Yeah, it has the form of a dilemma, but there's no question in my mind: I wouldn't burn the pages. We despise old Jock Murray for burning Byron's memoir/diary; we're grateful that Max Brod disobeyed Kafka's dying wish that all he'd written should be burned. I wouldn't begin to feel I had the right to impose my judgment on all those Shakespeare-lovers who would want WS's explications, misguided though I myself might think they are -- misguided in their anticipation of happy and durable joy from reading them.
But what if the pages described WS's joy in molesting little girls or boys? Many years ago, Robert Ruark was a bestselling novelist -- "Uhuru", "Something of Value", and others. In his final years, raddled by alcohol, he wrote what was effectively pornography -- involving the seduction of very young girls. They were submitted to me. I judged them hideous and decided I would not publish them. But let's assume I had the only copies of the manuscripts, and I knew it. I wouldn't have felt I was justified in burning them. I'd have sent them back. Then let's assume someone else published them. Within a year a murderous pedophile is arrested, and convicted of half a dozen killings of little girls. And it turns out the only reading matter in his house is the Ruark novels, much thumbed and underlined. How then would I feel about my earlier decision? Would I tell myself, Well, the reading didn't cause him to kill. Both the reading and the killing were results; the cause being in his dark nature... In a message dated 12/21/09 1:58:15 PM, [email protected] writes: > I've never written fiction before, but here's a sketch for my first > attempt: > > A retired publisher (let's call him "Old Cheers") is on holiday in a > remote > Alpine valley, where he decides to visit the library of a local monastery, > with a reputation, in some circles, for the Shakespeare memorabilia > collected > byan eccentric monk in the 18th C. > > While perusing one of the dusty volumes, a small packet of pages falls to > the > floor -- and appears to be a line-by-lineexplication of "Hamlet" written > by > the Bard himself. > > Thrilled by his discovery, old Cheers can't wait to share this discovery > with > the world. > > But wait! > > What if it would ruin the experience of generations of readers to know how > Shakespeare interpreted his own work? > > His excitement turning to dismay, Cheers grimly resolves to take the > pages > back to his chalet and burn them in the fireplace. > > But first, he stops by a nearby tavern to calm his nerves, and after > passing > out at the bar,another patron happens to notice some papers half-fallen > out of > his coat pocket, and happening to be among a small team of Shakespearean > scholars who are visiting the monastery library that week, he immediately > recognizes Shakespear's hand and.... > > > (the story continues -- but I can't finish it right now)
