Birds—especially Agnes’s kestrel in the earliest chapters of the book—represent freedom and the wild-hearted nature that Agnes and her husband share. Agnes’s kestrel is a bird of prey, a tamed animal that has been trained to return to her when called but which clearly does not belong to the human realm. Similarly, while neither Agnes nor the tutor are interested in totally removing themselves from life among other people, neither are fully willing to submit to conventional expectations and limitations. Agnes refuses by defying her stepmother Joan, wearing pants (at least before her marriage), and communing with nature; the tutor does this by fleeing his parents’ house for London and choosing to pursue his artistic calling rather than live a normal life in Stratford with his wife and children.
Yet, neither Agnes nor her husband is willing to abandon society completely. Agnes may yearn for the woods, but she makes a good life for herself in town, complete with friends and a thriving trade as an herbal healer. The tutor escapes to London but remains bound by ties of love and affection to his wife and children; he returns to Agnes’s side again and again, much like her hawk.
Moreover, the kestrel has super-human hearing, and both Agnes and the tutor “hear” things that others can’t: the tutor listens for the inspiration that turns into plays like Hamlet, and Agnes hears the whisperings of ghosts. In this way, birds take on an additional layer of symbolism in Hamnet as the creatures that connect the living, everyday world with broader realms. Agnes receives a premonition that all is not well at home in the shape of a bird flying past; birds are among the creatures she looks to in her grief when she wants to reconnect with Hamnet’s spirit. When Judith searches late at night for her brother’s ghost, she does so under the watchful eyes of an owl. Thus, birds represent the points at which small human lives intersect with bigger powers such as nature, artistic inspiration, and the realm of the supernatural.
Birds Quotes in Hamnet
As he stands at Hewlands’ window, the need to leave, to rebel, to escape is so great that it fills him to his very outer edge: he can eat nothing from the plate the farmer’s widow left for him, so crammed is he with the urge to leave, to get away, to move his feet and legs to some other place, as far away from here as he can manage.
[…] He is just about to turn and face his pupils when he sees, from the trees, a figure emerge.
For a moment, the tutor believes it to be a young man […who] moves out of the trees with a brand of masculine insouciance or entitlement, covering the ground with booted strides. There is some kind of bird on his outstretched fist […]. It sits hunched, subdued, its body swaying with the movement of its companion, its familiar.
“It’s a kestrel, not a hawk,” he says, in a rush. “She trained it herself. A priest taught her. She has a gauntlet and the bird takes off, like an arrow, up through the trees. You have never seen anything like it. It is so different when it flies—it is almost, you might think, two creatures. One on the ground and another in the air. When she calls, it returns to her, circling in these great wheels in the sky, and it lands with such force upon the glove, such determination.”
To him, it is the best place to be, before a performance: the stage below him, the audience filling the circular hollow in a steady trickle, and the other players behind him, transforming themselves into sprites or princes or soldiers or ladies or monsters. It is the only place to be alone in such a crowd. He feels like a bird, above the ground, resting on nothing but air. He is not of this place but above it, apart from it, observing it. It brings to mind, for him, the wind-hovering kestrel his wife used to keep, and the way it would hold itself in the high currents, far above the tree tops, wings outstretched, looking down on all around it.