I am reminded I knew W.G Sebald,  (Max).  He came to dine several times. He laughed easily. I remember a conversation about theatre. He asked me about acting and we discussed madness, not that they necessarily go together - on the contrary. He sat with his back to a glass-fronted cupboard filled with books – one shelf given over to a history of art from the time I intended to limit my theatrical activity to scenic design.  I guess he found my scatty thoughts a rest from those of academic colleagues.  Thinking in pictures rather than in sentences allows me to enter a subject from any point and go in any direction – upside down sometimes…


William Shakespeare was not who I thought he was, - or, so I am warned in the press and on the radio today, 25th march 2010.  Old contenders are undergoing reassessment. It seems that I  must dust down my thoughts on the murdered Kit Marlowe, miraculously revived; take in to account the possibility of a consortium of playwrights; and once more consider the scientifically minded, Francis Bacon – the bookies favourite. Old stuff that I can well do without. But if WS is to be permanently scratched from the race, my favourite runner would have to be the urbane Edward de Vere, The Earl of Oxford, who was the choice of Dr. Sigmund Freud.  I put him forward not because I agree with the good doctor, but because he was ‘almost’ convinced by Shakespeare Identified (1920) written by the unfortunately named, J. T. Looney (Footnote: Sigmund Freud, Standard Edition, volume 20 p 63) – a joke in Shakespeare’s own vein surely – as with, ‘write me down an ass!’ 

Such matters are of vital importance for those whose livelihood depends on them. Mine doesn’t.  With my actor’s and director’s hats firmly pulled down over my ears, a rose is a rose by any other name, though on stage it may well smell of scene paint.  Regardless of who wrote what when and where it is the psychological insights and the power of the language to inspire performers and move audiences that count.

Until rock-solid proof to the contrary is presented, WS shall remain for me, the slight, balding, middle-aged man who stares from out the ubiquitous black and white portrait. He is the country boy who married and fathered three children and grew up to make good in the town.  One who was a clever business man, gentle, and hospitable, always ready, in his native 16th Century Warwickshire dialect, to buy a round,  ‘Woy daont yahow seet deeown an av a suup o loyatayll onme’ee’ay?’ (Why don’t you sit down and have a sup of light ale, on me, eh?)

At the age of 12 I memorised for homework Shakespeare’s description of life in a cold climate, ‘When icicles hang by the wall…’ I became a devotee for life, for though I was then living with my parents in Buxton, Derbyshire, a town well used to ice and snow, I too was born in Warwickshire and it wouldn’t be human of me if I didn’t take his part, cheering him on, as one fellow countryman to another.