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Posted

What stops us from becoming who we really are?

What makes us attached to a transient matter?

Do we miss the real meaning of life?

Are we too weak?

Why we pretend?

Why we climb?

What are we?

Are we here?

Why?

 

 

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.

 

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Posted (edited)

Well we could at least talk about 100 (proof). Why stop at 80 when your country is so large and so cold.

 

My failure at Shakespeare affects me most nights on Jeopardy and I don't see that changing anytime soon.

Edited by matt_warfield
Posted

My old (and new) English is bad, but I feel its beauty between the lines. I once read the translation of William Shakespeare by Boris Pasternak - it has very little resemblance with the English text.

Posted
the thing with Shakespeare is, you really have to see it performed (well).

this didn't really help me understand the scenes that are entirely in french in henry v :)

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