A story bubbled up recently that the Oregon Shakespeare Festival is planning to announce it has commissioned a new translation of the entire Shakespearean canon. The news piqued the interest of the Bard’s many fans as well as literature scholars, bibliophiles and nerds of all stripes.

With the canon already available in most of the world’s tongues, interested readers were curious as to what obscure language the 39 plays were to be translated into next? A previously untapped Asian language, perhaps? Or a new-found African dialect? Maybe an ancient language unearthed by archeologists or the native language of a previously isolated aboriginal people?

No, the words of the history’s greatest playwright are to be translated into … English. Not just any English, mind you, but “modern” English.

Stop the world, I want to get off.

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.

As described in a Wall Street Journal article by linguistics professor John H. Mcwhorter, the translation project is necessary because “Shakespeare’s English is so far removed from the English of 2015 that it often interferes with our own comprehension.”

In support of his claim, Mcwhorter offers a few passages that he deems opaque and impenetrable for the modern reader. When Macbeth is pondering the merits of killing King Duncan, he offers himself the following argument:

Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off.

Mcwhorter points out that the words “faculties”, “clear” and “taking-off” have different meanings in 2015 than they did in Shakespeare’s day and that, therefore, the modern audience is either left confused or is sent scurrying for cliff notes in order to decipher the meaning of the passage.

As a solution to this “problem”, Mcwhorter offers the same passage as “translated” by Conrad Spoke:

Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne authority so meek, hath been
So pure in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his knocking-off.

Being told that “faculties” means “authority”, that “clear” means “pure” and that “taking-off” means “knocking-off” might be helpful to a student struggling with the variations and nuances embedded in the text, but it’s hardly necessary for understanding of Macbeth’s message (Duncan has been a good king, so killing him might not be a great idea).

Even without the translation, the intent and meaning of the soliloquy (particularly in the hands of a capable actor) is easily apparent to the audience. And if a few words seem out of place or hit the ear strangely, the dissonance offers the listener a welcome opportunity to expand his vocabulary and broaden his understanding of richness of the English language.

Is it really that difficult to figure out that ‘faculties’ in this context is meant as something akin to abilities, powers or authority? And is it such a tragedy if readers or audience members need to wrestle with the passage a bit before coming to that realization? Quite the contrary: having struggled to understand the previously unfamiliar phrasing, the audience member emerges richer for the experience.

There are plenty of examples of Shakespearean phrasing that are widely misunderstood— “Wherefore art thou Romeo?” and “Now is the winter of our discontent” jump to mind. Although the actual meaning of these phrases is perhaps not immediately obvious to the modern reader and their meaning in the context of their respective plays is hopelessly blurred by general misuse in popular culture, it doesn’t take long, nor is it a particularly challenging research project, to figure them out. A Google search clarifies quite quickly that “wherefore” means “why”, not “where”, and that Juliet is therefore not wondering where Romeo is, but rather lamenting that his family name is the enemy of her own.

And anyone who has actually read Richard III or seen it performed knows that “Now is the winter of our discontent” is only half of the play’s opening line: “Now is the winter of our discontent/ Made glorious summer by this son of York.” Reading the complete sentence, it becomes clear that the “now” is not in reference to the winter, but rather the “summer” (e.g. “the winter of our discontent is now made glorious summer …”). The difference is subtle and ultimately not fatal to a general understanding of the message, but once you know it you find yourself better equipped to use the English language. And your skin will curl every time you see it misused.

… creeping like a snail unwillingly to school.

One of the wonderful things about children who are learning to read is that they are wholly unfazed by the unfamiliar. As a child works her way through a book, particularly one that is a level or two more advanced than those she has read in the past, she invariably encounters words, phrases or concepts that are new. But rather than throw up her hands or close the book in disgust, the curious reader will delight in solving the puzzle — dig into the context, call on concepts she knows from past experiences and coax the meaning out of the pregnant text.

As a child, conquering the unfamiliar is an everyday occurrence. Too often, adults treat similar situations with a blend of haughtiness and disapprobation. Rather than relish in the opportunity to learn something new, adults scoff at unfamiliar words and phrases as if the author is trying to show them up. (Who are you trying to impress using words like ‘disapprobation’? You think you’re better than me?)

The result is projects like the one undertaken by the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. While well-intended, they ultimately lend credence to the idea that spoon-feeding is the only way to deliver information.

Joy’s soul lies in the doing.

And that brings us to the the truly depressing part of this project: the notion that the elimination of any intellectual obstacle, however small, is a good idea.

Increasingly, we are a society for whom work, be it intellectual or physical, is to be avoided; even looked down upon. All of the advancements of the industrial and technological revolutions have focused on making life easier. Machines turn what was once a month-long harvest into an afternoon tractor ride. A treacherous trans-atlantic voyage is now a cushy, champagne-induced nap in an airplane seat. Even the struggle to change the channel by moving from couch to TV has been replaced by the lesser (but no less frustrating) struggle to find the remote.

These advancements are all unquestionably good for society, but one need not be a Luddite to believe that, in some cases, there is still value in doing things the hard way; that enduring the work makes the fruit of the labor sweeter.

Nowhere is this precept more pointed than in the leisurely pursuit of intellectual improvement. Understanding Shakespeare is not a matter of life and death. It’s not even a matter of livelihood, except for a select few people in the academic and entertainment worlds. For most people, undertaking the task to better understand Shakespeare is entirely and exclusively for personal betterment.

Where better to exert a little intellectual effort?

Professor Mcwhorter dismisses as a rationalization the idea that “Shakespeare’s words are ‘elevated’ and that our job is to reach up to them.” But the elevated nature of Shakespearean language should be taken as a challenge, and one that we should be proud to meet.

It is tempting to give in to the idea of a “modern English” translation and to wave off those who fight it as intellectual elites. But what’s wrong with intellectual elitism in the pursuit of personal improvement? In many ways, our society would be well served if we spent less time scoffing at the elites and more time trying to imitate them.