Howl, howl, howl

I have wasted time and now doth time waste me. It has been a while since I have posted (for those of you I failed to email the last couple times, it has been a really long time, and you should read down below this post). I have excuses that are only slightly better than those the Athenian senators trumped up when they refused to lend Timon money--midterms happened, spring break happened, etc., etc..

Before all that, though, I read Lear, and it had such an effect on me that I did not even feel I could say anything about it. When I was reading the last two acts, I could not put it down, and I had the feeling that I was rushing towards an inevitable and crushing end, like a comet caught in the gravity well of a black hole. When it was over I felt drained and empty.

I told the professor this, and he said, "When I was younger I would weep every time I finished King Lear. Now that I am older I know more about the injustice of the world and I weep less."
I can't say anything as powerful as that, but I think that the words of the play express it best when they speak for themselves.

Seeing Cordelia dead and Lear despairing, Kent asks, "Is this the promised end?" and Edgar responds, "Or image of that horror?"

In the face of such as story we can only "Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say."