Your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not.

The sense of touch here is so different than how I usually think of it. It’s certainly not physical touch, of course. But nor is it touching in the sense that we usually use it when talking about a work of art. The quality of THAT touching is something like holding a baby or picking up a puppy.
A story that touches you, touches you like a hug, maybe even a hug after a sad-event, the kind of hug that might make you cry.
We think of works that touch you, as touching your heart.
This is a different sort of touch. This is touch like a ghost’s fingers along your spine or someone touching your wrist after picking up a block of ice.
This play would seem to touch those without free souls like a cold-fingered doctor taking your pulse. In a warm country, I had a doctor check me for pneumonia with hands colder than cold. That’s probably how this play was meant to touch the un-free.


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