Today morning, I watched a Catalan band's musicated version of sundry Shakespearean sonnets in the auditory of Jaime I University.
I am fascinated by one only line in particular, Verse 9 in Sonnet 66:
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
Here, the Bard starkly, harshly contrasts art and authority. Thinking of the present day, my concerns about my own production (as well as that of others within fandom and even more subversive creative artists) are coming true.
That line was true to life in the days of Shakespeare and stayed thus for centuries: the Inquisition, Cromwell, Robespierre, Stalin, Hitler, Franco, and many others have clipped the wings of self-expression, sewing the lips of creative artists shut with wire (just like Loki's after losing the bet with the dwarves). I had hitherto thought that the scenario described in this line was a thing of the past, something that (at least in the Western world) had ceased to be true. It seemed that this world (especially the Iberian Peninsula, where our overlords refused to croak until the 1970s) would enjoy rara temporum felicitas at last. Thus had the state of affairs been throughout my relatively short lifespan of nearly 25 years... then a pumpkin with a wig hops onto center stage, and WHAM.
I have never felt more shocked since Bellatrix Lestrange shoved Sirius Black down that vortex.
Just like that epic rap battle states, the world has had quite enough rug-wearing misogynists.
So all we have left to do is hope. Hope is the last thing we will lose until the Moment of Truth arrives. Only time will tell and only hope remains. Yet remember that there is the risk (for instance: yesterday, I went out without my raincoat, in tennis shoes instead of wellingtons, to be surprised by a sudden autumn downpour). Hope, but worry as well. Sample the strychnine little by little before they lace our cup, and the shock of reality will be far less painful.