Prompted by Othello

Responding to Glynn’s comment of last Thursday, I present to you a man reading Othello in one sitting.

He had heard of black holes, of course, but never expected to find himself sitting with one held wearily between hands whose ligaments were failing. Yet here it was, and around the edges like a supernova halo were the distractions, fighting to keep their place: above, a stained glass window with multitudinous depictions of creation, fall, and redemption; to the right, a young girl – probably freshman – with a cute smile, curled in a ghastly Victorian armchair; below, thankfully, was only his jeaned lap – that provided no distraction, he had become quite used to it by now; and to the left a contingent of three students, busily yet quietly studying.

But before him, the great vacuum: page 185, line 220: “IAGO     O, ‘tis foul in her.”

It must have great significance, somehow, for he had read it now about thirty times. Involuntarily, yet maliciously on the part of the book, it drew itself to his mouth as he stifled a yawn. The girl with the cute smile flashed him a grin; the students did not break their studies; the window streamed in sunlight; his jeans were silent.

“IAGO     O, ‘tis foul in her.”

He shook his head, blinking the blear from his drying contact lenses. It really wasn’t fair; he had the tremendous privilege of holding in his hand the illimitable Shakespeare – and normally he would have drank it in like the girlfriend’s ear bent on stories of her boyfriend’s youth. Like Desdemona drank in Othello’s stories, actually. But now Othello was ninety, his stories one hundred and ten; and Desdemona was mostly deaf, and glad of it.

“IAGO     O, ‘tis foul in her.”

Even with the text on one page, and notes on the opposite page, 185 pages is a significant number to read all at once. He paused to glance up, ruminating on his accomplishment. Is that writing on the stained glass? It is! But a little too far away to read…could he get up and go closer?

“IAGO     O, ‘tis foul in her.”

A deep sigh is drawn, index finger to temple and thumb to jaw as his head bends back into the text. The cute girl unfolds herself and leaves – a lot of girls on campus wear those jeans, it seems, the stitching in the pocket reminding him of the Conrail logo, or maybe a bird on the wing. The pages turn, more rapidly now. It really is quite nice that the text is only ever other page. The halo of distractions disappear as Othello is drawn deeper and deeper in, Iago’s trap is too neatly laid, and properly for Othello’s pride. Then it comes to it – the bed – the pillow – muffled cries and murderous anguish—

The cute girl has returned. “Whatcha reading?” she asked, her smile of immense power swallowing the black hole – physically impossible, scientists would say, yet here it is. He glances down and blinks.

“Umm…”

Don’t forget to leave a comment for Thursday’s piece! See you tomorrow.