I was buying coffee earlier today, collected Marlowe in hand, and ended up having a brief conversation with the barista about the dramatist. I told her about Kit’s death in a pub brawl (in response to her question about why he only wrote seven plays), and, ultimately, found myself describing the end of Edward II (where Edward is implicitly murdered in mock-sodimitical fashion). She seemed unfazed by this turn in the conversation (“who wouldn’t want to read that?”), but I couldn’t help thinking that three years ago I probably wouldn’t have had a conversation about monarchs being mortally skewered in their nether regions (and with a stranger, no less).
Studying early modern drama has made my life very odd.
11 April 2009 ~ St. Catharines