1791: a tale of San Domingo Book

It was very strange for me to pick this book up again after one and a half years and see how much my life had changed since I started it.

I bought this, my first Twain book, in Sydney while on exchange in Australia, feeling utterly free and wandering the sunny parks of one of the most beautiful cities I have ever set foot in, in search of its library. I remember how suddenly, on a bright and sunny day, the rain started pouring down around me and I blessed my waterproof backpack as I jumped from the refuge of one tree to the next. I remember how a kind Aussie lady asked me if I wanted to share her umbrella with her, and so we walked briefly through the rain as I pointed at pretty buildings and she told me what they were. I asked her where the library was and she told me she just so happened to be on her way there, and I remember entering it with her by my side and her pointing me toward a tunnel that would lead to the older section of the library, the original part. It was absolutely stunning. People praise Melbourne's library, but Sydney's New South Wales State Library was incredible. It's not a wonder, then, that I hardly questioned what I read when I started this book, sitting beneath the beautiful rounded ceiling and among thousands of books, constantly distracted by clerks and students and the lines of little boxes with notes about written works lining the paths. I remember emerging from the library after an hour or so and the sun beaming down on me.

Now, finishing the book, a mild spring sun is similarly beaming down on me on the other side of the world. My NSW bookmark was still in the book; the price tag from the cheap dollar bookstore I got it from still on the cover. And because I came home right before the pandemic, I felt my heart return to Australia unexpectedly and nostalgically as I kept reading.

I say this both to recap the feeling for myself and to explain why my rating is the one it is. My ratings always reflect my emotions about a book, and this one might not be entirely fair both because of my adventures Down Under and because despite Twain's popularity as a great writer, I was quite bothered by him at some points during this long essay.

First of all, the fact that at least 15 pages out of 87 are not even his own (he copied them directly from another writer, only to say "this has convinced me that Shakespeare must have been a lawyer") seemed a bit abundant to me. I know these were different times, but couldn't he just have quoted or paraphrased a bit?

I'll admit I enjoy Mark Twain's writing style for the most part. He knows how to work a sentence to work an audience. But some comments are not only redundant but also tedious: "We cannot say we know a thing when that thing has not been proved. Know is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not final and absolutely conclusive. We can infer, if we want to, like those slaves..." (referring to the Stratfordians) "No, I will not write that word, it is not kind, it is not courteous. The upholders of the Stratford-Shakespeare superstition call us the hardest names they can think of, and they keep doing it all the time; very well, if they like to descend to that level, let them do it, but I will not so indignify myself as to follow them." This goes on for quite a while. In rhetoric, it's called apophasis - what happens when someone says they won't mention something but then mention it by saying that. He had me at first, I'll give him that - I thought he was utterly serious. But given Twain's reputation, I'll assume his raging over the Stratfordians was all purposeful and sarcastic - and boy, does he keep that sarcasm up well - but that still doesn't take away from the fact that it has nothing to do with any point he's trying to make.

The thing is, right, we don't read literature to get to the point quickly. So if this had been a novel, my problems would reduce to none. But this isn't a novel, this is a critical reflection of the existence of one of the world's most celebrated writers. Although I did enjoy reading his constant bashing of the Stratford-Shakespeare "thugs", I could only do so when I'd ceased taking him seriously. His arguments have little merit ' he may say one decent line and then blabber on about nothing, occasionally throwing in a line about how famous he is himself and how, because Shakespeare wasn't well-known in his village throughout his lifetime, that meant he could not become famous later on.

One of Twain's main arguments, for example, is that Bacon has proven to be a great writer while there's only one certain written work by Shakespeare the Stratfordian, which just so happened to be quite shit. Twain extrapolates from that, saying that obviously there's no proof that Shakespeare himself was a great writer. But what better proof is there than all his famed works?

A part of me hopes Twain is also bashing the other side of the debate with remarks to his own fame (and comparing his situation to Shakespeare's) and sarcastic comments about humanity as the Reasoning Race. Maybe, in a few years, I'll reread this and laugh at my own ignorance. But not yet.

To summarise his book: Twain does not believe Shakespeare was Shakespeare - he believes Shakespeare was Francis Bacon. This is because Shakespeare allegedly did not have the upbringing to write the Plays and Poems; because to write Shakespeare's works, you had to have the mind and training of a lawyer; because there is little documentation of Shakespeare's life and heaps on Bacon; and because Twain seems to have had the hots for Bacon and could not stop bumbling on about his greatness. None of these points, you'll notice, prove anything.

It's an entertaining read, but if you'd like to read a proper set of arguments on Shakespeare's life I'd recommend picking up a good contemporary Bryson book.