He has neither being nor
riot-being. He is as equivocal as the monks. He was detestable, mouthing
Hamlet's sincere words. He has still to let go, to know what not-being
is, before he can _be_. Till he has gone through the Christian negation
of himself, and has known the Christian consummation, he is a mere
amorphous heap.
For the soliloquies of Hamlet are as deep as the soul of man can go, in
one direction, and as sincere as the Holy Spirit itself in their
essence. But thank heaven, the bog into which Hamlet struggled is almost
surpassed.
It is a strange thing, if a man covers his face, and speaks with his
eyes blinded, how significant and poignant he becomes. The ghost of this
Hamlet was very simple. He was wrapped down to the knees in a great
white cloth, and over his face was an open-work woollen shawl. But the
naive blind helplessness and verity of his voice was strangely
convincing. He seemed the most real thing in the play. From the knees
downward he was Laertes, because he had on Laertes' white trousers and
patent leather slippers. Yet he was strangely real, a voice out of
the dark.
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