These past two weeks I’ve been witness to a few of the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to (as Hamlet lamented), and not any soliloquy-worthy tragically-romantic shocks of the flesh either. I mean the more mundane, microbial, viral- and secondary-infection kind: those that require emergency visits to health care providers and multiple prescriptions and boxes and boxes of tissue.
So all I can do this week is to share one of my favorite of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It’s about feeling miserable and sorry for oneself, and then getting a bit of perspective on the situation. I leave it as a sort of offering to the Gods in the hopes that they’ll allow me to be recovered enough to write next week.
This year I’m participating in the Shakespeare 2020 Project, wherein members are challenged to read Shakespeare’s entire canon in one year. All 37 plays, 154 sonnets, plus poems, books and even a few things that he may not have actually written. So far, it’s going pretty well, but it’s early days yet.
Part of the fun of this experience (adventure?) (boondoggle?) is the distraction of discovering so many Shakespeare-related resources, recordings, productions, quotes, household products, t-shirts, and of course memes.
One quote in particular has stuck with me:
Isn’t that the truth.
In fact, when I mentioned to one of my friends that I would be spending (wasting?) (investing?) my entire year reading Shakespeare and that she might want to join me, she answered with an emphatic no! and went on to explain that she had been forced to study Shakespeare in high school and that it was such a bad experience — and it had made her feel like such a failure — that she has not and will never read anything he’d written ever again. Certainly, it’s fair to say, no love of literature was created there.