Play of the Month: Hamlet

I just finished studying my twelfth Shakespeare play, The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, often shortened to Hamlet. Completed sometime between 1599 and 1601 as Shakespeare's longest play, Hamlet, along with Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth, is deemed the four greatest tragic plays of Shakespeare. While I'm sure I'll need to return to Hamlet time and again to gain new insights, exploring its over 4,070 lines is worth celebrating, which also marked a significant milestone in my self-learning journey through Shakespeare’s works that commenced a year ago.

Set in Denmark, the play depicts Prince Hamlet and his attempts to exact revenge against his uncle, Claudius, who has murdered Hamlet's father in order to seize his throne and marry Hamlet's mother. The story unfolds against a backdrop of political intrigue and familial conflict, with Hamlet’s inner turmoil and philosophical reflections adding depth to the narrative. The play’s iconic soliloquies, such as "To be or not to be," "Alas, poor Yorick," and "frailty thy name is woman" showcase Shakespeare's masterful exploration of the human psyche. In the broader context of Shakespeare’s works, Hamlet is often considered a pinnacle of Elizabethan drama. Its intricate plot, rich characterizations, and thematic depth contribute to its enduring popularity. Hamlet is a reflection of the anxieties and complexities of the Elizabethan era, mirroring the political intrigue and power struggles of the royal court. It also showcases Shakespeare’s versatility, seamlessly blending elements of revenge tragedy with existential musings.  Hamlet is considered among the "most powerful and influential tragedies in the English language," with a story capable of "seemingly endless retelling and adaptation by others.

As part of my extended study, I learned that Hamlet-like legends existed long before Shakespeare wrote Hamlet, and that Shakespeare might draw inspiration from 

The Spanish Tragedy, an Elizabethan tragedy written by Thomas Kyd between 1582 and 1592. Highly popular and influential in its time, The Spanish Tragedy established a new genre in English theatre: the revenge play or revenge tragedy. The play contains several violent murders and personifies Revenge as its own character. The Spanish Tragedy is often considered to be the first mature Elizabethan drama, with many elements, such as the play-within-a-play used to trap a murderer and a ghost intent on vengeance, appearing in Shakespeare's Hamlet. 

I also learned that Amleth, a figure in a medieval Scandinavian legend, is the direct inspiration of the character of Prince Hamlet in Shakespeare's Hamlet. According to the third and fourth books of Gesta Danorum ("Deeds of the Danes") completed by Saxo Grammaticus at the beginning of the 13th century, prince Amleth (Amblothæ) is the son of Horvendill (Orwendel), king of the Jutes. 

Moreover, I found an old episode of my favorite podcast, BBC's In Our Time, in which the play is explored and interpreted in an in-depth and extensive manner by the host and participating scholars. In particular, I was amused by the anecdotes that as an actor, Shakespeare performed in plays based on Hamlet-like stories long before he wrote Hamlet. In addition, as the playwright of Hamlet, his income was six pounds, the same amount he received for any single play he wrote, long or short.

The background of the play coincides with the Viking Age - about 50 years before the Norman Conquest - where approximately a third of England was still under Danish rule (the Danelaw). Kronborg, a castle and historical stronghold in the town of Helsingør, Denmark,  is immortalised as Elsinore in the play. Helsingør is located at the narrowest part of the Øresund strait and together with Helsingborg in Sweden, forms the northern reaches of the Øresund Region, centred on Copenhagen and Malmö. Earlier I watched a short video and learned about the story regarding a journey that Dame Judith Olivia Dench, one of the most significant British theatre performers, took in search of her roots in Elsinore. To me the story was as touching as a Shakespeare play itself.

Quoted herewith are dialogues or soliloquies that impressed me the most in the play, in modern English translation:

Act I, Scene 2

HAMLET:

Oh, if only my dirty flesh would melt and then evaporate into a dew, or that God had not outlawed suicide. Oh God, God! How tired, stale, dull, and worthless all of life seems to me. Curse it! Yes, curse it! It’s like an untended garden, growing wild. Nasty, gross weeds cover it completely. That it has come to this point. My father, dead for just two months—no, not even that much, not two. A king so excellent, in comparison to Claudius he was like a god compared to a goat. My father was so loving toward my mother that he would not let the wind blow too hard on her face. Heaven above, must I remember? She would hang on his arm, as if the more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to be with him. And yet, within a month of my father’s death—no, don’t think about it. Women, curse your weakness!—in just a month, before she had even broken in the shoes she wore to his funeral, weeping endlessly—oh, God, a wild beast would have mourned longer than she did!—she married my uncle, my father’s brother, who’s no more like my father than I’m like Hercules. Within a month of my father’s death—before the salt from her crocodile tears had washed out of her red eyes—she remarried. Oh, what wicked speed! To jump so quickly into a bed of incest! It is not good, and will not lead to any good either. But my heart must break in silence, because I must remain quiet

Act I, Scene 5

FATHER'S GHOST:

Yes, that incestuous, adulterous beast. With his evil wit and traitorous gifts—oh wicked wit and gifts, that have the power to seduce!—he convinced my seemingly virtuous queen to give in to his lust. Oh, Hamlet, she fell so far! From me, who loved her with the dignity that goes hand in hand with my marriage vows, to a wretch whose natural abilities could not compare to mine. But just as true virtue can’t be corrupted, so will lust show its true nature by satisfying itself first in the blessing of heavenly marriage and then by wallowing in garbage. But wait. I think I smell the morning air. I must speak quickly. As I was sleeping in the orchard—as I used to do every afternoon—your uncle snuck up and poured a vial of henbane poison into my ear. That poison—which is like a natural enemy of blood—spreads like quicksilver through the veins and curdles the blood. So it did to mine. I broke instantly into a rash that covered my smooth body with a revolting crust. And so, as I slept, my brother stole my life, my crown, and my queen. He killed me even as I was still gripped by sin, because I did not get to repent my sins or receive last rites. I was sent to death with all my sins still on my head. Oh, horrible, horrible, most horrible! If you have any natural feelings of a son for a father in you, don’t let this stand. Don’t let the bed of the Danish king be a nest of incest. But however you attempt to get revenge, don’t allow your mind or soul to contemplate harming your mother. Leave her fate to God, and to the sting of her own guilt. Goodbye now. The glow of light on the horizon shows that morning is near. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Remember me.

HAMLET:

Oh, all you angels of heaven! Oh, everyone on earth! What else? Should I include hell too? Oh, curses! Keep beating, my heart, and muscles, don’t grow suddenly old—hold me upright. Remember you? Yes, you poor ghost, as long as I have any memory in my distracted head. Remember you? Yes, I’ll wipe clean my memory of all unimportant facts, all the wise sayings of books, all images and impressions from my youth, so that your commandment alone will live there. Yes, by heaven! Oh, you wicked woman! Oh, you villain, villain, damned, smiling villain! Where’s my notebook? I should write down that one can smile and smile, and still be a villain. At least it’s possible to do so in Denmark. [He writes] So, uncle, there you are. Now I must fulfill my vow. He said, “Remember me.” I’ve sworn I would.

Act II, Scene 2

HAMLET:

I heard you recite a speech for me once that was never acted on stage. Or, if it was, not more than once—because the play I remember didn’t please the masses. It was like caviar for the masses—too sophisticated for them. But I, along with the better-informed critics, thought that it was excellent, with scenes that flowed one to the next and written in language that was clever and yet not overdone. I remember one critic commented that the play lacked spicy jokes to liven it up, and did not display any fancy language, but that it was well-done, and beautiful rather than showy. There was one speech in it that I loved the most. It was the story Aeneas told Dido, particularly the part about Priam’s murder. If you remember it, begin at line—let me see, let me see—The rugged Pyrrhus, fierce as a tiger...No, that’s not it; it begins like this: Rugged Pyrrhus—whose armor was as black as his desire, resembled the night when he crouched inside the Trojan Horse—has now smeared his terrible black armor with a more awful coat of arms. Head to foot, he’s now all red, decorated horribly with the blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons. The blood baked solid by fires in the streets—fires that lend a terrible, damned light to his murders. Roasted by anger and fire—and covered with hardened gore—with eyes like rubies, the hellish Pyrrhus goes looking for grandfather Priam. Continue from there.

FIRST PLAYER:

Soon he finds Priam vainly fighting off the Greeks. His old sword, too heavy for him to wield, lies where it fell, refusing his commands. An unfair opponent, Pyrrhus rushes Priam, and in a rage, strikes and misses. But the wind made by his dreadful sword knocks the old man down. Then the city of Troy, seeming to feel this fatal blow to its ruler, collapses in flames, and the hideous crash arrests Pyrrhus’ attention. Now his sword, which was lowering on the white-haired head of old, revered Priam, seemed stuck in the air. Pyrrhus stood like a tyrant in a painting, and, caught between act and intention, did nothing. But just as a storm is often broken by a sudden silence—with the clouds growing still and the bold winds calming and the earth below, as quiet as death, once more finds the sky split by sudden thunder—so too did Pyrrhus’ pause renew his fury, and set him back to work. Not even when the Cyclopses worked to make the unbreakable armor of the god of war, their hammers did not fall as cruelly as Pyrrhus’ bloody sword now falls on Priam. Be gone, goddess of Fortune, you whore! All you gods should join together to take away her power—break all the spokes on her wheel of fortune, and roll it down the hill of heaven into hell.

Act II, Scene 2

HAMLET:

Now I’m alone. Oh, what a low-life scoundrel I am! Isn’t it terrible that this actor—reciting a work of fiction—could force his soul to feel the passion so completely that he grew pale, tears welled in his eyes? He got overwhelmed, his voice broke, and the entirety of his being matched the emotions he was supposed to be playing. And all for nothing—for Hecuba! What does Hecuba mean to him, or he to Hecuba, that he would weep for her? What would he do if he had the motive or reason for passion that I have? He would drown the stage with tears, and split the ears of all who heard him with angry words. He would drive the guilty crazy with shame, horrify the innocent, confuse the ignorant, and shock anyone with eyes and ears. Meanwhile I—a stupid fool—mope like a daydreamer, don’t have a plan, and have nothing, nothing, to say for a king whose throne and life were brought to destruction. Am I a coward? Who will stand up and call me a villain, or slap me across the face? Pluck hairs from my beard and blow them in my face? Tweak my nose? Call me a liar? Who does any of those things? Ha! By God, I’d accept it, because I must have a nature that doesn’t respond to wrongs by making life for the evildoer bitter. Otherwise, I would have long ago fattened up the local birds with the intestines of this scoundrel, King Claudius. Bloody, vulgar villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lustful, unnatural villain! Oh, revenge! Why, what an ass I am. Look how brave I am—the son of a beloved, murdered father; told to take revenge by heaven and hell; and yet all I can do is talk about my problems and curse like a whore in the street. I’m a male whore! Curses on it! Now think, brain—Hmm..I’ve heard that guilty people watching a play have been so affected by the performance that they have confessed their crimes. Though murder has no tongue, it still miraculously finds other ways to speak. I’ll have these actors perform something like my father’s murder in front of my uncle. Meanwhile, I’ll watch my uncle, and probe him to his very core. If he flinches, I’ll know what to do. The ghost I saw may be the devil, who has the power to appear in a pleasing manner. Perhaps he has taken advantage of my sadness—because he has great influence over melancholy people—to trick me into damnation. I need more solid evidence. The play’s the thing I’ll use to reveal the conscience of the king.

Act III, Scene 1

HAMLET:

To live, or to die? That is the question. Is it nobler to suffer through all the terrible things fate throws at you, or to fight off your troubles, and, in doing so, end them completely? To die, to sleep—because that’s all dying is—and by a sleep I mean an end to all the heartache and the thousand injuries that we are vulnerable to—that’s an end to be wished for! To die, to sleep. To sleep, perhaps to dream—yes, but there’s there’s the catch. Because the kinds of dreams that might come in that sleep of death—after you have left behind your mortal body—are something to make you anxious. That’s the consideration that makes us suffer the calamities of life for so long. Because who would bear all the trials and tribulations of time—the oppression of the powerful, the insults from arrogant men, the pangs of unrequited love, the slowness of justice, the disrespect of people in office, and the general abuse of good people by bad—when you could just settle all your debts using nothing more than an unsheathed dagger? Who would bear his burdens, and grunt and sweat through a tiring life, if they weren’t frightened of what might happen after death—that undiscovered country from which no visitor returns, which we wonder about and which makes us prefer the troubles we know rather than fly off to face the ones we don’t? Thus, the fear of death makes us all cowards, and our natural willingness to act is made weak by too much thinking. Actions of great urgency and importance get thrown off course because of this sort of thinking, and they cease to be actions at all. 

Act III, Scene 3

CLAUDIUS:

Oh, my crime is foul. It stinks all the way to heaven. It is the oldest, and worst, of all crimes: a brother’s murder. I can’t pray. Though I badly want to pray, my guilt is stronger than my hope to pray. And—like a person with two things he has to do at the same time—I stand paralyzed, unsure which to start first, and thus neglect them both. Even if this cursed hand of mine is covered with my brother’s blood, isn’t there enough rain in sweet heaven to wash it white as snow? What’s the purpose of God’s mercy if not to forgive the sinner? And doesn’t prayer have these two powers: to stop us from sinning before we do, and to offer forgiveness when we’ve sinned? So I’ll pray. My sin is in the past. But, oh, what prayer can possibly give me what I want:  “Forgive me for my awful murder?” That won’t work, since I still have all the things I gained by committing the murder: my crown—the object of my ambition—and my queen. Is it possible to be forgiven and keep what you got from the crime? In this corrupt world, criminals can use the wealth they get from their crime to shove justice aside by bribing officers of the law. But that’s not how it is heaven. You can’t hide from the law up there. There, every action is judged strictly on its merits, and everyone must confront their sins face-to-face. What then? What remains for me to do? Repent as best I can. That can’t hurt. But it can’t help much either, since I can’t really repent. Oh, what a wretched situation! Oh, my heart is as black as death. My soul is trapped in sin, and the more it struggles to be free, the more trapped it gets. Help me, angels! Make an effort. Now bend, my stubborn knees, and may my hard heart become soft as the muscle of a newborn baby. Perhaps all will be well. [He kneels]

HAMLET:

Now I could do it. Now as he’s praying. And now I’ll do it. [He draws his sword] And so he’ll go to heaven, and I’ll have my revenge. Wait, that needs more thought. A villain kills my father, and, in revenge, I—my father’s only son—send this same villain to heaven. Send him to heaven—oh, that’s doing him a service, not getting revenge. He killed my father before my father could pray and spiritually prepare himself, so that my father’s sins were in full bloom. Only God knows how many sins my father has standing against him. But as far as I can tell, it doesn’t look good for him. So do I get revenge if I kill Claudius while he’s praying and confessing his sins, so that he’s all set to go right up to heaven? No! Go away, sword, and wait for a more horrid moment to kill him. [He sheathes his sword] When he’s drunk and asleep, or partying, or having incestuous sex, or swearing and gambling, or doing some other thing that has no trace of heaven in it—then I’ll kill him, so that his heels kick up toward heaven while his damned, black soul falls straight down to hell. My mother’s waiting. Claudius, this attempt to cure yourself through prayer is only going to prolong your sickly life a little longer.

Act IV, Scene 7

CLAUDIUS:

Not because I think you didn’t love your father, but because I know that love exists in a particular time and place—and that the passage of time can weaken the spark and fire of that love. Every flame of love eventually burns itself out. Nothing remains the same forever. Even a good thing can grow too big and die from its extreme size. We should do what we want in the moment, because our desires might be blocked by as many obstructions or delays as words in the dictionary, or accidents in life. And then all our “woulds” and “shoulds” become like little more than sighs. But back to the heart of the matter: Hamlet’s coming back. What would you do, rather than simply say, to prove that you you are your father’s son?

LAERTES:

Cut Hamlet’s throat in the church.

CLAUDIUS:

I agree that no place should protect that murderer. Revenge should have no limits. But, good Laertes, will you do this: stay inside your room? When Hamlet returns, he’ll learn that you’ve come home. I’ll have people praise your excellence and add an extra shine to the compliment the Frenchman paid you. Finally, we’ll bring the two of you together and bet on which of you will win. Hamlet—who is so careless and trusting—won’t examine the swords beforehand. So you’ll easily be able to choose a sword with a sharpened point, and in the middle of this practice duel, you’ll get revenge for your father's death.

LAERTES:

I’ll do it. And I’ll also cover my sword with an oil that I bought from a snake-oil salesman. This oil is so poisonous that if a knife dipped in it draws blood, no cure in the world can save the victim. I’ll cover the point of my sword with it, so that if I even graze him, he’ll probably die.

CLAUDIUS:

Let’s think more about this, and consider whether there’s anything else we’ll have the opportunity to do to ensure we get the outcome we want. If our plan should fail—and if people figure out our plot because we execute it badly—we’d be better off not having tried it at all. Therefore, we should have a backup plan that will do the trick if we fail in our first attempt. Hmm, let me think—we’re going to bet on your dueling skill—I’ve got it! When from all your exertion the two of you have gotten hot and thirsty—make sure the duel is very active to guarantee that happens—Hamlet will want a drink. I’ll have a cup ready with poison for just that purpose, and once he sips from it—even if he escapes your poisoned sword—we will get what we want. But hold on, what’s that sound?

Act IV, Scene 7

GERTRUDE:The bad news keeps coming, as if each piece follows right on the heels of the one before. Your sister’s drowned, Laertes.

LAERTES:

Drowned? Oh, where?

GERTRUDE:

There’s a willow that leans over the brook, with its white leaves hanging over the glassy water. Ophelia came there—making braided crowns from crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and those wild purple orchids that free-spoken shepherds call by an obscene name, but which innocent girls call “dead men’s fingers.” She climbed out onto the tree to hang her crowns from a bending branch. But the branch broke, and she and her flowery treasures fell into the swiftly moving brook. Her clothes spread wide in the water, and held her up while she sang bits of old hymns. She acted as if she could not comprehend the danger, or as if she were a creature that naturally lived in water. But eventually her clothes—heavy with absorbed water—pulled the poor girl out of her song and down to a muddy death.

Act V, Scene 1

HAMLET:

Let me see. [He takes the skull] Oh, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. He was a man of endless humor, a great wit. He gave me piggy-back rides a thousand times, and now..how awful my imagination is! It makes me nauseated to think of it. Here hung his lips, which I kissed I don’t know how many times. Where are your jokes now? Your dances? Your songs? Your flashes of high spirits that used to set the whole table roaring with laughter? You’re not able to mock your own grinning skull now, are you? Now go to my lady’s bedroom and tell her that, even if she piles on the makeup an inch thick, she’ll still wind up looking like you. Make her laugh at that. 

HAMLET:

No, I swear, not at all. It’s perfectly reasonable to think of it: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returned to dust, the dust is dirt, and dirt is used to make the material we use to stop up holes. So why can’t someone use the clay made from Alexander to plug up a beer barrel? The Roman Emperor Caesar, dead and turned to clay, might block a hole to keep the wind away. Oh, that the body that once ruled the entire world could now patch up a wall to keep out the winter! But quiet, be quiet for a moment.

Act V, Scene 2

FORTINBRAS: 

These corpses suggest a massacre. Oh, proud Death, what banquet are you preparing that you’ve struck down so many princes at once?

AMBASSADOR: 

This is an awful sight. Our news arrives from England too late. The people who were meant to hear it are all dead. We came to tell the king his orders have been followed: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Who will thank us now?

HORATIO: 

[He points to CLAUDIUS] Not him, even if he were still alive to thank you. He never ordered their deaths. But since you’ve arrived to see this bloody scene—you from the war in Poland and you from England—then order that these bodies be displayed on a high platform to be viewed, and let me tell the world how all this happened. You’ll hear of violent, bloody, and unnatural acts; accidental revenge; casual murders; deaths caused by trickery and by threat; and plans that backfired on their inventors. All this I will tell you truthfully.