I was in that... place, yet again. The young chap (the one pegged for promotion) stormed out this evening. That's because, well, that's what happens when you promote a young seventeen year old boy over those more experienced and well educated. Naturally, the young lady (also only 17) will probably be promoted instead, but only because her sister is banging the boss (that is the younger of the two thugs).
However, before I went into that... place, with those... people (my 'learned' colleagues) I had lunch at the local, reading and writing outside in the sunshine. One person there did take an interest, and I explained that I was writing a play (Boadicea), which is written along classical lines and influenced more by Christopher Marlowe than William Shakespeare. If nothing else, it was nice for someone to take an interest. Moreover, someone that has actually read Marlowe.
I should imagine that such a work will be little recognised in its own day. This is not Elizabethan England, evidently. Yet there is one crumb of comfort. I could have written a load of prosaic nonsense, some sub-standard novel, or perhaps devoted my life to making silly games which are soon made obsolete in only a few years, long since forgotten. Literature, great literature, weathers the storm of time. It is like the classical culture itself: eternal.
Were Marlowe here today, he would surely be working in McDonald's or on the end of a dole queue. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently.
Max.
No comments:
Post a Comment