10 août 2003

The poetry I stole from you

"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 whish'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.(...)
(...)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 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 pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action."

("Hamlet", Act III, Scene I, 56-87)

Je déteste penser parce que quand on réfléchit trop, on voit trop loin aussi. On se limite parce qu'on a peur du futur et de l'inconnu. Et on se retrouve le nez plongé dans Hamlet, à se dire "Pinaise, il a raison, le petiot." Prendre les armes ou se laisser souffrir.

# posted by Nocturnal Azure @ 1:06 PM

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