[Why the Italians wrote of gods and monsters while grinning miscopying, supposed angel to ear hearing geniuses with brays like asses, wrote of barbers. Italians would see enough hagiography of barbers.]
I recall the day that scene in Julius Cesar, where Cassius hears the clock strike twelve...what....?, was discussed and disgusting to a balding, portly, glasses wearing priest in pitch black, and who I am resembling more in many ways each day, down to the thinning hair, named Father Ginnocchi, in his always completely fatigued way. He did note that the sweet, farcical practice of Ovid's time was put into a scene of imperial murderers, but not in the scene of the balcony of the teenager Juliette of Verona, where it would belong. But this just showed the priest what a scumbag Shakespeare really was. Sometimes, I think it would be better for me if I didn't know that, like say Gandolfini probably doesn't , nor Scorsese either...It may be keeping me from my italic-american destiny of shilling credit cards or begging for oafish, soul- deadening parts off Broadway.