I get a sonnet every day. They roll over to the beginning again before the year does. That gives me time to move with him from the Golden Boy to the Dark Lady.
Somewhere behind it all was Anne Hathaway and her second best bed. Did she sleep alone? Did she miss Will?
Did she welcome him home when he came home? Did she laugh at his dick jokes?
I imagine her as capable and intelligent. She was older than WS. I wonder if she loved him? I hope so. I hope they loved each other, even if they had something like a modern bicoastal marriage.
Those early moderns knew about love. Messy complicated love. They had an earthy grounded quality that is some. cousin to practical skill. It jars strangely with their striving for heaven. (And spending way to much time fretting about who would and would not get in.)
I read a sonnet every morning, before my tea, before I even make it to the kitchen or bathroom. (And they are close by, in a Brooklyn apartment, believe me.) I hope by this to have the language soak in. Not to know WS better-- but to reach CM somehow. But I am learning about other things too, status, love, obligation.
Thinky thoughts, you guys.
Anyway we finished with the dark lady, we have begun again, as spring comes on with earnest advice on the proper use of semen.
Then let not Winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
Then what could Death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair,
To be Death's conquest and make worms thine heir.