I had odd reading habits as a child which I never understood until I was older. A bit of a loner growing up, I never compared what I was reading with my peers. Everything I read, by definition, was my norm, because I it was what I read.
Imagine my joy when, among the books passed down from my Dad, I recently discover this collection of petite, leather-bound Shakespeare texts edge-gilt with gold. The case has long since fallen into disrepair, but the books are in fantastic shape. Each one fits in the palm of your hand, begging to be enjoyed.
In my youthful innocence I was fascinated by these gorgeous tomes. No one else in my family ever touched them, and I assumed because they were tiny that they were children’s books.
In retrospect, I remember using the glossary extensively, and wondering at the vocabulary Mr. Shakespeare thought proper for children. But then, his works were from an older time, and I assumed this was normal back then. Also, I read many faery tales, and so differing cadence and speech patterns didn’t slow me down.
It’s no wonder I swear like a sailor now, only that I do it in modern english. When my parents discovered I’d been reading them, and enjoying the likes of Much Ado About Nothing, Macbeth, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, Othello, and the like, they had mixed reactions. My father was, well, disturbed. My mother thought my reading of the classics couldn’t be all bad, although she’d have preferred I waited until high school, I think. Eh, kids!
Here’s a picture from inside ‘Much Ado About Nothing’. Someone’s being an ass. 😉
I don’t know why my Dad saved these, but I’m thrilled he did. Sometimes life is all about the little things.