Hamlet’s shirt is white, then, huh? Or maybe a light pink or cream? Or beige, I guess it could be beige. It sounds like it’s showing through that unbraced doublet of his (maybe a solemn black, that nighted color his Mom wanted him to cast off.) I’m wondering though, just exactly what his stockings are fouled with. Ophelia makes no mention of his shoes – so it’s not clear if he’s waded through a muddy puddle or spattered them with paint. It’s a weird thing to be fouled, I think. Like how did only his stockings get dirty? He’s not likely to have wiped his hands on them. There’s something about the word “fouled” that makes me go straight to excrement – but I don’t know how you’d get shit on your socks. Unless of course you’re doing it on purpose (which given Hamlet’s plan to put an antic disposition on, might be possible) But I’d think if you were going to try and mess yourself up, you’d do more than your stockings. This description of Ophelia’s is very vivid and very specific but why is it so vivid? Why is she speaking such a terribly long sentence in the middle of her distress? What’s up with those fouled stockings?
Oh wait. I just worked out how you could easily get shit on your stockings. If you were going about it, old school – squatting on the ground like in days of yore, if the wind was right (or wrong, as it were) you might end up with some fouled stockings. Yeah, so, that’s one possibility – though it does be-foul the dignity of the Prince of Denmark somewhat.
Author: erainbowd
With what, i’th’name of God?
Shoot for the moon, young man!
Shoot for the moon!
The only thing holding you back from the moon is the absence of you shooting for it!
No excuses, kid!
You have to shoot for the moon, at least. After all, even if you miss, at least you end up among the stars.
But you won’t miss! If you say enough inspiring things to yourself, gird your loins, get yourself going, you will achieve it all!
Aim high!
What? What do you mean, “How”? You just. . .aim!
I don’t know, a rocket?!?A bow and arrow?
Doesn’t matter, kid.
Well, a space shuttle, I guess.
In space?
A few minutes I guess.
But you’d be among the stars!
Several million light years away, maybe?
Do you think Neil Armstrong asked how they’d get to the moon?
Okay, I grant you that, they probably did have a plan and a whole lot of money and training and governmental support. That’s a good point.
But someone had to dream it! Before they went, right?
No. I don’t know his name. No, you’re right, that guy didn’t get to go to the moon in the end. But he shot for it, didn’t he? And eventually someone went. Where would we be if he hadn’t shot for it?
Not on the moon, that’s for sure.
Why do you have to be so LITERAL?
O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
We talked about how, from the body’s perspective, every fear is rooted in the fear of falling. From that first time, in our little baby bodies, when it feels as though we might hit the ground, to this moment, when a furry little body darts across our floors and we scream, we are physiologically experiencing the same sort of thing. Every fear is the fear of falling.
How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?
Yeah, Ophelia, what’s the matter? You’re frightened by your boyfriend in disarray, sighing heavily? You’re disturbed by his looking at you for a while before backing out of a room? Why does all this frighten you and send you running to Daddy? Why don’t you just look right back at your obviously unhappy boyfriend and ask him what’s going on? Why don’t you say – “Something seems to be troubling you. You feel like saying what it is? No? You’re just going to stare at me like a looney? Get yourself together, Hamlet. Pull up your socks, man. Put your hat on. Brace up that doublet. Can’t you see I’m trying to sew in here? You wanna tell me what’s up?”
But no, our poor little Ophelia doesn’t say a thing. She just stares back at Hamlet, then runs to Daddy, where he asks what she ought to have asked Hamlet. When he started knocking his knees, she could have said, “How now, Hamlet, what’s the matter?”
Farewell.
Polonius bids Reynaldo farewell and then we never see him again.
What happens to him after he leaves Denmark?
Does he fall in with the wrong crowd in Paris? Or perhaps something goes awry on the way to France? Or right after he walks out of this room?
Does he reach France at all?
Does he put Polonius’ plan into action? Or is he hit by a bus on the way?
There is no real reason for Reynaldo to return to the play. He has served his purpose here. He has helped paint Polonius as a man who keeps sneaky tabs on his son and then, poof, he is gone. Farewell Reynaldo. Or rather – adieu. We won’t see you again. Maybe he’s hanging out with Marcellus.
Well, my lord.
One day, I woke up and it all seemed better.
It all seemed more possible. I suddenly had energy to tackle all the (seemingly hopeless) tasks. I felt, out of the blue, like myself again. When, oddly, the day before, I wouldn’t have said I was NOT myself. I’d been fine for some time. You know, doin’ okay and all that. But one day I woke up well.
And let him ply his music.
In the 8th grade version of Hamlet we did last month, Polonius always said this line as “And let him PLAY his music.” I never corrected him – we had other things to worry about – but now that I’m looking at it and remembering, I’m wondering if it might once have been play. It’s very possible that a typesetter left out a letter in printing the folio. (Oh wait. Text question: Does this scene appear in the folio and/or both quarto? Give me the answers, Internet! If it’s in all three as PLY, it’s not a printing mistake. – – – time passing, internet checking – – – And lo, the Internet provides. The 1st Quarto has this line as “Bid him ply his learning.” So, uh, it’s clearly PLY.)
Certainly there’s a kind of Attempt implied in plying. I guess even implying is a sort of trying – an attempt to say something without saying it. One plies one’s trade – is that what Polonius is implying? That Laertes (or Leartes in the 1st Quarto!) should be allowed to pursue his interests, to chase his vices as if they were his career? And why music? There has been no mention of music before now; Where did this metaphor come from? Or is it not a metaphor? Maybe Laertes is a secret flautist? If so, he might ply or play his music.
I shall, my lord.
Reynaldo arrives in Paris. It has been a long journey. The trip from Denmark to France is not a short one and Reynaldo has had his patience tried by garrulous fellow passengers, ones with much greater status than himself to who he must smile politely and laugh at the appropriate pauses. Coaches have jostled him. He has not been able to read, either at night, in the dark, or during the day, with the constant motion. His stomach has given him some trouble and he is ready for a real rest in a real bed.
The inn is welcoming. Lights flicker and beckon the weary traveler to settle in and rest. The innkeeper pats him on the shoulder and points him to his room, while a gangly teenage boy picks up his bag for him.
Reynaldo makes his way up the stairs, then down the hallway, his feet sinking into the long rug that goes the length of it. He’s ready for sleep – and suddenly very grateful that his only responsibility tomorrow will be to hang out in a bar/café/pub, drink and talk with people. As he approaches his room, he sees a young woman coming out of another room, closing the door as quietly as she can, looking for all the world like she were attempting to sneak out without drawing attention to herself from a sleeping person inside.
She jumps a little when she sees Reynaldo and blushes, charmingly, he thinks. She does a little curtsy and nods at the boy with the bag, before scurrying quickly past him down the hall toward the stairs.
Observe his inclination in yourself.
Ha ha! What is Laertes’ inclination?!
Which of the many vices mentioned
Is he inclined to give way too?
This line tips the scales for me on the question of Laertes’ innocence.
Even if Laertes has managed to behave himself,
His father knows he was an inclination,
One which Reynaldo might fall prey to as well.
If I had to choose, I think I’d go with lust. I think Laertes might be a libertine.
His sister responds to his advice on chastity
By suggesting he not tread the primrose path of dalliance
While preaching to her. Maybe Laertes has gotten into trouble
With the ladies in some way. There’s something
Lascivious in his name. Something about the letter L even
That lays out lust and love and longing
And libidinous languorous lingering luscious lovers
Into a last lunge toward a name like Laertes.
Good my lord.
I’m not sure what this has to do with anything – but I just discovered that an old friend of mine has won a bunch of prestigious awards. I don’t begrudge him them. He might actually deserve such things, if anyone does. It’s good. It’s good. If anyone gets to get awards, right? It should go to the deserving? The ones we know are brilliant, even if they sometimes aren’t – the way I mostly feel I’m not, but sometimes am.
But still there is jealousy. I write it in green pen. I write it in this book that no one will ever see, surrounded by words unpublished, words that may never be published or be public in any way. I write with the jealousy of the unawarded, the unpublished, the unproduced, the unrecognized, the unknown and find comfort in other people’s jealousy. I find comfort in this: The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered by Clive James
The Hamlet Project 