Sonnet 130

I hope this is the beginning of many reflections on this particular piece. One cannot do justice to this poem in one lifetime of reflection, let alone one review. I may one day be able to talk about the significance of this poem in the proper manner. Bit today I shall speak only of the history of my relationship with this extraordinary collection of fourteen lines of verse.

Ever since I could understand complete sentences spoken by others (that makes me about three), I have been told what a great writer William Shakespeare was. Over the years, everyone I met who had any experience with literature always told me that the Bard was the top of the heap. Hammered it home, more like it.

Now once something becomes conventional wisdom, you would want to challenge it if you are young. Growing up, my expectations were built up in a way that I was prepared to be overwhelmed by my first encounter with William Shakespeare. My chance came in the seventh grade when we were assigned Three Tragedies of Shakespeare as our Literature textbook. We were to study Romeo & Juliet in th winter term, Hamlet in spring and summer and Othello for autumn term. I could have my fill of the wonderful fountain of Shakespearean literature for the whole year.

It was such a letdown! I could not believe how boring and uninspiring it was! Firstly, I could not understand the text. You must bear in mind that at that time English was my second language. It was hard enough to understand common everyday modern form of the language, let alone the Elizabethan version of discourse in human nature. Shakespeare became a thing to be kept in distance. It just wasn't cool.

Couple of years went by and I entered ninth grade. This was a major event because we had to take an exam after tenth grade and preparation must begin in ninth. I was encouraged to study very hard, particularly the subject of English Language. We had English separated into two: Language and Literature where the former was mandatory.

One day, I was perusing through my English Language text book where there was a poem at the bottom of the page. It had twelve lines and it went like this:

            

              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 damasked, 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.

 

I could bare ly hold my breath! It was the most fascinating twelve lines I had ever read in my life! I remember laughing out loud and reading it over and over again. It was so funny!

My experience with romance was totally informed through the eyes of Hollywood romantic comedies and sentimental romance fiction. You cannot think of anything more saccharine laden portrayal of human relationships. I would expect a man to praise his sweetheart to the stars: not only was it the norm but anything else was unthinkable.

And here it was, the most irreverent and playful portrayal of one's lady love as you can think of. This for me was the delicious forbidden fruit of heresy. This was a while new world where you don't have to follow the dominant narrative and accept it as the only norm. There was a whole new world out there, a world where imagination ruled, where you could speak your mind, where a skeptical attitude would not be considered out of place.

Romance is naturally based on insecurity of self esteem. Yet here was this man who could speak with absolute confidence about the shortcomings of his beloved. He would rather speak of her faults. This was a great humanizing experience: your beloved becomes more real with her blemishes and thereby more desirable than a distant creature of perfection. It was, literally, spell-bounding!

So who is this man who had written this wonderful poem? And it did seem incomplete by the way the twelfth verse ended. So I flipped onto the next page and was greeted with:

               

              And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

 As any she belied with false compare.

What a breathtaking finish! She is this completely human, everyday mundane creature: just another woman. And yet he loves her in a way that can never have nay equal measure. This was romance and satire and lively playing with words that I had never seen before. Within a space of no more than sixty seconds the universe has changed: life, love and literature, it seemed, would never be the same again!

Then my eyes strayed to the end where the writer's name was printed on the right side of the page. In a small print it read: William Shakespeare.