Writing.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

It’s somewhat ironic – words such as these, so elegant, charming and evocative, are responsible for striking fear (and usually loathing) into the hearts of young high school students across the Western world.

I came across this line a long time ago; I don’t remember where now, most likely on a high school worksheet or something like that. It’s only recently though, as I’ve taken up reading and writing with a hunger and passion I’ve never felt before, that I feel I’ve truly come to appreciate such a phrase.

It’s a startlingly simple comparison, a woman with a pleasant climate, but it manages to capture so much in such a concise phrase. The tone is one of a man struggling to find the words to accurately and adequately convey the extraordinary beauty of this fair maiden – ‘would a Summer’s day be fair? Surely not, for she surpasses even that…’

It entices further when you remember Shakespeare was English. You don’t have to spend long on some dreary, drudgery-laden corner of an English street in June to realise that spectacular English summer days are not quite as common as they are in sunny West Australia.

The full sonnet to which this wonderful couplet belongs can be found here, and it certainly doesn’t disappoint. Shakespeare seems to have possessed a knack for a melodious poetry, where the imagery and sound alone is enough to make you dizzy with awe.

And so it is that I feel somewhat torn right now. I’m heading to university soon for a course in computer science, ready to delve into a deeply classical understanding of the world around us, eschewing romantic expressions in favour of algebraic ones. I’m reading currently about the abundant beauty of its own kind to be found in the latter – something I’ll hopefully write about later – and it is the promise of this greater and more rounded understanding that keeps me going. Yet I seriously question my decision to put this rekindled fire that burns within me aside even for a moment.

I want to write. I want to reach deep within my soul and scrounge around for those phrases that most closely resemble the turmoil I feel, to give meaning to the life I lead by leaving my own creative mark on the world. There is nothing so magical as the manipulation and mastery of language to make sensations and emotions shine brighter on paper than they feel in the soul. That, to me at least, is a life well spent.