So, while I wrestle with the next Temple novel, I wander around looking for inspiration. One of the books that I come across from my own collection is a small hand-sized copy of The Works of William Shakespeare. It’s an old tatty leather bound 18th century book that I picked out at an antiques fair a long time ago. Learning Shakespeare in class was torture; we had to read The Merchant of Venice. It didn’t speak to me at all. I had other things going on. I hated it. Had no idea what it was all about. As a 15 year old teenager, it made no sense.
But for some reason at the antiques fair only a few years later, when I saw all these old leather books of Shakespeare’s works, I had to have one. In fairness, it wasn’t a newly found culture that drew me. It was the ‘oldness.’ The books were from the 1750’s. That was seriously old and I wanted to own something that someone made, that another bought and would have read as new that long ago.
I could buy two for £9, but I only had £5. I could buy one, so I chose the book containing the only Shakespeare play I knew then – the one of my torture. I figured at least I’d have a loose understanding of what it was about. So looking for inspiration, I end up reminiscing on this book I bought many years ago – and wishing now I’d had more money to buy more…
