Hamlet is. When the play has been read, when the sustain goes down on the performance, Hamlet still is. He is, in all his ambivalence, as real as Byron; or as the man who cried out, Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief! or as Ivan Karamazov. The flight of stairs up which George MacDonald's princess had to climb would be tehe whether or not MacDonald had ever written The Princess and the Goblin. The storm still rages around King LEar. The joy of Bach's gigue at the end of the Fifth French Suite does not depend on a piano for its being.
But the reality of the outcome of all annunciations is a reality which is scoffed at by most of the world. It is one of the greater triumphs of Lucifer that he has managed to make Christians believe that a story is a lie, that a myth should be outgrown with puberty, that to act in a play is inconsistent with true religion
more blogging to come. Spain is nutz.