When I lost the Iliad and the Oddysey to Targówek, apart from the reflection on how human fates interact – sometimes, it may seem, producing reverse effects at relevant ends – and how to understand and shape this dynamic and malleable interaction, I made a resolution to reach more often for the classics standing, most of the time, bored stiff on the shelves in the few places that I live in (at various times).
The first book I dusted off was the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. And this is what I found right away:
XLII
That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone1,2,3.
1 I know, I know, I know – to annotate and boldface Shakespeare’s sonnets is more than an offence - it looks awful.
2 I thought that if I can’t have any other relation with the Bard, at least I’ll make him turn in the grave by doing this to him.
3 He’s good, isn’t he?
PS The other day I was going to meet up with a friend of mine and I wanted to take with me a book I'd borrowed from him - “How to care about your brain and improve your memory”, or something like this, I can’t remember exactly. I couldn’t find it. Then I remembered – it was in the bag I left on that bus (I kid you not!). Damn it!
