I apologize for not writing for so long! My life has taken a busy turn, and I have felt unsure of whether others would be interested in the stuff I'm writing for my current writing course. It's a Shakespeare course, and I love it, despite the entensive study it requires. So far this school year I have studied "Romeo and Juliet" and "The Taming of the Shrew" (I'm spending a couple months on each play.)Presently I am finishing up "The Taming of the Shrew." I will be posting a satire I'm writing on "The Taming of the Shrew" as soon as I finsh it, but for now I'm just posting part of last week's assignment.

Below is a diary entry by Katherina, the shrew, written after Act 4 Scene 3 of the play. In case you don't know the play, Bianca is her sister and Petriuchio is her husband.

My head feels giddy from lack of food, and I can barely focus on this page for my eyes droop with fatigue. Why does he torment me so? Does he plan to starve me forever? Truly I cannot bear this—my hair still tangled with mud from our trip to this awful garrison, my mouth parched, my skin crusted with dirt. If Bianca could only see me now, she would be pleased. Oh, what rage I felt when he denied me that cap! I did not even like it as much as I professed, but his disgust so enflamed me… He treats me like a disobedient child, a brainless fool—and then calls me his wife… Me, Katherina, a wife, his wife, but wife to what? A careless, cruel, idiotic, stubborn oaf. There, I said it—I am still free of his clutches…but, no, I cannot, call Him so anymore.

How shall I feel to stand in the doorway of that, my past abode? Do they wish to see my face, to touch my hand, to hear my voice? No! Father, mine, you do not miss me—not a shred of me, and as to you, Bianca, you rejoice and sing at my disposal. Fie on you father and sister—I do not desire your presence any more then you desire mine, except that I do so long to have a home, a place where people greet me with joy. Where hearts laugh with me, not at me, where touch is soft and warm and true, where hands clasp and trust—where I am understood! But I return to a cold-hearted house which gave me no joy in my past life, and I leave one where I feel prisoner—squashed, abused, controlled—but not loved. Oh, oh, and what shall they think when they see us so? When they see how disjointed we act together, how we do not know each other.

Now I doubt myself. Am I so unacceptable to him that he cannot take me as his wife? Am I not a woman endowed with gifts that all others do posses? Does he feel disgust for me? He treats me like a girl, a son, a dog—anything but his wife! And as he swings himself around calling me all manner of wifely names he only rubs this poison deeper into my heart. I thought perhaps in marriage I might find some small content—a little affection maybe, a soft stroke—but no. Nothing for Katherina, no nothing… Only mocking words and hard shakes. But why? Do I deserve this? What crime have I done? Where do I lack? Yes, I know I have differences, my temper, my improper forwardness—but could he not show a little, just a very little, affection? Must I first totally succumb myself to his will? Does he wish to make a bondmaid of me before treating me as his wife?

Ok, here is a diary entry written by Petruchio before Scene 3 of Act 4.

Ah, weak flesh! I loose my nerve at seeing her so dejected and morose—lucky her tongue so readily reminds me of my purpose! A blacksmith does not quit pounding until his piece has taken that shape he expressly designated—even if before it did look passing well. I shall not leave a pound undone on this great work of mine. Who, in fashioning his life-long companion, counselor and friend would stop a blow to soon when that blow may cause all the difference? And I am justified in my good purpose. She must learn to see my dignity, my good judgement and firm supremacy. I cannot live with one who scoffs at my words and overrides my good judgement. She has beauty, spirit, and wit, but she lacks what gives those gifts their luster—an obedient, trusting, and compassionate heart. She cannot learn to care for me till she has learned to hearken to my commands and respect my reasoning. I will not touch her till she steps beyond that high pride encircling that heart of hers.

How can I teach her these lessons most acutely? What does she enjoy most that I could censure and define my power with? Women do love fine clothing; I shall attack her there. Yes, yes, I shall order a dress and cap, most becoming, and then deny them. I shall pretend they seem quite awful, and if she agrees, the battle will be won—but my fine bird will not agree—not yet. Of course I must also deprave her of food again, but I do not relish seeming so cruel. Quick my bird, be tamed for thy mate despises his cold and lonely post! Then I shall take the reins of time and see her reply to that. Will she rent and rage at me, or, by then, will she have succumbed a little. We shall see.

Hmmm, I must gird myself for battle. You, tongue, my sharp weapon, shall execute all manner of quick cuts and blows. Eyes, set up your shield of indifference so I do not sway from my firm resolve. Let me see now, I must appear uncaring and roguish… If I unbutton these and stretch out that… Yes, that seems right. Now for a bit of swaggering and gruff coughs. And what can I call that cap I will send for? I shall call it a custard-coffin, perhaps, or a velvet dish, and definitely filthy and lewd. Some day I will laugh most heartily at myself—Petruchio critiquing women’s clothing! Now, and only now, may I give vent to all my past observations of ladies attire, and if the sleeves make me think of apple tarts, I may say so. Ho, ho, this may prove merrier then I think! Tongue, eyes, heart, face, art thou ready for thy princess?