As I’ve said before, I sometimes like to read the lousy customer reviews over at Amazon.com. If I like a book and someone who can’t string two sentences together doesn’t…well, I guess that makes me feel a little better about myself and my opinions. It’s always interesting, too, to see why literature beloved by so many is vehemently hated by so many more. Take, for example, William Shakespeare.

A reader from New York calls Hamlet “one of the worst plays ever written, Shakespeare or no Shakespeare….The plot makes no sense,” he or she continues, “the character[‘]s motivations are contrived, and the jokes fall flat. I have read this play hundreds of times, seen umpteen productions and films, and am astonished at the plaudits universally accorded to it. The modern English translation by Daniel Nystedt, however, corrects many of these flaws (by eliminating the ghost and such unneccesary characters as Claudius, etc.) and overall is much more worthwhile.”

I have not heard of this translation, and my attempts to track it down online have so far yielded nothing. Can anyone out there help me? Remove the ghost, and the play easily becomes the tragedy of Claudius, murdered without cause by his adopted son Hamlet. Remove Claudius and…well then what exactly does Hamlet spend five acts worrying about?

A reader from Texas claims that Romeo and Juliet is “simply sensationalist trash” and “the Shakespearean equivalent of ‘Party of Five’ and the Spice Girls.” Who knew?

Personally, I prefer this tongue-in-cheek review by someone called “bruce banner from USA-A-OK”:

This was by far the worst science fiction novel I have ever watched. While the story of two lovers may seem romantic to some people, the use of spaceships and alien robots was very unneccesairy. The worst part of this play had to be the end where both charaters joined up with Marty McFly to save the universe. Thumbs down to you sir! The remix WAS better.

At least I hope that was tongue-in-cheek.

I think, all things considered, that I would rather be in bed right now than at work, would rather be watching cartoons from beneath the covers and wondering what sort of toast I might like–raisin bread or whole wheat? with butter, jelly, or perhaps both?–or which book I might like to read when I finally decide to get up and make my way to the couch. I suppose I should be happy enough that I can eat at all, that my throat will allow me to swallow, and I should content myself with the nine really quite sufficient hours of sleep I got last night. But I’m still a little tired, and it’s a cloudy day, and this is my first day back at work in about a week. I’ve grown used to not being here–and c’mon now, it’s not like I’ve been on vacation or anything like that.

I’ve been sick, and pretty unbearably so for awhile there. Thursday was the most difficult, I think, and I can’t imagine that I slept more than an hour all night. My strep throat has taken its sweet time reacting to the antibiotics, and for a few days I couldn’t drink or eat anything without wanting to cry out in pain, grab hold of something, or spit up afterwards. A glass of water was an ordeal. I couldn’t even swallow my own saliva. So, when I finally made it to Friday morning, I called my doctor (who a week ago I had not yet even met) and arranged another visit. My mother, because she loves me and was worried, came out from New York that afternoon to watch over me and drive me to my appointment. It seems strange, really, that only a few hours later I was feeling much better, that I was sitting on the couch eating my first meal in a week, watching television, and able–not without some discomfort, sure, but still able–to swallow. I guess I just needed to get over that hump, rehydrate myself and get some food in my stomach. I’m not cured; my throat is still sore and I need to finish my antibiotics, but I’m at work again and that’s got to count for something, right?

Just one question: is it time to go home yet?