1620s
20 books
- These two aren't young lovers, they're middle-aged, vain, magnificent messes who keep wrecking empires over each other, and you half want to shake them. Stay for Enobarbus, the dry-eyed friend whose barge speech about Cleopatra is worth the whole play.
- Once everyone escapes to the Forest of Arden, the play just relaxes, and you get Rosalind in disguise coaching her own lovestruck suitor in how to woo her. She runs the whole show, wittier than anyone around her, and the melancholy Jaques grumbling nearby only sweetens it.
- You get a fiercely strange tragedy about pride, hunger, and the impossibility of speaking to people you despise. Coriolanus is magnificent and maddening, while Volumnia’s hard, hungry love gives the play its deepest ache; the Roman politics can feel blunt, but the language cuts.
- Come to it for Imogen, who stays clear-eyed and funny while everyone around her behaves appallingly (Iachimo hiding in a trunk to spy on her is genuinely creepy). The plot is a wild tangle, but the last scene, where every secret unravels at once, is weirdly satisfying.
- You get Talbot’s stern, oddly moving devotion to England, Joan of Arc rendered as both formidable and unsettling, and a kingdom already fraying under proud nobles and a weak king. It’s episodic and politically blunt, but the clash between heroic legend and ugly factionalism gives the play real bite.
- Honestly the middle Henry VI is the fun one: court schemers picking apart poor Duke Humphrey while the king prays instead of ruling, then Jack Cade's rebellion turns the whole thing into gleeful anarchy. If you like watching power slip through weak hands, this scratches that itch.
- Grim, relentless, and worth it for watching Richard of Gloucester wake up mid-play and decide to be a villain, in a soliloquy that basically births Richard III. If battle-heavy history isn't your thing, skip it, but Margaret taunting York with a paper crown is genuinely chilling.
- You’ll like it for its grand, ceremonial feel and the sharp human cost beneath the pageantry, especially in Katherine of Aragon’s dignity and Wolsey’s sudden collapse. It’s episodic and more interested in public power than intimate character, so expect a stately history play rather than another Hamlet.
- You get a politically slippery Shakespeare, full of wavering loyalties, church pressure, and the Bastard Faulconbridge’s sharp, surprisingly modern commentary. It can feel episodic, but Constance’s fierce grief and the play’s uneasy question of who deserves a crown give it a darker charge than its neglected reputation suggests.
- You get a dark, tightly wound tragedy where Macbeth’s imagination turns ambition into terror, and Lady Macbeth’s brisk certainty slowly gives way to something more fragile. The witches, the blood, and the repeated images of sleeplessness make the play feel feverish, especially aloud, though its compressed language takes a little patience.
- Shakespeare in a sour, fascinating mood: Angelo, the ice-cold deputy, propositions a novice nun and the play just sits with that ugliness. If you like your comedies uneasy, with an ending that leaves you arguing at the table, this one lingers.
- You get a brief, unfinished utopian tale rather than a fully formed novel, with sailors discovering Bensalem and the astonishing research institution called Salomon’s House. It’s worth your time if you enjoy seeing science imagined as a public, almost sacred enterprise, though the characters stay more emblematic than alive.
- Iago talks to you directly, and the awful thing is you almost enjoy his company while he wrecks a good man's life over a handkerchief and some careful hints. It's painful in the way only watching preventable disaster is, so save it for when you can take that.
- Quevedo is meaner and funnier than the picaresques you may know, and Pablo gets no mercy from anyone, least of all his author. The boarding school run by Cabra, a miser who starves his pupils nearly transparent, is grotesque comedy at full strength.
- You get a dark, ferociously theatrical tragedy where the Duchess’s private marriage collides with her brothers’ vicious control, and Bosola watches it all with a bitter, uneasy intelligence. The plot turns brutal, but Webster’s language and the play’s strange flashes of tenderness keep it from becoming mere gloom.
- The fun is watching Kate and Petruchio trade insults at full speed, two clever people who've finally met their match. Fair warning, the "taming" itself sits uneasily now, and Kate's last speech will either charm you or make you argue with the page.
- You spend time on an island with Prospero, Ariel, and Caliban, where magic, resentment, and theatrical illusion keep changing the ground beneath you. It’s airy and strange rather than tightly plotted, but the movement toward forgiveness gives the play a quietly human weight.
- You get Shakespeare at his strangest here: Leontes’ jealousy makes the early scenes painfully claustrophobic, then Paulina’s fierce intelligence and a sudden pastoral brightness change the air. It’s uneven and openly theatrical, but its movement from damage toward forgiveness stays with you.
- You’ll appreciate its strange, abrasive energy: Timon’s lavish generosity curdles into furious contempt, while Apemantus needles him with the honesty nobody else will risk. It’s a jagged, unfinished-feeling play, but if you like Shakespeare when he’s bitter, funny, and morally unruly, it stays with you.
- You get Viola’s clever, tender balancing act, Malvolio’s wonderfully sour self-importance, and a comedy that keeps slipping between farce and real loneliness. The mistaken identities can feel deliberately tangled, but the language is playful enough to reward reading aloud, especially when the characters are trying hardest to hide what they want.