"...MACBETH
Wherefore was that cry?SEYTON
The queen, my lord, is dead.
MACBETH
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
..."
"... and then he suddenly turned and said...
We are immune to our own existence. We are convinced that we know and we are wrong. And we continue to spend. We spend ourselves to oblivion. No more change in our pockets.
Every moment we break into a thousand pieces and we try to redo the puzzle. We flicker like an exhausted neon light and then we vanish.
Every day and every minute of our act we struggle to remember our lines. Such an interesting plot... our lives, our constructions, our passions. But the audience has long gone and the theatre is empty. Only the cleaning ladies can be heard. We are just performing to the cleaning ladies of our own conscience. Sometimes the cleaning ladies, they stop their moping, look at the stage and clap. Other times they laugh. But mostly they ignore the coming and going on stage.
Everything has been somehow said before. We forget and we repeat ourselves constantly creating endless variations of the same theme. We are breathing plagiarism.
Empty words and objects survive us. Entropy like the first virgin snowfall of the winter of our discontent covers all in silence. The water in the kettle is boiling..."
We are immune to our own existence. We are convinced that we know and we are wrong. And we continue to spend. We spend ourselves to oblivion. No more change in our pockets.
Every moment we break into a thousand pieces and we try to redo the puzzle. We flicker like an exhausted neon light and then we vanish.
Every day and every minute of our act we struggle to remember our lines. Such an interesting plot... our lives, our constructions, our passions. But the audience has long gone and the theatre is empty. Only the cleaning ladies can be heard. We are just performing to the cleaning ladies of our own conscience. Sometimes the cleaning ladies, they stop their moping, look at the stage and clap. Other times they laugh. But mostly they ignore the coming and going on stage.
Everything has been somehow said before. We forget and we repeat ourselves constantly creating endless variations of the same theme. We are breathing plagiarism.
Empty words and objects survive us. Entropy like the first virgin snowfall of the winter of our discontent covers all in silence. The water in the kettle is boiling..."
Il y a pas longtemps j'ai vu pour la première fois cette version O. Wells de Hamlet: magnifique, grandiose!
ReplyDeleteLa suite de son monologue - ajoutée par qui? (ce n'est pas dans l'original quand même? anacronismes nombreux...) est d'une vérité poignate: a masterpiece of psichology...