Why I Don't Write Children's Literature - Plot & Excerpts
he must have had help from others. The master couldn’t have written all those plays and sonnets, one brilliant work after another, with such an inexhaustible display of genius and commercial sense. I dispute this rumor. I picture — through my own sepia lens — Shakespeare straining to write in a tavern by candlelight, backstage at the Globe Theater, or in rooms smelly with wet hay. I see him in his abode, indifferent to his urine (and his lover’s urine) in the corner pail. His quill busily scratches out lines on parchment. The ink is dark and his fingers are stained from his literary pursuits. I see the master sidestepping beggars and yokels, not in the least pained by the sight of a fluttering hen on a chopping block. He has somewhere to go and something to do. He must make his living solely by his wits. And let’s forgive him his indifference to family: in a thatched cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon, his long-suffering wife pokes at a fire. In the yard, his forgotten children play.
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