my cue is villanous melancholy
Look upon me, all, and see a wretch. No-- see what you would like, a man, a monster, wayward traveller, a wronged innocent, victim to his birth, and I am all and more. I am Edmund, son to the goodly Earl of Gloucester-- born not to his wife, and yet without a doubt his son. There hath been to me delivered many a kick, a scowl, a word or two, all to the effect that I, this very man, of all his wits, was somehow less than all of you!
Why, the Earl's own woman did before her death refuse to acknowledge this Edmund, as did her husband for years, and know you that my dear, wronged mother would weep nightly to no avail. Did he not think of her while in his wedding bed? Did he not think of me while his better son, his legitimate Edgar, received but the best of all? Nay! Nay, not one bit, one scrap of sympathy! For who sullies himself with sympathy for a bastard? Not God, and not the bastards' fathers, nor those who snicker to themselves to see a woman with a full womb and no ring to make her decent.
So there are we. Man and son, and other son, the younger and not for this lacking in the mind. For my brother, the unassuming Edgar-- is he here?-- is sweet, but remembers not that the sweet are never wise, but ignorant, and exist as tools, ready for the use. And so he, as his father, as my father, as kings, and daughters of kings, so easily twisted, torn, turned on themselves, and so carried off within their foul fantasies that only I am left, weaving fates, and proving to the stars that men, not they, have power.
Typist: Well. There you have it. Edmund, the lovely scheming Edmund, from King Lear. I have a sudden and terribly overwhelming fear that I won't be able to keep him true to canon, but... alas.
Why, the Earl's own woman did before her death refuse to acknowledge this Edmund, as did her husband for years, and know you that my dear, wronged mother would weep nightly to no avail. Did he not think of her while in his wedding bed? Did he not think of me while his better son, his legitimate Edgar, received but the best of all? Nay! Nay, not one bit, one scrap of sympathy! For who sullies himself with sympathy for a bastard? Not God, and not the bastards' fathers, nor those who snicker to themselves to see a woman with a full womb and no ring to make her decent.
So there are we. Man and son, and other son, the younger and not for this lacking in the mind. For my brother, the unassuming Edgar-- is he here?-- is sweet, but remembers not that the sweet are never wise, but ignorant, and exist as tools, ready for the use. And so he, as his father, as my father, as kings, and daughters of kings, so easily twisted, torn, turned on themselves, and so carried off within their foul fantasies that only I am left, weaving fates, and proving to the stars that men, not they, have power.
Typist: Well. There you have it. Edmund, the lovely scheming Edmund, from King Lear. I have a sudden and terribly overwhelming fear that I won't be able to keep him true to canon, but... alas.