Why Shakespeare Breaks Basic Writing Rules in “Sonnet 18,” “Hamlet,” and “Romeo and Juliet”

Shakespeare famously opens his “Sonnet 18” with the question, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” and then proceeds to do exactly that. Aside from establishing rhythmic continuity and rhyme scheme, this may not seem like the best use of the reader’s time – especially considering that sonnets have such limited real estate to begin with. As we read on, however, we discover that the poem, which pretends to be dedicated to a mysterious “thee,” actually ends up being mostly about itself (and more specifically, how great it is). The last two lines go so far as to promise “thee” fame and immortality in that “thou art lucky enough to be in mine poeme.” (Roughly speaking.) At school, we’re taught that writing ANYTHING along the lines of, “In this essay, I will…” is a terrible no-no, so how does Shakespeare get away with it?

If you’re a high-schooler, referring to yourself is considered bad writing, but if you do it professionally, it’s suddenly called “artistic self-reference.” (Or bad writing, depending on how you do it.) Whenever artists draw attention to the artistic process, we the audience remember that what we’re experiencing is completely constructed. Hence the great irony of “reality” television, where people take turns yacking directly at You, the Viewer, thereby acknowledging not just the cameras pointed in their faces, but also the camera crew, editing team, broadcasting network, corporate bigwigs, and television set involved in relaying the message to your home. This is probably why self-reference is discouraged in our essays: it kinda takes the *oomph* out of an argument to point out that, at some level, it’s nothing short of a complete mental fabrication. (But don’t take my word for it.)

Nevertheless, “Sonnet 18” is only one of countless examples of Shakespeare’s delight for the technique. In fact, he relies quite heavily on it in his plays, which is interesting considering that it completely interrupts an audience’s ability to suspend its disbelief. “Hamlet” has received considerable attention from scholars for its repeated use of self-reference, such as the scene of the play within the play, or the fact that the play’s lead actor has to play Hamlet playing another, crazier kind of Hamlet. Some of the lines are even considered to be references to the Globe Theatre itself, where the play would originally have been produced.

So why would an artist want to put flashing neon lights around the constructedness of his or her own work? One reason might be to pose a deeper philosophical question about art itself, such as in René Magritte’s illustration of a pipe labeled “this is not a pipe” (only fancier, and in French). Another reason might be the sake of irony, such as in Stephen Colbert’s portrait of himself standing next to a portrait of himself standing next to a portrait of himself. And yet a third reason might be to remind everyone of just how expertly a piece of art has been executed, such as in… well, just about everything Shakespeare ever did. Remember how the prologue of “Romeo and Juliet” basically summarizes the entire play? By stripping the lovers’ story of its suspense, Shakespeare focuses all of our attention away from the otherwise nail-biting plot twists and onto the skill of his writing. And frankly, anyone who goes down in history as THE Bard has pretty much earned that right.