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LXIV. Ad Eternum Controversy

by | Sep 5, 2015 | Opus Magnum

PasilloThe birth date of the immortal (and rather immoral for some peculiars) Anglo-Saxon quill pen, William Shakespeare, has for a long time awakened [1], even before his very birth, a violent controversy.

Stella Atkinson, an extremely famous clairvoyant and skilful cartomancer who happened to be a native of Stratford-upon-Avon, foresaw that the entrance into this world of that eternal VIP dweller of the Olympus made of ink and feathers and papyruses, would be during the twenty-fifth day of the forth month of the year 1564.

This adventurous prediction did awaken [2] some doubts, if not a sheer rejection. Here we share some examples of those ratio-logical challenges:

“Is Stella fond of beer?”

“What would she think about the masterful recipes used by her grandmother to create her unique shepherds pie?”

“What’s the cost of a throw of cards?”

But also some more serious, hence useful and more grave, dilemmas were expressed:

“Or else she anticipated the advent of the undiscovered Unum Penna Avis, classified for the first time in the early days of the year 1678 thanks to the obsessive and observant work of biologist Markus Brokestahl, who until then barely knew how to be a mediocre and grey intern at the University of Freiburg: he described the bird as a bizarre cross-mix between a specimen of the Erithacus Rubecula and the blueish Elephant of Crimea, but with a sole feather, encrusted in its anal orifice; or she did foresee the birth of William Adolphous Emerithus Shakespeare.”

Thus wrote someone during a train journey offered by the Danske Statsbaner towards Berlin from Kobehayn, over an overwritten piece of paper that once was a ticket.

At the same time, the renowned [3] Lord Richard Gutton, an Anglican pastor celebrated for his Fusilli al Pesto di Rucola and also for his divinatory arts, foresaw that Will’s arrival would occur during the twenty-forth day of April (forth month) of the same year, that is 1564.

According to the opinions of Sir Peter O’Gara, head of the History department at the University of Oxford, the official date of birth (of Will Shake) should be commemorated on the twenty-third of April of the identical year, that is to say (or write, or both), 1564; or the 23 of the fourth month of the same year; or also twenty and three of the third month plus one of the previously mentioned year, that is to say (or write, or sing or all of them), 1564; accepting any other possible variation but always taking into account the very same year, which precisely is 1564. His reasoning does not lack of baroqueisms, but it is nonetheless frontal and straightforward. Questioned in his own deathbed about the origin of his conjecture, he uttered:

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”.

Some of the most reliable and respected scholars of the contemporary world tend to agree with this painful assertion; others don’t know what to believe, think, or feel. The rest are not sure, whereas they feel, believe, or yet think; the uncertainty is proving to cause many casualties within the ranks of the intellectual army: being harassed and tormented by the lack of certainty in regards to whether they are thinking, believing, or feeling, these erudites have ceased to eat out of fear of not doing what they think (or believe or feel) they are doing, or might not be doing despite feeling that they are not thinking what they might be doing… or not.

In order to help the reader understand the nature and depth, width, height, weight and density of the controversy that is unleashing not only on the British Islands, but also in the Malayan archipelago, the place where a famous Spanish scribe, victim of a violent shipwreck near east Timor, decreed in the last and saffrony pages of his personal diary:

“…(…)… suspect that W. Shakespeare was born on the eighteenth of August of 1845, year of our Lord. Why would I venture into sharing what is simply a hunch feeling? Because I’m in the fucking mood to say so. And by the way: so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so”.

That haughtiness typically shown by scientists is already well known to us; but the curious thing is that it has ignored the following astronomical piece of valuable information for such a considerable amount of time:

“During the 23rd and 24th days of April [4], a solar eclipse of such a magnitude occurred over our beloved island (British), more precisely in the region of Stratford-upon-Avon, that induced a total darkening of the region through never-ending anguished and uncertain hours; gloomy and taciturn lapses of time that provoked in those ill fated inhabitants the certainty (belief) that maybe the Judgement Day had arrived. The diurnal moments bartered into an extensive and dense night; the shepherd’s pie took the greasy and beered place of the English breakfast. There was a total absence of the bearing life light, that heated and essential expression of the sun, throughout the twenty-third day (23rd, 23, XXIII) and also during the fateful and anguished 24th day (twenty-forth, 24, XXIV). An omnipresent night projected its sombrely embracing breath over the stunned Avonians; an eternally dull company that scaled up only when Thursday had just reborn, to vanish weary and resignedly when the day, in its Saturday form, was resuscitating. It has been known, ever since, as the most persevering and depressing night of the century, without a doubt.” [5]

At the same time (around 9:78 pm) the astronomical world has found itself divided when forced to deal with such an hypothesis: on one side we find those who dare to consider that there is not a logical reason that forces the mind to regard both obscured days, that is to say (or write, or sing, or carve) the 23 and 24, or the 23th and 24th, or the XXIII and XXIV, as exceptional, as oddities that stun the mind; and on the other, those who think that there is.

Far beyond, we find those who are not sure whether there is, or there is not. Also, many casualties are being counted within this intellectual elite realm due to the lack of decision making and the predictable deaths by starvation.

On rare occasions, sports and science meet and melt into a loving hug, hold hands, and walk (and why not maybe trot a bit) on the argumentative path, to express themselves through the feather of the remarkable and admired nuclear physicist settled in Bariloche, Tito Beltrán:

“I recall those Sunday afternoons filled with anxiety and imagination when the Uruguayan voice of the football announcer filled the modest speaker of my humble and rusty radio, thus offering me a secret knowledge that would ultimately help me to dispel those shouts of discord whenever we debated with the muchachos del barrio – boys of the neighbourhood – the peculiarities of the birth of Shakespeare the bard.

“Victor Hugo was his name, a silver-rivered poet of the ether, a relator of a thousand nuptial nights between the foot and the ball. He commented on those glorious afternoons during the last years of the 1990’s, a time when the style offered by River Plate was synonym of art in movement, about the goodness of the negro Astrada, the sun of the midfield; Victor Hugo sang praising the blackened number five who was always present even if our eyes could not find him; omnipresent on the greenish galaxy.

“Having said that, please don’t start with those macanas – nonsense – about the eclipse and stupidities alike: the Bard was born the day he was born, and the negro Astrada was over the green field of Stratford-upon-Avon, even if a couple of distracted eyes failed to see him.”

An unrecognised cousin of a friend of a second uncle (on his mother’s side) of Shakespeare, in the middle of a cockfight, blurted out:

“The sun was there, but covered [6]. Now, is that a sensible justification for stop calling the day: ‘day’?”

The philosopher and onanist James Huppert Gambelputty, shreds the affair in his best-seller Tractus de Profundis Philosophicus-Logicus:

“Day and Night, two factions of an indivisible unity within the macro indivisibility of the Kantian probabilities, following Wittgenstein’s favourite method, from Kantor’s premise which establishes that two given units of time, underhanded between the third part that indicates the power among two factors, is per se absolutely indivisible and inalienable, therefore, the 23rd and 24th shall not be possibly considered as days.”

So far, nobody has ever proved to understand his postulate, although it is very much venerated in all the academic cloisters around the world.

The talented and magical worshippers of astrolabes and cartomancer protagonists of our account, scilicet Stella Atkinson and the Anglican pastor Richard Gutton, fought a duel to death on the 27th (twenty-seven) of April (fifth month of the year minus one) in the open country, under the attentive watch of a young and pubic-hairless Will Shakespeare, who for the first time had seen the light (dark) of day (night) on the 23rd (XXIII) of April (sixth month of the year minus two plus one divided two plus one plus its half).

Stella, skilled as usual and arrogant as always, both to demonstrate her wide and broad powers and the astonishing clairvoyance talents that had been bestowed upon her de natura, confronted the duel with her light and famished Smith and Will revolver; she already knew the luck that the ever-familiar fate had reserved for her. “Alea iacta est” was her last blood suffocated shout.

Foreseeably, her prediction came to life: it was fulfilled precisely as she had dreamed it during continuous nights, when a bullet blown by destiny pierced her left temple (apparently there was a lot of wind during the duel) at 7:54 pm of the 27th (twenty-seven) of April, 1575.

Unable to tolerate the bitter taste of defeat, Richard Gutton left the habits and lost himself in the insurmountable depths of the Hindu Kush.

The controversy is far from over; and up to the present date [7], 15.984.983 (fifteen million nine hundred and eighty four thousand and nine hundred and eighty three) deaths have occurred because of this absurd polemic about the day (or night) during which the birth of the eternal poet and dramatist (and apple lover) William Shakespeare, took place (and time).

Scotland Yard has already identified those groups of rogues and violent fanatics that are still keeping the fiery debate alive, and who also might be accountable for all the gruesome death toll; there are two main factions involved in this shameful dispute; sides that keep fighting as Capulets and Montagues ever since the year 1565, on the shadowy 17 Rubbegh Street, placed in the original Shakespearean town. One band identify themselves with a banner that bears the fair beauty of a face belonging to a blond woman of Welsh features, and they are known as Total Eclipse [8], whereas the rival band was (and is) known as Here Comes the Sun; their banner portraits a mysterious angel wearing a jolly moustache and holding a beetle between the middle and index fingers of his right hand.

Moving a bit away from the fervour that such a controversy inspires, we share an amusing piece of information [9]:

“William Shakespeare was not only blessed and caressed by the muses that assisted him in the worthy task of composing and producing such a magnificent literary corpus, which is both honourable and deserver of a thousand worlds, but in addition he possessed virtues and qualities of a superhuman nature. Not only was he capable of running the hundred meters in less than it takes a cock to sing at the break of dawn, or jumping over seven (7 or VII) horses on top of each other, or of cooking up to fifteen different gourmet dishes at the same time, but also, given the angelic quality of his humble and peaceful soul, he decided, in the name of harmony and concord and well-being of his entire family, never to celebrate a single birth anniversary ever again; a decision that was made during an anguished sleepless night, as his last seventh birthday was reaching its very end.”

[10]

Or as the Ming expert and anthropologist Stellan Pers Skarsgaard would have put it, during pre-oblivion times:

“Given his extreme sensitivities, and pressured by the diverse currents of opposite opinions that were still boiling within his family group which was persistently suffering the onslaught of bitter and fierce disputes that were still aroused by the correct date of arrival into this world of the already little boy genius dramatist who, with sensibleness, chose peace: thus willingly resigning to that sugary day of greasy excesses and blessed confetti that every existing child longs for on this terrestrial plane of existence.”

 

[1]           We do not overlook the verb awake, but we leave it for the following footnote. See (2)

[2]           It is still left unanswered as to whether doubts effectively sleep, or whether it is only a figurative way of the written exercise. A letter has been already sent to the editors of the Opus Magnum so they can evacuate such a reasonable doubt. If the answer is failed to be delivered, we shall resort to a home remedy or a laxative, if needed in case of emergency, without breaking the glass. It is not beneficial for the digestive system to allow such a mystical-natured doubt to linger on within one’s own body. If after a complete day (or night) the persistent question remains, it must be evacuated by any possible means.

[3]           It is fair to presume that the aforementioned was stone deaf.

[4]           The change of style suggests that the copyist got tired of writing numbers, deciding to take the Arabic numerals shortcut.

[5]           Such is as described by Robert de Truce, astronomer at the court of King Joseph Baratheon, third ruler of the land of Far, Wide and Ahead. He also was an expert in meteorites, eclipses and gnocchi kneaded with an oak rolling pin.

[6]           The Sun cannot suffer the knifey cold; himself is an emanator of heat, therefore, any joke that wished to be projected from such a word, is correctly censored.

[7]           The re-appearance of the numbers expressed through words ridicules and denies the suggestion whispered in footnote number four (4).

[8]           An urban myth is being vocalised in the suburbs of London; it is tunely affirmed that the famous song was created for and sang by Bonnie Tyler as a clear gesture of support to the obvious gang.

[9]           The offered piece is a boeuf or tenderloin, costing £87 per kilo.

[10]          The piece of text to which this footnote should have referred has been lost.

 

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