went to watch the play RNJ by tnt britain yesterday night. didn't realli enjoy it, partly because i was in the last row, and was constantly disturbed by people who are late or talking. RNJ didn't seem that romantic after all; it seems to me more as a play of childish grudge and foolish love. love of a maiden who wasn't even fourteen, and a dunce who swayed like the inconstant moon. how can this not be a story of woe.
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O anything of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen disorder of perfectly pleasing forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still waking sleep! That is not what love is!
This love feel I makes me feel no love in this.
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