Breeze-Reading Shakespeare

5:50 PM - Jul. 18, 2006 - Add to the Wildness

We read Hamlet's famous "To Be Or Not To Be" soliloquy outside, because Shakespeare must be done under the open sky, of course. Hence "Breeze-Reading." It's also the methodology I'm using on my very youngish bratties. We first discussed who Hamlet was - Prince Whiny.

We then read Mom's paraphrase, which hopefully helped explain some of the language. This was a quick skimming, with no emphasis on retention, comprehension or grammatical understanding. We just read it. Below are the text and the paraphrase. It isn't designed to be dictionary-free, but to provide words that are actually in our modern dictionaries for the kids to look up.

I think it's important for the parent to make their own paraphrase, to ensure their own understanding - especially in introducing elementary-age kids to such a mental wrangle. To flesh it out, in the works for later on are "Tricks for Decoding Ol' Shakey" and our very own dress-up production of "Prince Whiny." I also have a reproducible (yay!) colouring book of Renaissance costumes. Although it ends around 1550, a decade and a half before the Bard's birth, it does at least give some impression of the times.

We ended by returning to the cartoon which started it all - something that ran in the back of one of Breakneck's car magazines years ago. It features a melodramatic machinist trying to decide, "To bore, or not to bore? That is the question. Whether 'tis better to suffer the slings of outrageous clearances..." Having a grease-monkey father, the scenery was familiar to them. And it sparked their interest.

It was even funnier now that the kids knew where it came from. We left it at that, rather than fry their little brains. We'll continue on with a breeze-reading from one of the comedies, something that will actually make them laugh.

HAMLET Act III, Scene 1, lines 55 to 86a

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 wish’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:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin; 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 that 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.

Paraphrase:

To live or not to live, that is the question;
Whether it seems nobler to one’s way of thinking to suffer
The slings and arrows of terrible happenings,
Or to take up weapons against a sea full of troubles,
And by standing against them, end them. To die, to sleep–
To sleep no more, and by “sleep,” to think maybe we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural heart-breaks
That flesh is heir to; it is an ending
Prayerfully to be wished. To die, to sleep–
To sleep, maybe to dream–yes, there’s the problem,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shaken off this earthly chain,
Must make us stop to think; there’s the factor
That makes a disaster of so long a life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
the oppressor’s wrongdoing, the proud man’s insult,
The pains of rejected love, the law’s slowness,
The insolence of people in high position, and the mockings
That patient virtue takes from the unworthy,
When he himself might make his exit
With an unsheathed dagger; who would bear burdens,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
Except that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose borders
No traveller returns, confuses the intentions,
And convinces us rather to bear those problems we have,
Than escape to others that we know not of?
In this way conscience does make cowards of us all,
And in this way the natural tone of a mind made up
Is sicklied over with the pale colour of thought,
And plans of great steepness and importance
Twist up their flow with this view,
And are never acted upon.

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