Alasdair DeWitt | ♥ Seven of Hearts ♥ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dreamsofwords) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
houseofcards_rp2013-03-30 01:55 pm
dreamsofwords) wrote in houseofcards_rp2013-03-30 01:55 pm
Entry tags:
[OTA] How Do I Tolerate Thee? Let Me Count the Ways
He couldn't avoid Shakespeare every year, as much as he tried. Some years, he managed to make the argument that - since Master Henry was directing one of the plays each summer - surely the seminar he gave to the students and mandatory attendance to one of the plays was probably enough, and Alasdair could focus his attention on less ubiquitous more frequently ignored pieces of the literary canon.
This year, the dean had been firm, though. Shakespeare in each of Alasdair's classes, from the fourteen year olds up through the eighteen years olds, and a comprehensive unit - which meant the sonnets, but also meant a play. He'd picked Titus for the eldest. Love's Labour Lost for the middle class, which left him with the youngest class; in a way, it was the hardest, because Eileen Eicheln was in it along with Leigh Pekkanen-Winston, and he wanted something that challenged her and didn't leave the rest behind.
And he wanted something unlikely to be performed by the theatre troupe this year, so that he didn't have to deal with Henry clapping him on the shoulder and jovially saying it'd been such a long time since Alasdair had brought him a play, and he hoped he hadn't given up on writing?
In reality, Alasdair thought as he browsed the shelves at the Inkwell, scrutinizing the titles of the Shakespeare plays, Henry probably did hope he'd stopped writing. It had always been clear enough that he considered Alasdair subpar and wasting both of their time. And there was probably a good deal of truth to that, not that Alasdair cared to admit that.
Hmm, he thought. The Tempest, or really hedge his bets and make them read Cymbeline?
This year, the dean had been firm, though. Shakespeare in each of Alasdair's classes, from the fourteen year olds up through the eighteen years olds, and a comprehensive unit - which meant the sonnets, but also meant a play. He'd picked Titus for the eldest. Love's Labour Lost for the middle class, which left him with the youngest class; in a way, it was the hardest, because Eileen Eicheln was in it along with Leigh Pekkanen-Winston, and he wanted something that challenged her and didn't leave the rest behind.
And he wanted something unlikely to be performed by the theatre troupe this year, so that he didn't have to deal with Henry clapping him on the shoulder and jovially saying it'd been such a long time since Alasdair had brought him a play, and he hoped he hadn't given up on writing?
In reality, Alasdair thought as he browsed the shelves at the Inkwell, scrutinizing the titles of the Shakespeare plays, Henry probably did hope he'd stopped writing. It had always been clear enough that he considered Alasdair subpar and wasting both of their time. And there was probably a good deal of truth to that, not that Alasdair cared to admit that.
Hmm, he thought. The Tempest, or really hedge his bets and make them read Cymbeline?