This impossible part (William Shakespeare: The Tempest / Margaret Atwood: Hag-Seed)

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?

Som pretensiøs 16-åring pløyde jeg gjennom nesten hele Shakespeare, men jeg ramlet visst av før jeg kom til The Tempest, sist som den er, og hadde faktisk verken lest eller sett den før nå (hvis vi ser bort fra de vidunderlige talene … our little life / is rounded with a sleep). Men da jeg så at Margaret Atwood hadde skrevet en gjenfortelling/nyfortolkning, ble det endelig Tempest på meg.

Og det kan jeg anbefale: Atwood er en leken og kjærlig fortolker, og særlig får hun brukt sin hovedperson, den halvgale og hevngjerrige forsmådde teaterregissøren Felix Philips, effektivt til å sortere hun nennsomt alle Prosperos problematiske og motsigende trekk. 

Maybe her eyes aren’t wide because of innocence. Maybe it’s fear. He has a split instant of seeing Prospero through the gaze of Miranda – a petrified Miranda who’s suddenly realized that her adored father is a full-blown maniac, and paranoid into the bargain. He thinks she’s asleep when he’s talking out loud to someone who isn’t there, but she’s heard him doing it, and it scares her. He says he can command spirits, raise storms, uproot trees, open tombs, and cause the dead to walk, but what’s that in real life? It’s sheer craziness. The poor girl is trapped in the middle of the ocean with a testosterone-sodden thug who wants to rape her and an ancient dad who’s totally off his gourd. No wonder she throws herself into the arms of the first sane-looking youth who bumbles her way. Get me out of here! is what she’s really saying to Ferdinand. Isn’t it?

Så etter denne leseopplevelsen tenker jeg at jeg foretrekker kommentarapparatet mitt skjønnlitterært. Og heldigvis er Hag-Seed i tillegg så veldig mye mer enn et kommentarapparat – det er en riktig sjarmerende og overraskende optimistisk fengselsroman, og en roman om teatermagi, nesten litt som Shakespeare in Love. 

There are worse battle cries (Terry Pratchett: Hogfather)

AND I MADE SURE SOME OF THEM SAW ME. I KNOW IF THEY ARE PEEPING, Death added proudly.
“Well done, sir.”
YES.
“Though here’s a tip, though. Just ‘ho, ho, ho’ will do. Don’t say, ‘Cower, brief mortals’ unless you want them to grow up to be moneylenders or some such.”

Det blir liksom ikke jul uten. Jeg hadde egentlig ikke tenkt å lese den denne jula, men så blidde det bare sånn likevel. Døden som sliter med julenissens plikter og byrder, er noe for seg selv (og vel så rørende som det meste i julefortellingsjangeren). 

“It’s all about the sun, master. White snow and red blood and the sun. Always has been.”
VERY WELL, THEN. THE HOGFATHER CAN TEACH PEOPLE THE UNREAL MEANING OF HOGSWATCH.
Albert spat over the side of the sleigh. “Hah! ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice If Everyone Was Nice,’ eh?”
THERE ARE WORSE BATTLE CRIES.

Og så er dette en av Unseen University’s beste Discworld-opptredener også. (The Cheerful Fairy! Ridcully som prøver Bloody Stupid Johnsons baderom!) De er best når de ikke bærer hovedhistorien.