In my entire life I have only met two people who read Shakespeare. One does not count, because he teaches English literature and must read the bard for his job. The other is a resolute politician, who made a New Year’s resolution to read all of Shakespeare’s plays one year and achieved it with gritted teeth. You decide whether he counts.
I feel a bit of a freak because I read Shakespeare, believe it or not, for fun.
I feel a bit of a freak because I read Shakespeare, believe it or not, for fun.
Let me tell you how it started. On second thought, I should first tell you how it didn’t start. Like uncounted other hapless ones, my first exposure to Shakespeare was in college. Macbeth was a mandatory text. My first instinct was to like it as it began dramatically with scary witches, whose slogan “Fair is foul, and foul is fair” seemed pretty much to sum up the world as I saw it. But a dyspeptic professor spoiled it all by expatiating endlessly on Shakespeare’s humanism and his concept of justice. I couldn’t care less about his virtues of head and heart.
The second professor, teaching Julius Caesar, sounded a trifle more enthusiastic about murder and mayhem, but quickly switched to a profoundly boring exploration of the poet’s erudition in ancient lore. I too switched to sitting in the back benches and surreptitiously reading Chesterton’s Father Brown detective stories. The Savage in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World describes education as ‘sterilization,’ and I know of no finer illustration than the merciless mauling of literature in our universities.
Then I had a lucky break.
The second professor, teaching Julius Caesar, sounded a trifle more enthusiastic about murder and mayhem, but quickly switched to a profoundly boring exploration of the poet’s erudition in ancient lore. I too switched to sitting in the back benches and surreptitiously reading Chesterton’s Father Brown detective stories. The Savage in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World describes education as ‘sterilization,’ and I know of no finer illustration than the merciless mauling of literature in our universities.
Then I had a lucky break.
A young doctor I had met through my brother who was in medical school invited me for lunch and a Hitchcock movie. The lunch took longer than expected and we were late for Hitchcock. I was very disappointed, but the doctor said, “Come on, there is an excellent Laurence Olivier film too.” Only when the film started, we realized it was Shakespeare’s Richard III and settled down dejectedly for two hours of boredom.
Now came the shock. The screen parted to show a crooked, deformed Richard, standing in a plush vestibule, looking directly at you, and declaring, darkly and defiantly, “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by the sun of York.” It was like a punch in my solar plexus. I thought I had never heard more beautiful words, spoken more beautifully. I sat mesmerized. The two hours passed like a dream.
When the doctor dropped me at my home, the first thing I did was to go direct to my father’s library and pick up a book I had seen many times but never bothered to touch, Shakespeare’s collected works. It wasn’t easy-going at the start. People spoke in a curious way; some words were unfamiliar; some scenes took a while to warm up. But once you get used to Shakespeare’s style, the guy knows how to grab your heart and choke your throat. I suppose he had to learn how to fill the seats in his theater or go hungry, but he learned it well. Once you get accustomed to his lingo, his plays do no less havoc on your soul than Hitchcock’s movies, to say the least.
Now came the shock. The screen parted to show a crooked, deformed Richard, standing in a plush vestibule, looking directly at you, and declaring, darkly and defiantly, “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by the sun of York.” It was like a punch in my solar plexus. I thought I had never heard more beautiful words, spoken more beautifully. I sat mesmerized. The two hours passed like a dream.
When the doctor dropped me at my home, the first thing I did was to go direct to my father’s library and pick up a book I had seen many times but never bothered to touch, Shakespeare’s collected works. It wasn’t easy-going at the start. People spoke in a curious way; some words were unfamiliar; some scenes took a while to warm up. But once you get used to Shakespeare’s style, the guy knows how to grab your heart and choke your throat. I suppose he had to learn how to fill the seats in his theater or go hungry, but he learned it well. Once you get accustomed to his lingo, his plays do no less havoc on your soul than Hitchcock’s movies, to say the least.
What intrigues me most about Shakespeare is not his humanism or mastery of ancient lore, but how incredibly contemporary he is, how much his plays seem to shine a light on our life today. Whether I love or hate, when others love or hate me or just show sheer indifference, Shakespeare helps me decipher it all and bear a part of it. I think of him as a great story teller of course, but also as a friend and a guide.
If this sounds farfetched, try not Hamlet or Macbeth, nor Julius Caesar, plays you already know about, but Shakespeare’s less known plays. Pick up Two Gentlemen of Verona, a very early play about friendship and fidelity, or Timon of Athens, a story of greed and generosity. You could even try Coriolanus and find surprising insights into Trump’s USA.
If this sounds farfetched, try not Hamlet or Macbeth, nor Julius Caesar, plays you already know about, but Shakespeare’s less known plays. Pick up Two Gentlemen of Verona, a very early play about friendship and fidelity, or Timon of Athens, a story of greed and generosity. You could even try Coriolanus and find surprising insights into Trump’s USA.
If reading Shakespeare still seems heavy going, one can always take the easy way, as I did, and watch the numerous films or recorded plays. There are good old ones, like Orson Welles’s Macbeth, and scintillating new ones, such as Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet. There has to be one that will strike a chord with you.
Long ago, prompted by a very romantic novel, I tried reading the love poetry of John Donne and found it esoteric and forbidding. By a strange coincidence, I received an amazing Christmas gift that year: a disk of the love poems of Donne, recorded by Richard Burton. I listened in wonder to the golden voice of the Welsh actor for hours, and instantly I understood and loved Donne.
Long ago, prompted by a very romantic novel, I tried reading the love poetry of John Donne and found it esoteric and forbidding. By a strange coincidence, I received an amazing Christmas gift that year: a disk of the love poems of Donne, recorded by Richard Burton. I listened in wonder to the golden voice of the Welsh actor for hours, and instantly I understood and loved Donne.
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