Sarah Bernhardt as Hamlet, Image via Wikipedia
Once the curtain is raised, the actor ceases to belong to himself. He belongs to his character, to his author, to his public. He must do the impossible to identify himself with the first, not to betray the second, and not to disappoint the third.
A few days ago, the Lone Wolf and I were taking a morning constitutional around the hallowed ground of Père Lachaise. It was a rare winter day in Paris with the sun shining bright in crisp blue skies, and the cemetery, which is more like a posh gated community, was full of visitors who had come to see the famous residents who rest there.
We happened upon a charming Moroccan woman--an engineer--and her lawyer brother who were looking for the singer Edith Piaf. They were a long way from the Sparrow, so L.W. and I decided to lead them in the right direction. On the way, we took a turn by "the most famous actress the world has ever known"--and certainly was in the19th Century--Sarah Bernhardt. The Moroccan couple did not know her. Time is fleeting, and the memories of man are short. Universal consciousness is brimming with the energies of brilliant artists who made the earth greener and stars shine brighter in our skies, who enriched the world that we all live in, but are lost and forgotten now.
Ms. Bernhardt may not be forgotten in history, but I decided it was time to relight her flame.
Sarah Bernhardt, image via Wikipedia