“Shakespeare, I used to doubt he is the best because I’ve read a couple of pretty authors whom I think have better works to put to the table, authors whose works were also translated into a couple of wonderful languages of the world.” The fellow was tall, and his hat was like that of a modern-day clown.
I was watching them through the window. They were three men, three men who seemed to be infatuated by the other big side of arts and literature, but I was expecting them to speak of Mozart and the great perfumiers of Paris as was recorded in the books we read in college, but they only speak of books.
“Talk of Dickens.” Said the same man. “He is such a flawless writer, far better in words than your sweetheart until I read that damn sonnet, Shall I compare thee…”
They laughed and e
