Shakespeare: The Tragedies
The four great tragedies and Romeo and Juliet first, then the Roman plays and the rest.
- You get a Hamlet who is grief-stricken, sharp-tongued, theatrical, and often genuinely funny, not just a gloomy prince. The play’s strange shifts, from the Players’ performance to the graveyard conversation, make reading it feel like thinking alongside someone who can’t stop testing what’s real.
- 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.
- You get a brutal, strange study of pride and love, with Lear raging on the heath while his Fool keeps puncturing the grandeur. It’s bleak and sometimes deliberately difficult, but the language keeps opening up new depths each time you return to it.
- 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.
- You get the rush of Juliet’s balcony scene, but also the play’s darker comedy, especially Mercutio’s wit and the adults’ baffling failures. It moves quickly, sounds beautiful aloud, and lets you feel how tenderness and impulsiveness can share the same breath.
- You get political persuasion at close range: Brutus speaks as if reason can keep a republic clean, while Cassius understands how fear and resentment move people. The funeral speeches are thrilling to read aloud, but the play leaves you with uneasy questions about honor, crowds, and unintended consequences.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- Fair warning, this is Shakespeare at his most lurid, a revenge spiral that keeps outdoing its own cruelty, and Aaron might be his most gleefully unrepentant villain. If you like your tragedy pulpy and unhinged rather than stately, you'll have a grim good time.