The vinyl library record was ancient and warped – apparently a prior library patron had left it in the sun too long – and every time it reached Desdemona’s line: “Tell me Emelia, where did I leave that handkerchief?” the needle would get locked in the groove and repeat the line over and over. Yet that piece of old warped plastic was to me a crack in the universe through which I, rapt and breathless, could eavesdrop on a nobler world: the world of tragic drama. (more…)
Counter-Currents

