By William Shakespeare
For this new version, first released in 1971, Ted Hughes augmented his unique collection of Shakespeare's poems and dramatic speeches and fully rewrote his accompanying essay, meaning to fix to the typical reader a lot of what, in Shakespeare, used to be instinctively to be had to the viewers of his day, and to teach how Shakespeare's language unites in its sinews and substance the entire variety of Elizabethan preoccupations, philosophical and social.
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Extra resources for A Choice of Shakespeare's Verse
A brother and sister descended from those ancient Khmer stare from their rickety bike. At Banteay Srei longing melts in my hands, my thirst is quenched, my hunger for connection finds the peace it seeks. Time disappears. Something amorphous takes its place and only gratitude remains. m 30 m Ode to General Võ Nguyên Giáp (Born in the village of An Xá, Vietnam, August 25, 1911) The General was 100 in August. He dreams of slender rubber trees, white sap dripping into small bowls, halved gourds filling with currency for school books and medicine, everything his people deserve after centuries of Chinese, Japanese, French and Americans claimed their bamboo and mangosteen, rice paddies and water buffalo, men and women who keep on giving themselves for independence and freedom.
Years yearning to make it to this place on the far side of my world, gaze at these Buddha-covered towers damaged by neglect and weather, once targets for the Khmer Rouge, now a concession managed by Vietnamese. m 27 m I wanted the Angkor Wat of kings, flourishing in the shadow of Kulen, bustling and trading along the shores of Tonle Sap, radiating culture throughout a world alive one thousand years ago. I wanted to cross the broad moat with no Styrofoam in the water, join saffron-robed monks and pilgrims from everywhere, understand its movement from Buddhist to Hindu and back again.
Strands of damp hair repeated their fall across lips silenced by bullets made somewhere else. The small room’s heat, lungs under siege. Walls receded, then pressed against me. Slowly, with purpose, I brought my gaze to her son’s face: jaw wrapped in strips of gauze, clean red and black around his neck. As in so many grieving homes before and since I touched the mother’s shoulder raised my camera, got my shot. We must tell the world, they insisted, when I complained I can’t keep doing this. Can’t.