Hamnet
Reviews
Loved it.
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One of those books that stays with you long after you’ve turned the last page. It haunts you. It fills you with so much grief, it devastates you. It tells the story of Shakespeare and his wife, Agnes, who share a great love, a connection that filled me with so much hope that with each turn of the page, I dreaded it being tethered. Because after the death of their son, everything shatters. From the beginning, Maggie O’Farrell gripped me with her words. Like magic. Like music. If some say that she is a master of describing grief, I’d say she’s a master of words, of language, of literature. She has written a masterpiece, a book I think we will still be reading in a century. In “Hamnet”, we follow and feel for each of the characters — the husband (he, him, but never his actual name. Shakespeare is nameless in this one), his sister, his mother, his two daughters, the son, who is about to die. But mostly, we feel for his wife. Agnes is the protagonist of this story, the sheer force of it. The heart of every page and why the grief in this book feels so real, torturous even. Unlike Shakespeare’s, her name lives on every page of this book. It’s emphasized even. So much, that at the beginning, O’Farrell beautifully describes its pronunciation and you can even feel her name being imprinted in Shakespeare’s heart. “Agnes. Said differently from how it might be written on a page, with that near-hidden, secret g. The tongue curls towards it yet barely touches it. Ann-yis. Agn-yez. One must lean into the first syllable, then skip over the next.” The contrast between the two main characters is so strong — one is nameless, the other carries her name in this story like shield, like weapon. Generally, O’Farrell’s decision to never mention the name of Shakespeare was so intriguing to me. The husband, the lover, the father is separated from the great playwright. We see Shakespeare the way Agnes sees him, the way his family and his children do. The name is removed as if not to distract us. As if to help us perceive this genius of a man as a mere human being — flawed, like the rest of us. But this book is so much more than Shakespeare, his family, and his son, who is about to inspire a play that is performed to this day. “Hamnet” is about grief, about rememberance, about the bravery of mourning your child in a world that just wants to forget. Somewhere, around the middle of this book, when Death comes, when this book truly breaks you, you start to realize that grief has many forms. Grief can be alienation from the world, your life and what you, as an individual, once was. A separation from everything that made you, you. Grief can be drowning yourself in work, in words, and always in the search of what you lost. Always looking for his face in the crowd, in the street. Everywhere. Even in your own daughter. “Is this the face he would have had?” And after Death comes for Hamnet, O’Farrell refuses to be done with the reader. The epigraph to the second part of the novel, where the author quotes “Hamlet” holds the meaning of everything that is about to come: “I am dead: thou livest… draw thy breath in pain. To tell my story.” Many have suggested that “Hamlet”, the play, is about remembrance, about what happens when the rituals of mourning collapse. In “Hamnet”, the book, Agnes refuses to let go. She carries her grief everywhere. Her son’s absence has become her life’s “epicentre, from which everything flows out, to which everything returns”. She performs these little rituals of grieving, of mourning, every day: she takes a lock of Hamnet’s hair and stores it, she refuses to move his clothing, she constantly listens for his footsteps. Her grief becomes unsettling for everyone around her. So much that it transforms her relationship with her husband, her understanding of life, of herself. And in the meaning of practicing rememberance daily, Maggie O’Farrell makes us witnesses of Agnes’ husband, who has escaped far away from her unsettling grief, performing the same rituals. But in the only way he knows how. With his words, with ink on paper. And at the end of this book, the husband, the lover, the father becomes one with the great playwright. An alchemist of some sort in Agnes’ eyes. He performs the ritual of bringing back the dead. He has done the only thing a parent would ever wish to do — switch places and have Death take him instead. Now, their son lives forever in his play. He has become eternal. “Hamnet” finishes off with Agnes seeing her husband’s play, her child alive on stage, and the ritual of mourning finally understood by the soul closest to hers. And nothing holds more the true meaning of this book than the last words, spoken by her husband on stage: “Remember me.” ….A true masterpiece!
As with much of Shakespeare's own works, Hamnet is a story of love, death, grief, marriage, and tragedy. This in-part dual narrative of Agnes's young adult years and her time as a wife and mother weaves together both what we know as a society about Shakespeare, and what has been left to speculation and what O'Farrell fleshes out for us here. The choice to center Agnes and her grief, especially in the latter third of the book is what truly brings all of these beautiful descriptive scenes together. The prose was so mesmerizing for me, and though purple prose isn't everyone's jam, it most certainly is mine. I never felt bogged down by it, and especially in a novel that sits around 300 pages, it felt like just the right amount to both capture the historical aspects and bring you into Agnes's world. This book definitely is one of my favorites of this year so far; it has enthralled me in so many ways that are impossible to fit into a review, but I feel that I picked this book up at exactly the right moment so that I could enjoy it in its entirety. Gorgeous.
And, of course, to nerd out a bit: Shakespeare never being name-dropped in any sense was so perfect to me. To have a name as big as his attached to a story in general carries weight, whether it is intended to or not, and O'Farrell's choice to share the narrative with Agnes and the family over centering solely on Shakespeare (though he is, of course, very easily identifiable to readers and prominent in the story) worked so well. So much more I could say on that too but that's for another time for people who want to nerd out equally as much.
i read the last few paragraphs, closed to book, stared at the ceiling and then did it 2 more times and i only stopped cause my eye started itching
I came into this one a little bit skeptical, being a fictionalized biography of sorts. The book did not fall into that trap at all. It's an immensely well-crafted story about life, in all its heart-wrenching beauty.
We so often think of Shakespeare as an otherworldly talent. There's legend spun around him. He's practically worshipped (and I'm not exempt; my own admiration of Shakespeare made me interested in this novel in the first place). O'Farrell strips William Shakespeare of this sort of supernaturalness. He's unnamed, and his character is more defined by his actions toward his family (good or bad) than his talent or success. O'Farrell takes all the myth she removes from William and bestows it onto his wife, Agnes, who becomes the central character. She's enchanting and ethereal but earthy and grounded. There isn't much story in Hamnet. But, thanks to O'Farrell's prose and her taking plenty of time to flesh out characters' backgrounds and personalities, the plot doesn't necessarily feel thin or fluffy, just slow.
I didn't get Hamnet at first I was confused as to what was going on and where it was going. However, about halfway through the book, it clicked and I fell in love. Utterly beautiful. Utterly compelling. Read my full review on www.lukeharkness.com
Maggie O'Farrell's novel Hamnet tells the story of how the death of Will Shakespeare's son impacted the development of his most famous play. Albeit light on the historicity (no mentions of a particular Thomas Kyd tragedy or the possible 1587 Ur-Hamlet here!), Hamnet is set in a world where child mortality is high, death during childbirth is common, and at any point one's whole family could perish from bubonic plague; the thematic throughline from Hamlet to Hamnet is grief. Rarely is it the case that the protagonist the reason I like a book less than I think I ought to, but I cannot get behind most the creative choices behind Agnes as a character. She's presented as a witch-goddess with a literal evil stepmother and mysterious knowledge of future medical practices. I don't think this serves the story well, as in terms of structure, affect, etc. the novel clearly attempts naturalism. (Compare to, say, Laurus which is decidedly and purposefully not.) Additionally, I didn't like that what I supposed would be a main theme based on the description -- an artist's responsibility to those whose lives are drawn upon in their work a la The Story of the Lost Child-- only factored in the last twenty percent and felt underdeveloped.
Near perfection.
A beautifully-written book that provides insight into how Shakespeare’s personal life may have influenced one of the world’s most famous plays, Hamlet.
The story unfolds with a similar narrative to that of O’Farrell’s most recent piece of work, The Marriage Portrait. You flash back and forwards between Shakespeare’s youth and the death of his son in 1956.
One thing I found interesting about this book was the author’s decision to never mention Shakespeare by name. O’Farrell opts to focus on the role his wife had in shaping his life and career. I find pieces of work that tell the stories of invisible women throughout history fascinating, albeit a piece of fiction.
The writing is incredible, the pages are emotionally-charged and there’s so much depth and colour to the characters. The novel touches on the theme of grief and loss in such a nuanced way, to the extent that I felt so moved during some parts of the book. It’s definitely going to be one that sticks with me for a while.
"how were they to know that hamnet was the pin holding them together? that without him they would all fragment and fall apart, like a cup shattered on the floor?" first of all, i know nothing about Shakespeare's life and this is just a work of fiction. But the way she delivers every line, and the melancholy way of her writing got me feel like i was there watching them fall apart. Anne/Agnes she's a great mother and she's strong. I also like that Shakespeare's not named.
I loved the book, but I hated that the author gave Shakespeare's wife super powers.
I say this often and I stand by it - the worst offence fiction could commit is being boring and this was very much that. I was ready to love this, given that "The Marriage Portrait" (which I read earlier this year) was stunning and absolutely gripping. No idea how this is the more acclaimed of the two but I guess without the success of "Hamnet", there might have not been "The Marriage Portrait" so at least it has that going on for it.
Partings are strange. It seems so simple: one minute ago, four, five, he was here, at her side; now, he is gone. She was with him; she is alone. She feels exposed, chill, peeled like an onion.
Hamnet is the story about Shakespeare’s family and his son who has passed away, so young. I am speechless don’t know what to say yet so awestruck by this strong story that moved me deeply. Also I’m so excited by the fact that I’ll also see the play of Hamnet the next day I finished its book.
O'Farrell is a master at setting the time and place of a book. She beautifully weaved the environment the characters without feeling dragging any pieces of the plot. Beautiful!
I'm not really sure what to say about this book. I'm a certified Shakespeare nut, and I just wasn't that into it, so I'm thinking that most people really wouldn't like it. But maybe my Shakespeare knowledge made it less interesting to me somehow? I was pretty bored by most of the first section. After the death, section two seemed more touching and the end was pretty poetic. I don't know. I just didn't really like it very much. So meh. 2.5 stars rounded up to 3. ETA: I just remembered a few more things I wanted to mention: 1. This book doesn't have chapters. It just starts and keeps going. There are a couple ways it's divided, but the Kindle version I read didn't have the chapter time stamps. I like my chapter time stamps. 2. The first section alternates back and forth in time. It's kind of a cool juxtaposition, but not enough to make it interesting. 3. There's SO MUCH DESCRIPTION. Like, yeah, it can be beautiful, but not everything needs a metaphor. 4. It's super sad and sometimes the layers and layers of description get in the way of the feelings and I think the feelings are supposed to be the point.
After the first few pages I was hooked. By halfway through, I was adding all of O’Farrell’s books to my ‘must reads’. Her writing is simply fabulous and she’s able to portray emotions of sadness and love better than anyone. Agnes‘s eccentricities were such a pleasure to read, and while most of the book was fictional, I would love to believe that behind Shakespeare was a brilliant, strong woman (as with most men in history). A heartbreaking depiction of loss and the intricacies of family.
the failmarriage (ik it didn’t end up being one but the aspects were there) almost made me give it 5 stars
This book made me love and hate William Shakespeare. Read it. Find the beauty of it. My only hope is that you don’t resonate with it too much.
I absolutely loved it, devoured the entire thing in 4 days
Even though this isn’t my genre, I was surprised by how much the story interested me as well as the writing style. However, the majority of the book was a bit boring and dragged a bit. But I can appreciate all the symbolism (and there was lots of it)
Highlights
Senhora, ele se foi,
Não mais existe, morreu;
Na cabeça lhe nasce um tufo de grama,
Aos pés, uma cova.
She discovers that it is possible to cry all day and all night. That there are many different ways to cry: the sudden outpouring of tears, the deep, racking sobs, the soundless and endless leaking of water from the eyes.
Shore-ditch? Agnes had repeated. She pictured the bank of a river, silted, reed-frilled, a place where yellow flags might grow, and birds would nest, and then a ditch, a treacherously slippery sloped hole, with muddy water in the bottom. ‘Shore’ and then ‘ditch’.
She grows up, too, with the memory of what it meant to be properly loved, for what you are, not what you ought to be.
Oahu is a giant clam. She has been living inside a clamshell, able to see a chunk of the wide blue world past the edges and walking along porcelain veneers in the meanwhile.
If he were a dog, his tail would be constantly wagging.
The silence swells between them; it expands and wraps itself around them; it acquires shape and form and tendrils, which wave off into the air, like the threads trailing from a broken web.
What is the word, Judith asks her mother, for some one who was a twin but is no longer a twin?
If you were a wife, Judith continues, and your husband dies, then you are a widow. And if its parents die. a child becomes an orphan. But what is the word for what I am?
I don’t know, her mother says.
Maybe there isn’t one, she suggests.
Maybe not, says her mother.
Anyone, Eliza is thinking, who describes dying as 'slipping away' or 'peaceful' has never witnessed it happen. Death is violent, death is a struggle. The body clings to life, as ivy to a wall, and will not easily let go, will not surrender its grip without a fight.
How can he live without her? He cannot. It is like asking the heart to live without the lungs, like tearing the moon out of the sky and asking the stars to do its work, like expecting the barley to grow without rain.
She grows up feeling wrong, out of place, too dark, too tall, too unruly, too opinionated, too silent, too strange. She grows up with the awareness that she is merely tolerated, an irritant, useless, that she does not deserve love, that she will need to change herself substantially, crush herself down if she is to be married. She grows up, too, with the memory of what it meant to be properly loved, for what you are, not what you ought to be.
Every life has its kernel, its hub, its epicentre, from which everything flows out, to which everything returns.
She is hollowed out, her edges blurred and insubstantial. She might disintegrate, break apart, like a raindrop hitting a leaf. She cannot leave this place, she cannot pass through this gate. She cannot leave him here.
How easy is it, Agnes thinks, as she lifts the plates, to miss the pain and anguish of one person, if that person keeps quiet, if he keeps it all in, like a bottle stoppered too tightly, the pressure inside building and building, until – what? Agnes doesn't know.
Y ahora esto... este arrebato. No se parece a nada que haya vivido antes. Le recuerda a una mano ponerse un guantes, a un cordero que se desliza, mojado, de las entrañas de una oveja, a un hacia rajar un tronco, a una llave que gira en una cerradura engrasada. ¿Cómo es posible, se pregunta, mirando al preceptor a la cara, que una cosa encaje tan bien, con tanta precisión, con esta sensación de acierto?
There were creatures in there who resembled humans - wood-dwellers, they were called - who walked and talked, but had never set foot outside the forest, had lived all their lives in its leafish light, its encircling branches, its wet and tangled interior.
the dream
It's like a mirror, he had said. Or that they are one person split down the middle. Their two heads uncovered, shining like spun gold.
She, like all mothers, constantly casts out her thoughts, like fishing lines, towards her children, reminding herself of where they are, what they are doing, how they fare. From habit, while she sits there near the fireplace, some part of her mind is tabulating them and their whereabouts: Judith, upstairs. Susanna, next door. And Hamnet? […] And Hamnet? The mind will ask again. At school, at play, out at the river? And Hamnet? And Hamnet? Where is he?
There is the stall they passed earlier, piled high with tin pots and cedar shavings. There is the woman they saw, still making her decision, holding two pots in her hands, weighing them, and how can she still be there, how can she still be engaged in the same activity, in the choosing of a pot, when such a change, such a transformation has occurred in Agnes’s life? Her very world is cloven in two, and here is the same dog, dozing in a doorway.
Susanna nods. ‘I never… I never confused the two of you. I always knew which was which, even when you were babies. When you used to play those games, the two of you, swapping clothes or hats, I always knew.’
How can he live without her? He cannot. It is like asking the heart to live without the lungs, like tearing the moon out of the sky and asking the stars to do their work, like expecting the barley to grow without rain... They are one and the same.