THAT Soliloquy — Is It About Suicide?

“To be, or not to be—that is the question …”

… but what is the question, really? What is Hamlet actually talking about? I was pretty slow as a teenager, so when I asked a high school English teacher this question, of course he told me, as teachers always do …

“Hamlet is contemplating suicide.”

The trouble was, I couldn’t quite make sense of it. Yes, I understood what all the words meant—that “quietus” was a settlement of a debt, a “bare bodkin” was a dagger, “fardels” were burdens or loads, the “undiscover’d country” was death, and all the rest of it.

First Folio, 1623

First Folio, 1623

But wasn’t taking “arms against a sea of troubles” a rather odd way of describing suicide? And what about those “enterprises of great pitch and moment” that “lose the name of action” that Hamlet talks about at the end? Surely, I suggested, Hamlet wasn’t talking about suicide there.

I succeeded only in convincing my English teacher that I was a great deal dumber than he already knew me to be. And who was I to argue? I let the matter rest for a long time.

It wasn’t until many years later that I discovered the 1982 Arden edition of Hamlet, edited by the late Shakespeare scholar Harold Jenkins. Thirty years in the making, it was so exhaustively (and exhaustingly) annotated that Jenkins couldn’t fit all of his annotations on the pages of the text itself; he added another 150 pages of notes at the end. It was a dream for a Shakespeare geek like me. I devoured every word.

And when I got to that all-too-famous soliloquy of Act III, scene i, I was in for a special treat. The speech was annotated first with about a page and a half of footnotes, then with another eight and a half pages of endnotes—a total of around 10 pages of annotation altogether.

To my delight, I found that Jenkins devoted most of those notes to proving my high school teacher (and just about everybody else) wrong …

It is impossible … to say that Hamlet ever contemplates suicide for himself or regards it as a likely choice for any man.

For one thing, this is the only soliloquy of Hamlet’s (out of seven in all) that never once uses first person singular pronouns like “I” and “me.” Nor does he mention his father’s murder, his uncle’s usurpation, his mother’s remarriage, or anything else having to do with the story of the play. Hamlet isn’t talking about his own specific situation at all, but about what life is like for all of us.

And his “question,” as Jenkins sums it up, is simply, “Is life worth living?” Hamlet goes on to give us a lot of reasons why life might not be …

… the whips and scorns of time,
Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’unworthy takes …

And of course, right then Hamlet does mention the possibility of suicide—after all, one could always do oneself in with a “bare bodkin.” But according to Jenkins,

this is a rhetorical question, which already presupposes its answer, a hypothetical question brought in only to be dismissed.

Not only do we shy away from suicide; we also avoid positive actions that might make a real difference in the world. We don’t wind up doing much of anything about life’s “sea of troubles” for fear of failure—or death.

And according to Jenkins, that “sea” is a richer image than we may have realized:

Edwin Both as Hamlet, ca. 1870

Edwin Booth as Hamlet, ca. 1870

The metaphor appears to be based upon well-known instances, notably that of the Celts, who, as described by various ancient authors, rather than show fear by flight, would draw their swords and throw themselves into the tides as though to terrify them.

A desperate and futile gesture, certainly. You could even call it suicidal, since it’s surely not going to end well. But suicide isn’t really the point. It’s about doing something—anything—against the manifold torments of existence. It’s also about accepting the fact that you’re doomed to lose—or at the very least to die in the attempt. Hamlet learns this bitter truth himself at the end of the play.

Most of us don’t dare undertake any such endeavor, in no small part due to our fear of the “undiscover’d country” of death …

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 pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

As Jenkins puts it,

we come to the end of life’s “troubles” not when we put an end to them but when they put an end to us.

Robert E. Lee’s Mexican “Noche Triste”

… one of the most unjust [wars] ever waged by a stronger against a weaker nation …

Ulysses S. Grant in 1843

Ulysses S. Grant in 1843

That was how Ulysses S. Grant described the Mexican-American War of 1846-48 in his Personal Memoirs. Years before he commanded the Union Armies during the American Civil War, Grant served in Mexico as a young lieutenant. Make no mistake, it was a brutal war of conquest that vastly expanded the United States while seizing 55% of Mexico’s land.

I ran across the quote back in 1998 while compiling a book of source materials about the war in Mexico. Grant’s eventual nemesis, Robert E. Lee, also served in that war as a captain. Did Lee share Grant’s bitterness about the conflict? While looking for an answer, I ran across a strangely haunting document. On April 12, 1848, shortly after the war’s end, Lee wrote a letter from Mexico City to a lady cousin back home in Virginia. The letter begins …

Robert E. Lee, c.1850

Robert E. Lee, c.1850

I rode out a few days since for the first time to the church of Our Lady of Remedios. It … is said to be the spot to which Cortez retreated after being driven from the city on the memorable Noche Triste.…

Lee refers here to the fabled Noche Triste of June 30-July 1, 1520 (now officially known in Mexico as la Noche Victoriosa), when Hernán Cortez and his army, routed by the Aztecs, fled Tenochtitlan. The letter continues …

I saw the cedar tree at Popotla … in which it is said he passed a portion of that night. The “trees of Noche Triste,” so called from their blooming about the period of that event, are now in full bloom. The flower is … of the most magnificent scarlet color I ever saw. I have two of them in my cup before me now. I wish I could send them to you.…la-noche-triste

The letter fascinated me, evoking as it did an image of a man who would later play such a traitorous role in U.S. history treading in footsteps of that much earlier warrior, Hernán Cortez. As I read the rest of it, I wondered what thoughts and emotions lurked between its lines—homesickness, despair, horror, regret? I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. But the question moved me to write this sestina, loosely based on Robert E. Lee’s letter …

Last night I rode out for the first time, lady—
rode west into the hills that looked like wax
molded by moonlight, and rested beneath a tree
with scarlet blossoms burdening its limbs.
(Even by night they were a brilliant hue.)
The night seemed sorrowful—a Noche Triste.

Long ago on another Noche Triste
(is not the night always a plaintive lady?)
a Spaniard fled, his moonlit face the hue
of pallid rout, as damp as fevered wax.
Conquered Cortés paused and rested his limbs,
weeping lost men and treasure beneath that tree.

I have two perfect blossoms from the tree
in a cup before me—twin flowers of Noche Triste.
They ease my soul, they please my aching limbs;
I wish that I could send them to you, lady.
I’ll bring you two facsimiles of wax,
but they can’t duplicate this scarlet hue.

As the moon shimmered yet more pale in hue,
I rode farther in hills beyond the tree
to where Cortés, conquistador of wax,
ended his retreat on that Noche Triste.
There stands the little chapel of Our Lady
settled beneath the sky’s nocturnal limbs.

Inside, I found the Virgin’s likeness—her limbs
clad in a petticoat of silver hue,
her head encircled with a crown. Our Lady
stood amid branches of a maguey tree,
and as befitted such a Noche, Triste
seemed to me her smile of lovely wax.

And all around her, shaped from pallid wax,
were sundry disembodied human limbs—
offerings left on some past Noche Triste
by those the Virgin healed. Their routed hue
whispered of sad Cortés beneath his tree;
and weary from my ride, I slumbered, lady,

and dreamed her tears were molten wax, the hue
of Our Lord’s bloody limbs nailed to a tree.
Ah, such a Noche Triste for Our Lady!

—Wim

After the death of Moctezuma, Cortés and his forces leave Tenochtitlán. The Mexica spot them and fiercely attack the Spanish and their allies. Oil on canvas from the 17th century.

Aesop’s not-so-famous soliloquy …

The Lullaby Tree, my play about the life of Aesop, is available in hardback, paperback, and Kindle. It has been described as “a no-holds-barred literary and theatrical extravaganza of ideas that reels riotously between prose and verse, vulgarity and beauty, farce and heartbreak, earthiness and mysticism.” Who am I to disagree?

Like Hamlet, Aesop has a third-act soliloquy:

Exeunt all except Aesop.

I am alone—or so I say
Because I am supposed to;
You know the truth is not a thing
I’m really quite disposed to.
And flights of verse treat facts much worse
Than statements spoke in prose do.

“I am alone”: Let it be known,
I find those words most queer.
For I am standing on a stage,
Addressing you loud and clear,
While you are sitting in your chairs
Pretending you’re not here.

I am alone, I am alone,
Standing at stage center,
Awaiting someone who may be
My savior or tormentor—
Waiting, waiting, nothing more,
For someone else to enter.

I am alone; watch closely now—
Yes, you and all your chums—
This tap-tap-tapping of my toes,
This twiddling of my thumbs.
My tongue I’ll click, my nose I’ll pick,
Till something this way comes.

I am alone; so seize this time
(It really would be wise)
To hold each other by the hand,
To stroke each other’s thighs,
Or gaze and gaze, entranced, amazed,
Into each other’s eyes.

I am alone; now aren’t I
A fascinating sight?
For you can’t look away from me;
Tell me if I’m not right.
For you can’t look away from me;
Try it with all your might.

I am alone and wear a mask,
Just as all actors should.
And yet—I touch my face and feel
That it is flesh and blood.
Now touch your frozen face—you’ll find
It’s linen, cork, or wood.

“I am alone”: These words have spun
A gripping spell, it’s true;
Moments are passing, lost and gone—
Moments that you shall rue;
For when you peep in a play too deep,
The play peeps into you!

—Wim

Portrait of Aesop by Velásquez in the Prado

American Recessional — a pantoum

For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!
—Rudyard Kipling

The City on the Hill is turning out its lights
and closing up for a long, long night.
Heroes are cast out of their Valhalla;
the halls ring with a clamor of cowards.

Closed up for a long, long night
of drunken revels in the dark,
the halls ring with a clamor of cowards
gloating in the exile of heroes.

Their drunken revels befit the dark;
it was false morning in America too long.
Those who gloat in the exile of heroes  
believed in a painted dawn, a sun that never rose.

The heroes, after mourning America too long,
retreat across the frozen bridge
yearning for a warming dawn, a sun to rise,
their bleeding feet wrapped up in rags.

Retreating across the frozen bridge,
the general reads a pamphlet to troops
whose feet are numb in icy rags:
“These are the times that try men’s souls.”

The general shivers as he reads to his troops
about summer soldiers and sunshine patriots:
“These are the times that try men’s souls.”
A woman with a face of iron and coal

leads freezing slaves and snowblind refugees
across the bridge toward freedom and new life.
Her posted face of iron and coal
offers tens of thousands in reward for her.

“Cross the bridge to freedom or you die,”
she says, threatening a lead ball from her flintlock.
“Don’t make me lag, there’s a reward for me.
Keep up, keep walking, or I’ll put an end to you.”

The choice is freedom or a lead ball from her flintlock.
Does safety lie behind them in the darkened hall?
They keep walking toward some doubtful end.
Only cowards mistake puniness for greatness;

safety is a lie told in their darkened hall
where thieves thieve all innocence away
and cowards take their puniness for greatness
and lies are held for truest scripture.

How can thieves thieve when no one left is innocent,
when everything is stolen, nothing earned,
and nothing is true and lies are scripture?
Surely thieves must then turn into cannibals.

When everything is stolen, nothing earned,
sacrifice is the sole obscenity.
When all thieves turn into cannibals,
they have no one to devour but one another.

“Sacrifice is the sole necessity;
the want of one is the want of all,”
say those who cling fast and dear to one another;
beyond the bridge’s end lies only darkness.

The suffering one, the suffering all,
cast one last glance back at their Valhalla,
then plunge into the darkness beyond the bridge;
they’ll light another City on another Hill.

—Wim

The March to Valley Forge, December 19, 1777, by William B. T. Trego

(Poem previously appeared in Tuck Magazine and Open Arts Forum.)

The Lullaby Tree

Image

Available in hardback, paperback, and Kindle, my play The Lullaby Tree is inspired by the shortest verse in the King James Bible:

Jesus wept. —John 11:35

Here’s a bit of PR copy:

A no-holds-barred literary and theatrical extravaganza of ideas, The Lullaby Tree reels riotously between prose and verse, vulgarity and beauty, farce and heartbreak, earthiness and mysticism.

Of course I pay my publicist good money to write this kind of hype, but I hope it’s not too exaggerated. The Lullaby Tree begins with a deus ex machina and ends with (SPOILER ALERT) the annihilation and rebirth of the universe. Although trying to stage it might prove to be downright quixotic, I won’t object if a sufficiently foolhardy director decides to tilt at this particular windmill.

Here’s an excerpt from early in Act II. The scene is a grove on the island of Samos. At this point in the story, the legendary Aesop has not yet received his divine gift of storytelling. He is still a mute slave—and an amazingly ugly one. His job is to dig holes for no particular reason. His overseer, the Steward, is giving him orders.

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STEWARD. But—hold it now.

(AESOP stops digging.)

STEWARD.  Take note of this tree—Ficus carica, the common fig, though of most uncommon stature. Observe the breadth of its trunk, the robustness of its limbs. Odd, I’ve never stopped to look at it before. A reverend specimen. Though dormant for the winter, it’s clearly alive—observe its scattering of leaves. Be careful of its roots as you dig. Don’t want to do it harm.

(AESOP starts digging again. The STEWARD moves toward the tree.)

STEWARD.  Hold it now.

(AESOP stops digging. The STEWARD stares at the tree in silence for a moment.)

STEWARD.  I happen to know a story about a tree such as this. There once was a prophet. A prophet of love. Went around preaching that there was nothing but love. Even the gods were nothing but love. In fact, there were no gods, since love was the only real thing there was. Inhuman teaching it was, just awful, terrifying to think about.

Well, naturally, the authorities put a death sentence upon the wretch for saying such a thing. He right well knew they would all along—knew they had no choice, what else could they do? He went to the big city to turn himself in.

On his way there, along the road, he and his followers came across a fig tree—just like this one. And just like now, it wasn’t the season for figs, too early for them. A perfectly healthy fig tree with a few leaves on it, but no figs. The prophet was hungry, and on his way to his own execution—but no figs.

He got angry. He said to the tree, “Let no man eat your fruit, from this time forever.” And the tree withered at once, and all its leaves fell.

And the prophet’s followers stared on with horror. They murmured to each other, “How quickly the fig tree withered away!”

And the prophet overheard them and said, “Love with all belief, believe in nothing but love. For whoever loves completely, with all his heart, may say to a mountain, ‘Go away from this place and throw yourself into the sea,’ and that very thing will happen. If you love completely, with all your heart, whatever you command will come to pass.”

Odd sort of story.

A prophet of love, but so full of rage that he murdered a tree.

Can’t get my head around it, somehow.

(The STEWARD and AESOP stare at the tree in silence for a moment.)

STEWARD.  But you know, I almost half believe it. The whole world, the whole universe—nothing but love everywhere, as far as the eye can see, as far as the ear can hear, as far as thought can reach. Gnaws at my guts to consider it, but it seems true somehow. Wish it weren’t, but there doesn’t seem to be any way around something that’s true, once it gets stuck inside you.

Which is why I’d never tell this story to anyone but a mute idiot like you.

There’d be real hell to pay if such a truth got out.

Think of what would happen.

No one would take thought for anything in life—not what they ate, nor what they drank, nor what clothes they wore. For behold the birds of the air: they don’t sow, nor do they reap, nor do they gather into barns, yet they stay well-fed. And consider the lilies of the field: they don’t work, nor do they spin, and yet they go more handsomely clothed than the richest princes of the earth.

But we’re not birds, and we’re not lilies.

How could we bear such a life?

Happier digging holes, we are.

—Wim