Another digression from the topic. Concedetemela , especially at this time "intense" so many things to do, many, many, many and not me, alas ... because I would really like Hamlet being able to think more often linger on the "quintessence " Dust on the " quintessential" man. But more often I would like him to say that "man delights not me ... and she even" or at least I think would be a little , to understand why there is the delight or because there would then be ...
Twenty years, life appears to you as a raging river, a research of emotions, but to me, this opened my eyes to that age and the mind of man over nature, because I believe that few have managed really like him, the great "bard" to write a description so thin simple and complex human nature. Why man is never an equation, much less a simple addition. Why we must always be the sum of its parts and beyond the bursting away from the narrow spaces of an operation in the column. Dig into the roundness of the numbers and look beyond the "clarity" of the results, in what is unseen, it is not known but that we carry inside ... even in what we know or not know how to give a name but that is there, in influence our actions or our "no action" ...
Tragedy of vengeance are often called, but it is not. Hamlet is the tragedy of inaction, the inability of ' inability to act, is the tragedy of the doubt, because doubt is man, the question is nature. And 'there my friend, everything is there, that's where it all breaks down, beyond appearances, as well as reviews of as the sum of its parts. You see? You see the ghost of your father who is in the grip of your sheets and whispers in your ear .... revenge, revenge? Yet because not get that dagger in his hand and kill murderess? Why not divorce your mother who is so fallen unscrupulously between the sheets of hatred among those bloody arms without even having time to waste a tear? Why not find refuge in the arms of Ophelia and chased her away like a filthy whore throwing in his stupidity and fragile in his helpless love to blame for everything? Why do you react to this anger and bombastic with melancholy apathy, thinking out loud like a madman on the oddities of life and non-parties, act, hurt, abused, cry, kill?
Why? Why
nulla è così semplice e tu sei un essere umano e di notte nelle oscurità delle lenzuola quando tutto tace e sei solo tu con la tua anima, ti chiedi se è davvero tutto così, se il fantasma di tuo padre ha ragione e la sola stessa ipotesi ti punge il cuore come il dardo che non riesci ad alzare contro il suo uccisore. Perché mai e poi mai vuoi accettare che il fratello di tuo padre, sangue del suo sangue, abbia potuto ucciderlo per la sola bramosia di potere o che tua madre possa essere stata complice di questo omicidio o anche solo complice in una promiscua relazione e così facilmente assaggiare il vino dalla coppa del vincitore senza aver prima pianto il vinto. Perché non vuoi accettare che la donna Essert of you thought you love you can not read the drama in your heart you have, over the selfishness of attention that you just can not give it, because no longer you, because it all fell apart, because your world has suddenly turned into a nightmare with no solution: your father died, murderess your uncle, your mother a whore with no soul.
A nightmare with no solution ... because if you could only put one of those dart to what would change? All remain as is, nothing changes, men, those involved in this unfortunate drama would remain the same, still unhappy with their and perhaps you would give pain to one who still loves you, at least you, and that, despite all intact and still retains the sweet memories of you in her womb, umbilical indestructible ...
And then there are helpless, unable to love, without being able to live to the full because the reality is that you do not want an evil bear, nature is an evil that you do not want to endure. Not now. Maybe one day, maybe the case, perhaps the fate ... perhaps a force more powerful than you, of all ... And here comes the fate and only a gesture of extreme anger, to a peak mindless madness, shoots the fatal blow and everything dies: actors and characters, heroes and victims, truth and false ...
E 'Hamlet this for me, not the lightness of being, the heaviness of being.
Sometimes you do not act because you are not capable. Sometimes you do not act to do no harm. Often this is not done because act more heroic, less selfish and more noble is simply ... that.
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