Patrick Callaghan's story about Othello

I had always been an avid reader since the day that C. A. T. came out as CAT instead of DOG! For some strange reason this word acted like a mental dam, blocking any development in the first of the 'Three Rs'.

Straight away I went from being the slowest reader to the most advanced; within two years I was borrowing books from the adult section of the local library by using my mother's tickets.

Science Fiction & Fantasy became my favourite genre, and these books were collected with an abandon that was quite frightening; or it would have been if I had bought new books, instead of rummaging in Second Hand Bookshops and as many Jumble Sales that my mother could be persuaded to take me to. Before starting Secondary School I had graduated from my father's Daily Express to The Daily Telegraph.

I think that I was a bit of a handful when it came to being taught English; criticism of my reading matter was unwelcome, even if the gentleman was a Doctor and the lady a Sister. But the anguish caused by HAVING to read the plays of Shakespeare, W. was nothing compared to the commentaries and, "Mind forged manacles", of tutorial wisdom. The 'Bard of Avon' could be studied by those who lived on the banks of that river if they so wished, but I wanted nothing to do with him.

Having completed my formal education I was busy being gainfully employed and continuing to read and collect SF/Fantasy as if, if you'll pardon the pun, there was no tomorrow. With well over a thousand books in my bedroom, I was stunned to find one day that I had nothing to read. Completely at random, I picked something from the 'Miscellaneous Bookshelf' : it was "Othello". BOF!!

For the next couple of hours I was oblivious to everything from the passage of time to the silence of the gramaphone that had automatically turned itself off at the end of the record.

Once I had refreshed myself, I started again. Somehow the characters, their relationships and personalities became, as it were, painted on a detailed dreamscape, as seen by my mind's eye. Thus intrigued, I delved further into 'The Collected Works' with the benefit of my new 'untainted' perception of his skill. I was not disappointed.

Other authors now had a benchmark against which they could be measured; and most were found to be lacking. I started to 'read more than just the words', and to compare writers not only to Shakespeare but also with others of their genre, period, country of origin, etc. It became clear that having a good vocabulary is of no consequence if one doesn't know how to use language to convey thoughts, emotions, nuances, information and, crucially, the truth.

So, was my life changed?

Without doubt my enjoyment of all literature has been increased, not by a multiple, but by a factor. The richness and beauty of a well crafted phrase, poem, item of news, or a review can induce an inner warmth that sadly I am unable to adequately express. But then again, I am no 'Bard of Avon'.