Oscar Wilde on Hamlet From The Decay of Lying (1891) Schopenhauer has analysed the pessimism
that characterises modern thought, but Hamlet
invented it. The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy. From The Critic as Artist (1891) Shakespeare might have met Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern in the white streets of London, or seen the serving-men of
rival houses bite their thumbs at each other in the open square; but Hamlet
came out of his soul, and Romeo out of his passion.
They were elements of his nature to which he gave visible form, impulses that
stirred so strongly within him that he had, as it were perforce, to suffer
them to realise their energy, not on the lower
plane of actual life, where they would have been trammelled
and constrained and so made imperfect, but on that imaginative plane of art
where Love can indeed find in Death its rich fulfilment,
where one can stab the eavesdropper behind the arras, and wrestle in a
new-made grave, and make a guilty king drink his own hurt, and see one's
father's spirit, beneath the glimpses of the moon, stalking in complete steel
from misty wall to wall. Action being limited would have left Shakespeare
unsatisfied and unexpressed; and, just as it is because he did nothing that
he has been able to achieve everything, so it is because he never speaks to
us of himself in his plays that his plays reveal him to us absolutely, and
show us his true nature and temperament far more completely than do those
strange and exquisite sonnets, even, in which he bares to crystal eyes the
secret closet of his heart. |