I begin this memoir with that startling remark that I know for a fact Shakespeare reincarnated in America in the mid-20th century.
Moreover, it was my great good fortune, as the editor of a small independent publishing house in Lincoln, RI, to make contact with the bard 2.0 as it were. He called to make an appointment, citing our website’s interest in new authors, and wasted no time in claiming to be the reincarnated Shakespeare.
Arriving punctually at 2 pm on a Thursday, we introduced ourselves.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. Barret,” he said, “I hope this is the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.”
“As do I, Mr.…. Shakespeare?”
“You can just call me Henry. The name Shakespeare has been worn out by now, wouldn’t you say?”
“Henry, as in Sir Henry Neville? As you likely know…”
“Well, I certainly would know, now, wouldn’t I?” he suddenly became angry, “of course I am Sir Henry Neville, the true pen behind,” and then he took a breath and went on in a more composed tone, “the true pen behind the one known as Shakespeare. We can dissect that mess as we proceed, but I would like to advance to my purpose here this day.”
“Of course,” I agreed, “I assume you would like me to publish something you’ve written?”
Again, he lost his temper, “Hello? I am a writer; you are a publisher? Forgive me once more; you see I recently turned 67 years old. Both Sir Henry and Will lived only until the age of 52, pretty good for those days, and, outstanding for me to have also within that time produced the body of immortal work that I did. One would think ½ of the first folio would be sufficient to guarantee one’s place in a permanent heaven, but oh no! My celestial editor calls me into his office one day and says the times have changed so fundamentally that my message is no longer relevant in the form in which it was originally presented!”
He seemed truly offended, as I replied, “Yes, it can be difficult to grasp.”
“Indeed. Unlike say, oh, I don’t know, perhaps Fifty Shades of Gray? Nothing difficult to grasp there other than profound dismay that such drivel could become such a bestseller! Not only is there no grasp of the erudite in modern literature but it appears to me there is no awareness that it exists! No doubt that is why my editor sent me back to remedy the situation.”
His confidence of expression in that last sentence rang with the authority of a seasoned actor playing a familiar role. It was then I thought, oh yeah, I’m being punked by an old college buddy I recently got back in touch with. Henry went on,
“Long story short, a phrase I would have never used in my past life, at 67 years old in the year 2022 I do not know how much more time I and/or the planet has. Therefore, I need your help.”
“So, Henry, or, do you prefer Sir Henry?”
“Sir has a nice ring to it.”
“Sir Henry, have you been able to publish anything so far?”
“Self-publish only. I suppose I could self-publish everything I have; I have managed to accumulate enough wealth this life fortunately, but, you know, Will and I were never in it for the money or accolades.”
“So…you were friends with Will, Shakespeare?”
“Oh, to be sure, he was an amiable chap. He actually helped, a little, on some lines; nowhere near deserving of the credit he later received, but still, you could say we were partners of a fashion.”
“Interesting. So should we publish you Sir Henry, would it also be under a pseudonym this time?”
He chuckled, “Oh God no, it’s not like I have any societal standing or royal aspirations to protect in this life. And as far as that life, there was evidence aplenty left behind for credit to eventually be given to where credit was due, namely, me!
But oh no, scholars still trumpet Will as the one and only author! Even the Vatican came around eventually on Galileo but for some reason people have this love affair with the name Shakespeare! Oh, don’t challenge that centuries-long assumption!”
“Are you hoping to set the record straight on that?” I asked.
“Among many other things, my good man. You learn much in 500 years of paying attention, believe me. Or might I put it another way;
Truth will come to light, murder cannot be hidden long, a man’s son may, but at the length truth will out.”
With that quote he gave me the most penetrating gaze, one that removed any doubt that he knew I disbelieved him, that I believed someone had put him up to this, and I was just playing along with the charade.
His presence was suddenly both humbling and a little frightening. He certainly wasn’t dressed in Elizabethan clothing but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have a concealed rapier.
“I apologize, I have not been respectful. Sir Henry I cannot prove or disprove you are who you say you are. I am a practicing Buddhist and we believe in karma and reincarnation. However, many times people believe they are the reincarnation of someone famous because it makes them feel good about their lot in this life. I would say only the individual can truly say for sure who they may or may not have been.
I do agree with you that we enter this life with some sort of mission, or assignment, if nothing else than to grow spiritually, and expand in consciousness. And, again in Buddhist terms, to hopefully leave the wheel of reincarnation, the repeating cycle of death and rebirth.”
“Resolve our karma, learn our lessons,” he added, “and yes, never return to a planet that would make Fifty Shades of Gray a bestseller among its plentitude of other cultural sins!
Whether or not I am the reincarnation of the Elizabethan courtier Sir Henry Neville is of no matter presently. I am an author, sir, now, of certain works I have been assigned to somehow get published. Again, not for fame, fortune, or enduring literary legacy, although that would be ok, but simply because…”
And this time I interrupted him, “the truth need be out?”
“Wonderful my good man! How shall we begin?”