“Othello and Desdemona and Iago! Warriors and banners and trumpets. Gosh, what it must be like down there.”
More planetoids, more, more, Lisabeth counted them with her simple, moving, pink lips. Moving, moving. More. There, and there!
“Down there somewhere is a man who thinks he’s Shakespeare!”
“Good for him, good,” murmured Alice, putting down her drink, lazily.
“Stratford on Avon’s down there, and strolling minstrels. All you do is bring some crazy fellow from Maine who thinks he’s Shakespeare up here and there’s the culture waiting for him, to really make him into Shakespeare! And do you know, Alice—Alice, are you listening?” John breathed swiftly. “They live and die just as the famous men lived and died. They die the same deaths, in imitation. A woman who thinks she is Cleopatra pu
