Shakespeare the Writer, Language

The debate over who's the "better" writer among the anchors of the Western canon tend to devolve into arbitrary designations: Homer was first, therefore...; or, Milton was so allusive, therefore...; or, Shakespeare gave us a plethora of new words, therefore.... All of these claims are fine, but they're like having an academic debate whilst in line at Cold Stone to determine which gourmet ice cream is actually superior.*

Regardless of who is the Best, Shakespeare is in the running. But as a writer, what does Shakespeare provide that fellow writers can learn from? I've been asking myself this question for a long time, and though I'm sure there are additional reasons, I've figured out at least three: language as a tool, interior depth, and variation in consistency. I'll approach the first here.

Language as a Tool

One of the many paradoxes about Shakespeare is that he's simultaneously adored and feared for his robust language. It's not just the supposed vastness of his vocabulary that intimidates and inspires, it's how he uses them. Shakespeare would "verb" nouns to powerful effect. Check out this brilliant bit from Coriolanus (5.1, emphasis mine):

...Go, you that banish'd him;
A mile before his tent fall down, and knee
The way into his mercy:

or from Hamlet (4.3, emphasis mine):

But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.

Shakespeare, of courser, was a poet, so he used countless poetic devices to add a vibrancy and passion to his plays. As a result, he would be considered "overwritten" by most of our publishers today. Modern-day writers, particularly disciples of minimalism (I think of Chuck Palahniuk), tend to want to cut down the writing, making it lean and sharp. I think that's wonderful, and there are some fantastic minimalist writers out there. But Shakespeare points to the beauty of the language that can only be seen when allowed to marinate, to germinate, to flower. Alan Moore's recent book Jerusalem is one that wallows in its largess, often to effective degree. Like Shakespeare, Moore is in no hurry to get "to the point" of his imagery. For the Bard, part of the purpose of his play is to play with what his words can purpose. This is a description of the time of day, from Julius Caesar (2.1):

Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,
Which is a great way growing on the south,
Weighing the youthful season of the year.
Some two months hence up higher toward the north
He first presents his fire;

I'm not saying that all writers need to have as florid or empurpled (?) prose as Moore, nor do ought they to invest every description of dawn with a note that the sun will be in a different part of the sky when it's summer time. Instead, I feel that too often writers remain in comfortable territory, places where the words turn transparent to the story. Brandon Sanderson noted his tendency to avoid rendering things poetically. His point is that telling a good story ought to be the focus, and purple prose interferes with that.

Shakespeare disagrees. Now, again, I'm not encouraging all writers to write as Shakespeare did. His ability to turn a phrase or express a thought is unparalleled, but that doesn't mean that writers couldn't stand to improve how they write. Language ought to be more consciously and conscientiously constructed on the page, where it can be revised and rewritten and calculated for maximum impact.

In contrast to Sanderson's points in his essay, I would like to point out that the phenomenal storyteller Patrick Rothfuss' work is as smooth and polished and well-wordsmithed as you could want. Consider this line of prose, taken at random from Sanderson and Rothfuss. Sanderson first (Way of Kings 441):

He began to whistle softly to himself, inspecting his tattoos and ignoring those observant enough to gawk. I remember writing something somewhere....he thought, looking over his wrist, then twisting his arm over and trying to see if there were any new tattoos on the back. Like all Aimians, he could change the color and markings of his skin at will. 

There's nothing wrong with this segment. It does its job well and moves on with the story. I'm not criticizing that, especially because this is what Sanderson has consciously chosen to do. By making the verbiage limpid, he focuses on the story that he wishes to tell. By comparison, here's Rothfuss (The Name of the Wind, 442)

We settled on a bench beneath a great spreading willow, then abandoned it and found more comfortable seats on the ground at the foot of the tree. The bread was thick and dark, and tearing chunks of it gave us distraction for our hands. The wine was sweet and light, and after Denna kissed the bottle it left her lips wet for an hour.

In general, there are more interesting verbs in Rothfuss' writing (tearing, kissed) and the descriptions are more vivid (spreading, sweet and light). These are small samples, of course, and I'm sure I could find Sanderson waxing poetic every once in a while. But Rothfuss keeps this tone throughout his books, demonstrating that an eye toward wordcraft can enhance fantastic stories (which Rothfuss does).

Even early on, Shakespeare's ease with words was noticed. In the Second Folio, the young John Milton wrote a dedicatory, laudatory poem called "On Shakespeare" that includes this idea:

For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art,  
Thy easy numbers flow... 

Having read a lot of both Milton and Shakespeare, I can attest to Milton's claim here: Shakespeare has an effortlessness to his writing that is enviable. The idea of "slow-endeavouring art", in this case, is the loaded, laborious writing of others (with Marlowe, perhaps, being an exception). Even Ben Jonson had a problem with overburdening his lines. Shakespeare, however, rarely made that mistake--and much of it was in his earlier work. He creates a smoothness in his writing that ought to be emulated more often, though perhaps it is simply the work of genius. Milton, no slouch on the intelligence department (more so, it could be said, than Shakespeare), nevertheless knew that others' writings lacked that Shakespearean difference.

The point I'm driving at is that writers ought not to be afraid of the language they're tasked to master in order to tell their story. I respectfully disagree with Brandon Sanderson's** opinion that writing should eschew linguistic beauty in favor of the story. I also would argue that Moore is not where most writers ought to be in terms of their prose. Somewhere in between is a likely Goldilocks-zone. Nevertheless, the Bard teaches an aspiring writer that there is beauty in the language and that ought to be embraced, rather than avoided.

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* For the record, the sweet cream-raspberry-brownie-caramel in a waffle cone is the most superiorest of iced creams. So say we all.
** I know that I, an unpublished, aspirational-only writer whose most widely-read work was an essay on why I didn't like Trump, am hardly speaking with popular authority. Sanderson's books sell--and sell very well. Patrick Rothfuss' works have done very well, too. Besides, commercial viability isn't a particularly good barometer of quality. I'm not dismissing Sanderson--I use a lot of his advice and I really enjoy his work. But I disagree that story is paramount to delivery, particularly in the genres that I love the most: Fantasy and science-fiction.