This sounds like a royal dismissal. A “you don’t have anything else to say, do you? You’re done wasting my time now, right?”
And Rosencrantz’s response has a quality of acknowledging that. Rosencrantz sounds a little wounded – but really, all the spying and lying aside, the imperious tone they took when delivering the Queen’s message was just. . .well, it makes me feel like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern started this change in tone and Hamlet just takes it to the next level.
“You’re going to treat me like a misbehaving child? Fine. Let me remind you that I’m the Prince, you patronizing pricks.”

Oooh. Hamlet getting imperial. Getting all “Royal We” on these guys. Royalty up the language, getting super formal. Ten times our mother is a lot of mother but in the obeying, there is a resistance and a pointing toward his own status, which must, inevitably, diminish theirs.

This word looks funny all on its own.
In context, it’s perfectly clear, perfectly sensible.
By itself, it looks surreal.
I put it on a blue/grey painted canvas, with several abstract shapes and maybe a gear or clockworks.
Across the top, “Impart” is stenciled in block print.
Why? I’m not sure. It’s a painting now, not just a line.

Mother’s Admiration: Part Two – The Sequel
You thought you saw it all in the first one. You thrilled at a mother admiring her son. Audiences cheered for the thrilling story. Now the wildly popular film returns to cinemas this spring for an exciting return to the world so beloved and admired by mothers and their children around the world.
Mother’s Admiration. The Sequel.

Can’t every son ‘stonish his mother? Isn’t that just how parenting works sometimes? First, simply by being born. That is amazing in and of itself.
My friend came to town with her husband and baby boy. Over dumplings on the Upper West Side, she marveled at her son and then marveled at her own marveling. She was simultaneously convinced that her boy was the most admirable baby in the world and aware that every parent is built to feel this way about their child. She knew it was unremarkable to find her son so remarkable but found him remarkable nonetheless.
As we grow, we likely become less astonishing, less surprising or amazing to our parents – or maybe, sometimes, we continue to astonish, to amaze – simply by continuing to exist as someone’s child, someone’s remarkable baby, all grown up.

They said heaps of nice things about her. They made her two cakes. They decorated a seemingly undecoratable conference room. They issued Resolutions and Proclamations. They made slide shows and videos. They took photos. They proclaimed it all over town for a week. When they met me, they told me how great she was. And while I always said, “I know,” I’m not sure I really did. I learned things about her style and her skill at work that I had no idea about before. Most moving was the way so many women thanked her for inspiring them, for mentoring them, for being a great role model.

I wasn’t surprised, exactly. But it’s like looking at a prism from another angle, it refracts light in a different way than you’d seen it previously. 

When I was in my early twenties, I had an acute sense of my own mortality. When I quit a terrible job at an exploitative theatre, I told the artistic director that I didn’t have time to waste at his theatre, because I was going to die. Not any time soon, mind you, but I knew I didn’t have time to waste. I think, too, it wasn’t just my mortality I was aware of, it was also my youth. As a young actor, I knew most of my value as a performer depended on my being young and attractive. I had a sense that I didn’t have that many marketable years. If I wanted to play Juliet, I had to get out and do it as soon as possible. I figured I didn’t have too many Juliet years in me.
Somewhere in the middle, probably at the point I slid past my Juliet years, I lost my hurry to beat death. Maybe it’s that having lived a few decades, I started to take them for granted. Sure, I was going to die – but that eventuality is probably (hopefully) just as far away as my birth at this point. Life started to feel long. And maybe that grind kicked in – a sense of the relentlessness of no money, an unchanging sense of the landscape, a reduction of hope. . .it can make that hurry to get it all done before I get in the ground feel a little less urgent. I started lollygagging a little bit, started messing around on the internet, started playing videogames. What’s the rush? It’ll always be this, won’t it? Grinding struggle, an endless stream of rejections. . .it is just going on and on and on.

But. No more.
I invoke my twenty two year old self and aim myself to the matter. 

Is Hamlet poking at Guildenstern’s status here? I mean, really, as the Prince, Hamlet should really only be commanded by his mother and the King. And maybe God or something.

So – is he, like, suggesting that Guildenstern is being out of line in trying to tell him what to do? Guildenstern is definitely being a twit in the scene, so it’s rather satisfying to watch Hamlet stick it to him in whatever way he can.

Sometimes I know what I’m supposed to say. I know I should be declaring how important my work, how brilliant I am, how things are going great. I know I’m meant to be promoting my amazingness but I have this truth telling problem. 

Which is The Wholesome Answer? The truth? Or the projected image of what we’d like the truth to be. . .the one that is meant to get me closer to that. 

Which is the right one? I know which one is expected and I know which one feels right.