I just flipped through a bit of a novel called The Dancer Upstairs by Nicholas Shakespeare. S'pretty good so far. I would put him on par with John Le Carré or someone like that. Solid work. I'll read the whole book later on down the road, but not right this second.
You know what I'm gonna say.
I cannot even begin to wrap my head around being a contemporary English writer saddled with the surname Shakespeare, having to maintain a professional countenance and not get stressed out that each manuscript you produce is simply not Hamlet. I mean, yeah, on the other hand, when you brush your teeth every morning, you are fully entitled to jab that toothbrush at your reflection and declare "Dadgummit, I AM SHAKESPEARE!" through your mouthful of foam with righteous authority. I would. But somehow I don't think this guy indulges in that kind of thing.
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