I have read my name on a British novel written by John Doe a few times.
It begins with a crude remark which gives reference to an old friend from Dublin, then on the forth page it reads like a catechumen phrase: “to be or not to be, that’s private." But this is not a fine way to pronounce a prince, and again, what is private? Is it the whereabouts of a jewel or the truth about my father’s will which was written by a gardener or the untitled notes of an eunuch who was dethroned by a Queen?
If you study carefully you will notice a sentence that resembles a Shakespeare quote as expressed on the third paragraph of the writer’s epilogue: stating how unreliable my judgment can be with regards to a lady’s need.
He has made a mockery of my name and we-- my father and I, Mr. Wilchoff, the writer’s son, my niece, and my unrelated cousins from downtown Alabama do not fancy it.
The epilogue had been read as a preamble speech by the Queen’s guard before the novel was parceled to my study. It reads with such clarity and boldness-- "Prince Charles."
It sounded weird, yet familiar. It’s familiarity was that of the ending of a moral tale, a doggerel: like the struggle of a colored man on an Irish farm or an actor who never got an award for his stunts. I heard the sound in many different voices from the past like a dethroned queen in the Victorian age, and from the future like a critic whose intention is to corrupt my integrity...
She took a glance at me as my fingers fidgets, carefully stating how remarkable the speech and novel was and how it mattered to her womanhood.
I was startled at the way she pronounced each word, how she flaunted her blonde hairs backwards and blinked her brown eyes as my stupidity unveils.
"You have done a vain thing," I whispered. I smiled at every opportunity I entertained, winking my fallen brows and making a grin behind the wrinkles on my white face. She cheered, and said to me in absolute sincerity as if she had known no sin: "to be or not to be, isn’t private."