One, Two, Three!

Welcome to Hall of Imagination–and this is the first in a series of episodes about William Shakespeare. And here we have a wax figure of the BARD himself. And personally, let me say as an actor that I am really excited about the prospect of learning more about what makes William Shakespeare so great!  Oh here you are!

Mr. Shakespeare, I am really excited about this series of podcast episodes.

Now we are not going to begin by interviewing Hamlet… or Juliet… or Lady Macbeth… or Romeo…

No. Today, I’m starting with… a town.

A town with muddy streets, and church bells, and gossip that travels faster than Wi-Fi ever dreamed of traveling.

Because before Shakespeare becomes Shakespeare—the name you’ve heard a thousand times—he is a boy in Stratford-upon-Avon, absorbing the world like a sponge with ambitions.

Transcript

Welcome to Hall of Imagination–and this is the first in a series of episodes about William Shakespeare. And here we have a wax figure of the BARD himself. And personally, let me say as an actor that I am really excited about the prospect of learning more about what makes William Shakespeare so great!  Oh here you are!

Mr. Shakespeare, I am really excited about this series of podcast episodes.

Now we are not going to begin by interviewing Hamlet… or Juliet… or Lady Macbeth… or Romeo…

No. Today, I’m starting with… a town.

A town with muddy streets, and church bells, and gossip that travels faster than Wi-Fi ever dreamed of traveling.

Because before Shakespeare becomes Shakespeare—the name you’ve heard a thousand times—he is a boy in Stratford-upon-Avon, absorbing the world like a sponge with ambitions.

And I want you to hear that world.

To that end, I understand that the museum is devoting an entire section of the building to what your hometown Stratford, must've been like.

I'd like to ask the simplest question of all:

“What did you see and experience… before you became the Bard?”Trico Trico  

Oh yes before Shakespeare comes in there's one thing I have to get out of the way that will approximately 15 seconds -

This series is a dramatization that blends historical research with fiction, satire, and imagined conversations. It is not a documentary. It is not professional advice of any kind.

Stratford-upon-Avon is not London. Not even close.

London is noise—argument, urgency, ambition. London is a place where a man can vanish into a crowd and become someone else by lunchtime.

Stratford is… remembered.

Stratford is: “Ah, there he goes—John Shakespeare’s boy.”

Stratford is: “Did you hear what the Ardens are up to?”

Stratford is: “Mind your tongue—your aunt will hear you from three streets away.”

It is a market town, where your reputation is a second coat you can’t remove.

And yet, it is also a place of steady human theatre: bargaining, boasting, flirting, grudges that last twenty years, and kindness that arrives like sunlight without announcement.

Somewhere in that living, breathing scene is a boy—bright-eyed, quick to imitate voices—learning people, not from books, but from… ears.So before we talk about plays—before we talk about kings and ghosts and love and murder—let’s talk about the Stratford that made a mind like Shakespeare’s possible.

And to help, I’ve invited a special guest.

Master Shakespeare?

Master? That’s generous. Most men in Stratford called me “that one who talks too much.”

Perfect. You’ll fit right in.

Where am I?

You’re on a podcast.

Think of it as… a play performed inside a lantern that speaks.

Ah. England improves daily.

Let's start at the beginning.

You, Shakespeare ARE born into a house that knows work.

Your father, John, is a glover—leather, trade, practical skill. Your mother, Mary Arden, comes from a family with land and roots.

This is not a palace.

But it is also not nothing.

It is a place where hands matter. Where you learn what things cost. Where you learn what people do when they want something.So, William—first question.

What do you remember first?

Smell.

Smell?

Leather. Smoke. Wet wool. The river when it’s honest—and when it isn’t.

And voices.

Voices.

The sound of men pretending not to be afraid of money.

The sound of women pretending not to be angry.

And the sound of someone saying one thing… while meaning  .

So you learned subtext before you learned… Latin.

Subtext is the first language in a small town.

In Stratford, the market is a school. The church is a theatre. The tavern is a parliament.

People perform themselves.

And a boy who watches closely—who notices the difference between what people say and what they do—has already begun training for drama.

When people imagine genius, they picture lightning bolts. A sudden flash.

But I wonder if Shakespeare is more like… slow accumulation.

I prefer “shameless theft.”

From whom?

Everyone. The butcher with a story. The older woman with a proverb. The young man trying to impress someone with a bigger vocabulary than he owns.

So you’re saying Stratford was… full of characters. And

If Stratford is the world that you lived in, then school must be the toolset that you sharpen.

A grammar school education in Elizabethan England is not gentle. It is repetition, memory, discipline—hours of Latin, rhetoric, imitation.

Not because they want poets.

Because they want minds that can argue, persuade, and perform.

William, is it true? Endless Latin?

Endless.

And you liked it?

Liked? No.

But I learned what words can do when you line them up like soldiers.

So this is where you learned to build those speeches that go on for—let’s be honest—much longer than they need to.

SHAKESPEARE (delighted):

Ah! So you’ve noticed my signature.

I’ve studied you my whole life. I love you, but you do not believe in ten words when forty will do.

Because the extra thirty are where the music hides.

Rhetoric—the art of shaping language—teaches a student how to turn a thought into an engine.

How to build a ladder of clauses.

How to make an audience nod along before they realize what they’re agreeing to.

Can you give us a quick example—something simple?

Simple is dangerous.

But very well.

You say: “I am right.”

That’s a pebble.

Rhetoric turns it into a stone.

You say: “I am right because I am reasonable. I am reasonable because I am calm. I am calm because truth has nothing to fear.”

Now you’re not merely right. You’re virtuous.

That is… frightening.

It should be. That’s why Rome fell.

You’re already teasing future episodes. 

I can’t help myself.

And here is something important for listeners who fear Shakespeare wrote with a secret code meant only for professors.

He wrote with tools that were taught.

He used them brilliantly—yes—but they are tools you can recognize.

Lists. Contrasts. Repetition. Turning a phrase so it returns sharper.

So the boy from Stratford isn’t only collecting human behavior. You are learning a craft.

A craft.

And that matters because later, when we interview—say—Mark Antony…

We’ll hear not just emotion. We’ll hear technique.

Technique is how emotion survives an audience.

Religion is the air in this world. Church bells mark time. Sermons teach story and metaphor. Holy days provide pageantry—processions, plays, moral tales.

Even if you never become devout, you become fluent in symbols.

And Shakespeare becomes… profoundly symbolic.

Storms that mean more than storms. Light and darkness that speak.

Did church influence you?

It influenced… my ears.

That’s a diplomat’s answer.

A survivalist’s answer.

And beyond church, there is festival—the times when the town loosens its collar.

People dress up. Roles reverse. Foolishness is permitted. Mischief is… traditional.

So the town gives you two things at once: order and disruption.

Yes.

And you use both.

Comedy requires a fence.

Tragedy requires a crack in it.

The River Avon river makes a boy think of distance.

A road makes him think of change.

Stratford is a town, yes—rooted, watchful—but it is not sealed. People pass through. News travels. Performers arrive. Stories arrive.

And a mind like yours—quick, hungry—does not only watch the familiar.

It imagines the elsewhere.

Mr. Shakespeare, Did you want to leave?

I wanted… to become.

That’s beautifully said.

I’ve had practice.

And yet—Stratford never leaves your work. Even when you’re writing palaces and battlefields.

You can take the boy out of the market, but you cannot take the market out of the boy.

This is why your plays feel populated. Even kings are surrounded by ordinary life. Servants overhear. Friends joke. Drunk men philosophize. Women see through nonsense.

I believe that It is Stratford’s human density—its constant social negotiation—that later becomes London’s stage.

Permit me to ask the question listeners might be yelling at their speakers.

How does a boy from Stratford become… you?

You want a single cause. A neat answer.

It would be convenient.

Convenient is rarely true.

All right. Give me three causes.

Only three?

We have to leave room for ads.

Ads?

Never mind. Three causes.

First—people.

Because people are endless.

Second—language.

Because language is a tool that can pick locks.

Third—desire.

Because desire is the engine of all plots. Love, hunger, ambition, jealousy, revenge… it’s all desire in costume.

That’s… a perfect sentence.

I do those sometimes.

And there is something else—something we cannot document, but we can recognize.

Shakespeare has a mind that loves contradiction.

He can see the virtue in a villain’s charm.

He can see the foolishness in a hero’s pride.

He can write tenderness without weakening, and cruelty witho laundry falling down falling down falling down place to gout simplifying.

And that ability—whatever its origin—finds its first practice not in the courts of kings, but in the daily theatre of a town.

And Master Shakespeare, I'd like to end this episode by jumping into what we will find is the basis of your writings– Words that you learned during those long hours at school–and I'd like to conclude this episode with a look at the rhetorical device known as tri colon.

A fascinating little word. Three beats in two syllables—already practicing what it preaches.

All right, for listeners: a tricolon is a set of three parallel words, phrases, or clauses—three of the same “shape”—used for rhythm, emphasis, and memorability.

In plain English: a well-made list of three.

Aye. The mind loves threes.

Beginning, middle, end.

Birth, life, death.

Knock, knock, knock.

I knew you’d do that—three examples to explain the “rule of three.”

Would you have me offer four? That way lies chaos.

So why does three work so well? What’s the magic?

Because one is a point.

Two is a choice.

Three is a pattern.

That is… annoyingly perfect.

I have practiced.

Okay—if someone’s never heard the term tricolon, they’ve still heard the sound of it. It shows up in speeches, prayers, comedy, slogans… and in your plays.

Most especially in speeches—where a speaker must seize the ear, then the mind, then the heart.

All right, show me Shakespeare’s tricolon in the wild. Give me something famous.

Then we go to Rome—where politics is theater and theater is politics.

Julius Caesar.

Mark Antony.

Aye. He begins his funeral speech with a tricolon so clean it could cut glass:

“Friends, Romans, countrymen—lend me your ears.”

There it is. Three nouns. Same grammatical shape. And it feels like the crowd is being gathered into one body.

Just so. The tricolon does three labors at once:

It includes the audience—“Friends.”

It names them as citizens—“Romans.”

It widens the embrace—“countrymen.”

He climbs a little ladder in three rungs, and the crowd climbs with him.

So the order matters: it starts personal, then civic, then national.

A wise ear you have, sir.

And “lend me your ears” is practically a stage direction. He’s taking possession of attention.

Attention is the first currency of persuasion.

Now, I can hear a listener saying: “Isn’t that just a list of three?”

What makes it tricolon rather than just… counting?

Ah—here lies the craft.

A tricolon is not merely three things. It is three things in parallel—balanced in rhythm or structure.

If the shapes match, the ear relaxes and enjoys.

If the shapes mismatch, the ear stumbles.

So it’s a list of three, but designed.

Aye. Designed like a staircase, not stacked like firewood.

Now I’ve heard of something called “tricolon crescendo”—where the three parts grow in intensity.

Indeed. The third line often lands hardest—because by then the audience has learned the pattern and is waiting for the final strike.

So the audience is subconsciously thinking, “Okay, I’ve heard one… I’ve heard two… now give me three.”

Exactly. The third is the door closing.

Give me an example of a tricolon crescendo—Shakespearean style.

Let us make one together, rather than drown them in quotes.

Suppose a character is pleading for mercy. He might say:

“I ask your patience, I ask your mercy, I ask your love.”

The phrases match—I ask your…

And the feeling rises—patience to mercy to love.

Yes—tricolon gives the actor a rhythm to inhabit.

It tells the breath when to push, when to pause, when to strike.

All right, workshop time. If I want to use tricolon in a podcast—what are the rules?

Three rules—naturally.

Of course.

Rule one: Keep the three parts parallel—same grammatical shape.

Rule two: Make the three parts distinct—each adds something new.

Rule three: Let the third part be the landing—strongest word, clearest image, or biggest truth.

Okay, I’m going to try one for an intro to my show. You judge it.

With pleasure—and mild cruelty.

“On this show, we chase stories, we chase voices, we chase the spark that makes art last.”

Very near! You have parallel structure—we chase… three times.

But you can sharpen the last phrase so it hits like a bell.\

Try:

“We chase stories. We chase voices. We chase the spark.”

Shorter. Cleaner. Stronger.

Oh, I see—sometimes the tricolon works best when it’s not over-explained.

Aye. The device is a hammer; do not wrap it in velvet.

Let me try another—more emotional:

“I’ve known praise, I’ve known blame, I’ve known the silence in between.”

That is excellent.

Parallel—I’ve known…

Distinct—praise, blame, silence.

And the third surprises with an image. Well done.

Thank you, Master Shakespeare. I’ll frame that compliment.

Frame it, but do not worship it.

Now, can tricolon be funny?

Oh, exceedingly. Comedy loves threes because the third can twist.

One sets the pattern.

Two confirms it.

Three breaks it.

So you can use tricolon to deliver a punchline.

Indeed. The audience trusts the pattern—then you turn it sideways.

All right, we’ll save “comic tricolon” for another episode.

For tonight—listeners, here’s your takeaway:

Tricolon is three parallel phrases that create rhythm and force. It’s memorable because the mind hears a pattern and wants its completion. And when the third beat lands, it feels inevitable.

Well said. Three beats. One lesson.

And I can’t resist ending with one of our own—

Friends, listeners, fellow night-owls: thank you for lending me your ears.

A fine theft.

In the future, we might tackle epistrophe—repetition at the end of lines—

or chiasmus, the mirror trick that flips a phrase on itself.

Until then: keep your language alive—

because the old words are still turning in the new light.

And remember: one is a point, two is a choice, three is a spell.

Farewell, Master Shakespeare.

I’m George Bartley, and this is hall of imagination

Sources include: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Will in the World by Stephen Greenblatt, Shakespeare: The Biography by Peter Ackrold, and ChatGPT 4