Much hath come to mine ears this sevennight past of one Mark Felt, he that Deep Throat was call'd. For thirty years, even such time as a man might be born, study, take to drink and bawdy-houses, repent and turn priest in-- for all this while, it seems, the name of Master Throat was kept close as maidenhead. And this by a parcel of broadsheet-mongers, who live by gilding the many tongues of Rumour! Rare gentlemen, surely, these few.
Through all this time, none have known (though many have proclaim'd it) if Sir Throat was one person or many, whether he was politician, spy or courtier, traitor or true man. What must he have felt as the thirty years' war of scholars and pamphleteers rag'd about him, each man crying "'Twas he! nay, 'twas he," offering weighty arguments in abundance, proofs palpable that Deep Throat was this man or that, his name nigh drown'd in a Nile of ink? And all that time, he uttered never a word, nor his confederates neither.
May Time be kind to him! For I feel, forsooth, a certain kinship with this Master Throat.
Posted by Shakespeare at June 4, 2005 8:57 PM