Hurdles of Humiliation

In Act III, Scene 1 of the Shakespearean play Hamlet, Hamlet gives an interesting soliloquy about whether it is better to be alive and suffer all the hardships, or to commit suicide. One moment, where Hamlet mentions his fear of death is particularly important, "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." (3.1.85-87). This idea that the only reason people still live is because they fear what happens after death. Hamlet's idea that our conscience makes us all cowards essentially means that our mind is the only thing stopping us. This idea is very agreeable and has a great amount of reason to it. Personally, I think it is true that the fear of what happens after death is very real, however his reasoning to why people would kill themselves may be very different in our society today. When Hamlet says, "For who would bear the whips and scorns of time." (3.1.71), he basically means that life has too many humiliations to actually live peacefully. In my mind, it is very true that life has many humiliations, however those humiliations make us who we are today. We learn from our mistakes and find solace in that. There are also many good things to life to get to after jumping over those hurdles of humiliation. And even if those hurdles are tough, that is no excuse to kill ourselves over. As a human being, most of us can all somewhat relate to the experience that Hamlet is going through at this point, but we know that we should not give up because what lies ahead is most definitely better than now.

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 heartache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished! 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 despised 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 undiscovered country from whose bourn

No traveler 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 pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.—Soft you now,

The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remembered.