Killing Shakespeare

Kill Shakespeare. That has been the overwhelming thought in my head for a few months now. But to kill a man I don't even know, and that's already dead? That doesn't make much sense now does it?  George Steiner (I believe it's him) says this has been what every great writer has tried to do since his death (Or perhaps it's one of Bloom's snide remarks about Americans lacking European style). So that's what I'm here to do. I am here for a great kenosis of James the Rat and a plerosis of William's genuis if he so wills it, and if I am rightly enough to be of acceptance. And one thing I've found, in my picking ups of William's poems and plays, is that in order to get anything, anything from them, it is not enough to read the words and apply them to an analysis. You must live it. You must live every dripping word tell the cup overflows and everywhere in life you look dripdried stains of Williams tattered worth stick to the very surface of everything your senses wish to acquire. Shakespeare is all around us, in this illusion of culture and critique, but the true reward, the bulls-eye wherein reason and ration find no target, is to find Shakespeare inside yourself, and to know him as he is really you. Let us, class, Kill William Shakespeare.