I find the various theories about how the plays and poems were in fact written by other people endlessly interesting. And not just because it becomes the fodder for fun films…
It would appear the bottom line is that a man from pretty much nowhere with a limited education and as best can be ascertained the most bourgeois of personal aspirations could be by almost universal acclaim the greatest poet in England’s history, just annoys the heck out of people.
Me, I’m not surprised by the possibility.
I find it totally plausible.
And, in fact, I love that it is so.
As one of his characters reflects
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet,
to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me—
nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.
Not everyman. Not everywoman.
And that one.
A miracle waiting to unfold…
And open to endless play, to the fullness of imagination sparked and offering reinterpretation to every generation…