His speech is equally slow, careful, cold. "I am one of the men whose life you chose to record, all unknowing of the circumstance that directed him; one of your puppets, you may say, damned to be displayed on stage a monster, to be accused, judged and condemned for centuries by those who know half the story and less of its meaning. You dredged up my sordid tale of tragic misunderstanding that slew everyone I loved, and told it over with a hundred excuses and not a single reason. I know of you for you knew of me, and chose to make some semblance of me known to the world. I am Iago, William Shakespeare; Iago, who served Othello, and who was blamed for the murder of the fair Desdemona. I call thee to answer for the tale thou spreads; its events near enough truth to haunt the memories of I who lived it and would give my soul to take it back. You made me the common devil of a morality pageant, William Shakespeare. Here I am -- look upon me! I am a man and a soldier and a person -- yet you told my tale and made it another man's glory, and heaped the blame for my miserable end and his upon my head like coals."
He speaks faster now, his voice heating, but still low. "And now I stand before those who thy pen has convinced; to these I am a villain, to these I am a murderer, to these I am only evil. I am not what the world sees in me, but the world sees me through your eyes and turns on me. You found your hero and decided him blameless, and looked on those he loved and decided them blameless, save for one who must be condemned for the sins of all of them. If what I am be reputation, I am not what I am."