Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, an germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!
On out last day in Ireland, my wife and I took a day tour into the country side. Several of the stops were overlooking lakes or waterfalls up in the mountains. While the sights were stunning, even more special was the pouring rain. Most people would be disappointed to have their tour ruined by freezing rain. But being up on the mountain side in a storm and surrounded by heather could only call to mind King Lear on the heath.
While an Irish mountain might not be the same as an English heath, the memory of standing in the rain and feeling just a little of what Lear felt will stay with me forever. And be an inspiration for the next dime I work on King Lear.
Lorne Michaels (b. 1944)