More than 40 years have passed since I hovered in a dim light over Shakespeare’s King Lear, trying to follow its intricate trail of language, hoping to find my way to what was going on before the next exam.
Looking back at it today, I am amazed at the number of underlined phrases and scribbled notes in that well-thumbed textbook. I can barely recall the intensity I took to this task, just as I recognize how for me the plot and the sense of this play largely have slipped between the cracks of the intervening years.
But does that mean all those midnight hours were spent for naught? What is left to show for the line-by-line angst of the earnest student coming seriously to the feet of the bard?
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