davies as follows: Alexander, Ashfield, Boughton, Brooke, Butler, Cheyny, Daniell, Mistress M.D. (Davies’s wife), Gough, Gwin, Mr. H.H., Hackwell, Holcroft, Johnson, Jones, Locky, Lucy, Marbery, Maynwarring, Murray, Murray (brother of the first Murray), Norton, Panton, Parrham, Poynes, Sanderson, Seager, Sharpe, Sherley, Simonds, Smith, Speed, Towne, Tracy, Twiddy, and Welsh.

Davies also addressed nineteen epigrams without including anything personal in the salutation. Nineteen people were named as follows: Bond, Carre, Chapperline, Coningesby, Constable, Dun, Fletcher, Hayes, Hall, Harrington, Herbert, Marston, Marten, Mountgomerie, Northumberland, Ormond, Percy, S.I.H., and Smith.

That’s almost all of the named addressees. If we include the three epigrams addressed to Shake-speare, No-body (all on one line in the original publication), and Some-body, then Davies wrote a total of fifty-eight epigrams to various individuals, known and un-known, named and un-named.

The mainstream frequently mentions Epigram 159: “To our English Terence Mr. Will: Shake-speare.” Epigram 159 most certainly solidifies the traditional authorship attribution. Terence was an ancient Roman comic playwright, well-known and popular throughout the renaissance; the investor from Stratford was a shareholder in the King’s Men; the second line of Epigram 159 reads “Had’st thou not played some Kingly parts in sport.”

There you are! The tables have been turned.

Davies is obviously saying Shake-speare the actor and Shake-speare the author are the same person. Shake-speare was a “Terence” AND he “played some Kingly parts.” Only one person fits this author-actor description and that is Shakspere-Shakespeare, the investor, the acting company member, AND, we now know with reasonable certainty, the great writer.

So all the worry about who wrote Shake-speare is, finally, Much Ado About Nothing. Biographers are simply unlucky the names don’t match perfectly and they are unlucky none of his early (beautiful!) signatures survive and they are unlucky all of his correspondence was lost and they are unlucky he didn’t mention his library in his will and it is most unfortunate that all of his books were lost along with all the manuscripts we know he had in his house.

So we are well and truly done. Davies was a contemporary observer in a position to know. There is no reason whatsoever to doubt his testimony. The content of Epigram 159 is somewhat cryptic, but the salutation tells all: Shake-speare was a “Terence.”

Thus, Samuel Clemens, the Supreme Court Justices, the other writers besides Clemens (even the Nobel Prize winner) and the Shakespearean actors (even the knighted ones) are all wrong and they will or would, if they have or had any semblance of rationality, admit as much once confronted with Davies.

All of the doubters, and especially reputable magazine editors who insist on covering this silly topic in their magazines — Harper’s fell for it in 1999 — should read about Davies. The whole Shakespeare didn’t write Shakespeare thing was getting really, really old anyway, so it’s nice to have it finally over.

Whew!

Except for one thing.

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ACADEMICS! SKIP THE NEXT SEVEN PARAGRAPHS.

A book by Roger Ascham has extremely bad news about Terence. Ascham, like Davies, was a highly regarded teacher — he was one of Queen Elizabeth’s tutors. Ascham’s book, The Scholemaster, was published in three editions in 1570, 1579, and 1589.

It is well known by good record of learning, and that by Cicero’s own witness, that some Comedies bearing Terence’s name were written by wise Scipio and worthy Laelius. — Roger Ascham, in “The Scholemaster.”

Uh-oh.

If you are still reading, dear mainstreamer, please, you must STOP now. The news goes from extremely bad to even worse. Montaigne’s Essays, published in French in the 1580’s and translated in 1603 into English by John Florio also tells the story of Terence, Scipio, and Laelius.

For, to prove this labor [the Comedies with the Terence byline] to be theirs, the exquisite eloquence and excellent invention thereof doth sufficiently declare it: and Terence himself doth avouch it. — Montaigne, in “Essays” (John Florio translation).

Montaigne provided a detailed explanation: Scipio and Laelius were “great personages” for whom “the perfection of well-speaking” would not bring them appropriate “glory.” Thus, they “resigned the honor of their Comedies” to Terence.

So calling Shakespeare “our English Terence” is a synecdoche, like saying Warren Buffet is “our American Croesus.” Croesus was a specific fabulously rich man from history who now stands, in general, for all rich men. Terence was a rare (!) instance from history of a front-man, rather than a simple pseudonym, serving to protect the identity of a writer.

The academy may now open its eyes.

Scipio is so refreshing after the theater n’est-ce pas?

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Scipio! It relieves fatigue and excitement! A few sips of Scipio and rationality is nothing more than a distant dream.

The Upstart Crow

It is not altogether surprising that Shakspere didn’t write the plays and poems. He was a shareholder in the King’s Men, part-owner of the Globe Theater, part-owner of the Blackfriars Theater, and a major Stratford real-estate and agricultural investor with over 100 acres, multiple buildings, and an interest in corn, grain, hay, and wool as well as a seller of commercial quantities of malt and grain.

Shakspere, we may infer, tended to do especially well during famines — he was cited for hoarding grain when many people, law-abiding citizens for example, would not hoard anything.

Suffice it to say he was a busy man. Ernst Honigmann, late of the University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, a mainstream biographer who discussed Shakspere’s business activities in detail in William Shakespeare: Businessman, wrote, “If one lists all of these various activities in chronological order . . . one wonders how the dramatist found time to go on writing plays.”

Not surprisingly, when Shakspere’s Stratford-area acquaintances, Abraham Sturley, Thomas Greene, and Richard Quiney, wrote letters about him, they wrote exclusively about pasture enclosures, road improvements, and moneylending. They would have been rather surprised indeed to learn that Shakspere was a great writer. And they might well have laughed in your face if you suggested such a thing to them.

Londoners too knew all about Shakspere-Shakespeare. Writers and students knew Shakspere-Shakespeare as a theater magnate who purchased the works of others, but most certainly did not write his own. He had the name, the money, and a big mouth, but no talent and no ability. And they said so.

Davies’s synecdochical salutation says Shake-speare was a Terence. However, Epigram 159 itself and the No-body and Some-body repartee that follow are cryptic. Fortunately, other Londoners provided detailed, pointed, clear, direct, and fervid accounts of the nefarious and sometimes humorous credit-stealing activities of “our English Terence.”

Robert Greene wrote a story about an impoverished writer called “Roberto” who meets a rich “gentleman.” The gentleman is a “player” (i.e., an actor). The gentleman player owns clothes worth 200 pounds, spouts doggerel, and offers to buy Roberto’s work. With Roberto’s edifying adventures complete, Greene next warns his writer friends about a dangerous man called “Shake-scene.” Shake-scene is a player who has been “beautified with our feathers.” Shake-scene takes advantage of writers.

Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit is the first personal reference to Shakespeare. Reading it, it is difficult to avoid making the connection between Shake-scene and the gentleman player. Robert Greene didn’t say outright, “The man who calls himself Shakespeare is actually a rich stupid play broker,” but he came close.

Ben Jonson contributed an illuminating epigram about a man called “Poet-ape.” Poet-ape is an egregious phony who “would be thought our chief.” He is “so bold a thief” that he “makes each man’s wit his own.” Chief-thief is a truly brazen hack: “Having grown to a little wealth and credit in the scene,” he commits his “crimes” with impunity. But no one is fooled except maybe the criminal himself if he thinks anyone believes him.

On Poet-Ape uses the Shakespearean sonnet abab-cdcd-efef-gg rhyme scheme. Again, if Jonson had said, “An uscrupulous play broker is going around claiming to be Shakespeare,” we would not be having this conversation.

Messrs. Greene and Jonson Would Like a Word

Greene famously called the theater owner an “upstart Crow” who was “in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.” The “upstart Crow” epithet is a favorite of the mainstream because, stripped of its context, it could mean anything.

Greene’s nemesis is an “upstart Crow.” He’s also a “Usurer.” Finally, he’s an “Ape” who can do nothing but “speak from our mouths.”

Greene’s friends Peele, Marlowe, and Nashe should “seek better Masters.” They must not allow their “admired inventions” to fall into the hands of this Ape who by rights should be left with nothing but the ability to “imitate your past excellence.”

“Base-minded men all three of you, if by my misery you be not warned.”

Greene’s moneyed monster was a Shakespearean nightmare with a “Tiger’s heart wrapped in a Player’s hide.” A “Tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide” describes the remorseless Queen Margaret and her surreal cruelty.

Paraphrasing Greene is easy for non-academics.

Greene: Aesop’s famous crow dressed in the feathers of colorful birds. Now a vicious play broker appropriates the words of needy scholars. Don’t let him! Don’t trust a rich colorless fool who takes advantage of brilliant writers and scholars. You mustn’t make the same mistake I did. Goodbye cruel world!

Ironically, Greene himself probably stole as much Shakespeare as his nemesis Shake-scene ever did: Greene, a known plagiarist, was the author of Pandosto.

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Like Greene’s deathbed series of virtuous parables, Jonson’s accusation is easy to interpret for anyone who is NOT an academic.

London students wrote and performed a trilogy known as the Parnassus plays. In one of them, an actor (Kempe), portrayed by a student, gives the audience a rip-roaring speech in which he explains idiotically how his “fellow Shakespeare” is a wonderful writer, better than “that writer Ovid” and better than “that writer Metamorphosis.” Ha-ha, Metamorphoses is not a writer.

The London students did not say, “Kempe’s fellow actor is more joke than writer,” but one might come away with that impression.

A Whiff of Ovid

The deeply misinformed Kempe character falls all over himself with appreciation for his “fellow Shakespeare” who doesn’t “smell too much” of Ovid.

Of course, the audience knows Shakespeare as a poet oozing Ovid from every pore of his body and every stroke of his pen — Venus and Adonis, the epic poem that made the name “Shakespeare” famous virtually overnight in 1593, is a rewrite of an Ovidian story.

Kempe, after complaining about the “smell” of Ovid: “Why here’s our fellow Shakespeare puts them all down.” ROFL.

Calvin and Hobbes ROFL

Elizabethan audiences appreciated the classical roots of Shakespeare’s work. Meanwhile, actors were commonly regarded as lower forms of life.

Scholarly Schizophrenia

All the evidence in the world means absolutely nothing if one makes one’s judgments on the basis of subtle and not-so-subtle social pressures. Here’s Schoenbaum noticing the apparent cluelessness of Shakspere’s neighbors.

“What did fellow townsmen make of the distinguished playwright of the Chamberlain’s company and admired poet of love’s languishment who sojourned each year in their midst? They probably troubled their heads little enough about the plays and poems. Business was another matter; they saw Shakespeare as a man shrewd in practical affairs.” — Samuel Schoenbaum

Here’s Schoenbaum seeing and yet not seeing: “Perhaps we should despair of ever bridging the vertiginous expanse between the sublimity of the subject and the mundane inconsequence of the documentary record.”

Harold Bloom, 87, the MacArthur fellow now at Yale, author of Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, considers the authorship question arrant nonsense. Nevertheless, he says, “There is an inverse ratio, a little beyond our analytical skills, between Shakespeare’s virtual colorlessness and his preternatural dramatic powers.”

Park Honan, God bless him, tops everyone, mainstream and rational: “Shakespeare seems to have flourished with a certain annihilation of the sense of himself.”

Modern scholars such as James Shapiro, David Kathman (a linguistics Ph.D.), and Scott McCrae (a professor at SUNY Purchase) are keeping the tradition alive by misreading the contemporary commentary to the point of schizophrenia.

Scholarly Schizophrenia

Davies’s identification of Shake-speare as “our English Terence” is an obvious reference to one of the few people in history thought to have been a front-man for an aristocratic writer. It’s best if Scipio doesn’t exist.

Terence was an ancient Roman playwright who came from humble origins, just like Shakespeare. Kathman.

Although this epigram is cryptic, two things are certain: Davies thinks Shakespeare is a poet and a player and thinks he’s still alive. McCrae.

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Greene’s Ape-Usurer-upstart Crow called Shake-scene and his gentleman player who spouts doggerel are as obvious as they are over-the-top. But words were made for twisting.

[Shakespeare] doesn’t need Greene, in other words, because he can do the writing himself. McCrae, incredibly, is reading the same Greene we are.

A lot is packed into the attack, a good deal more than we can understand four hundred years later. But we are left with the impression of a veteran writer shrewdly taking the measure of an upstart he doesn’t much like. Shapiro, hoping to turn the simple into the complex.

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Jonson’s Poet-Ape sonnet speaks of a poser “who would be thought our chief.” There is only one person Ben Jonson could possibly have regarded as his chief.

This mocking sonnet’s subject is being accused of plagiarizing from Jonson and from other writers, not of concealing someone else. Many scholars think that Jonson’s Poet-Ape is Shakespeare, who indeed stole lines and ideas from Marlowe and from old plays like “The Famous Victories of Henry V.” McCrae.

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The Kempe character makes a great speech in the third Parnassus play. If you insist on not getting the joke, the character can be seen as calling his acting company “fellow” a great writer. But you have to be pretty thick.

Kempe: “Few of the university pen plays well, they smell too much of that writer Ovid, and that writer Metamorphosis, and talk too much of Proserpina and Jupiter. Why, here’s our fellow Shakespeare puts them all down, aye and Ben Jonson too. O that Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow, he brought up Horace giving the poets a pill, but our fellow Shakespeare hath given him a purge that made him bewray his credit.”

This passage establishes that the playwright Shakespeare was a fellow actor of Kempe. Kathman.

Kempe is made to seem ignorant here, like his stage characters, which is why he thinks “Metamorphosis” is a poet instead of a poem. Since the Author’s plays are also redolent of Ovid and speak of Porserpina and Jupiter, the joke may be that Kempe doesn’t realize his “fellow” writes like the scholarly graduates. But Shakespeare and Jonson are clearly contrasted with the university men. McCrae.

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A moron called Gullio (a gull is an idiot in Elizabethan slang) was a character in the second Parnassus play who liked to quote Shakespeare and who, like Greene’s gentleman player, purchased the words of scholars. Gullio’s clothes also cost 200 pounds, again, EXACTLY like Greene’s gentleman player.

Gullio: “We shall have nothing but pure Shakespeare . . . I’ll have his picture in my study at the court . . . Let this duncified world esteem Spenser and Chaucer, I’ll worship sweet Mr. Shakespeare.”

ShapiroFor these Cambridge undergraduates, Shakespeare was a living, breathing presence, one whose poetry they knew by heart and a copy of whose portrait they could imagine displaying in their rooms.

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He’s better than Metamorphosis! 

A Euclidean Debacle

Another problem for the businessman-who-was-obviously-not-a-writer is that he apparently never met the Earl of Southampton, the beloved dedicatee of Shakespeare’s two epic poems. The first 126 sonnets also address a young nobleman with deep affection and familiarity.

The young nobleman in the sonnets is obviously Southampton.

The subject of the sonnets — whom Shakespeare referred to as his “lovely boy” — was first identified as Southampton in 1817 by Nathan Drake. Even modern scholars, despite their terror of the authorship question, will admit Southampton is the most likely candidate. That’s assuming they are willing to admit the sonnets exist at all.

Shakespeare, whoever he was, clearly loved (and was close to) the young earl.

“The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end . . .” (Lucrece, dedication);
“From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s Rose might never die” (Sonnet 1);
“Make thee another self for love of me” (Sonnet 10);
“thou art all the better part of me” (Sonnet 39);
“Your name from hence immortal life shall have” (Sonnet 81);
“O thou my lovely boy . . .” (Sonnet 126).

Of course, no link between the businessman and the earl has ever been found despite centuries of searching. Unless we really are living in the “Title Pages Zone,” it is overwhelmingly likely no link will ever be found.

But we must not exclude the real-estate tycoon “on semantic grounds.” So says the ivy-league professor, scolding us. Yes, he says, it is true that there is no independent evidence of a connection between the businessman from Stratford and a teenaged earl. But Shakespeare “directly addressed a patron, the Earl of Southampton” when he wrote his epic poems.

Therefore, the businessman is the author.

Shapiro’s Words of Kuhnian Beauty

Price and her followers define authorship in such a way that Shakespeare is always narrowly excluded, if need be on semantic grounds. According to [them], there’s no evidence of Shakespeare having had a “direct relationship” with a patron, though he wore the livery of the Lord Chamberlain, served King James both as a King’s Man and as a Groom of the Chamber, and directly addressed a patron, the Earl of Southampton, in the letters prefacing both [epic poems] “Venus and Adonis” and “The Rape of Lucrece.” 

Two thousand years ago, Euclid built what is still the outstanding example of a complete deductive structure and changed the world forever. Today, it matters not what field you’re in: without Euclidean logic, you go nowhere.

Shapiro says the actor wore livery and was a Groomsman (TRUE) and “directly addressed a patron” (FALSE). The author addressed a patron. The Columbia Professor uses his conclusion (actor = author) to support his conclusion.

ivy-walls

Ivy-covered walls are decidedly less pretty when the presiding professors abandon Euclid.

The angular velocity of Euclid spinning in his grave is sufficient to disturb seismographs in Cairo. But we don’t need logic. Ben Jonson told us everything we need to know: the crimes of the Chief-thief were obvious even if your eyes were half shut.

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Frippery are discarded clothing (from Fr. freperie, rags).

Conspiracy Theory

So far, the mainstream looks frighteningly ridiculous; surely, they can’t be that stupid! They aren’t. Thank goodness mainstream observers make one valid point. It’s just the one point, but it is the mainstream’s “ace in the hole” and it is a powerful card.

In fact, the mainstream’s longstanding assumption, now dogma, might even be correct. It is possible to be stubborn, bullheaded, willfully blind, embarrassingly illogical, and absolutely right all at the same time.

In 1623, seven years after the wealthy businessman from Stratford died, twelve plays that had been published accurately during his lifetime and twenty-four plays that had either not been published at all or that had been hacked, mangled, and then published, were rescued and published properly in the monumental “First Folio” which contains prefatory material saying that the businessman had, in fact, been the great author.

The prefatory material includes letters signed by two members of the King’s Men whom Shakspere certainly knew — Heminge and Condell — specifically identifying the author of the works in the First Folio as their acting company “fellow” Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s “fellows” also worried about the financial success of the venture: “Whatever you do, Buy,” they famously wrote.

The First Folio is bolstered by a stone monument erected at the gravesite of “Shakspeare” which calls him a combination of Nestor, Virgil, and Socrates. The construction date and the name of the builder of the monument are unknown. The monument is referred to in the First Folio, so it was certainly extant by 1623.

Shakspere’s Will in a New Light

Shakspere’s will, at first sight, is not especially helpful to the mainstream as it does not mention books, manuscripts, poetry, plays, literature, art, music, education, desks, papers, or even incidental items like inkhorns.

Here’s the deeply disappointing will in a nutshell: The potential “issue” of Shakspere’s daughters’ “bodies” are mentioned TWENTY times evidently to prevent future misunderstandings amongst yet-to-be-born heirs.

There are also cash bequests to people Shakspere knew: Russell, Collins, Sadler, Raynoldes, Walker, Nashe, Nashe, Hemynge, Burbage, and Cundell.

It’s a businessman’s will.

The First Folio changes everything: Heminge and Condell reappear and identify their fellow shareholder as the great writer Shakespeare.

Suddenly, the mainstream claim that Shakspere wrote the plays for “his” acting company doesn’t look quite so silly. Maybe Shakespeare was a stage name. Maybe he actually could write his name. Maybe his books, manuscripts, and letters really were all lost. Maybe his daughters’ illiteracy was an oversight.

The mainstream interpretations of “our English Terence,” the “Poor Poet-ape,” the “gentleman player,” the “upstart Crow,” and “that writer” who doesn’t “smell too much of Ovid” are, suddenly, not quite so nonsensical.

Do we re-interpret the documentary record so that it fits the prefatory material in the First Folio? Or do we accept the documentary record for what it appears to be and regard the prefatory material in the First Folio and the monument in Stratford as a hoax or, dare we say it, a conspiracy?

Before you make your decision, you should know about the Elizabethan conspiracy relevant to the present discussion. It’s called the Essex Rebellion. It was aimed at the crown itself. Shakespeare’s dedicatee, his beloved Earl of Southampton, the “lovely boy” of the sonnets, was neck-deep in it.

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The Earl of Southampton

Note: We do not wish to impose too much upon the reader’s credulity, but we shall assume in what follows that the dedicatee of Shakespeare’s epic poetry is also the “lovely boy” of the sonnets. Even mainstream scholars should not object to this common assumption, though they will anyway.

Outrageous Fortune

In 1601, the Earl of Southampton, the Earl of Essex, and four extraordinarily unfortunate knights were arrested and charged with high treason. Southampton, Essex, and the four commoners were swiftly convicted on all charges and sentenced to gruesome deaths. At the same time, scattered sympathizers among the nobility got away with fines.

Queen Elizabeth had been ailing and the succession was in doubt: no one except Lord Burghley and perhaps Elizabeth herself knew who would be the next monarch. Essex and Southampton evidently had ideas of their own. They planned an assault on the palace. They didn’t get far.

The first Lord Burghley, William Cecil, had created a vast network of spies still in operation in 1601. Burghley’s son, Robert Cecil, having taken over from his father as the right-hand man of the monarch, easily outwitted the Southampton-Essex amateur hour. The two earls and their knighted friends got dates with the axeman, the hangman, a knife, and four horses — not the most fun kind of date.

In mulling the fate of the popular Earl of Essex, the ailing Queen, the last of the Tudor Rose monarchs, Cynthia the Moon Goddess herself, chose mercy. Elizabeth could not bear to see Essex hung by the neck, his intestines torn out, his arms and legs ripped from his body thence to be beheaded. He had, after all, been one of her favorites in better days.

One. Two. Three. And it was over. Three strokes of the axe severed Essex’s fool head from his body. He died (mostly) painlessly. The four knights, unfortunately, hadn’t had a close relationship with the Queen.

With his five friends worm food, Southampton languished in the Tower perhaps contemplating the “long life still lengthened with all happiness” wished for him by Shakespeare. The great writer’s wish was looking more and more forlorn. With luck and with mercy and by the grace of God, Southampton could hope it would be over quickly.

But then something happened that no one understands. The Moon Goddess chose a totally different kind of mercy for Southampton. The clouds parted to reveal a light shining in the young fool’s darkness.

Guilty of a crime worse than murder, having threatened the God-sanctioned Crown, the young nobleman would live on, and not just in Shakespeare’s poetry. Southampton’s sentence was set aside. He would remain in the Tower indefinitely.

No one knows why Southampton was not torn limb from limb.

Two years passed as Southampton languished in the Tower. Then the Queen died. King James of Scotland packed his bags. He would succeed Elizabeth just as Burghley and his son had planned for years. Not that it was a conspiracy.

Now Shakespeare wrote his ebullient Sonnet 107. The mortall Moone had endured her inevitable eclipse. The country, having feared civil war, was relieved as peace proclaimed Olives of endlesse age. Southampton’s life, no longer forfeit to a confin’d doome, glowed anew.

King James ordered Southampton released. 

By the grace of no-one-knows-what, the Earl stepped into the sunshine with his intestines comfortably curled in his body and his head firmly attached to his shoulders. But that’s not all. His Earldom was restored along with all of his privileges and all of his lands. And even that’s not the end of it.

For his next trick, Southampton accepted two promotions that summer. The new King made him Captain of the Isle of Wights and a Knight of the Garter, this last a singular honor throughout history including the present day.

History does not record so much as a hint as to why Southampton would be treated so.

But Shakespeare was an insider. He apparently knew why. He dared to write (repeatedly) of Southampton’s “worth.” He even wrote (in Sonnet 106) of wights and Knights! And yet he lacked the “tongue” to risk “singing” every verse.

Sonnets 106 and 107, interpreted as describing Southampton’s pardon and ensuing royal favors, are startling. If indeed they truly are history cautiously recorded, then Shakespeare was no commoner.

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Twenty years after Southampton’s stunning deliverance, the First Folio compiled all thirty-six Shakespeare plays in one magnificent volume. But something was missing — namely, all things Southampton. Two-thirds of Shakespeare’s plays were rescued from oblivion, but the two epic poems and the 154 sonnets were left to fend for themselves — they would survive Time’s scythe, or not.

In 1623, the epic poems, overtly dedicated to Southampton, had been published in several editions each and were still popular; they were relatively safe from Shakespeare’s dreaded scythe. The sonnets, however, had seen just a single edition.

In 1609, Thomas Thorpe got his hands on the sonnets and made a little book out of them. There was no author’s dedication. Thorpe wrote his own calling Shakespeare “our ever-living poet.” The great author’s most personal writings, his “sugared sonnets,” previously circulated only amongst his “private friends,” were now public.

By this time, Shakespeare was already the dominant figure in English literary history. His books were out in dozens of editions with tens of thousands of copies blanketing a city of two hundred thousand. The first Christmas of the Jacobean era had seen eleven plays performed at court, seven of them Shakespeare’s. Shakespeare’s acclaim throughout England, during his lifetime, was “staggering and unprecedented.”

But no one wanted to read the sonnets.

The first 126 sonnets, written to Shakespeare’s “lovely boy,” were an everlasting “monument” to him — such virtue hath my pen. There followed a particularly intense series of twenty-six missives addressed to a “mistress” whose eyes are raven black. Shakespeare dramatically warns her to be wise as thou art cruel.

Finally, two sonnets about a little Love-god lying once asleep as the author watches over the boy bring tears to the eye. The author’s anguish has a “cure” dependent upon his mistress’ eyes.

But readers in the England of King James were apparently above it all, hence the single edition. Really, who would want to read Shakespeare’s personal poetry? The Sonnets’ unpopularity was obviously the result of shifting literary fashion.

Let us summarize: Shakespeare dedicated the first works published under his name to Southampton; Shakespeare wrote a series of heartfelt sonnets to a “lovely boy” who was probably the young earl; Southampton committed treason; Southampton’s comrades were butchered; Queen Elizabeth died; King James ascended the throne; Southampton was released into a shower of royal favors; Shakespeare’s sonnets about Southampton and his epic poems dedicated to Southampton were excluded from the First Folio; the prefatory material in the First Folio pointed to a businessman named Shakspere and identified him as Shakespeare.

Nothing is proven. However, the sudden identification of this man — an investor who apparently neither wrote nor received letters, who died rich in 1616 with a detailed will in an apparently bookless house surrounded by two illiterate daughters, who could barely write his own name, and who was openly called “our English Terence” — as Shakespeare is not merely suspicious. It’s funny.

The Sonnets

Speaking of funny, Sonnet 87 contains the following line: “So thy great gift upon misprision growing, comes home again on better judgement making.” What could it mean?

Misprision is a legal term referring to a failure to carry out one’s duty; Shakespeare used it once in the sonnets and five times in his plays. Misprision of treason is a non-capital offense in which one does not report treasonous activity.

The mainstream hates any attempt to connect the sonnets to the Essex Rebellion or to any real-life event or to any real person. To hear the mainstream tell it, even wondering who is the subject of the sonnets is a silly “parlor game.” Don’t even mention “misprision” unless you want to witness an apoplectic fit.

A line from a sonnet can be clear as day. Still, it will be ignored: “My glass shall not persuade me I am old, so long as youth and thou are of one date” (Sonnet 22) doesn’t identify the sonnets as personal writings! Professor Shapiro suggests we “steer clear of reading these remarkable poems as autobiography.”

Rational Speculation

Shakespeare loved the Earl of Southampton to whom he dedicated his first two published works.

Shakespeare wrote 126 heartfelt sonnets to a boy whom he loved beyond measure: Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton.

Ten sonnets speak of the unkillable earl’s “worth.”

Southampton’s “worth” is “wide as the ocean is” (Sonnet 80).

Once upon a time — “thy own worth then not knowing” — Southampton himself was in the dark about this worth (Sonnet 87).

Southampton’s worth is a secret. We don’t have “skill enough your worth to sing” says the intrepid author. We bear witness to “these present days,” but we “lack toungs to praise” (Sonnet 106).

One sonnet later, the traitor with the life-saving worth strolls out of the Tower.

What was Southampton’s “worth”? Did he have a claim to the throne?

The Sonnets are not stamped TOP SECRET, but 126 personal poems, published by Thorpe in one edition, were hotter than Hell, just like the earl they immortalized.

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Words Fail

An astute businessman from Stratford in his late twenties dedicated two epic poems to a teenaged earl.

The businessman from Stratford addressed a “lovely boy” in 126 sonnets. He called him “my love,” “my all-the-world,” “my Rose,” and “all the better part of me.” But it wasn’t personal.

The lovely boy was a “tender churl” and a “self-willed” young man and “thy mother’s glass.” To look at him was to see his mother’s youth: “she in thee calls back the lovely April of her prime.” But it wasn’t personal.

The lovely boy received, over the course of 126 sonnets, the author’s love, guidance, admonishment, and unconditional support. But it wasn’t personal.

It was the author’s fondest wish that his lovely boy be celebrated forever in his “monument” of “gentle verse.” But the sonnets are “primarily fictional.”

Shakespeare was called “Our ever-living poet.” But he wasn’t dead.

Houston, Houston, Do You Copy?

Today, almost 400 years after the First Folio buried the troublesome sonnets and elevated the shrewd businessman, Lord Burghley’s heir, Michael William Cecil, the 18th Baron Burghley, is a signatory on the “Declaration of Reasonable Doubt.

The “Declaration of Reasonable Doubt” is a rational document that basically says to mainstream scholars, “Houston, we have a problem.”

James Shapiro answered by writing Contested Will, his beautiful book glorifying the mainstream viewpoint. The book is of course a Scipio-free zone. We trust the good professor did not use brooches.

Diana Price is NOT a professor. Her book, Shakespeare’s Unorthodox Biography, explains the rational viewpoint with extensive references to primary sources and to mainstream scholarship. She is NOT ten thousand times smarter than Professor Shapiro; it only seems that way.

Price is rational. That’s all.

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Lord Burghley’s descendant, Michael William Cecil, discussing Shakespeare’s apparent intimate knowledge of his ancestor.

P.S. For a fuller general discussion with details about the documentary records of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, click here. For the full story of Southampton, the sonnets, and the Essex Rebellion, click here.

P.P.S. I offer one last appeal to the 99.99 percenters.

Let us assume you are a mountain climber and that you have scrambled past the ten rocky possibilities below and have the Shakspere wrote Shakespeare peak in your sights.

It is possible six signatures were six mis-haps.
It is possible dozens of letters were lost.
It is possible Shakespeare’s magnificent library was lost.
It is possible Shakespeare’s two daughters grew up illiterate.
It is possible Davies did NOT mean Shake-speare was a front-man.
It is possible Greene did NOT mean Shake-scene was a rich idiot.
It is possible Jonson did NOT mean Chief-thief was a phony Shakespeare.
It is possible Parnassus really means Shakespeare is better than Ovid.
It is possible a man referred to as “our ever-living poet” was still alive.
It is possible a country businessman loved a powerful earl.

Congratulations. You’re almost there. After all, any life, like the deal of a random hand of playing cards, is a series of unlikely events. Shakspere must have written Shakespeare, so any sequence of possibilities upon which this depends, no matter how unlikely, must be true.

Hold on tight to that 99.99% certainty as we climb the last few meters.

What if the man who was wildly famous virtually overnight in 1593, the most successful writer in history up to that point, the man whose influence during his lifetime reset every standard ever written, the man whose popularity with Queens, Kings, Princes, and commoners alike was beyond overwhelming, the man who was a great among greats, the magical William Shakespeare — what if he wrote in his private sonnets, “I am writing under a pseudonym”?

What if he said it three times?

Would you believe it then?

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furuiue = survive

Hold on tight. It’s a long way down.

cliffface

P.P.P.S. It is hard to imagine a worse fate than being Professor Shapiro. Here’s hoping that definitive proof is NOT discovered during his lifetime. I would not want to bear witness to anyone’s fall from such a dizzying height.

Truth does not triumph by convincing its opponents and making them see the light, but rather because its opponents eventually die, and a new generation grows up that is familiar with it. — Max Planck, quoted by Thomas Kuhn in “The Structure of Scientific Revolutions.”

 

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