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About This Book
Caliban's my name. Ah, but what's in a name?
You imagine you know me from The Tempest. But God damn that wretch Will Shakespeare to some special circle of hell. He had a nasty habit—recall Richard III—of skewing history to his own purposes.
Caliban? He ain't nothing like the inept villain painted by that upstart crow.
I'm here to set the record straight. Bring my mom Sycorax, sorceress of captivating clefts, back from the grave. Relate how I came to triumph over her murderer, the magician Prospero. And through what peculiar magic I wangled my way into Miranda's tight little body, usurping the bed-place of the prince Absurdinand . . . beg pardon, I mean Ferdinand.
Inside? Wonders await. Caliban's an open book. Or, with your kindly assistance, he soon shall be!
You imagine you know me from The Tempest. But God damn that wretch Will Shakespeare to some special circle of hell. He had a nasty habit—recall Richard III—of skewing history to his own purposes.
Caliban? He ain't nothing like the inept villain painted by that upstart crow.
I'm here to set the record straight. Bring my mom Sycorax, sorceress of captivating clefts, back from the grave. Relate how I came to triumph over her murderer, the magician Prospero. And through what peculiar magic I wangled my way into Miranda's tight little body, usurping the bed-place of the prince Absurdinand . . . beg pardon, I mean Ferdinand.
Inside? Wonders await. Caliban's an open book. Or, with your kindly assistance, he soon shall be!
