One of my son’s homework is to read
Shakespeare during this winter holiday. Well, Shakespeare is probably a bit
difficult for a six-grade. Every time when he is reading it, he looks like he’s
drinking vomit, with his face crumpled up all together. Three days later I
decided to do something about it, so I told him that I’ll read the English
version with him, and then we can make reading journal together. Of course, I
didn’t realize what kind of troubles I put myself in when I was saying
that. Half an hour later, I stared at
the first chapter of Hamlet, wondering if I’d thrown all the years of my
English learning into the air. I know 98%
percent of the words, but I just don’t know what the hell they are supposed to
mean when they are putting together in this way. It all goes like this: But to recover of us,
by strong hand. And terms compensatory, those foresaid lands. So by his father
lost. Okay, I read Shakespeare in Chinese many years ago, so I can make a
guess. I even understand a bit more why Shakespeare is Shakespeare, I mean, if
you read it out, it’s smooth like the water, with all the rise and fall—if
you are not trying to figure out its meaning. “Mum, how about we read Harry
Potter together?” my son implored, “I prefer to read a whole book of Harry
Potter than a page of Shakespeare.” I must admit it’s a great suggestion. But
the Mum part inside me refused and she’s very adamant on this. “No honey, you
know we can’t run away from this.” I heard myself saying, signed, I returned to
the mysterious world of Shakespeare.