--- In [email protected], "authfriend" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
wrote:
>
> --- In [email protected], Duveyoung <no_reply@> wrote:
> <snip>
> I'm quite a wonderful person, by most standards, but
> > remember that Shakespeare ended the "what a piece of work is man"
> > soliloquy with "Why it appears no other thing to me than a foul
and
> > pestilent congregation of vapors."
>
> Well, not exactly. Here's the speech (not a
> soliloquy; he delivers it to Rosenkrantz and
> Guildenstern, explaining that King Claudius
> has sent for them to try to jolly him, Hamlet,
> out of his depression):
>
> I have of late,--but wherefore I know not,--lost all my
> mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed,
> it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly
> frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this
> most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
> o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with
> golden fire,--why, it appears no other thing to me than a
> foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece
> of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in
> faculties! in form and moving, how express and
> admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension,
> how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of
> animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of
> dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither,
> though by your smiling you seem to say so.
>
> In other words: He's very clear--remarkably clear--
> that it's not that he's suddenly realized that the
> earth is really nothing but a "congregation of
> vapours," or that other people have no more value
> than dust. He's not passing judgment on the earth
> and human beings, he's saying there's something
> wrong *with him* that he can't take pleasure in
> their magnificence.
>
> It's a perfect description of the experience of
> clinical depression (say I, having also
> experienced it).
>
> Hamlet's not the only Shakespearean character
> who gives a good account of depression. Here's
> Macbeth:
>
> Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
> Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
> To the last syllable of recorded time.
> And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
> The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
> Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
> Who struts and frets his hour upon the stage
> And then is heard no more. It is a tale
> Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
> Signifying nothing.
>
> I had a minor epiphany awhile back thinking
> about this soliloquy, and how it might be
> performed very differently: not as a descent
> into despair, but as an awakening, as a sudden
> realization of Self, of liberation.
>
> Here I've been going through all this agony
> of guilt and fear, and--it's meaningless!
> What have I been beating my head against the
> wall for? I'm not this walking shadow, this
> poor player strutting and fretting, and I
> never was.
>
> I envision the actor starting out sunk in
> utter misery. But by the time he gets to
> "It is a tale told by an idiot," he begins to
> get it. And after "signifying nothing," he
> breaks out in a peal of astonished, joyful
> laughter.
>
> Macbeth, the serial murderer, goes from the Dark
> Night of the Soul to emergence into the Light
> in ten lines.
>
> What a genius, that Shakespeare.
>
Nice surfing Judy-- Beautiful!:-)
