The Spell Is Broken

Now back from Prospero's enchanted island, having completed the voyage yesterday morning. Of course, I'd been there before, so to some degree the sheer novelty of the trip had worn off - but a deeper sense of satisfaction emerged from the familiarity. I suppose we go to these places in search of some kind of transformation for ourselves, but as is the case with all the characters on the island, nothing really changes. Art enchants, but changes nothing.

This time round, though, I saw more of myself in the clowns than ever before, which was more a little disconcerting. And the sheer, rather unpleasant, bad temper of the mage was obvious in a way it had never been quite so much before. What he can't bend to his will is a source of immense irritation and there's not much that can be genuinely bent in that direction. Which, I suppose, is a sort of lesson for us, in a play that's full of lessons that don't quite teach us anything we didn't already know.

Now I'm off to Islamic Spain, and other tasty locations, with Amin Maalouf - quite a new journey for me, and the more welcome for that.