I’ve always had a thing for Shakespeare.
I’ve always had an abhorrence for gore & violence.
One is known for eloquence, interesting use of the English language, & five-act plays.
The other is a graphic depiction of turning one’s inside out onto the flagstones, usually with a great deal of painful noise.
But there’s something about Shakespeare that pulls off violent scenes with such gut-wrenching success that the gore becomes unimportant in my eyes (& I regret having to use that phrase…)
Take King Lear, Act III , Scene 7.
The first time I listened to the highlight of that scene, my stomach was twisted in a way it shouldn’t be twisted. With Gloucester’s blood-curdling screams, it was as if someone seized my stomach, & ever-so-slowly twisted it.
The same scene, this time in a movie version of the play, was so hyped up I was ready for the same reaction.
But to no avail.
I hate to admit it, but that scream was a real let-down.
In any event, I still twinge at eye puns.