#hamlet

One of the things that makes Hamlet unique among Shakespeare's characters is his courage to face up to the darker elements of his personality. ↗

— Kenneth Branagh

#characters #courage #darker #elements #face

What if Shakespeare had had a test audience for Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet? ↗

— Brendan Fraser

#had #hamlet #juliet #romeo #romeo and juliet

I have felt some twinges recently, about parts I wanted to play that I may be getting too old and fat to do. 'Hamlet,' for example - maybe that's gone. I would love to play Richard II. ↗

— Matthew Macfadyen

#example #fat #felt #for example #getting

The time has mainly gone on getting Inform into a decent shape for public use. I suppose the plot of 'Curses' makes a sequel conceivable when compared with, say, the plot of 'Hamlet' but none is planned. ↗

— Graham Nelson

#conceivable #curses #decent #getting #gone

Hamlet is an astonishing intelligence. ↗

— Ben Kingsley

#hamlet #intelligence

The destruction of civilian hamlets, the killing and the wounding of civilians, became vastly greater than it had been before, and it was very upsetting; but I still couldn't bring myself to understand that the policy itself was wrong. ↗

— Neil Sheehan

#been #before #bring #civilian #civilians

It is something to have gazed on the constellated white, felt it running from the eyes and the pores: the salt of love. It is something to have whispered wild thank-yous in the only ways we know how. ↗

— Bryana Johnson

#free-verse #hamlet #poetry-life #shakespeare #the-quintessence-of-dust

Who would fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered 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; ↗

— William Shakespeare

#death

More grief to hide than hate to utter love. Polonius, Hamlet. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#polonius #shakespeare #love

He was digging in his garden--digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Death--and he drove in his spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools they way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last... He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kills us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true--truer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams...? ↗

— Aldous Huxley

#hamlet #shakespeare #death