I happened to finish ‘Hamnet’ by Maggie O’Farrell on World Book Day, which also marks the death anniversary of William Shakespeare. This coincidence feels almost too fitting for a novel so deeply entangled with his life, and yet, not about him in the way one might expect.
We often remember Shakespeare for his works, for the Globe Theatre, for the legacy he built and the legend he is, but how often do we pause to consider the family he left behind, waiting as he set out to become that legend? Maggie O’Farrell redirects our gaze into the domestic spaces history tends to overlook. This is the story of Agnes, who lost her son to death, her husband to distance and ambition and herself to grief and sorrow.
What stood out to me the most and stayed with me after I turned the last page, was a quiet, persistent sadness. The kind that doesn’t demand attention, but lingers, crouching at the edge of the mind, unmoving. It is a profound, almost unbearable grief, the kind that perhaps only those who have lost a child can fully understand. It is not something I can completely comprehend, nor something I would ever wish to.
Agnes, the emotional center of the novel, is layered, intuitive, and deeply human. She’s a mother whose attentiveness becomes tragically misdirected. One of the most haunting lines in the novel captures this cruel twist of fate:
“How could Fate be so cruel in setting her such a trap? To make her concentrate on the wrong child so that it could reach out, while she was distracted, and snatch the other?”
It is a moment that encapsulates the arbitrary brutality of loss. The grief in this novel is not singular. It fractures and multiplies. Both, Agnes and her Husband, are left to navigate their sorrow in isolation, unable to fully reach each other. This intensity and the subtlety of grief makes the novel feel so real. It mirrors the way loss often exists in our own lives: not always loud, but always present, always persistent.
Interestingly, despite the novel not being about Shakespeare in the conventional sense, he emerges as one of its most compelling presences. O’Farrell makes the deliberate choice to never name him, and this narrative decision is strikingly effective. It removes the weight of his legacy, the great playwright, the literary giant, and leaves behind a man: a father, a husband, someone who leaves, who grieves, who creates.
And yet, even in absence, he lingers powerfully. His grief finds its outlet in art. When Agnes watches the play that would come to be known as Hamlet, she recognizes what he has done:
“Her husband has brought him back to life, in the only way he can.”
“He has taken his son’s death and made it his own; he has put himself in death’s clutches, resurrecting the boy in his place.”
There is something both beautiful and unsettling in this transformation of personal loss into performance. It raises questions about ownership of grief, about art as both catharsis and appropriation.
O’Farrell’s writing style amplifies all of this. It is lyrical, immersive, and quietly devastating. There is a kind of beauty in her prose that makes the sorrow sharper, not softer. It is no surprise that the novel received the Women’s Prize for Fiction in 2020.
One of the most striking sections of the book is a chapter that traces the path of the plague. Beginning with something as small and inconspicuous as a flea on a monkey. We follow its journey across continents, through ports and ships, until it arrives, inevitably, at the doorstep of the family. There is a chilling detachment in this narration. A reminder of how vast, impersonal forces intersect with intimate human lives. The scale shifts from global to deeply personal.
I went into this novel aware of its premise, aware even of its narrative choices, and I made a conscious effort to read it simply as a story and not as the story of the man who wrote ‘Hamlet’. And for the most part, it allowed me to experience it more intimately. This is not a story about literary history but about people. It is a novel I would recommend to readers who enjoy reflective, emotionally layered narratives, those who don’t mind slowness, who are willing to sit with discomfort. It may not appeal to readers looking for plot-driven storytelling or those who prefer to avoid grief-heavy themes.
If I had to leave this book with a line, I would not use my own words, but words of Shakespeare himself:
“I am dead:
thou livest;
… draw thy breath in pain,
to tell my story.”
In a way, that is exactly what this novel does. It breathes through pain, and in doing so, tells a story that refuses to fade.
Rating - 4 out of 5 🌟
Words - 967
Images - 3
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