Mad about the boy

And a happy approximate 449th birthday to Will of Stratford!

My copy of Shakespeare Beyond Doubt is winging its way. I am reading two beautiful and complementary books on Shakespeare and the things of his world, cataloging an exhibition at the British Museum:  Neil MacGregor's Shakespeare's Restless World and Jonathan Bate and Dora Thornton's Shakespeare: Staging the World.  I so wish I could have seen the show they celebrate.  (Did you know that James VI & I owned a suit of samurai armor?)  The Actors' Shakespeare Project is doing Pericles now, so I may yet obliterate the memory of the one at Adams House, an atrocity that would have made even Darren Nichols cringe.   (The relief of the famine at Tarsus was done by putting a Poptart in a microwave and waiting through an endless minute of its revolutions for the ding.  So clever.)  And by happenstance, the next book in my grand sweep though the Golden Age of murder turns out to be a Shakespeare mystery:  Ngaio Marsh's Killer Dolphin.

Nine