That part about 'wind and wrack' he would never forget. Still, the final lines of his soliloquy had been canon. He had last seen a copy of the play almost a decade ago, and that a half-burned fragment. To be honest, some parts had been simplified less for brevity than because of his imperfect memory of the original. Obviously, they had liked his abbreviated version of the ancient tragedy. Younger citizens clapped awkwardly, those below twenty years of age watching their elders and slapping their hands awkwardly, as if they were taking part in this strange rite for the first time. Adele Thompson, the leader of this small community. But this bastardized, one-man version of Macbeth might have gone over their heads.Īn instant after he exited, though, enthusiastic applause began, led by Mrs. Out of the light of the tallow lamps, he swiveled to catch a glimpse of his audience. Gordon squared his shoulders, flourished his sword, and marched Macbeth offstage to his doom. 'Ring the alarum bell! Blow, wind! Come wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back!' 'I'm gettin' weary of the sun, and wish the world were undone. He motioned to an invisible aide-de-camp. Gordon clutched his wooden sword, contrived from planking and a bit of tin. 'Arm, arm, arm yourselves! If this is what the witch spoke of - that thing out there - there'll be no running, or hiding here!' '.They said, 'Fear not, Macbeth, till Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane' and now a wood comes to Dunsinane!

The postman by david brin