Having revisited Shakespeare's songs for the purposes of the last few posts, it occurred to me again that his knowledge of human emotion springs largely from his appreciation of the importance of love. In fact, one way of approaching a Shakespeare character is to try to understand where he or she is positioned in regard to it: Is it a promise? A memory? Has it been thwarted? Does the emotion confuse them? Do they feel abandoned by it? Swept away in it? Even the greatest villains are motivated by it (for an example, see the opening soliloquy to Richard III). Even the fiercest warriors can find themselves stopped by it (Coriolanus), and great lovers can be turned to raging fighters by its loss (Troilus). And what about the writer himself? Many look to the sonnets as possibly carrying autobiographical clues, partially because they are so deeply about love that they largely exclude settings, names, and stories, and leave us with virtually nothing but descriptions of pure emotion. And although I argued against the sonnets being interpreted in this manner in an earlier post (October 12, 2010), when I think about Sonnet 23, it's hard not to feel that I was wrong:

As an unperfect actor on the stage

Who with his fear is put besides his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,

O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love and look for recompense

More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.

O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:

To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.