There is so much lost in the reading of a work meant for stage. Not only the sets, lighting, and costumes, but the work the actors do in bringing a character to life with only what is written--all of that is left to the reader to supply. More often than not, I am left with an appreciation for a few moments or ideas, but altogether unaffected.
The exceptions, of course, those plays which come to the reader as full-fleshed works of human experience even without all of the bells and whistles, deserve their place as the greatest of all time. Shakespeare, Chekhov, and Ibsen are among those who are able to effect me, though hobbled by the page.
How great must a work be, then, to do the same but in a language removed from the reader both by time and place? My Spanish is progressing (and working my way through this section of Ward's Lifetime of Reading has helped), but it is still only my third language. On top of that are the archaic spellings and usages one would expect of a 16th century work, with which a dictionary is little help. The fact that I'm still not confident enough to write this review in Spanish is submitted to evidence.
Nonetheless, twice in the reading I was moved to tears by the beauty and truthfulness of the language. Act I scene IXespecially, with the ABCs of love and marriage, could stand as one of the most endearing love poems ever. I stanned them so hard that when all was resolved in the final scene, I once again was moved to tears. Who knows what jewels are hidden under the language and still obscure to me.
What a triumph for Lope de Vega. What a masterpiece, no doubt the pinnacle of his achievements, a labor that consumed his life and holy fuck he wrote 636 other plays?!? As well as poetry and novels? Even this one is enough to earn him his nickname: Fénix de los Ingenios. I am incapable of grasping the fact that he wrote even more and need to lie down.
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