book. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe. It repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it was the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in him a strong inclination to evil. The words are those of my lords bishops of Maynooth—an original sin and, like original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is between the lines of his last written words, it is petrified on his tombstone under which her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered it. Beauty and peace have not done it away. It is in infinite variety everywhere in the world he has created, in Much Ado about Nothing , twice in As you like It , in The Tempest , in Hamlet , in Measure for Measure , and in all the other plays which I have not read.
He laughed to free his mind from his mind’s bondage.
Judge Eglinton summed up.
―The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He is all in all.
―He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the