Last year, my theatre-going declined, for a number of reasons I won’t go into here. The gap was, to some extent, bridged by the NT Live re-broadcasts and our autumn was spent revisiting the past: A Habit of Art, Frankenstein, Hamlet.  But it is not the same. When the performance is of the highest quality, nothing, absolutely nothing, matches the intensity, the fullfilment, the full engagement of live theatre. The immediate impact is immense and etches itself so deeply in the mind that it remains powerful, able to revive and catch the breath.

Footfalls echo in the memory, says Eliot, and this month has been haunted. January 6th was the anniversary of seeing Twelfth Night. The same production has been on Broadway (with Sam Barnett playing Viola, the one change I could have wished for), and my heart aches – it’s inaccessible yet still in existence. King Lear has opened at the National and the reviews awaken memories of earlier productions, especially that at the RSC in 1982 which also boasted a phenomenally strong ensemble cast, striking directorial choices and, as the lead, a towering talent, young to the role and so, arguably, at the height of his power. In 1982 it was Gambon. Now, in 2014, it is Simon Russell Beale.

Mr Beale is amongst the small group of actors who are referred to, with the highest degrees of affection, admiration and loyalty, only by their first names within our house (Simon, Alex, Rory, Sam); he is also undoubtedly primus inter pares. The Russell Beale Test is the not-entirely unserious criteria I have proposed to my family to determine whether I should benefit from euthanasia. There are a number of additional checks, but, at its heart is the premise that if I can no longer recognise or respond to Simon Russell Beale’s acting, it will prove my quality of life has deteriorated beyond the point of being worth living. Never less than superb, Mr Beale’s finest performances have moved me beyond words. My memories are not only of the depth of experience while watching but also the after-effects: hiding in the National Theatre loos to weep during the interval of Hamlet; staggering to the bar of the Old Vic, unable to deal with going outside, or even to speak to my (similarly affected) companion, at the end of The Winter’s Tale.

I would argue that the Russell Beale test could be adopted as a universal standard, although I’m reluctantly persuaded that others may require different criteria. But we need something to inspire us. Inspire is a hugely overused and debased verb, yet it is the right one. It comes from the Latin inspirare, with a root meaning breath, spirit, divine animation. As the online etymological dictionary charmingly has it: ‘mid-14C., enspiren, to fill (the mind, heart, etc., with grace, etc)’. I love the multiple ‘etc’s – inspiration cannot be pinned down to a religion or defined spirituality although obviously it can be explored in those terms. We need something which comes like a rushing wind and fills us so completely that we are, paradoxically, momentarily breathless. Perhaps so precariously full that we cannot take any more in.

The moment passes, the normal rhythms return, but the effects remain. Without the capacity to be inspired, we are not fully alive.  Without inspiration, we cannot live. To each his own –  as for me, I will make my pilgrimage to the National Theatre this spring.