Nothing Like The Sun

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white,why then her are dun;
If hairs be wire, 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 her breath than 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.

Sonnet 130, Shakespeare

"It was all a matter of a goddess - dark, hidden, deadly, horribly desirable. When did her image first dawn?"

Nothing Like the Sun, Anthony Burgess

Since yesterday, I have been thinking about one recommending one book to celebrate the Bard. It is Anthony Burgess' fictionalized biography Nothing Like The Sun. Burgess also wrote a "proper" biography of Shakespeare, for the little we know about the man, which is more a study about his work, and it is a great read in itself, but Nothing Like the Sun is a true masterpiece. It is everything Shakespeare in Love, to which it was unfairly compared, failed to be: intelligent, genuine and above all Shakespearean. Read more about the novel here and it gives you an idea of why it's so great. Here I am merely recommending it. For anyone who love Shakespeare, this is a must-read.

An evening on Anthony Burgess and Shakespeare

There are rare moments in my life when I wished I lived closer (even closer) to London. Today is one of those days: Waterstones Piccadilly is hosting a discussion on Anthony Burgess and William Shakespeare, or more precisely about Burgess's biography of the Bard. Which is great, but I guess they will also speak of Nothing Like the Sun, Burgess's novelization of Shakespeare's life, which is even greater. Andrew Biswell will be there. I have met him a few times and he's always interesting. Very knowledgeable too. Sadly, because of work (I finish at 5:30PM, the discussion starts at 6:30PM), I don't think I can get there on time. And with many other things going on, a trip to London is highly unlikely. Shame, shame, shame. But for those who can be there, because they live in or near London, or because they have free time, it's on the 18th of September. Go. It's going to be good.

The sadness of summer evenings

I am reading at the moment Nothing Like the Sun by my favourite author, a fictionalized account of the life of William Shakespeare. It was THE fictionalized Shakespeare I have been hoping to discover, far superior to the overrated romcom that won Oscars more than a decade ago. But I digress. There are many lines that are brilliant pieces of witticism (well, it is a novel by Anthony Burgess after all), but this particular line struck me: "It was light still, but there was sadness of summer evening in the light." It is how I often find summer evenings, when the sun goes down and it is still, they induce to melancholia.