In his short allegory "Everything and Nothing," Jorge Luis Borges draws the portrait of a man who appears to be no one in particular, yet becomes an actor and dramatist acutely adept at portraying others so that no one will discover his lack of identity. From clues in Borges’s text about this man’s background and professional achievements, it becomes obvious that Borges is referring to Shakespeare. Borges reads in the portrayal of self-aware characters, such as Iago and Richard III, Shakespeare’s buried confusion about his own identity: "No one has ever been so many men as this man, who like the Egyptian Proteus could exhaust all the guises of reality. At times he would leave a confession hidden away in some corner of his work, certain that it would not be deciphered; Richard affirms that in his person he plays the part of many and Iago claims with curious words ‘I am not what I am’" (249). Thus, Borges implies, Shakespeare’s essence, like that of his characters’, is revealed through "existing, dreaming and acting" (249).

Whether or not such textual hints exist to suggest something about Shakespeare’s genuine identity, Jonathan Bate proposes that several of Shakespeare’s metadramatic passages, such as Richard III’s initial soliloquy (1.1.1-41)¹ and the epilogue to The Tempest, indicate that Shakespeare saw "existing, dreaming and acting" as interchangeable elements in regards to identity formation and acceptance (33). For example, both Bate and Richard Moulton note that the moment in which Richard III becomes self-reflexive, the night before his battle with Richmond, should be the moment when Richard affirms his genuine identity; instead, he self destructs. Other characters, however, like Prospero, uncover and accept their genuine identities after such reflection. In either case, these journeys of self-exploration and discovery are possible because, as Moulton points out, the will is rendered powerless by profound introspection, which occurs when existence and action are halted—in dreams (44). As Bate says, "This is an actor-dramatist’s way of looking at the nature of human being" (119), and perhaps Shakespeare’s way of examining his own nature as well. It is in such metadramatic dreamscapes where self-reflection leads to either genuine identity acceptance, as in a later character like Prospero, or collapse, as in an earlier character like Richard III.

E. K. Chambers and A. P. Rossiter argue that perhaps Shakespeare was more interested in Richard as an actor, and by this Rossiter is specifically referring to a character type "who can assume every mood and passion at will, at all events to the extent of making others believe in it" (79). Thus, Richard—when his will is not suppressed—can "[c]hange shapes with Proteus (3 Henry VI 3.2.192) just as Borges claims of Shakespeare. However, Richard promises more; he desires to test the boundaries of his new role in which he casts himself beginning in 3 Henry VI once he realizes the possibility that ruling is within his power:

I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down. (3.2.191-5)

From the beginning of Richard III, Richard assumes as his new role that of villain: "Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, / By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams" (1.1.30-31). In threatening to use bad dreams against his enemy, namely Clarence, Richard acknowledges his understanding that dreams have such power to disturb; however, he cannot yet understand the irony of his threat. In prison, Clarence’s dream reveals his own self-reflection; he seems up until now to be an innocent victim of Richard’s villainy, but in his dream he realizes that he will be called upon to answer for his own treachery that unfolded in 3 Henry VI: "O then began the tempest to my soul!" (1.4.44). Clarence accepts the identity his actions have created for himself, but his acceptance comes too late to save his life. Richard, on the other hand, continues throughout the play to appropriate the necessary communal conventions in order to test out his newly constructed identity; he remains, though, remains always outside the community.

Although he cannot make Anne speak his words as Prospero seems to do with the characters on his island, Richard becomes giddy with his own acting, with making himself speak:

As I intend to prosper and repent,
So thrive I in my dangerous affairs
Of hostile arms! Myself myself confound!
Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours!
Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy rest! (4.4.397-401)

The night before his battle with Richmond, however, Richard is forced to look within himself once his will is paralyzed by the tormenting vision of the ghosts of those he has slain. This moment of self-reflection yields recognition that his identity has split: "Have mercy, Jesu! Soft, I did but dream. / O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! […] What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by" (5.3.178-79, 182). Bate observes: "Only in his dreams does Richard stop acting. And when that happens, his identity collapses" (119):

For the 1998 Shakespeare Santa Cruz production of Richard III, director Michael Edwards devised an interesting twist: the ghosts return to Richard during his battle with Richmond. Then, as Richard turns to face the audience, he wears "the face of a man who has looked into his own heart of darkness" (Dunbar 242). This is Richard’s end; he began by separating himself from his community and thus died an outcast. In The Tempest, on the other hand, Prospero begins where Richard met his end: outside the boundaries of community. In his journey throughout the majority of the play to re-integrate himself back into society, Prospero is self-reflexive; therefore, the majority of his existence and action are entrenched in this dreamscape (analogous to Clarence’s "tempest to my soul"), which is Prospero’s own creation. As Prospero uncovers his genuine identity, he awakens from his visions (Driscoll 95): "As he moves from the dissolution of the masque to that of the actors in the play of life who will melt into sleep, Prospero teaches that art, the world, and identity are as ephemeral as the stuff of dreams" (Driscoll 89). Unlike Richard, when Prospero comes to the realization that his constructed identity has been dominating his genuine one, he accepts that this cannot continue, that his play must end, and that he should return to his community with his genuine self intact. He comes to understand that his magic is ineffectively offsetting his loss of real power as Duke of Milan, in much the same way that dreams in general ineffectively offset reality (Driscoll 89). Thus, as G. Wilson Knight concludes, "Prospero’s story is set between an impractical idealism on the one side and political villainy and lust on the other" (254). ²

In the opening scenes of the play, Prospero reveals not only his magic but his motive through an especially lengthy exposition, first with Miranda as his audience, then Ariel. Prospero had orchestrated his and Miranda’s removal from society by preferring his library and learning to ruling; now, however, he orchestrates a renewal of their communal bond by bringing that community to the island via a staged shipwreck. After filling in the background detail for both Miranda and the audience, Prospero says "[…] cease more questions. / Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ‘tis a good dullness, / And give it way. I know thou canst not choose" (1.2.184-86). While the stage direction indicates that Prospero is speaking these lines to Miranda, he may also be including himself in "Thou are inclin’d to sleep"; his great learning affords him the wisdom to understand that only in a dreamstate may he attain the necessary suspension of his will to recover his genuine identity. In this dreamstate, his next few lines are spoken directly to Ariel—"Come away, servant, come; I am ready now, / Approach, my Ariel. Come" (1.2.187-88). Ariel is part of Prospero’s constructed identity, his impractical idealism; therefore, as Prospero engages Ariel in this dialogue, it is a reflection of Richard’s schizophrenic dialogue following his own pre-battle dream.

This notion is echoed in the film Prospero’s Books, directed by Peter Greenaway (1991); while Prospero speaks to Miranda in this second scene of the play, on film she sleeps. Prospero’s voice speaks as if it originates from another plane of existence. In addition, besides some screeching and laughing from various characters, none but Prospero speak directly until the three Ariels write those words of mercy for him: "That if you now beheld them, your affections / would become tender" (5.1.18-19). When characters do have lines, the voice that speaks them is Prospero’s voice merged with other male and sometimes female voices; they, too, sound as if they originate from another plane of existence. Thus, in this way the film creates a dialogue among the many characters of Prospero, a man who like Richard plays many parts, but unlike Richard, Prospero is always in control of his own as well as his characters’ actions and existence as evidenced by their lack of direct speech (Lawrence 143) ³. Once Prospero breaks his quill toward the end of the play, his dreamscape proves cleansing and identity-affirming not only for Prospero but also for those who have actually slept like Miranda, Alonzo, and the Boatswain (Forker 50)⁴: "Awake, dear heart, awake! Thou hast slept well, / Awake!" (1.2.305-06).

As Ariel reveals himself throughout the play—"Ariel’s chameleon changes are discontinuous; he is potentially everything and everywhere at once, functioning, like intuition itself, in terms of the unconditioned and causeless" (Knight 240)—he becomes identified with Prospero’s impractical idealism, something that Prospero realizes cannot last: "I will be correspondent to command / And do my spriting gently. Do so; and after two days / I will discharge thee" (1.2.297-99). Caliban, in contrast, reveals in his interactions with the other characters that he is subject to political villainy and lust, which he in turn inspires in Stephano and Trinculo. Yet both these facets of Prospero’s constructed identity are privy to his self-reflection and thus realize as well that this constructed identity cannot last. As Prospero desires a return to his genuine identity and to his community of Milan, so, too, do Ariel and Caliban desire the same. While Ariel makes this demand directly, Caliban, in a rare moment of poetic grandeur, muses: "[…] and then in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open, and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I wak’d, / I cried to dream again" (3.2.140-43).

The peak of self-reflection in the play occurs during the masque to celebrate the marriage of Miranda and Ferdinand:

With this realization, Prospero understands that he must turn from his magic back to the reality of his genuine self; he must awaken from his dreamscape: "Graves at my command / Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ‘em forth / By my so potent art" (5.1.48-50). He will then, just as in Prospero’s Books, "break my staff, / Bury it certain fadoms in the earth, / And deeper than did ever plummet sound / I’ll drown my book. (5.1.54-57). Furthermore, he says to Ariel, "Come hither, spirit. / Set Caliban and his companions free; / Untie the spell" (5.1.251-53) and "I shall miss thee, / But yet thou shalt have freedom" (5.1.95-96). Finally, Prospero concludes, "And thence to retire me to my Milan, where / Every third thought shall be my grave" (5.1.311-12). This concluding thought implies that with the return of his political power, Prospero is now ready for death (Driscoll 97), the death of his constructed identity, that is: "Prospero’s power began with mastering Ariel and Caliban, but consummation of freedom waits upon their liberation. A man is truly free if no part of the self needs to be imprisoned or repressed" (Driscoll 97). This is what Prospero and by extension Ariel and Caliban come to understand that Richard did not.

In the epilogue, Prospero reclaims his dukedom unlike Richard who tried to give his away for a denier and later a horse:

Bates suggests that Shakespeare was disliked by the university dramatists, who saw him outside the boundaries of their community, and Bate points to the complaints of Robert Greene as evidence: "[…] the players have added insult to injury. It is not merely that they have taken advantage of the university playwrights; now, one of the actors [presumably Shakespeare] has trespassed on their territory by setting himself up as a writer" (15). Bate further observes that whereas the university dramatists lacked an actor’s insight, Shakespeare, coming from an acting background, realized that "the dramatist’s best hope was to have a stake in the company himself" (20). Thus, early in his career, Shakespeare cast himself in a new identity as Richard III did, and by the end of his career, he had created a new community as Prospero did. Shakespeare, in fact, prospered in the Globe.

Did Shakespeare, however, shroud this progression of his genuine self in his self-reflexive characters as Borges suggests? Knight remarks that The Tempest is "so inclusive an interpretation of Shakespeare’s life-work, Prospero is controlling, not merely a Shakesperian [sic] play, but the Shakespearian [sic] world. He is thus automatically in the position of Shakespeare himself " (208). In a similar manner, Richard can be seen as a reflection of Shakespeare’s early life-work and thus of Shakespeare as well. As Shakespeare’s life-work was just beginning with Richard III, his experimentation with balancing Richard’s genuine and constructed identities led to Richard’s self-destruction. This reflects Borges’s observation that "At first he thought that all people were like him, but the astonishment of a friend to whom he had begun to speak of his emptiness showed him his error" (248). Later, perhaps when Shakespeare learned to balance his genuine self with his constructed identities as actor and dramatist, he began to understand that "an individual should not differ in outward appearance" (248) nor separate himself from his community. Then, as Borges concludes,
 

one morning he was suddenly gripped by the tedium and the terror of being so many kings who die by the sword and so many suffering lovers who converge, diverge and melodiously expire. That very day he arranged to sell his theater. Within a week he had returned to his native village, where he recovered the trees and rivers of his childhood and did not relate them to the others his muse had celebrated, illustrious with mythological allusions and Latin terms. (249)

Knight contends that "Prospero is well-named. He is a god-man, or perhaps the god-in-man, causing yet negating tragedy for his purpose as he draws men towards vision despite inertia and retrogression" (242). Prospero, who turns from his constructed identity to his genuine identity then re-integrates himself back into his community, may very well be a reflection of the "someone" Borges believes Shakespeare eventually wanted to be, of the genuine identity Shakespeare finally assumed toward the end of his life:

¹ William Shakespeare, The Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans, 6^th ed. (Boston: Houghton, 1974). All line references are to this edition of the plays.

² G. Wilson Knight, The Crown of Life (New York: Barnes, 1966). In particular, see chapter 5, "The Shakespearian Superman: A Study of The Tempest."

³ Amy Lawrence, The Films of Peter Greenaway (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997). In particular, see chapter 6, "Daddy Dearest: Patriarchy and the Artist [in] Prospero’s Books."

⁴ Charles R. Forker, Fancy’s Images: Contexts, Settings, and Perspectives in Shakespeare and His Contemporaries (Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1990). In particular, see chapter 3, "Immediacy and Remoteness in The Taming of the Shrew and The Tempest."

Bate, Jonathan. The Genius of Shakespeare. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.

Borges, Jorge Luis. "Everything and Nothing." Trans. James E. Irby. Labyrinths: Selected Stories and 

Other Writings. Ed. Donald A. Yates and James E. Irby. New York: New Directions, 1964. 248-49.

Chambers, E. K. Shakespeare: A Survey. London: Sidgwick, 1925.

Choe, Jaisou. Shakespeare’s Art as Order of Life. New York: Vantage, 1965.

Donaldson, Peter S. "Shakespeare in the Age of Post-Mechanical Reproduction: Sexual and Electronic Magic

in Prospero’s Books." Shakespeare: The Movie: Popularizing the Plays on Film, TV, and Video. 

Eds. Lynda E. Boose and Richard Burt. London: Routledge, 1997. 169-85.

Driscoll, James P. "The Shakespearean ‘Metastance.’" William Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Ed. Harold Bloom. 

New York: Chelsea, 1988. 85-98.

Dunbar, Judith. Rev. of Richard III, dir. Michael Edwards. Shakespeare Santa Cruz. Theatre Journal 50.2 

(1998): 241-42.

Evans, G. Blakemore, ed. The Riverside Shakespeare. Boston: Houghton, 1974.

Forker, Charles R. Fancy’s Images: Contexts, Settings, and Perspectives in Shakespeare and His

Contemporaries. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1990.

Hammersmith, James P. "The Melodrama of Richard III." English Studies. 70.1 (1989): 28-36.

Knight, G. Wilson. The Crown of Life. New York: Barnes, 1966.

Lawrence, Amy. The Films of Peter Greenaway. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997.

Moulton, Richard G. The Moral System of Shakespeare. London: Macmillan, 1903. Prospero’s Books. 

Dir. Peter Greenaway. Perf. John Gielgud. Anchor Bay Entertainment, 1991.

 

Rossiter, A. P. "Angel with Horns: The Unity of Richard III." Shakespeare: The Histories. Ed. Eugene M.

Waith. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice, 1965. 66-84.

Tillyard, E. M. W. Shakespeare’s History Plays. New York: Barnes, 1964.

Zamir, Tzachi. "A Case of Unfair Proportions: Philosophy in Literature." New Literary History 29.3 

(1998): 501-20.

This page last updated 8/21/00.