Much Ado About Shakespeare

On my life, I have been reading the finest plays born of the intellect of a most excellent bard. A bard who's name is Shakespeare and as known any other's, and who's wit still may and must be seen to light, across all its noble length, the very gape of ages.

Having thus delighted in his work I beseech thou read him as I have so happily done, for once a man take pleasure in a thing, the thing is to a man's liking and as of a man's liking, enjoyed by other men.

For are we not of a common mold and yet not exactly alike? Having all a common set of preferences, and each having other likings not so commonly set? And when a man doth like as men will often do, how does a man know to count his liking as common or as his own? There is answer only in the asking, and perhaps not even then: 'tis not a crowd that before the chance is given to like or not, have always wisdom to name that of the two that shall be.

Therefore I cannot but enquire if you have acquainted your dear selves of this noble scribe and if having made acquaintance, have enjoyed it as I have.

Ah, the plays! The merry wit and scent of love in some, the great deeds and sense of strength in others. All true works of a true and luminous mind.


Autor: Omar

re(des)conocido autor de 1.0 blog(s).

2 comentarios en “Much Ado About Shakespeare”

  1. If a pessimist likes romantic poetry, would he/she believe in love? Will this make him/her a fake pessimist? Is there room in the mind of a pessimist for some optimism when he/she truly loves?

  2. I fancy the questions thou dost ask most curious. Surely a pessimist must believe in love, and be one true all the more for believing. No vacancy methinks shall optimism find in such a one’s mind, save of one most sorry afterwards for the grant of such a lodging.

    Ah, my dearest G., methinks thou art poorly named! Wicked Lie suits you not, better innocent Miscontruance. By all things wondrous gazed upon by my friend Sun in his constant travels do I swear you are prey of confusion most bewitching: for who but a pessimist could hold belief in such a deadly plague as love? And one not lessened by surgeon’s skill of witches’ balm at that!

    Is not love with its puffing up of men with hope unwholesome only to deflate them, either through the sharp prick of disappointment or through the slow, unkindly air-letting of boredom settling in the bones years after the victorious wooing, is not love the cause and conveyance of deepest sorrow, and therefore itself the greatest of tragedies?


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