William Shakespeare, born April 23rd 1564,  died April 23rd 1616

(Words and phrases from Shakespeare in bold.)

I'd be in a pickle if I tried to write a book without using one of the excellent words he gave to the language.

Never a pedant, he plays leapfrog with words, fast and loose with the Aristotelian 'unities' of drama. Several meanings are submerged in his monumental plays and sonnets. His characters are flesh and blood, be they majestic, lonely, fretful, full of sound and fury, tower of strength, barefaced liar, obscene. His understanding of human nature beggars all description. He has inspired countless writers of books, poems, plays and screenplays.

In my salad days I studied Shakespeare at school, wrote critical essays, but I wanted to see a Shakespeare play I didn't know, hadn't studied. I wanted to judge him for myself, without notes or guidance, without greatness pre-supposed. Would I be able to understand the language? Would I be able to follow the plot, understand the characters?

In my mind's eye I picture what is still one of the most memorable productions I've seen - Cymbeline performed in a draughty hall by the newly formed theatre company Shared Experience. No props, no set, no costumes. Frugal. The actors wore plain white jumpsuits and plimsolls. The text shone.

I was enthralled. Gripped. In one fell swoop my fears vanished into thin air. I have loved Shakespeare unreservedly ever since. And the great thing is, there are still plays I haven't seen, sonnets I haven't read.

He died on 23rd April, 1616. His exact birthday isn't known, but his baptism was recorded on 26th April 1564 and it was the custom to baptise three days after birth. So -

Happy Birthday Shakespeare.

Rest in Peace.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
   And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
   Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.