"Our revels now are ended" performed by David Threlfall

  

David Threlfall speaks Prospero’s lines from "The Tempest," act IV, scene 1. As a masque comes to its close, the sorcerer contemplates the end of life – and the playwright, perhaps, considers the end of his career

from "The Tempest," spoken by Prospero

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits and 

Are melted into air, into thin air: 

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 

The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve 

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 

As dreams are made on, and our little life 

Is rounded with a sleep. 

"We Band of Brothers," The St. Crispin's Day Speech performed by Kenneth Branagh

Kenneth Branagh performs the inspirational speech of Henry V to his men as they go forth into the Battle of Agincourt on St. Crispin's Day, Oct. 25, 1415.

The other actors in the scene are

• Brian Blessed as Thomas Beaufort, Duke of EXETER, uncle to King Henry V. Exeter was the third son John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and half-brother to the late Henry IV, aka Henry Bolingbroke, who was the first son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster.
• Paul Gregory as the Ralph Neville, 1st Earl of WESTMORELAND
• Nicholas Ferguson as the Richard Beauchamp, 13th Earl of WARWICK (but reading lines written for Thomas Montagu, 4th Earl of SALISBURY)

from "Henry V," spoken by King Henry V of England

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

WESTMORELAND

Of fighting men they have full three score thousand.

EXETER 

There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh.

SALISBURY (read by WARWICK in Branagh's 1989 film)

These are fearful odds

WESTMORELAND

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day!

KING HENRY V

What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more, methinks, would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day: then shall our names.

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

"Now, gods, stand up for bastards" performed by Riz Ahmed

 

Riz Ahmed speaks Edmund’s soliloquy from the start of Act I, Scene 2 in "King Lear." Edmund reflects upon being an illegitimate son and plots against his half-brother, Edgar.

from "King Lear," spoken by Edmund, the illegitimate son of the Earl of Gloucester

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law

My services are bound. Wherefore should I

Stand in the plague of custom, and permit

The curiosity of nations to deprive me?

For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines

Lag of a brother? Why bastard? Wherefore base?

When my dimensions are as well compact,

My mind as generous, and my shape as true

As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us

With base? With baseness, bastardy? Base, base?

Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take

More composition and fierce quality

Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,

Go to th’ creating a whole tribe of fops

Got ‘tween asleep and wake? Well then,

Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land.

Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund

As to th’ legitimate. Fine word-,’legitimate’!

Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed

And my invention thrive, Edmund the base

Shall top the legitimate. I grow, I prosper:

Now gods, stand up for bastards! 

"You common cry of curs," Coriolanus, performed by Paul Mauch

Paul Mauch performs as Coriolanus, in "Coriolanus" Act III, Scene III. 

Gnaeus Marcius is a Roman general who earns the toponymic cognomen "Coriolanus" after his military feats besieging the Volscians at the town of Corioli in 493 BC. Following his success he seeks to be consul in 491 BC, two years after Coriolanus' victory over the Volscians, as Rome was recovering from a grain shortage. A significant quantity of grain was imported from Sicily, and the senate debated the manner in which it should be distributed to the commoners. Coriolanus advocated that the provision of grain should be dependent upon the reversal of the pro-plebeian political reforms arising from the First Secessio Plebis in 494 BC. The populace were incensed at Coriolanus' proposal, and the tribunes put him on trial. The senators argued for the acquittal of Coriolanus, or at the least a merciful sentence. Coriolanus refused to attend on the day of his trial, and he was convicted. 

Coriolanus makes this speech berating the plebians before fleeing to the Volsci in exile. 

There, he was received and treated kindly, and resided with the Volscian leader Attius Tullus Aufidius. Coriolanus and Aufidius led the Volscian army against Roman towns, colonies and allies. Roman colonists were expelled from Circeii. They then retook the formerly Volscian towns of Satricum, Longula, Pollusca and Corioli. Then the Volscian army took the Roman towns of Lavinium, Corbio, Vitellia, Trebia, Lavici and Pedum.

Coriolanus's mother Volumniam Coriolanus's wife Virgilia and their child, dissuade him from destroying Rome, urging him instead to clear his name and he signs a peace treaty on behalf of the Volscians. When he returns to the Volscian capital of Antium (Anzio), conspirators, organised by Aufidius, kill him for his betrayal.

"The Other Solos" are a series of Shakespeare monologues that deal with issues of identity, migration, power and exile, performed by actors whose mother tongue is not English. This project was developed in response to recent world events and the increasing sentiment against migration in the media and Western society.

from "Coriolanus," spoken by exiled Roman General Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate

As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize

As the dead carcasses of unburied men

That do corrupt my air, I banish you;

And here remain with your uncertainty!

Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!

Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,

Fan you into despair! Have the power still

To banish your defenders; till at length

Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels,

Making not reservation of yourselves,

Still your own foes, deliver you as most

Abated captives to some nation

That won you without blows! Despising,

For you, the city, thus I turn my back:

There is a world elsewhere.

"To Be or Not to Be," performed by Adrian Lester

Adrian Lester speaks Hamlet’s soliloquy from "Hamlet" Act III, scene 1, in which Hamlet, the prince of Denmark, reflects on mortality and considers taking his own life.

from "Hamlet," spoken by Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.

"These are the forgeries of jealous" performed by Ayesha Dharker

 

Ayesha Dharker plays Titania, the queen of the fairies in "A Midsummer Night’s Dream." Titania has quarrelled with Oberon, king of the fairies. As the pair have control over the weather, their argument leads to a vision of nature’s chaos.

from "A Midsummer Night’s Dream," spoken by Titania, Queen of the Fairies

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

These are the forgeries of jealousy:

And never, since the middle summer's spring,

Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,

By paved fountain or by rushy brook,

Or in the beached margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,

But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.

Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,

As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea

Contagious fogs; which falling in the land

Have every pelting river made so proud

That they have overborne their continents:

The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,

The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn

Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;

The fold stands empty in the drowned field,

And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;

The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,

And the quaint mazes in the wanton green

For lack of tread are undistinguishable:

The human mortals want their winter here;

No night is now with hymn or carol blest:

Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,

Pale in her anger, washes all the air,

That rheumatic diseases do abound:

And thorough this distemperature we see

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts

Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,

And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,

The childing autumn, angry winter, change

Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which:

And this same progeny of evils comes

From our debate, from our dissension;

We are their parents and original. 

"You call me misbeliever" performed by Konstantinos Kavakiotis

 

Konstantinos Kavakiotis speaks Shylock’s lines from "The Merchant of Venice," Act I, Scene 3, in which the moneylender responds to a request for a loan by reminding his adversary, Antonio, of the times he has insulted him and explains to one of his clients why racism is not good for business.

 

"The Other Solos" are a series of Shakespeare monologues that deal with issues of identity, migration, power and exile, performed by actors whose mother tongue is not English. This project was developed in response to recent world events and the increasing sentiment against migration in the media and Western society.

from "The Merchant of Venice," spoken by Shylock

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys and my usances:

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, 

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,

And all for use of that which is mine own.

Well then, it now appears you need my help:

Go to, then; you come to me, and you say

'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so;

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

Over your threshold: moneys is your suit

What should I say to you? Should I not say

'Hath a dog money? is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or

Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key,

With bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this; 

'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;

You spurn'd me such a day; another time

You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies

I'll lend you thus much moneys'?

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears" performed by Damien Lewis

Damian Lewis performs Antony’s lines from Act III, Scene 2 of Julius Caesar. Marc Antony has been granted permission to speak at Caesar’s funeral so long as he does not implicate the conspirators in his death, but he skillfully turns the crowd against them.

from "Julius Caesar," spoken by Marc Antony

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–

For Brutus is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honourable men–

Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause:

What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?

O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

"Are you meditating on virginity?" performed by Sacha Dhawan

 

Sacha Dhawan delivers an edited version of Parolles’s lines from the first scene of "All’s Well That Ends Well." Parolles urges Helena to consider the importance of losing one’s virginity.

from "All's Well That Ends Well," spoken by Parolles

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Are you meditating on virginity?

Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be

blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with

the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It

is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to

preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational

increase and there was never virgin got till

virginity was first lost. That you were made of is

metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost

may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is

ever lost: 'tis too cold a companion; away with 't!

... 'tis against the

rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity,

is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible

disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin:

virginity murders itself and should be buried in

highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate

offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites,

much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very

paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach.

Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of

self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the

canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose

by't: out with 't! within ten year it will make

itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the

principal itself not much the worse: away with 't!

"All the world’s a stage," performed by Benedict Cumberbatch

Benedict Cumberbatch performs William Shakespeare’s "As You Like It," the sad Jacques delivers these lines as a monologue in Act II, Scene VII. The monologue is centered on a conceit comparing life to a play. Jacques borrows this conceit from Duke Senior, who remarks after learning of Orlando’s misfortunes that:

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in

Jacques, renowned for his cynical wit, immediately responds by blowing this conceit out of proportion. According to Jacques, man essentially plays seven parts in his lifetime:

1. The helpless infant
2. The whining schoolboy
3. The emotional lover
4. The devoted soldier
5. The wise judge
6. The clueless old man
7. The corpse

from "As You Like It," spoken by Jacques

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;

And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything

On the 600th aniversary of the Battle of Agincourt

St Crispin's Day Speech from William Shakespeare's "Henry V, Act IV Scene iii 18–67"

at the Battle of Agincourt, on St. Crispin's Day, Oct. 25, 1415

Ralph Neville, 1st Earl of Westmorland

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work today!

KING HENRY V. What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin, Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.

"Morning of the Battle of Agincourt, 25th October 1415,"
painted by Sir John Gilbert 1884

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say “These wounds I had on Crispin's day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

During the Hundred Years’ War between England and France, Henry V, the young king of England, leads his forces to victory at the Battle of Agincourt in northern France.
Two months before, Henry had crossed the English Channel with 11,000 men and laid siege to Harfleur in Normandy. After five weeks the town surrendered, but Henry lost half his men to disease and battle casualties. He decided to march his army northeast to Calais, where he would meet the English fleet and return to England. At Agincourt, however, a vast French army of 20,000 men stood in his path, greatly outnumbering the exhausted English archers, knights, and men-at-arms.
The battlefield lay on 1,000 yards of open ground between two woods, which prevented large-scale maneuvers and thus worked to Henry’s advantage. At 11 a.m. on October 25, the battle commenced. The English stood their ground as French knights, weighed down by their heavy armor, began a slow advance across the muddy battlefield. The French were met by a furious bombardment of artillery from the English archers, who wielded innovative longbows with a range of 250 yards. French cavalrymen tried and failed to overwhelm the English positions, but the archers were protected by a line of pointed stakes. As more and more French knights made their way onto the crowded battlefield, their mobility decreased further, and some lacked even the room to raise their arms and strike a blow. At this point, Henry ordered his lightly equipped archers to rush forward with swords and axes, and the unencumbered Englishmen massacred the French.
Almost 6,000 Frenchmen lost their lives during the Battle of Agincourt, while English deaths amounted to just over 400. With odds greater than three to one, Henry had won one of the great victories of military history. After further conquests in France, Henry V was recognized in 1420 as heir to the French throne and the regent of France. He was at the height of his powers but died just two years later of camp fever near Paris.

The Kingdom of France

French casualties range from 7,000 to 10,000 (mostly killed) and about 1,500 noble prisoners. French notable casualties:

Leading officers:

Charles I d'Albret's arms

•     Charles I d'Albret, Count of Dreux, the Constable of France
•     Jacques de Châtillon, Lord of Dampierre, the Admiral of France
•     David de Rambures, the Grand Master of Crossbowmen
•     Guichard Dauphin, Master of the Royal Household

Three dukes:

•     Antoine of Burgundy, Duke of Brabant and Limburg, and consort Duke of Luxembourg (a brother of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy)
•     John I, Duke of Alençon-Perche, the second-in-command after d'Albret.
•     Edward III, Duke of Bar (along with his brother and nephew)

Seven counts (eight with d'Albret):

•     Philip of Burgundy, Count of Nevers and Rethel (another brother of John the Fearless)
•     Frederick of Lorraine, Count of Vaudémont (brother of Charles II, Duke of Lorraine)
•     Robert of Bar, Count of Marle and Soissons (nephew of Edward III, Duke of Bar).
•     John VI, Count of Roucy
•     Waleran III of Luxembourg, Count of Ligny and Saint-Pol (called "Count of Fauqemberg" in the chronicles)
•     Edward II, Count of Grandpré
•     Henry II, Count of Blâmont

Some 90 bannerets and others, including:

•     Jean de Montaigu, Archbishop of Sens
•     John of Bar, Lord of Puisaye (brother of Edward III of Bar)
•     Jean I de Croÿ, Lord of Croÿ-d'Araines and two of his sons, John and Archambaud
•     Jean de Béthune, Lord of Marueil
•     Gallois de Fougières, Provost Marshal, commemorated as the first French gendarme to lose his life in battle.

Among the circa 1,500 prisoners taken by the English, were the following French notables:

•     Jean Le Maingre ("Boucicaut"), the Marshal of France.
•     Charles of Artois (Count of Eu), the French Lieutenant of Normandy and Guyenne.
•     John of Bourbon (Duke of Bourbon-Auvergne-Forez), probably the greatest lord of southern France
•     Charles of Orleans (Duke of Orleans-Blois-Valois), a great lord of central France, titular head of the "Armagnac" party. (his brother, John of Orleans (Count of Angoulême-Périgord), another great lord, had been in English captivity since 1412).
•     Louis de Bourbon (Count of Vendôme)
•     Arthur de Richemont, brother of John VI, Duke of Brittany, step-brother of Henry V (he was the son of Joan of Navarre, dowager-queen of England).

The Kingdom of England

King Henry V's arms

At least 112 dead, unknown wounded. English notable casualties:

•     Edward of Norwich, 2nd Duke of York
•     Michael de la Pole, 3rd Earl of Suffolk
•     Dafydd Gam (Davy Gam) Welsh hero who reputedly saved Henry V's life at Agincourt
•     Jan I van Brederode

Cadaeic Cadenza, a poem in π

To my critics who think I include "too much mathematics" in my poetry, I have found that beats my wildest attempts at using mathematical number theory.
It's also one of the biggest formulaic constraints on writing a poem I've ever read, Mike Keith's "Cadaeic Cadenza." Why is it so constrained?

Think π.

"Cadaeic Cadenza" is a short story/poem of about 4,000 words composed in Standard "Pilish," or "πlish" in which the length (in letters) of successive words in the story "spells out" the digits of the number π - in this case, the first 3,834 digits. The constraint is reflected in the story itself: its narrator discovers that all the books in the world have suddenly been transformed into πlish. In order to illustrate this for us, the readers, excerpts from the πlish version of several works of literature are included in the story.

Written in 1996, "Cadaeic Cadenza" still holds the record for the longest composition using this particular constraint. Every word in the poem/story below comes from π. It begins thus (3.1415926...):

One
A Poem

A Raven

Midnights so dreary, tired and weary,
Silently pondering volumes extolling all by-now obsolete lore.
During my rather long nap - the weirdest tap!
An ominous vibrating sound disturbing my chamber's antedoor.
"This", I whispered quietly, "I ignore".

Perfectly, the intellect remembers: the ghostly fires, a glittering ember.
Inflamed by lightning's outbursts, windows cast penumbras upon this floor.
Sorrowful, as one mistreated, unhappy thoughts I heeded:
That inimitable lesson in elegance - Lenore -
Is delighting, exciting...nevermore.

Ominously, curtains parted (my serenity outsmarted),
And fear overcame my being - the fear of "forevermore".
Fearful foreboding abided, selfish sentiment confided,
As I said, "Methinks mysterious traveler knocks afore.
A man is visiting, of age threescore."

Taking little time, briskly addressing something: "Sir," (robustly)
"Tell what source originates clamorous noise afore?
Disturbing sleep unkindly, is it you a-tapping, so slyly?
Why, devil incarnate!--" Here completely unveiled I my antedoor--
Just darkness, I ascertained - nothing more.

While surrounded by darkness then, I persevered to clearly comprehend.
I perceived the weirdest dream...of everlasting "nevermores".
Quite, quite, quick nocturnal doubts fled - such relief! - as my intellect said,
(Desiring, imagining still) that perchance the apparition was uttering a whispered "Lenore".
This only, as evermore.

Silently, I reinforced, remaining anxious, quite scared, afraid,
While intrusive tap did then come thrice - O, so stronger than sounded afore.
"Surely" (said silently) "it was the banging, clanging window lattice."
Glancing out, I quaked, upset by horrors hereinbefore,
Perceiving: a "nevermore".

Completely disturbed, I said, "Utter, please, what prevails ahead.
Repose, relief, cessation, or but more dreary 'nevermores'?"
The bird intruded thence - O, irritation ever since! -
Then sat on Pallas' pallid bust, watching me (I sat not, therefore),
And stated "nevermores".

Bemused by raven's dissonance, my soul exclaimed, "I seek intelligence;
Explain thy purpose, or soon cease intoning forlorn 'nevermores'!"
"Nevermores", winged corvus proclaimed - thusly was a raven named?
Actually maintain a surname, upon Pluvious seashore?
I heard an oppressive "nevermore".

My sentiments extremely pained, to perceive an utterance so plain,
Most interested, mystified, a meaning I hoped for.
"Surely," said the raven's watcher, "separate discourse is wiser.
Therefore, liberation I'll obtain, retreating heretofore -
Eliminating all the 'nevermores' ".

Still, the detestable raven just remained, unmoving, on sculptured bust.
Always saying "never" (by a red chamber's door).
A poor, tender heartache maven - a sorrowful bird - a raven!
O, I wished thoroughly, forthwith, that he'd fly heretofore.
Still sitting, he recited "nevermores".

The raven's dirge induced alarm - "nevermore" quite wearisome.
I meditated: "Might its utterances summarize of a calamity before?"
O, a sadness was manifest - a sorrowful cry of unrest;
"O," I thought sincerely, "it's a melancholy great - furthermore,
Removing doubt, this explains 'nevermores' ".

Seizing just that moment to sit - closely, carefully, advancing beside it,
Sinking down, intrigued, where velvet cushion lay afore.
A creature, midnight-black, watched there - it studied my soul, unawares.
Wherefore, explanations my insight entreated for.
Silently, I pondered the "nevermores".

"Disentangle, nefarious bird! Disengage - I am disturbed!"
Intently its eye burned, raising the cry within my core.
"That delectable Lenore - whose velvet pillow this was, heretofore,
Departed thence, unsettling my consciousness therefore.
She's returning - that maiden - aye, nevermore."

Since, to me, that thought was madness, I renounced continuing sadness.
Continuing on, I soundly, adamantly forswore:
"Wretch," (addressing blackbird only) "fly swiftly - emancipate me!"
"Respite, respite, detestable raven - and discharge me, I implore!"
A ghostly answer of: "nevermore".

" 'Tis a prophet? Wraith? Strange devil? Or the ultimate evil?"
"Answer, tempter-sent creature!", I inquired, like before.
"Forlorn, though firmly undaunted, with 'nevermores' quite indoctrinated,
Is everything depressing, generating great sorrow evermore?
I am subdued!", I then swore.

In answer, the raven turned - relentless distress it spurned.
"Comfort, surcease, quiet, silence!" - pleaded I for.
"Will my (abusive raven!) sorrows persist unabated?
Nevermore Lenore respondeth?", adamantly I encored.
The appeal was ignored.

"O, satanic inferno's denizen -- go!", I said boldly, standing then.
"Take henceforth loathsome "nevermores" - O, to an ugly Plutonian shore!
Let nary one expression, O bird, remain still here, replacing mirth.
Promptly leave and retreat!", I resolutely swore.
Blackbird's riposte: "nevermore".

So he sitteth, observing always, perching ominously on these doorways.
Squatting on the stony bust so untroubled, O therefore.
Suffering stark raven's conversings, so I am condemned, subserving,
To a nightmare cursed, containing miseries galore.
Thus henceforth, I'll rise (from a darkness, a grave) -- nevermore!

-- Allanpoe, E.

Two
Change

My customary bedtime reading book hastily shelved, I sat, bewildered, pondering Allanpoe's poetry.
"Something's wrong", I murmured. "Despite Ravenesque timbres, so mesmerizing (the echo

'nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
...'

survives, for example), my intellect detects wrongful alteration. This imitation, simulated Raven!..."
I recognized large, arbitrary changes. "Odd", I thought. "Why?" To research, I headed downstairs, muttering softly, "Hmm".
I hastened below carefully, there revisiting my book room. Books inhabited each table, shelf, and nook. Taking Cambridge Literature Treasury and proceeding to "Poetry, Poe's", my fears - oh my God! - heightened. Sighting no Raven but The Dark Bird, severe distress arose. "Absolutely, The Raven is maimed!", I exclaimed. "How?!"
Immediately arriving upstairs, I posited a conspiracy: a literature alteration conspiracy. "Are," I did quietly question, "all writings changed?"

Three
Of Carrolls

Jabwocky

Slithy toves, borogove
Gimbled there all out in strathwabe
Mimified and gyrified,
A rath is outergrabe.

"Beware a scrunch, a scratch, stepson!
Beware Jubjub, withstand a word!
Respect the Jabberwock and dread
Manxomian songbird!"

He, sword off hand, placement maintained
Thus to complete father's grand quest -
Then waited, vaunting showily
His progenitor's crest.

Therewith three swords he animized,
Before the creature, rumbling.
It was alive; its feelers straight
Burbled while whiffling!

The vorpall sword o' vulcanite
Smote - snicker! snacker! - artfully
A headless Wocky residue
Yielded strength mournfully.

"Youth did it - O, praised fearlessness!"
He issued melodies, forthright.
"Death's strike! O, day! Strallough! Stralleigh!" -
A-chortling in delight.

Borogove, strange slithy troves,
A brilligtime quickstep
Mimsy creatures, gimblified,
Frolicked on a steppe.

Four
An Hypothesis

I exhausted Carroll's rewritten ode, Jabwocky, soliciting essential clues to fully explain my difficulty.
"A Heisenberg Twinge could have modified books' contents thusly, but (my dubious thinking declared) surely these mutations are willed. I could sit and research a quantity of poetry's excellent, famous passages, or try uncovering the structures."
I therefore chose to scrutinize the words, and deliberate. I pondered games of alphabets, verses, language, sentences, equations, words. Lifting feather and inking it, my quill carefully scribbled thus:

A few schemata involving linguistical play

Lipograms: Writing so a letter's missing
Haiku: An uncommon ode (poem) bearing eccentric metrification characteristics
A Cento: Quite strange poem; borrowed lines
Anagram: To turn an item (words) into a novel expression
Double-entendres: Words, dualistic sense
Palindrome: Forwards or backwards, words are not transformed ("Redraw, detooted warder!")
A pangram: An amazing sentence, using whole alphabet
Acrostic: Inspected vertically, letters spell additional statement
Mnemonic: Can remember a factoid using this device
Pun: Groaner ("Stop, pundit!")

Thus utilizing the plumelike pen, I hesitated.
"To cause these variations surely insinuates much diabolical, innovative ingenuity. My poetry's clearly overturned; I cannot, however, rationalize. The [repeating] diabolical, innovative ingenuity! Although most beguiled, actually I'm near exhaustion. I am defeated, quite defeated, and undone!", I yelled.
Truthfully, the eerie enigma was greatly intriguing. Reading afresh Raven's discourses, I considered many options - a palindrome, a mnemonic, a conundrum.
"Full of mysteries, these poems crave observant review," I announced. Thoughts involving rest stayed, however, slowly causing lethargy.
"Now," (quietly said) "this sojourner will seek serenity. To bring sleep, the Musical Anthology usually renders help." Turning to "Poetry, Anderson", thus emerged a remarkable poem suggesting Jon's musical group, Yes.

Five
Dreams

Many depths of accustomed
Workings controlled when dreams single electric life do touch
Assessing expression, future affection, ways yesterday
O, to yesterday
The day, a way, flying through someone
Controlled my reigning

Accepting evenings knowledge, a shout
To a revelation laid endings, talks by a flower
No yesterdays, heart faster alternate
Mutant leaves creativity
Of clay, understand doors reigning silhouette our skylines
A stone

Expression - a children's - and being
Discoursing in lands, not put movement
Of hate - all expression creativity
The queen, those
Thousand answers sights done, understood, to mean changed
Love daughters

Memory come between all my antics
Did splendour I tell, a confusion endlessly?
We quickly as turned understood
Seed on turned
Mountains flowering of my sunrise, forgotten valley
Reasons together

Oh, all hands when highest
Touching a future way there's thunderous oppression
Straining and work, a spirit's
To a winter
Will I be, I regaining, returning, to this woman?
Outbound corner

Not I, apart yesterdays
You controlled my relayers, runner. I remember
My endlessly quickly soft mover
Night, night, deliver
Proportion spread running down forgotten coloured day rebounds
Watch loneliness

Arose ways satisfied from round
Thoughts consider touch preacher nailed daughters, as turned
Political regaining clear flower expressed
Understand rearrange, we dancing
We a foundation, morning, endlessly morning, while
Encounters searching

Not understand, my awakening
Hurry shoot out to transformed mutant
Enemy son, when here dislocate
Recorded chasers to battleship
In charger white begun returning moment loneliness
Is not seemed

From relayer's silhouette charge
Liquid sweet girl disregard, conceived topographic endlessly
Strength mornings I consider the good; highest
Splendour reasons silence
Watch one space season glider, I'll awaken
Regaining together

Silhouette amongst them, to lights
Stand more to stare, as watched begotten
There's to begin solid, I remember
A madrigal; tell a marcher,
Touch wonder's hand, there's running my eclipses
Somewhere accustomed

Returning,
Awakens
Awakens
Awakens
Awakens
To stories wonderous

Six
Cadaeics

Conundrums, conundrums, conundrums...nonsense! I needed some outdoor atmosphere. Taking Cambridge's Literature, I opened a door, waved my hand, commenced a promenade.
"I'm a Cadaeic!"
Huh?
"I'm a Cadaeic! I'm a real Cadaeic!", shouted an old woman.
Astonished, I took a step back.
"A veritable Cadaeic, old woman? Really?" Cadaeics' myths were numerous. A clique, a new mystic association, whose members had...power. An eerie power. So, I was now most curious. Still, staying calm, I placidly said, "Elucidate more, please."
"Cadaeics have," she murmured, "power. Do you?..."
"Yes, so I've intimated. Regardless, . . . Cadaeic? You apprehend this?" I said.
"Yes, sir. The true power lies greatly, heavily, within me."
"What," I softly inquired, "manner of power? A strength? telepathy? learning?"
"The power" (thusly continued that wizardly woman) "makes change in paralleled, tunneling universes. As I cultivate it, it is a powerful good, an element of great peace. Deplorably, he - Surta - uses it quite evilly, altering original Cadaeic intent."
"Changes? A Cadaeic scoundrel generating wild mutations? This, though intriguing, I cannot quite see. This humble spirit requires validation - your narrative produces numerous doubts!"
"My apology, oh sir - I'm utterly desperate. A Cadaeic normally avoids 'incapables', enjoying other Cadaeic contacts only. Can, stranger, you befriend me? Cadaeic existence - indeed, people's existence - demands prompt action."
Startled, I then asked, "What? A pedestrian incapable's worthless skill?"
"You, stranger, treasure the crucial analytic skills. Our people undervalue numerical ideas, preferring arcane, mystical, Cadaeified philosophy. Please help! Oh my Surta! O my Surta! Oh, lamentable Surta! O!"
I replied, "Yes, outlander, I'm available, amenable - also, somewhat numerical. Please, completely disclose:
When I am expected,
What assorted mathlike topics to review carefully,
plus
Where Surta's mysterious home is."
"Come, I recommend, before seven on tomorrow night (Michaelmas it is). Of a mathematic nature, review mensuration, infinite series, and trisection. Surta's shadowy home? Meet me. Cadaeic fortress awaits."
As my rendezvous was concluded, I meandered back, returning home.
"Quite impossible, what?", thought I. "An old Cadaeic, a bad Cadaeic...mythical powers subverted, indeed!" Regardless, curiosity still stayed. The woman's plea was serious, I concluded.
I desired an easement - perhaps more poetry. Opening Oxford's volume near "Poetry, Eliot", stanzas quite strange yet notorious filled my eyes. I saw Prufrock Lovesongs remarkably modified, thusly:

Seven
Prufrock

Let us depart then,
While eventide's withering skies threaten,
Impersonating the sufferers etherising upon pallets;
Together henceforth go, through these partially-unoccupied boulevards,
Muttering arguments like shards
About furtive nights amid threadbare hostels,
Discreet dialogues among oystershells,
Street complexes like dreary argument.
Its insidious regiment
Now leads to heavy questions . . .
Never inquire distinctly, 'wherefore?'
Directly go visit, herefore.

To an affair th' matriarchs sadly go
To talk touching MicAngelo.

Mist, cellophane breaths, rubbing on window latches,
A creamlike mist, rubbing, muzzling on window lattices
Soon lingered on watery apartments a curt instant,
Licked eventide's perimeter, tonguelike
(Partially discolored by fallen soot),
Vacillated a bit, making one extremely fast leap,
And, deeming that March night too remarkably quiet,
Stealthily curled womblike in quiescence, and fell perfectly asleep.

So, truly so, will exist a sundown
When amberlike fog permeates Cambridge Street
Above a door and a pane of doorglass;
Peaceful nighttimes darkening a boulevard,
Nighttimes whence faces verbalize to faces;
Nighttimes expedient for murders, or to intercommunicate;
Nighttime labors that create a query,
A query exalted, henceforth summarily despised.
Times touching you, touching anybody whom I appreciate.
Times involving several thousand hiatuses,
Forty illusions, forty revisions,
Finally settled by elegantly sipping green teas.

Matriarch speakers persevere [the discourses I forego],
A-talking about old MicAngelo.

So, cursedly, will remain eternity.
I can meditate: 'To aspire? Evermore aspire?'
Mornings for mounting stairs,
Brushing uncovered spot in nervous, swarthy hair -
[I think she'll certainly recognize a thinness!]
Stiff shirt, adamantly in place on chin,
Newly-purchased black tie, decorated using glamorous gold pin
[I conjecture he'll pronounce forthwith: 'Heavens! So frail! So thin!]
Should discreet adventures
Confound this earth?
Certainly eternity remains
To preside and deride, then turn around, reversing prior opinions.

Life advances, barely known -
The mornings, the bright middays, the nights of it.
My career is marked, poignantly, utilizing teaspoons;
I do know voices collapsing, sleepily collapsing, dying.
I do know the melodies emerging from the anterooms.
Henceforth, what ought I do?

Full well I did notice those eyes, everyone's glaring stares -
So glaring, implying formulated phrases.
Afterward [quietly subdued] I, stick-pinned, embellish a wall;
Sit stuck, wriggling, alongside baroque designs.
Altogether hopelessly extinguished, wherefore should I assume?
Mournfully spitting lifetime's butt-ends [a dreary existence],
What thoughts should thinkers think?

Truly known: discreet arms, jewelled arms,
Appendages slight and white and bare
[By th' lamplights, covered up by an hairy gossamer]
Is hyacinth what provokes memories,
Causes such reveries?
I loved graceful arms, lying across davenports or wrapping about nightgowns
Should, henceforth, I assume?
Moreover, what to presume?

. . . . .

The noiseless dusk falls on my narrow streets
When lonely fellows settle, smoking pipettes,
Sacredly communing, shirt to shirt . . .

Oh, I can envision being as an empty claw
Scuttling violently about seas' silent floors.

. . . . .

Thence unfolds an ominous property of the nighttime
Smoothed, having long hands,
Asleep . . . tired . . . lingering,
Easing comfortably beside you, while very serenely reposing beside me.
How, henceforth, after teapots, candies, ices,
Might lonely man's forgotten strength reenergize, and arise?
Every afternoon I've fasted and wept - cried, fasted.
Ofttimes I dreamed, then saw my head surrendered to Herod;
I never approached prophet status, lamentably.
Though greatness came, quickly greatness went.
Often I recognized eternity's hooded being, patiently biding, snickering.
Aftermath: fear perseveres.

So would it be valuable, valuable overall
Following saucers o' marmalades
Admixing porcelain and a talk among window shades?
Therefore, I can wonder, valuable indeed?
Alarmed by an evermore-present need
Pressing universes into mysterious balls
Slowly unraveling a disturbing, ultrameaningful difficulty.
I'll say: 'Hallelujah! Lazarus's return! I breathe, reanimate,
To entirely answer mankind's conundrums'
Afterward, if matriarchs, settling quietly upon pillows,
Should derisively pronounce: 'I despise meanings
My soul renounces all meanings.'

Would anything transpire worthwhile, everything appraised?
Mightn't a time symbolize 'worthwhile',
Following dreary sunsets, plain dooryards, shopping carts on street
O' the novels, after-lunch teas, lingering dresses -
Evermore a measured existence? -
It's a so-difficult mission, enduring this struggle!
If a candle revealed my innermost yearnings
Exposing skeletons upon vertical screens
If an oldish woman, settling cushions,
Discarding day's tattered, light-colored shawl, should aver:
'Worthwhile? I know no moments worthwhile,
Just shadowy, dreaded voids after while.'

. . . . .

I, too, am not William Shakspar's Hamlet - this I know, above a doubt.
Am one related lord, posing on the side
For acting very small acts or starting small episodes,
Most easy tool, Prince's attentive slave,
Am always ready, obedient, useful,
Politic, cautious, of a meticulous frame;
Extravagant also, a bit dense;
Many moments I've fitly enacted the classical Fools.

I'm old . . . exceedingly old . . .
Soon my trouser I desire rolled.

A procession of contemplation - which marmalade flavor: raspberry? peach?
I'll arouse up, and I will walk on Dartmouth Beach
To hear mermaids sing sublimely, and beseech.

I continue ignored, sorrowfully uninspired.

I have spied mermaid scales going fast underneath the waves,
Endlessly traversing an aquatic continent;
Wandering the high seas, capricious and content.

Thus we deliberate, oceanbound,
Looking for a harborside
Until mankind subsides.

Eight
The Readiness

Michaelmas. Waking up, I carefully pondered the baffling dilemma.
"Fact: vast changes unsettle alphabetic writings. Also, printed writings seem modified purposely (though possibly it's not so). A fact: this woman (Cadaeic?) I saw recently, before eventide, bravely spoke a fantastic tale. She spoke concerning change also, and insinuated I'm a relation amid these two!"
I swallowed a breakfasty meal heartily, then gingerly I approached downstairs' study for further linguistic review. I read poetry, employed statistics, parsed phrases. Near luncthime I modulated - as advised hitherto, I practiced mensuration, performed decimal expansion, and trisected triangles.
After my analytical labors, I read A Victorian Poetry Reader, The Book of Pastoral English Poets, Odes from Omar, Coleridge's Heroic Poem, and Pindar's Odes. "Still, I am not winning", I lamented.
I ruminated: "Is a chapter division's numbering important? Ignoring all elsewhere, I considered antepenultimate divisions. I succeeded there! Eureka! I codified a nice, simple formula which (I said to myself) "perfectly demonstrates the division's pattern. Some somewhat different rule appertains elsewhere, apparently."
Quickly I wondered: "Always this functions thus?" To see, I inspected longer antepenultimate pieces. Perfect agreement once again! No antecedent chapters functioned similarly, sadly.
I read poetry again, while hearkening to my clock - it was, I marked, dinnertime. Six literary booklets I collected (and, conjointly, a coat). On proceeding outwardly, the Cadaeic waited by a car.
"Quickly, neighbor, enter. Surta conspires - great danger awaits," she declared.
Instantly her vehicle (holding unlikely mankind-protecting partners!) did accelerate and commenced travelling toward...somewhere. Driving purposely, my companion's overall conduct was very somber. "Serious, is it?" I wondered.
To speak seemed an inapt stratagem, therefore nobody talked. "I think" (internally I said) "of a poem's subtleties I'll reconsider." Thence appeared, transmuted, one quatrain that that eminent Persian - the tent-maker Omar - fashioned (as translated by Edward FitzGerald), hence:

Nine
O Ruby Yachts

Poetic Muses alongside th' Bough
An oversupply o' Wine, possessed somehow
Thou with me treading Eden's Wilderness
Through all it seems a Paradise enough!

[Stanza twelve;
Translator: FitzGerald, Ed A.
3rd ed., 1872]

Ten
Clue

Completing poetical perusals, I restudied algorithms. "Perhaps," I speculated, "some counting scheme?" The car, I noticed, had just paused near downtown's Market Court. I then noted the miniature passageway which resided presently before us.
"Thence, neighbor, Surta awaits."
A mysterious passageway stood there, entreating. Entering, I discovered Surta's friend there.
"Promptly, proceed. Veritably, Surta's inventing monstrous calamity."
I walked the stone cobbles that covered the street and surveyed some ornamented doors. My guide uttered a word (magic?). Instantly I confronted an interior apartment - perhaps malevolent Surta's room?
I then discovered innumerable mystifying artifacts therein:

A "Mr. Sardonicus" poster (Wm. Castler's remarkable film)

Six heptagons containing six inscribed circles, drawn carefully below a weird finite-product formula

A large drawing showing horizontal striations with an underlined "sin (x¹²)"

Several computer prints involving triangles and angles

Accurately-reproduced picture of the Woolsthorp Manor House (Grantham, England)

Pieces for a strange "Snakes and Adder" children's game.

So I observed hastily. "Yes, I am close," I said. "Perhaps I am incredibly close now to resolving my dilemmas." I perceived a bookcase in shadow. I repeated, "Surely, I am close!". Infamous Surta's shelves (all in a grand display) contained:

A Cambridge Treasury
Poe's A Poem
Herbert's Dune, Wyndham's Triffids
Ad Infinitum & Beyond, Buzz Lite
Stories, Fitzgerald
Novels, Richardson
Aliceland, Lewis Carroll
Poems of England, Wordsworth
Oulipo Anthology, Perec

Several of my undeniable favorites I spotted among Surta's shelves. Undoubtedly worthy choices!
In my wandering I discovered Shakspar's Comedies & Dramas. "Hamletian inspection beckoneth!", I joked. In restless expectancy, I located the final paragraphs.

Eleven
William Shakespeare's tragedy King Claudius

[Fifth (terminal) Act]

. . . . So it is - deceased tanners a-populate the earth in multitudes. Wherefore? The skins are callously tanned! Here's, gravely, th' skull - O! - of a celebrated confrere.

HAM. Whose? Prithee, interpret.

A CLOWN. A mad fellow, foolhardy whoreson. Methinks he oftentimes frolicked i' your path.

HAML. Ay, I frequently experience jovial company.

CLOWN. A pestilence 'pon his head, stupid boaster! Doubtlessly oftentimes did 'e brag: 'I am Yorick, emperor o' merrymakers!'

HAM. Behold, [Thrusting skullbone heavenward.]
wretched Yorick! Truly, Horaitio, truly I adored him - excellent banterer and a great wellspring o' happiness. Thereon flourished a visage merry, a mouth pleasurably kissed, Horaitio. Where, I beseech, O head, are Yorick's verses, gibes, gambols? Sounds o' laughter tha' caus'd a table great gaiety? Quite chapfallen? Perceive, Horaitio, this deathmask expression: merriment, merriment, evermore merriment!

Horaitio, three troubling questions confound me.

HOR. Disclose, prithee.

HAM. Thus look'd Cesar, as entombed?

HOR. Yes, I reckon.

HAM. Would great Alexander's remains offend this nostril similarly? O! [Releases skull.]

HOR. Quite severely, assuredly.

HAM. So, is Caesar a dirtlike clump that remedies winecasks' splits?

HOR. No, I say, no! Blasphemy, sir!

HAM. Understand, Horaitio - visualize mankind's grave process. Originally, Caesar dies. In subsequent time, Caesar resides under th' earth. Thereupon, celebrated Caesar's decomposed. Forthwith, 'e makes loam. Consider - a loam, a plaste! Might this overlord's granules patch Horaitio's beer-barrel?

A Caesar now becomes a sediment
Henceforth to toughen graveyard's fundament;
Although a sovereign overrules with ire,
Henceforth, heartless, resembles th' ashy mire!

[Retreats]

Twelve
The Meeting

Carefully replacing Shakspar's Dramas in its shelf, I immediately heard a distant tapping. Anticipating Surta's arrival, instead I saw my Cadaeic guide.
"Directly Surta will arrive," she whispered. "Already I have ascertained several things. Every literary change that's happened is, indeed, caused by Surta's latest spell. I (actually, we, since I am quite unanalytical) must determine what change he's effected exactly, and what (if anything) will reverse it. But silence! - Surta arrives."
Fleeing quickly, my guide disappeared within an adjacent chamber. Evidently she maintained faith in my abilities - a faith that I didn't necessarily share. Casting my gaze near Surta's artifacts, I reassessed the clues present there. Each literary piece that I had studied flashed in my mind. Heuristic and mathematical schemes flickered in my brain.
I was interrupted by a stranger's entrance.
"Greetings, stranger. I knew that she was disreputable, but I never imagined she'd enlist an incapable..." Clutching a paper sheaf, the middle-aged man snarled the final epithet. Being sure he was Surta, I (surprising myself) gave a defiant reply.
"Capable, I'd say," I replied with sarcasm. "Huge literary changes were the first clue that the universe was amiss. Desecrated literature isn't a small matter - thus, I'll rectify the injustice," I declared.
"Fie!" yelled Surta, suddenly. "But a single flaw in my skills has permitted this discernment. Fully the entire universe (a single being excepted, apparently) can't even perceive the literary changes."
Determining that I was near the right track, I pressed ahead.
"Certainly, indeed, several rules determine each printed text's structure. Chapters besides the antepenultimate use a certain rule, and the antepenultimate uses a different rule." Haughtily I said this, as if sure, even as uncertainty nagged at my brain.
Clearly my statement had an effect, as Surta was visibly surprised.
"B'Gah's skull!" he hissed. "Getting a bit near the truth there, but still... I can't be hindered by a mere lucky guesser. Even with luck, my secret will remain hidden!"
Jauntily, he remarked, "The literary effect can be reversed - in quite an elegant way, I must say - albeit certainly this will never happen. But simply write a text using precisely the same rules as mine and all will be mended. Hilarity ensues at the mere idea - what a time-waster! Ha, ha, ha!", he cackled.
"Decidedly predictable, isn't he?", I said internally. "A big speech just like the classic villain's I'm-invincible-thus-I-might-as-well-tell-the-secret spiel!" I had, it seemed, learned all I needed, except the exact rules determining a text's structure. Given that I had already divined the antepenultimate-chapter rule, I was certain that, given time, I'd determine the remaining rules.
At that instant, my Cadaeic friend returned. Flashing me a significant glance, she entered in earnest debate with Surta. I sensed her cue and hurried exitward, stealthily grabbing the Shakspar's Dramas as I left.
Cursedly, I remembered that we had entered rather magically. I didn't have any idea where the exit was! I thus walked the hallways until I saw an uninhabited chamber. Camping there, I again began intense study, this time primarily in each text's early chapters.
Giving A Midsummer Night's Dream, the first play in the Shakspar reader, intense scrutiny, I suddenly saw it! "Electrifying!", I exclaimed, as further study verified, at least tentatively, my belief.
A rumbling in the nearby wall suddenly caught my ear. Jackhammers! "Egress must be nearby," I said quietly. Hunting left and right at eye level I quickly spied a crack. Behind it I saw the passageway we had walked a few minutes earlier. Jumping back, I ran firmly at the wall.
Gingerly picking myself up after my inelegant exit, I hurried back in expectancy, desiring the mathematical treatises residing in my study. During the next several days (as Surta's writing rules were quite difficult, the task advanced quite gradually) I crafted a slim treatise - this very tale - that fulfilled the necessary requirements. I finished it five days after Michaelmas at three A.M.
Descending my stairs, I apprehensively checked my Cambridge Treasury. Despite my best attempts, mutated texts still met my eyes!
Evidently, I was still missing a key clue. I was sure that my main rule (describing all chapters but the antepenultimate) was right - it was very bizarre, thus it must be right, I argued. But a new idea appeared: as the antepenultimate rule I had crafted was relatively simple, perhaps there was an extra rule that applied as well?
Carl Sandburg's Grass inhabited the antepenultimate chapter in the Cambridge Treasury. Just its few lines did I see, and study, thus:

Thirteen
Sandburg's Grass

Caskets piled beneath Austerlitzes, Dresdens
As, silently uplifting, blanketing, grass
Disguises it all, it all.

And as fierce Gettysburg witnesses,
Evident at Champagne, Falklands, Jutland,
I am grassiness, settling ever thus.
But ten years passeth, and my guests plead:
Fury, military struggles, did mutilate us?
Ere yesterday, hatefulness prevailed?

Cut my grass.
Evergreen grasses mend.

Finale
The Victor

Though concise, the aforecited lines revealed new formal properties. Thus I came to discover a new symbolic paradigm. "It's perfection now!", my conviction did maintain.
My book requested alteration - not, luckily, broad revision. Following numerous fixes, my opus was perfect! "Good show!" I exulted cheerfully. My intellect philosophized: "Is textual change fully mended?" I examined Cambridge's Anthology.
"Yes! Reality returns!"

Was this saga real? Apocryphal? Not believable? Perhaps. Regardless, Cadaeic foes remain, perchance to reciprocate or obliterate.
I celebrate.
I end, whispering ad infinitums.

THE END