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Overlooked Letter Rewrites History of Shakespeare’s Bad Marriage

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Overlooked Letter Rewrites History of Shakespeare’s Bad Marriage

Any clue about William Shakespeare’s life usually excites scholars, but one piece of evidence had been neglected for decades. Now, a new analysis of that overlooked document seems to shatter a longstanding narrative about the Bard’s bad marriage.

Shakespeare was 18 in 1582 when he married Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a family friend in Stratford-upon-Avon who was in her mid-20s and pregnant. For centuries, it was thought that the writer left his wife and children behind for a literary life in London, seeking to avoid “the humiliation of domestic feuds,” as one influential 19th-century essayist put it.

This view of Shakespeare’s wife as a “distant encumbrance” suited scholars who thought “Shakespeare was far too interesting to be a married guy,” Matthew Steggle, a literature professor at the University of Bristol in England, said in an interview. The perception was bolstered by the fact that Shakespeare had left her his “second best bed” in his will.

But Mr. Steggle’s new research, published on Thursday in the journal Shakespeare, suggests that the writer was not detached from his marriage after all.

The hint lies in a fragment of a 17th-century letter addressing a “Mrs Shakspaire,” found in the binding of a book published in 1608. The letter’s existence was noted in 1978 by an amateur historian, but it got minimal attention, even after the book was unbound in 2016, revealing what appeared to be part of a reply from Shakespeare’s wife, Mr. Steggle said.

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He was working on a Shakespeare biography when he learned of the 1978 find, and was surprised it wasn’t better known. Technological advances allowed him to track down people mentioned in the long-ago correspondence, along with other evidence indicating that it included the playwright’s wife, he said.

If the letter really was addressed to the Mrs. Shakespeare, rather than a lesser-known person with a similar name, “it is self-evidently remarkable,” Mr. Steggle said. It not only gives some previously unknown Shakespeare contacts, but also offers new clues about their relationship, and even suggests that Mrs. Shakespeare lived for a time in London with her husband.

If Hathaway did live in London, she was possibly back in Stratford by the time she received the letter, likely around 1607 — though not necessarily because her husband wanted independence, according to Mr. Steggle.

He proposes in his paper that “there is an obvious reason to avoid London in 1603-4, namely the very bad wave of plague.” In addition, the upcoming arrival of the Shakespeares’ first grandchild after their daughter Susanna’s 1607 marriage “would surely be a good time” for Hathaway to be based back in Stratford.

Mr. Steggle suggests that Mrs. Shakespeare’s movements should be reconsidered with an eye to her “possible absences from London rather than her perpetual absence.”

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The note to Mrs. Shakespeare concerned money for a fatherless child named John, who was an apprentice, though not under the famous playwright, with the last name “Butte” or “Butts.” It called upon her to pay money that was most likely held in trust for him, a pledge that her husband may have undertaken, and it referred to a time when she “dwelt in trinitie lane,” which Mr. Steggle now believes refers to a location in London.

The book that held the letter was a 1608 text printed by Richard Field, a native of Stratford who was Shakespeare’s associate, neighbor and first printer, according to Mr. Steggle. Wastepaper was commonly used in bookbinding, and “given Field’s extensive known links to the Shakespeares,” the discovery of their family documents in a work he published indicates it was likely addressed to the famous Mrs. Shakespeare, Mr. Steggle said. Notably, the response, which appears to come from her, sounds “organized, businesslike and rather sarcastic,” he added.

As for John Butts, the child in the letter, his name did appear in a 1607 record of an institution that disciplined disobedient apprentices, among other records, and Mr. Steggle said his surname did arise in “Shakespeare’s extended personal network.”

“The stakes are high,” Mr. Steggle writes in his paper. “This letter, if it belongs to them, offers a glimpse of the Shakespeares together in London, both involved in social networks and business matters, and, on the occasion of this request, presenting a united front against importunate requests to help poor orphans.”

His findings lend some heft to feminist readings of Shakespeare’s life and a pop culture trend, as seen in the popular stage musical “& Juliet,” as well as the acclaimed novel “Hamnet,” of rethinking the marriage and Hathaway’s role in it.

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In the musical, Hathaway comes to London from Stratford to attend a performance of “Romeo & Juliet” and annoys her husband by suggesting an alternate ending in which Juliet does not die. The novel depicts the couple’s complex relationship and their shared grief over the death of their son.

Like those reinterpretations, the four-century-old letter undermines long-held premises about the playwright’s life. For Shakespeare biographers “who favor the narrative of the ‘disastrous marriage’” — and even those who do not — the document “should be a horrible, difficult problem,” Mr. Steggle’s paper concludes.

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I Think This Poem Is Kind of Into You

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I Think This Poem Is Kind of Into You

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A famous poet once observed that it is difficult to get the news from poems. The weather is a different story. April showers, summer sunshine and — maybe especially — the chill of winter provide an endless supply of moods and metaphors. Poets like to practice a double meteorology, looking out at the water and up at the sky for evidence of interior conditions of feeling.

The inner and outer forecasts don’t always match up. This short poem by Louise Glück starts out cold and stays that way for most of its 11 lines.

And then it bursts into flame.

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“Early December in Croton-on-Hudson” comes from Glück’s debut collection, “Firstborn,” which was published in 1968. She wrote the poems in it between the ages of 18 and 23, but they bear many of the hallmarks of her mature style, including an approach to personal matters — sex, love, illness, family life — that is at once uncompromising and elusive. She doesn’t flinch. She also doesn’t explain.

Here, for example, Glück assembles fragments of experience that imply — but also obscure — a larger narrative. It’s almost as if a short story, or even a novel, had been smashed like a glass Christmas ornament, leaving the reader to infer the sphere from the shards.

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We know there was a couple with a flat tire, and that a year later at least one of them still has feelings for the other. It’s hard not to wonder if they’re still together, or where they were going with those Christmas presents.

To some extent, those questions can be addressed with the help of biographical clues. The version of “Early December in Croton-on-Hudson” that appeared in The Atlantic in 1967 was dedicated to Charles Hertz, a Columbia University graduate student who was Glück’s first husband. They divorced a few years later. Glück, who died in 2023, was never shy about putting her life into her work.

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Louise Glück in 1975.

Gerard Malanga

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But the poem we are reading now is not just the record of a passion that has long since cooled. More than 50 years after “Firstborn,” on the occasion of receiving the Nobel Prize for literature, Glück celebrated the “intimate, seductive, often furtive or clandestine” relations between poets and their readers. Recalling her childhood discovery of William Blake and Emily Dickinson, she declared her lifelong ardor for “poems to which the listener or reader makes an essential contribution, as recipient of a confidence or an outcry, sometimes as co-conspirator.”

That’s the kind of poem she wrote.

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“Confidence” can have two meanings, both of which apply to “Early December in Croton-on-Hudson.” Reading it, you are privy to a secret, something meant for your ears only. You are also in the presence of an assertive, self-possessed voice.

Where there is power, there’s also risk. To give voice to desire — to whisper or cry “I want you” — is to issue a challenge and admit vulnerability. It’s a declaration of conquest and a promise of surrender.

What happens next? That’s up to you.

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Can You Identify Where the Winter Scenes in These Novels Took Place?

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Can You Identify Where the Winter Scenes in These Novels Took Place?

Cold weather can serve as a plot point or emphasize the mood of a scene, and this week’s literary geography quiz highlights the locations of recent novels that work winter conditions right into the story. Even if you aren’t familiar with the book, the questions offer an additional hint about the setting. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the books if you’d like to do further reading.

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From NYT’s 10 Best Books of 2025: A.O. Scott on Kiran Desai’s New Novel

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From NYT’s 10 Best Books of 2025: A.O. Scott on Kiran Desai’s New Novel

Inge Morath/Magnum Photos

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When a writer is praised for having a sense of place, it usually means one specific place — a postage stamp of familiar ground rendered in loving, knowing detail. But Kiran Desai, in her latest novel, “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,” has a sense of places.

This 670-page book, about the star-crossed lovers of the title and several dozen of their friends, relatives, exes and servants (there’s a chart in the front to help you keep track), does anything but stay put. If “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny” were an old-fashioned steamer trunk, it would be papered with shipping labels: from Allahabad (now known as Prayagraj), Goa and Delhi; from Queens, Kansas and Vermont; from Mexico City and, perhaps most delightfully, from Venice.

There, in Marco Polo’s hometown, the titular travelers alight for two chapters, enduring one of several crises in their passionate, complicated, on-again, off-again relationship. One of Venice’s nicknames is La Serenissima — “the most serene” — but in Desai’s hands it’s the opposite: a gloriously hectic backdrop for Sonia and Sunny’s romantic confusion.

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Their first impressions fill a nearly page-long paragraph. Here’s how it begins.

Sonia is a (struggling) fiction writer. Sunny is a (struggling) journalist. It’s notable that, of the two of them, it is she who is better able to perceive the immediate reality of things, while he tends to read facts through screens of theory and ideology, finding sociological meaning in everyday occurrences. He isn’t exactly wrong, and Desai is hardly oblivious to the larger narratives that shape the fates of Sunny, Sonia and their families — including the economic and political changes affecting young Indians of their generation.

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But “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny” is about more than that. It’s a defense of the very idea of more, and thus a rebuke to the austerity that defines so much recent literary fiction. Many of Desai’s peers favor careful, restricted third-person narration, or else a measured, low-affect “I.” The bookstores are full of skinny novels about the emotional and psychological thinness of contemporary life. This book is an antidote: thick, sloppy, fleshy, all over the place.

It also takes exception to the postmodern dogma that we only know reality through representations of it, through pre-existing concepts of the kind to which intellectuals like Sunny are attached. The point of fiction is to assert that the world is true, and to remind us that it is vast, strange and astonishing.

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See the full list of the 10 Best Books of 2025 here.

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