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.