Fifty-seven years of stagecraft.
Miller, Albee, Mamet, Moliere.
And Shakespeare. Troilus, Henry IV, Oberon, Macbeth.
Stunned at his pale face hanging in the mirror as he wiped the Ben Nye from his eyes with cold cream.
This he could still do without thought.
Ironic, or maybe apt.
He closed his eyes again, tried to summon the line as he had onstage.
No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison;
And then nothing.
The stunned silence of the audience turning to unease and finally to derision at the sight of a mute Lear while burning shame consumed him like a house fire.