Guild Chapel, Stratford-upon-Avon, England – portal (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm, all rights reserved)
The world's most famous soliloquy. The lines that – or so I hear – can make even experienced actors downright jittery: What words to emphasize, and how? How to pace yourself, given that half the audience is already going to be three lines ahead of you at any given moment anyway? What if – particularly in a stage production – you get hung, or miss a line ... how big a sacrilege? Is it "enterprises of great pith and moment" or "of great pitch and moment"? Does it matter whether it's one or the other? How reliable are the various quarto editions and the First Folio anyway? For that matter: Is this a soliloquy at all – or should it be addressed to Ophelia, since she is present while it is spoken? And a related question, from a director's point of view: Where to set this scene – what aspects do you want to highlight by the setting you choose? The life and death dichotomy? The possibility of suicide? Justice and vengeance? All of the above, or none? Also, what props do you use, if any – and particularly: does Hamlet handle a dagger when he speaks of making his "quietus"? Or does he use a completely different weapon, perhaps even one without a "bare bodkin" (blade)? Or none at all?
I won't even try to pretend I could possibly have any insights on any and all of the above that nobody has ever had before. All I can offer is an interpretation that is, hopefully at least, halfway consistent with the way I see the play as a whole. So let's pull up some of the above questions and address them right now – others I'll leave for a discussion directly in connection with the soliloquy's respective lines.
Probably the most important issue, because such a lot depends on it: Is this a soliloquy at all or isn't it? – Yes and no in my view; and fear me not, I'm not having a Prince-of-Denmark-like attack of ambivalence. Let me say first of all that, although Ophelia is present during the whole thing, I don't see it as addressed to her – so here I obviously part ways with Sir Derek Jacobi. (You can't really see this interpretation of his in the 1980 BBC production – to the best of my knowledge, because that production's director, Rodney Bennett, was opposed to such a rendition – but for all I know, it was a fairly prominent feature of Sir Derek's preceding stage performances.) I have two primary reasons for my view: first of all, I hear a marked difference in tone between the last lines of the soliloquy "proper" ("And enterprises of great pith[/pitch] and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action") and the then following "Soft you now! The fair Ophelia!," which to me suggests that Hamlet only discovers the fair maid at that very moment: in a split second, he goes from dejected to startled. And his first direct words to the maid then set yet another tone for their altercation, and instantly show Hamlet on a confrontation course quite distinct from his preceding contemplations: "Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins rememb'red." Secondly – and as importantly – I simply find it impossible to believe that psychologically Ophelia is still capable of just walking up to Hamlet or making him notice her now, a single day after the Prince's grievous intrusion into her bedchamber. Very much to the contrary, I imagine that after being left alone by Claudius and Polonius, she first withdraws into a corner and tries very hard to be invincible while she is working up her courage to approach Hamlet at all. He, on the other hand, enters the scene with some very, very grave things on his mind, too – so he is simply too preoccupied to see her. This, to me, also explains his sudden scorn when he realises that he has not only been overheard at all, but that he in fact has been overheard by the one person he probably (at this point, anyway) least of all wants to grant even the slightest insight into what is on his mind.
So what, then, did I mean when I said it's a soliloquy and yet it isn't? Very simply, I think Hamlet is holding discourse with his own conscience – and lest you tell me that this is the very nature of all soliloquies, let me remind you, in turn, that the Prince's conscience to me has a face: namely, that of his father. Now, obviously I don't imagine Papa Ghost physically walking or even flying about the room/ stage/ scene during Hamlet's profound contemplations here ... for one thing, if Shakespeare had wanted the Ghost to be present, he would unequivocally have told us so, and secondly – and again, as importantly – the scene is obviously set during the day, at which time, as we have heard the Ghost himself tell us, he is fasting in the fires of Purgatory. But as I have detailed elsewhere, I happen to believe that Hamlet and his father had a fairly close relationship while the father was alive, and since he has no living person to turn to for guidance now – at least until he decides to fully open up to Horatio – who else would our Prince consult with but his father's voice, which very probably lives on inside his head? Who else would he turn to for answers to those questions burning so fervently in his mind? And trust me, folks, you don't have to have the Ghost physically present in a scene to get that idea across.
Now, that brings us straight to the next question of course: Where to set the scene, and whether or not to keep it in sequence with the then following "Get thee to a nunnery." Of my five favourite versions immortalised on celluloid, I particularly like the crypt setting of Franco Zeffirelli's movie, because it plays not only on the life-death dichotomy (while at the same time managing to minimalise the suicide idea); it also suggests a similar underlying interpretation of the soliloquy as my own, i.e., as a discourse with the dead – including and particularly a discourse with Hamlet's father. Yet, Zeffirelli achieves this effect by, like Sir Laurence Olivier and Grigori Kosintzev, separating (and even inverting sequentially) "To be, or not to be" and the confrontation between Hamlet and Ophelia – from the latter of which Zeffirelli then even extracts a substantial part of the recurring "Get thee to a nunnery" chorus to essentially rewrite its meaning, which in turn is one of my few truly major points of criticism with regard to his movie. – My own preferred setting, thus, would be one that brings together on the one hand the notion of an exchange with the spirit of Hamlet's father – which in and of itself should be more than enough to visually address life-death and all related concepts – and on the other hand Hamlet's other main concerns; chiefly among these, his rejection by Ophelia (represented by her mere presence, even if unnoticed by Hamlet), and the Evil Incarnate represented by Claudius, on which I do think Hamlet also comments in his soliloquy (but more on that below).
As for props in addition to those suggested by the scene itself, I can do almost without any at all; and I have to admit to a particular aversion to the "Hamlet dramatically handles a dagger" bit on "bare bodkin." That was new, interesting and entirely justified in Sir Laurence Olivier's movie (the sequencing of the monologue itself aside), and it lends the scene both pith and pitch there, and is even further highlighted by the fact that the dagger finally tumbles down into the raging ocean waves far below as Hamlet muses about "flying to [ills] we know not of." But this has been repeated with far too little variation so often since then that – even without ocean waves – in my eyes it has become one of the tragedy's worst clichés ... and kudos indeed to my four other favourite adaptations for the manner in which they all in their own way manage to circumnavigate this particular cliff. (Interestingly, too, Kosintzev even succeeds in paying hommage to Olivier by replicating the ocean setting, albeit not as seen from up on high but by having Hamlet walk between the huge rocks on the beach below the castle, which provides for enough drama in and of itself.) That all said, I do think the suggestion of a blade is fine (and since in my setting we're somewhere in the late 15th or early 16th century, I would also make it a dagger) – however, no more but so. There's just too much else in this soliloquy; I'd absolutely hate to get hung up on this one single element.
Lastly, is it "pith" or "pitch," and does it matter which phrase you use? Well, linguistically it does make a difference of course. "Pitch" is the version of the 1604 "Second Quarto" which may have been taken from Shakespeare's initial draft of the play, and "pith" is that of the 1623 "First Folio", which was published by Shakespeare's former fellow actors John Hemmings and Henry Condell and was probably the text first used on stage. (The 1603 "First Quarto", on the other hand, is decided less reliable, and that's particularly true for the wording of "To be, or not to be": In fact, according to the First Quarto we wouldn't even have this little interpretative problem at all, because "enterprises of great pith/pitch and moment" is one of several lines missing entirely, not counting those that are substantially misrepresented.) In terms of context, I think both "pitch" and "pith" are justified: personally, though, I prefer the First Folio version ("pith"), because conceptually "pitch" almost seems to replicate "moment," in that both signify "impact" or "importance," whereas "pith" seems to introduce "clear focus" or "pointedness" as an additional element. But frankly, by and large – and at the risk of committing heresy here – this particular linguistic debate to me has all the makings of a tempest in a teapot, at least in the grand scheme of things associated with this soliloquy.
Now then, finally, without any further ado ...
To be, or not to be – that is the question:
Life, death, existence, and everything in between, immediately addressed in the very first line; as is Hamlet's torn state of mind. Is life existence and death non-existence? If the latter is true (or even if it isn't), what precisely is death? Conversely: is life merely existence, or something more? Could it be something more, even if it currently doesn't seem to be? Is life fate-driven or self-determined? If it is fate-driven, what's the point in action, in decisions, what even in avenging injustice? Which is preferable, life or death; existence or non-existence? Do we have a choice? Should we have a choice, notwithstanding that Catholic doctrine declares suicide a sin?
And also, at least if you follow me in my interpretation of the previous day's (and scene's) "rogue and peasant slave" monologue: Is there a state in between life and death, between existence and non-existence; a state where the souls of the dead can walk the earth – or must we inherently distrust such an experience and everything associated with it?
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.
Initially: Are we to read this as "whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer" or "nobler in the mind to suffer"? Is Hamlet, in other words, inquiring about the (perceived) nobility of the attitude, or is he referring to the fact that very often (and certainly in his case) the suffering is primarily one of the mind? Conceivably, both interpretations are possible, but I tend towards the former, because together with the following two lines the inquiry to my ears turns into one about Hamlet's big dilemma (particularly considering his most recent insecurities about the appearance of his father's Ghost): to act, or not to act? To revenge or not to revenge – to kill Claudius or not to kill Claudius? Which is the right choice?
Observe, though, how the tangible instruments of torture associated with "outrageous fortune" in the second of these four lines contrast with the "tak[ing of] arms against a sea of troubles" in the next line: Fortune, albeit on the one hand an abstract concept, in Greek and Roman mythology was also a goddess, and a fickle one at that – indeed, we even find her referred to as a "strumpet" several times throughout this very play. Thus, fortune's slings and arrows are not only real and tangible in themselves (which incidentally is another reason why I prefer the first line's interpretation as inquiring about the nobility of the attitude concerned: for how do you suffer something as clearly physical as slings and arrows merely in your mind?) – they are also associated with a physically existing force, as the gods of classic mythology were believed to have bodies, albeit much more powerful ones than humans. On the other hand, while "arms" certainly are a most tangible thing, how do you oppose (and even end!) any sea – and a "sea of troubles" at that – by raising arms against it? Thus, the terminological paradox itself implies paralysis: Even if Hamlet would like to act; even if action were the nobler choice, is it even possible? (And incidentally, is it just me who – not least because of the next couple of lines – hears "by opposing end them" in a dual manner, implying both an end to the troubles and an end to him who is troubled?)
To die – to sleep –
No more;
Is death sleep? Is it perpetual sleep – or no sleep at all; a state beyond sleep, maybe?
and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
Oh, if only there were such a state – a state of (the) mind as well as a physical state – that brings us perfect peace. Can death be that state? Can sleep, the sleep of death? – And then: "consummation" ... implying termination and destruction, but also completion, in an almost religious sense. Can it be hurried? Should it be?
To die – to sleep.
Death is [a form of] sleep. It's no longer a question now.
To sleep – perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
But is it a peaceful state? Do we dream when we are dead? If we do, are those dreams to be feared?
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
Do we become immortal after death – or does our soul; is it immortal, as the bible promises? Can the immortal soul have nightmares? If it does, are those perhaps even worse than ou mortal nightmares? (Note also the dual alliteration: "death" – "dreams;" and "[dreams] may come" – "mortal coil.")
There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
We all have to die, there's no choice in that; but all things considered, should we wish to accelerate that moment? What is preferable – the expectation of a long life of suffering, or a quick death leading to possibly unimaginable nightmares?
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Conceptually this line echoes "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" from the soliloquy's beginning; and again, we are dealing with instruments of physical torture linked to an abstract notion embodied in a mytholoical deity (Zeus's father Chronos, time incarnate), thus making the torture a very real thing indeed. Earthly pains are therefore both a function of the sheer length of our life (time, Chronos) and of its unpredictability (Fortune).
Th' oppressor's wrong,
And it's not merely Hamlet himself who is suffering. A cruel government (like that of Claudius) is a harsh burden on an entire country.
the proud man's contumely,
There is too much unjustified pride and contempt in the world. Again, look, for example, at Claudius – and at Polonius, too. Their high position should make them humble, not the contrary. (Um. Look who's talking.)
The pangs of despis'd love,
One word: Ophelia.
Interesting, though, how this seemingly so very personal concern comes smack in the middle of decidedly more general concerns of society and good governance. And lo'n behold, in classic mythology Aphrodite/Venus was not only the goddess of love but also of life and fate, reconciling man(kind) to all these forces through that same power of love. So where love is rejected, can life and fate in general possibly be good and prosperous?
the law's delay,
Then of course, tyranny is never a breeding ground for swift and equitable justice ... (but again: look who's talking – or is there a difference between vengeance and justice after all?)
The insolence of office,
... nor is tyranny generally associated with a caring administration.
and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
In short, everybody is suffering way beyond their share of humiliation and grief.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
And the big question is, why? Why doesn't the poor earthly sufferer seek salvation in suicide? What should keep him, if peace and quiet is to be had at the price of a single cut of an unbated blade?
Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
Again the suffering becomes physical; life itself becomes a tangible burden. And now we have also completed the move from Fortune's wheel earlier to the thread of life itself: spun, determined in its length, and ultimately cut off by the three Fates, one of whom, Clotho, the cutter of the thread, in her Roman identity was known as Morta – Death.
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?
More religious imagery: Greek, Roman, and also Egyptian mythology all held, in essence much like Christianity, that after a person's physical death their soul traverses a body of water to reach the realm of the dead – where, however, not all souls are received charitably; Greek mythology in particular is filled with stories easily rivaling those of Catholic Purgatory. Thus, we now move from the general (and the specific, to the extent it refers to our Prince) to the fate suffered by his father. And in this context, considering the Ghost's appearance and Hamlet's newly-awakened doubts about that encounter, it is not only the possibility of unknown horrors as such expecting us after death that makes the Prince wonder: it is also the question whether nobody really does return from that realm of the dead. Because if the Ghost's appearance was real, is there a form of return after all? Or is the passage a permanent one? If the latter, what or whom did Hamlet see when he was looking at the Ghost – a (or the) devil? How can we possibly know anything about that realm which no living being can enter, and about the tortures that may be awaiting us there? How can we know who reigns that realm; whether it is a force for good or for absolute evil and damnation? How can Hamlet know whether avenging his father's death by killing Claudius will damn or save his own soul? Considering all these doubts and insecurities, who would ever want to seek peace and comfort in death? Who would want to rush it – or indeed, rush to any kind of action at all? Why commit an act of vengeance whose ultimate outcome may not be justice but eternal damnation? (Even the alliteration changes from the earlier "dream" – "death" to "dread" – "death", now also coupled with "bourn" – "bear" and "will" – "ill"!)
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,
Ah yes, if Hamlet had acted immediately, on impulse, without thinking – at least he would not now feel like a coward and a weakling in the face of his own promise. But he has been thinking too much ... or rather, too precisely on the event, as he will later come to phrase it, and thought – nay, conscience itself – can become the enemy of action, if thought and action are not controlled by the same, uniform motive.
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. –
Yet, there is no question that Hamlet did mean his vows of revenge seriously. It was an important act, and the Prince's will was set to it in a pointed manner. But unlike that ship irreversibly bound for the shores of no return (or is it?), this particular ship is now drifting about, lost at sea – and Hamlet is desolate that he has let things go so far.
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.
