I agree. O’Farrell assumes that the reader will fill in the blanks. If I hadn’t come to the novel knowing that Agnes’ husband was William Shakesepeare, I would wonder, “What does she see in him? What does he have that is so compelling?” I would say his love for Agnes comes through in the story; his brilliance does not.
As I read Hamnet, I would periodically stop and search the Internet for historical facts about Shakespeare’s life — especially his personal life, of course. There is so little out there: "‘The greatest manhunt in literary history has turned up no manuscripts, no letters, no diaries.’ The only definitive examples of Shakespeare’s handwriting are six signatures, all on legal documents.” Passages like the following deepen the mystery:
“Shakespeare the writer, whoever he was, was one of the most broadly educated authors in English literature,” says Anderson, an avowed Oxfordian. The poet-playwright was steeped in the classics and drew on source texts that hadn’t yet been translated into English. His working vocabulary of more than 17,000 words—twice that of John Milton’s according to lexicons compiled for both men in the 19th century—includes nearly 3,200 original coinages. Could such erudition, Anderson asks, really come from a man with, at most, an English grammar-school education?
There is other circumstantial evidence against “the Stratford man,” as Oxfordians condescendingly call Shakespeare. Neither his wife nor his daughter Judith, it appears, were sufficiently literate to write their own names. The man himself is not known to have traveled beyond southern England, yet his plays suggest a firsthand knowledge of the Continent—Italy especially. In Stratford he was known as a businessman and property owner with some connection to the theater, not as a writer. His death attracted no notice in London, and he was buried—beneath a marker that bore no name—in Stratford.
The above is from a 2006 article in Smithsonian Magazine — a few years old, but that doesn’t really matter as I don’t think much has been added to the body of knowledge since then. The final line of the article gave me a laugh: “Garber likes to cite a remark Charles Dickens made to a friend in 1847: ‘The life of Shakespeare is a fine mystery, and I tremble every day lest something should turn up.’”
I sometimes feel disappointed with the endings of novels. Ending a story is hard. I loved the ending of Hamnet. By watching Hamlet, Agnes saw how Hamnet’s death affected Shakespeare. It seems Agnes knew Shakespeare better than anyone and also hardly knew him at all. Shakespeare wanted to trade places with his son in reality and couldn’t, so he did it on stage. I think the “Remember me.” line was for all of them, Hamnet, Agnes, and Shakespeare. Shakespeare managed to keep his son on stage for eternity. Agnes and Shakespeare managed to see and remember who they each were individually and how important they were to each other.
I loved the ending, too. Improbable? Perhaps. But even so, it hit the mark.
I did think that once Agnes had made the connection between Hamnet and Hamlet, how extraordinarily difficult the last scene of the play would have been for her. Hamlet is carried away, while Fortinbras laments what he might have achieved had he lived: “Let four captains / Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage, / For he was likely, had he been put on, / To have proved most royally.”
And then of course, the famous line from Horatio as Hamlet dies: “Good night, sweet prince, / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”
I confess that before we chose this book, I didn’t even know about the existence of Hamnet; now that I do, it’s hard to imagine those lines were penned without Shakespeare thinking of his son.
Dating myself here, but my fondness for the play “Hamlet” goes back to the first time I saw it on stage, in a tiny theatre – with Aidan Quinn as Hamlet. I was enthralled. We were both very young.
I finished “Hamnet” over a week ago and then totally forgot to jump on here on April 1st!
I loved, loved, loved this book! The writing was just exquisite. The depth of Agnes’ grief was gut wrenching. I also had to keep walking away from the book; reading it all at once was too much, emotionally.
I’m sure I read Hamlet at some point, probably HS – but I really don’t remember it much at all. IMO the Shakespeare connection doesn’t “make” the book, but it does add a fascinating dimension.
When I was finished with Hamnet, I was still in “grief mode,” so I decided to just go with it, and the next book I took off my shelf was When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi. Finished it yesterday, somehow appropriate for Good Friday. That’s sort of a digression, yet not – I mean, the book reinforced that no matter the century or the culture, death prompts a wrenching search for meaning–especially when life is unexpectedly cut short–and for ways to remember those we’ve loved dearly and lost.
I’ve added When Breath Becomes Air to my list of possible future books (or audiobooks - driving cross country next month).
I found the Agnes character fascinating. Prior to the marriage she seemed quite odd, but for most of the book she was a sweet and dedicated mother. The herbalist/healer angle was interesting. I think it made it even more frustrating to her that she had been unable to save Hamnet.
I really enjoyed the writing style. It was rich yet very easy to read.
My husband and I both read When Breath Becomes Air during his days in hospice - well, more as he entered his last weeks than toward the end. He said little about the book and I would love to know his thoughts. However, that particular journey became quiet and introspective for him, not one he shared. I do know that he appreciated the book and read parts more than once.
This was such an interesting decision. I loved the digression, it was almost funny if it hadn’t been so tragic. And of course it made me think about our current pandemic and thinking about how the chain of transmission works. I hosted what easily could have been a super-spreader even at the end of February with our mayor and forty other people crammed into our living room.
I really like O’Farrell’s writing but admit to having trouble at the start with secondary characters within the time frame. Example: John as father of “the Latin tutor” vs. John as grandfather to Hamnet. It always took me a minute to reposition myself into the narrative after I started reading. A kind of “wait - we’re back to Hamnet now” rather than before he is born.
I love the digression also and, of course, it made me think of the current pandemic also. Would be nice to be able to figure out that precise chain of transmission today. Of course, those living in that time of pestilence had even less knowledge that we do today.
The train of transmission reminded me of the movie Contagion.
I had two different feelings about the book.
One, it was beautifully written, and very intriguing the way it linked into the play Hamlet and Shakespeare’s life. I’m not a Shakespeare expert so I’m afraid I starting thinking about Doctor Who, when Ten and Martha travel back to those times and Shakespeare becomes very taken with Martha. I believe she reminds him that he’s married.
Also, the tone of the book reminded me of Harry’s Trees. Perhaps because of the fairy tale aspects.
Two, as others noted, it was extremely hard to read about the death of a child and the grief that ensued. At times I was sorry to be reading the book and just plowed ahead (read it in two days).
And extremely hard to write about, too. Maggie O’Farrell says:
“I tried to write it several times. One of the things that held me back was that I needed my own son to be above the age of 11, the age Hamnet dies. I’m not a superstitious person, but I knew that I couldn’t write this book until he had safely passed that age. I couldn’t write it in the house, where my children live. So, I wrote most of it in the shed…I wrote it in there in short bursts, between walks around the garden. I don’t think it’s a huge stretch of the imagination, as a parent, to envisage how you would feel if you’d lost them – it’s the flip side of how much you love them. The most instinctive, atavistic thing is how to protect your child and that tips over into the fear that somehow you cannot. It must be the worst thing possible.”
I loved the book, but I too found the beginning very difficult to follow. I knew that I would plow through it, and I am so glad that I did.
It was beautiful and gut wrenching at the same time. I sobbed and sobbed while reading about Agnes washing his body. I can’t even imagine doing that for one of my children.
My brother and sister in law were listening to Hamnet as I started the book. We both complained about how hard it was to follow. They had received rave reviews from their best friends about the book. Their friends had lost one of their sons to drugs a few years ago. I can understand how they could love it so much. The author puts into words the unspeakable grief one must feel at the loss of a child.
This is certainly a book that I won’t soon forget. Too bad library, I am keeping it.
I also enjoyed the narrative on the pestilence spreading. I thought it was really well done and painted a real picture of how disease can travel so quickly and efficiently.
In a way. Writing about the grief of Hamnet’s parents at his death honors his short life. He becomes more than one of a number of children who died early (as was typical for those times), he becomes an indelible part of the legacy of his parents.
Regarding the switch that Hamnet made with his sister, it was a mystical moment in the book. There was a sense of foreknowledge and power to Hamnet’s thoughts. He was knowingly offering his life for that of his sister. It was something that everyone in the family did, take care of Judith.
I was reminded of a story about the Moghul emperor Babur (descendant of Genghis Khan) and his son Humayun.
Babur had been told by the royal physicians that it was beyond their skills to save the life of his eldest son and heir, Humayun, who had come down with a mysterious fever. They urged him to prepare for the death but Babur wouldn’t accept it. Instead he went around the sickbed of his son while praying to his gods that his own life be considered as a sacrifice, to take him and spare his son. The story goes that Babur sickened within 3 days and died at the age of 47 while Humayun lived to become the next Emperor.
It is a matter of opinion whether his prayers were answered by a miracle or (more likely) that he contracted the disease from his son. But it was a story that humanized one of the powerful conquerors of the sub-continent.
The novel was completed before 2020 and Maggie O’Farrell commented in an interview that it was eerie to see that chapter come alive in a wholly unexpected way during the pandemic:
It was very odd…when I wrote the chapter around the middle of the book where I traced the journey of the Black Death from a monkey in Alexandria, it comes out on a boat. So when I wrote that, it was a kind of an intellectual exercise. It was all about research. I remember looking up lots of graphics and lots of maps, and I had these kinds of things all over my study, and this sort of path of the plague and how it came from China and Asia, and it swept through Europe. But it seemed so distant. It was just about imagination. I had to try and imagine what it would be like to sit in a country and know there was this terrifying disease sweeping towards you. I think we’ve all learned a huge amount about ourselves, and about each other, and about our vulnerabilities. We’ll never be able to go back to that time before this pandemic where we thought we were invulnerable.
Can’t wait to read this book, after all these glowing posts, !
Intended to read, but a broken iPad, while I’m visiting son in Barrington, Illinois, ruined my plan to read online.
Enjoying the discussion…carry on
@AnAsmom, thank you for the story of Babur and Humayun. The relationship between Hamnet and Judith has mythological overtones, like twins Castor & Pollux (one sacrifices immortality for the other) or Geb & Nut.
In the Egyptian creation myth, Geb was the deity of earth, and his twin Nut was the goddess of the sky.
It was believed that Geb and Nut were born gripped tightly in each other’s arms, and had to be separated by their father Shu (air). To the ancient Egyptians, this explained why earth and sky were separated from one another by the air we breathe.
From page 102 in Hamnet, the father with his newborn twins:
He takes them in his hands; he meets their steady gazes; he looks into their identical eyes; he arranges them, head to foot, upon his knee; he watches as one takes the thumb of the other into its mouth and sucks upon it; he sees that the pair have led a life together before anything else. He touches their heads with both of his palms. You, he says, and you.
