Courtesy of Mr. Shakespeare

from Mentalfloss

A fool’s paradise—Romeo and Juliet

A tower of strength—Richard III

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods—King Lear

Bated breath—The Merchant of Venice

Brevity is the soul of wit—Hamlet

Come full circle—King Lear

Come what may—Macbeth

Conscience does make cowards of us all—Hamlet

Cowards die many times before their deaths—Julius Caesar

Dead as a doornail—Henry VI, part 2

Devil incarnate—Henry V

Eaten me out of house and home—Henry IV, part 2

Dog will have its day—Hamlet

Flaming youth—Hamlet

For goodness sake—Henry VIII

Frailty, thy name is woman—Hamlet

Get thee to a nunnery—Hamlet

Good riddance—Troilus and Cressida

Green-eyed monster—Othello

Halcyon days—Henry VI ****

Hold a candle to—The Merchant of Venice

I am fortune’s fool—Romeo and Juliet

I have immortal longings in me—Antony and Cleopatra

I have not slept one wink—Cymbeline

In my mind’s eye—Hamlet

Into thin air—The Tempest

It was Greek to me—Julius Caesar

Knock, knock! Who’s there? —Macbeth

Laughing-stock—The Merry Wives of Windsor

Lord, what fools these mortals be!—A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Love is blind—The Merchant of Venice

My own flesh and blood—The Merchant of Venice

My salad days, when I was green in judgment—Antony and Cleopatra

Not a mouse stirring—Hamlet

Now is the winter of our discontent—Richard III

One fell swoop—Macbeth

One that loved not wisely, but too well—Othello

Out, damned spot!—Macbeth

Out, out, brief candle—Macbeth

Pomp and Circumstance—Othello

Put out the light—Othello

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep—Henry VI, Part II

Spotless reputation—Richard III

Star-crossed lovers—Romeo and Juliet

Stood on ceremonies—Julius Caesar

Sweets to the sweet—Hamlet

The better part of valour is discretion—Henry IV, part 1

The course of true love never did run smooth—A Midsummer Night’s Dream

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose—The Merchant of Venice

The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers—Henry VI, part 2

The game is afoot—Henry IV, part 1

The naked truth—Love’s Labour’s Lost

The lady doth protest too much, methinks—Hamlet

The world’s mine oyster—The Merry Wives of Windsor

‘Tis neither here nor there—–Othello

To thine own self be true—Hamlet

Too much of a good thing—As You Like It

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown—Henry IV, part 2

We are such stuff as dreams are made on–The Tempest

What a piece of work is a man—Hamlet

What the dickens—The Merry Wives of Windsor

What’s done is done—Macbeth

Books Over Men

originally posted 7/22/07

Yesterday afternoon, I fell in love. If there are two worldly things that I love shamelessly, they are books and men. Of course, I'm fond of the usual "girl things" like Godiva chocolates, non-ergonomic shoes, or leather watches, but none of these paltry commodities call for my possession as persuasively as the aforementioned loves. Although I judge both by their cover, I pay attention only after a quick skim arouses my desire for emotional connection.

People mistakenly assume that my love for literature makes me an excellent source for book recommendations. WRONG. It is at this time that I will make three overripe confessions:
1) I have horrible taste in novels. This, combined with my commitment issues, results in
2) my inability to finish the novels that I purchase or borrow, which culminates in my sad admittance that
3) I've finished less than eight novels (besides those of the Harry Potter persuasion) during the past 2-3 years.

My ability to love, therefore, is disproportionate to the refinement of my taste and the continuance of my attraction. No amount of reviews or word-of-mouth reputations can make me finish a novel if my infatuation were confined to that first skim. Oftentimes, I find that the best-enjoyed novels are those that I read begrudgingly, if only to satisfy a course requirement or to silence a nagging recommender. It is with these initially unremarkable novels that I enjoy an intimate love affair, one that simultaneously polishes my diminished veneration for literature and restores my faith in its enchantments.

And now to the topic of greater interest - men. Ah, men. If only I could put them away as easily as I do an unsatisfying read. Books, I fall in love with quickly but at least abandon with even greater rapidity. I won't be as hasty to attach the blame solely to my seemingly horrible taste; no, I blame my heart's unrelenting longing to meld with something, anything to make it feel capable of intimacy with a foreigner familiar only in its own yearnings.

Call me a masochist, but oftentimes, the books I cherish the most are those that inflict the most pain - whose pages echo the grim musings of one not unlike myself. As I was saying earlier, yesterday, I fell in love with Alain de Botton's Essays on Love. While I hesitate to say that it's a good book (because I haven't read it), the portions that I did read tempted me with the prospect of someone who understands, even if that someone is really a 200-page something.

A good book is, perhaps, the most faithful companion to a lonely heart. It is also the quickest cure for denial. I approach my personal demons like I do their images as depicted in scary movies - with my head crouched and one hand covering my eyes. I attribute the worst to the the ghoulish shrieking of televised victims, my self-inflicted blindness doing little to erase the resonating horror. Good literature captures those demons with words and forces me, the reader, to confront them vicariously through another. Perhaps, I think to myself, if the author were able to produce such a marvelous piece of art from so grotesque a source, I can do the same. With the encouragement of a good book, I too, can fight these forces beleaguering me with self-doubt and depression.

I am, admittedly, a participant in a cursed love affair with books. As much as I love them, I can't profess to be well-read or knowledgeable about English literature. I have never read The Bell Jar. I haven't touched Hamlet. Yet somehow, something prevents me from adopting a defeatist attitude. I don't actually read, I tell myself, but I am not a victim. I am not a failure. As they say, you can't fail if you don't give up.

I might not experience much success with books, a literary career, and yes, even love in the form of human romantic aspirations, but as melancholy as it all feels during solitary summer evenings, I can't bring myself to admit unhappiness at this seemingly sorry state.

Perhaps the problem this time isn't denial, but the simple fact that I am not actually sorry - and perhaps, when I'm estranged from all contradictory thought, I can admit without hesitation that that isn't a problem at all.