Spaghetti-Day!

Spaghetti-Day!

Monday, January 3


Shakespeare, Brilliant or..?
I'm tormented by the thought of Shakespeare as a writer.
I mean he's so famous of course, and also known as one of the best writers of all time.. But it he?
Maybe he's a really shitty writer, so shitty that no one can determine the true meaning of what he's saying therefore leaves much room for debate.
But that's the purpose of writing anyways right?
Leaving the audience to decide.
Like this:

I once knew a pig named Fred. I killed him and ate him for dinner.

Okay, firstly, you're probably thinking okay that's cool. You ate a pig named Fred.
But what if I give more details..

I had a neighbor, his name was Fred. He was a pig, and I hated him. So one day while he was asleep I snuck in and murdered him. I ate him for dinner the next day.

Is that what you thought I was going for?

Shakespeare conflicts himself so much, it's annoying.
Such as in Hamlet, when Hamlet meets his fathers ghost and his father tells him he's being tormented in the afterlife for all the bad he's done.
Later in the story, Hamlet is trying to figure out whether there is or is not life after death.
Well DUH DUMBASS you just met your father's ghost, clearly somethings going on.

I don't know what the point of this rant is, I suppose it's just the fact that Shakespeare kinda pisses me off.
But I will give the benefit of the doubt, I do not know Shakespeare personally, nor know Old English.

There is however one sonnet from Shakespeare I enjoy, it is as follows:
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Posted at 12:43 PM | 1 comments