To me, Twelfth Night was always about the geometry of happiness. The characters who drive the plot – the lovers, the normal people – are unhappy when they long for a distant object of desire, happy when they believe they are approaching it, and unfulfilled when they reach it.
Only the weirdo losers, Feste the clown and Sir Toby the buffoon, see the futility of love’s geometry. They are duly cast out for their wisdom in the final scene, because a happy ending obviously requires the triumph of normality over insight. Feste was my prophet, along with the M.C. in Cabaret of course.