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Three stars for the effort it must have taken to keep up this onslaught of Shakespearean-style, and actual Shakespearean, word coinages for 300 pages.
On the other hand, I could have substracted five stars just for the crime (the feat?) of making Shakespeare dull. Burgess‘ character WS comes across as downright dim-witted in this; a bumbling idiot who is – just barely – floating along on the tides of life and periodcally crashing into obstacles that are as generic as they are avoidable. Nothing he does seems very interesting, least of all his writing. Burgess provides creation myths for a lot of memorable quotes from Shakespeare‘s sonnets and plays, and in each instance I found it hard to believe that the dull oaf I was following around would have come up with these elegant and witty turns of phrase.
All in all, it should have been a bawdy romp, but it ended up being a rather perfunctory, drudging march from one bullet point to another; youth – marriage – pest in London – sonnet boy – Romeo and Juliet – latest affair – death of Hamnet– etc., with no room for an independent story to unfold.
Burgess‘ Marlowe book, A Dead Man in Deptford, accomplishes this brilliantly, perhaps because with Marlowe, Burgess had less information to work with and had to construe a plausible fictional story. I’d say, skip Shakespeare, in this instance, and go directly to Marlowe.
On the other hand, I could have substracted five stars just for the crime (the feat?) of making Shakespeare dull. Burgess‘ character WS comes across as downright dim-witted in this; a bumbling idiot who is – just barely – floating along on the tides of life and periodcally crashing into obstacles that are as generic as they are avoidable. Nothing he does seems very interesting, least of all his writing. Burgess provides creation myths for a lot of memorable quotes from Shakespeare‘s sonnets and plays, and in each instance I found it hard to believe that the dull oaf I was following around would have come up with these elegant and witty turns of phrase.
All in all, it should have been a bawdy romp, but it ended up being a rather perfunctory, drudging march from one bullet point to another; youth – marriage – pest in London – sonnet boy – Romeo and Juliet – latest affair – death of Hamnet– etc., with no room for an independent story to unfold.
Burgess‘ Marlowe book, A Dead Man in Deptford, accomplishes this brilliantly, perhaps because with Marlowe, Burgess had less information to work with and had to construe a plausible fictional story. I’d say, skip Shakespeare, in this instance, and go directly to Marlowe.