In the writing of this book I have consulted so many different editions of the complete works and the individual plays that it would be impossible to list all of them without the bibliography becoming longer than the story itself. However, a few volumes do stand out as worthy of mention (and of my eternal gratitude). The Riverside Shakespeare (2nd ed.) has been a nearly constant companion not only in the writing of this book but in every Shakespearean endeavor I have embarked on since it first came into my possession in 2010. More recently and especially in the intricate process of revision, I came to rely on The Norton Shakespeare (3rd ed.), with its groundbreaking commitment to preserving both “wonder and resonance,” as Stephen Greenblatt described it at the launch party in October 2015. Like the Riverside it has become indispensable, especially in navigating the textual maze that is King Lear. Two other books that it would be remiss not to mention are Patsy Rodenberg’s Speaking Shakespeare, which had a significant influence on Gwendolyn’s theatrical philosophies, and René Girard’s Theatre of Envy, which might have prevented much of what goes wrong for the fourth-years had Oliver read it a little sooner.
Here I must also acknowledge that I have ransacked Shakespeare’s entire oeuvre with giddy abandon. The fourth-year thespians speak a kind of Pidgin English so saturated with Shakespearean words and quotes and turns of phrase that it could almost be classified as a new (and, there is no denying, exceptionally pretentious) dialect. Because it is a natural and unregulated phenomenon, in some instances quotes borrowed from the Bard—which for the sake of clarity have been italicized, regardless of whether they are verse or prose—are not borrowed word for word. This is the creative liberty of language. For the purposes of this particular story, the texts of Shakespeare and his collaborators (whomsoever they may have been) are always filtered either through the characters’ mouths and/or Oliver’s brain, and so are subject to small transformations. The vagaries of early modern orthography have been regularized for the contemporary reader, and I have punctuated the text in whatever manner best serves the speaker or the scene. As James remarks in Act V, “Commas belong to the compositors.” But whatever small discrepancies there may be, every line of If We Were Villains is written with the intention of paying homage to William Shakespeare—who has had more than enough defamers, detractors, and deniers. (Lord, what fools these mortals be.)
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to Arielle Datz, who took a very big chance on a very young writer, talked her off various ledges, and walked her through the process of publication with unfailing patience and unflagging enthusiasm. To Christine Kopprasch, who laughed at my most terrible jokes and worked magic on my mess of a manuscript with remarkable instinct and insight about the art of storytelling. To everyone at Flatiron Books, whose dedication, creativity, and love of good books are nothing less than inspiring. To Chris Parris-Lamb, without whose guidance this book never would have made it past the query stage. To my fellow MA students at King’s College, who vindicated my conviction that, yes, some people really are obsessed enough to have entire conversations in Shakespearean quotations. To Margaret, for giving ear to my every complaint. To my early readers (Madison, Crissy, and Sophie), all of whom were bribed with wine and offered invaluable input in return. To my friends in Chapel Hill (Bailey, Cary, and the Simpson family), whose goodwill never wavered, even in the face of my crippling artistic anxiety. To the teachers, directors, and professors (Natalie Dekle, Brooke Linefsky, Greg Kable, Ray Dooley, Jeff Cornell, and Farah Karim-Cooper), who have encouraged and enabled my infatuation with Shakespeare. To my grandmother, who fostered my love of literature from an early age and let me drink up all her tea and most of her liquor while I worked on my manuscript in the corner of her library. And to my parents, who drove me to and from countless rehearsals, sat through a number of truly atrocious plays, read a stack of similarly hideous first drafts, and never once decried my impractical passions. Let me give humble thanks for all at once.