Hamlet And Our Cowardly Conscience

Above is an image of Derek Jacobi as Hamlet. I thought you'd find this cool because he plays Claudius in the version of the play we're watching.

Here are some thoughts on what we've read from III.i . . .

When Hamlet walks into the scene, he is in sort of a trance. We watch him thinking. We overhear his thoughts. He has progressed beyond the anger of II.ii and is now reflecting on his failure to act.

This is the intellectual Hamlet. He is lost in thought, unaware of what is going on in Denmark. Unaware of this uncle. Unaware of Ophelia. Certainly unaware of his current "antic disposition." Thus, this soliloquy seems almost detached from the rest of the play.

Although Dustin Baker disagrees with me a little bit, I feel that Hamlet is beyond the point of contemplating his own suicide. I feel that he may be thinking about the idea of suicide, but not the act. His question is "Why don't we all just off ourselves?" his answer is "Because none of us know what's next." Where D-Bake and I might agree is in the notion that Hamlet's train of though might be inspired by both his failure to quickly avenge his father AND his earlier failure to kill himself.

Now, here's something else. Pay attention. Have you been watching closely? Hamlet calls death the "undiscovered country." He specifically notes that none of us know what comes after death. Earlier, Hamlet pointed out that suicide is a SIN. He was CERTAIN he'd go to hell. Now he's thinking that no one actually KNOWS what would happen after suicide. I see a drastic change of thinking here. Or at least a temporary shift.

On Thursday, we'll discuss how Ophelia jolts Hamlet back into an awareness of his surroundings and his plot. For now, read the post. RE-read the soliloquy from III.i and post any thoughts you might have.

HAMLET
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.