I have just finished copying out the last of Shakespeare's sonnets; and while I of course learned a great deal from this project--for instance, about the poet's subtle and complex use of repetition--I also learned that some of his sonnets aren't really all that good. It's natural, I suppose, for a reader such as myself, steeped in legends of past literary glory, to assume that everything Shakespeare wrote must possess a special quality of greatness; but after all, he was just a man, and sometimes he, too, wrote a dull poem.

Does that make me feel better or worse about my own work?

I need to quit poking that metaphorical stick into my eye and go wrap birthday presents and finish making bread. Don't tell my son, but I bought him this great Cardinal de Medici costume at the Goodwill. It even came with a mitre.

Dinner tonight: moros y cristianos (otherwise known as Cuban black beans and rice), sourdough bread, spinach and arugula salad, apple flan.