Notable Shakespeare Quotes

In The Gulag Archipelago, for example, Alexander Solzhenitsyn remarks that Shakespeare’s evildoers, Macbeth notably among them, stop short at a mere dozen corpses because they have no ideology.

The devil a puritan that he is, or anything, constantly, but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swathes; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him – and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

Notwithstanding the prevalent notion that the French poets are the sympathetic heirs of classic culture, it appears to me that they are not so imbued with the true classic spirit, art, and mythology as some of our English poets, notably Keats and Shelley.

Sin embargo, cuando leemos algo sobre una bruja zambullida en agua, una mujer poseída de los demonios, una sabia mujer que vendía hierbas o incluso un hombre muy notable que tenía una madre, nos hallamos, creo, sobre la pista de una novelista malograda, una poetisa reprimida, alguna Jane Austen muda y desconocida, alguna Emily Brontë que se machacó los sesos en los páramos o anduvo haciendo muecas por las carreteras, enloquecida por la tortura en que su don la hacía vivir. Me aventuraría a decir que Anónimo, que escribió tantos poemas sin firmarlos, era a menudo una mujer. Según sugiere, creo, Edward Fitzgerald, fue una mujer quien compuso las baladas y las canciones folklóricas, canturreándolas a sus niños, entreteniéndose mientras hilaba o durante las largas noches de invierno. Quizás esto sea cierto, quizá sea falso —¿quién lo sabe?—, pero lo que sí me pareció a mí, repasando la historia de la hermana de Shakespeare tal como me la había imaginado, definitivamente cierto, es que cualquier mujer nacida en el siglo dieciséis con un gran talento se hubiera vuelto loca, se hubiera suicidado o hubiera acabado sus días en alguna casa solitaria en las afueras del pueblo, medio bruja, medio hechicera, objeto de temor y burlas.

The result is a collection that explores different cultures, celebrates a variety of genders and forms of love, and addresses different kinds of emotional pain head-on.

just wanted the summer in New York City, a summer outside the isolated emptiness of where we live. More, I wanted something I could call mine.

Ugh, that sounded so terrible, he thought. But there was nothing wrong with wanting to be friends with someone! It wasn’t any less of a relationship than a romantic one.

It was rewarding. It helped me in the process of reconvincing myself that I was capable of creating an environment in which living things could grow and thrive.

What if Zal chose her but then had to lose that light in his eyes whenever he talked about the accusative case in Latin? What if he doesn’t choose me?

This sort of vapid family arrangement had unfortunately put Taron’s constant oddness into a new context. Tegan could see the lonely rich boy all grown up. Especially now.

Your dad gave you a Benz for your seventeenth birthday, and you already totaled it. You know what my pop got me for my seventeenth birthday? A phone call. In February.

This tattoo was supposed to be proof of his supremacy, and he will leave here with a wound that will scar into proof he is no white king, not even a knight.

I will tell everyone every single thing that happened here today, right down to you desperately needing a change of pants. You hear me?

Yeah, but.” Briony huffs. “Don’t you think she wants it too much? The power, I mean. Doesn’t it scare you, what she might do?

The quiet of his voice does nothing to dampen the weight of his words. This, the twin lodestars of our loneliness, pulls on us as surely as a moon.

was never going to be able to parallel park that behemoth.

You misunderstand me. They set us up … to live out the story of Benedick and Beatrice. To fall for one another or some such nonsense. Hazem admitted it moments ago.

Sophie who had won the money to come across the country to school. Sophie who escaped.

Bitch, most would say. Tyrant. They wouldn’t be wrong. It was never about who Julia was, though. It was what she made out of the rest of

I’m okay,” I muttered, even though no one had asked, even though it wasn’t true.

once asked Titania if I might wear pants to a midnight dance, and she gave no reply but the bell song of her laugh.

Chill for you,” I spat. “Not for the people you left in the real world. Just because you don’t check doesn’t mean there isn’t news or that people don’t need you!

lost my mother. I was stolen from my father. I was taken from the land that grew my blood. I will not lose the chance to know the first brown-skinned boy I

Tegan flung the door ajar, blocking the entrance. “Call me one more womanly slur, even one Uncle Will penned himself, and I will destroy you and the antiquated gender binary you rode in on.

extended summer by a week or so, Dad’s last message had said. Like he had the power to control the seasons, to stretch weeks into an indefinite or so. Like it was an option to mistake one week for three.

Instead, I might be happier if I pursue what I want without worrying about what my sister does. It’s not just right to let this grudge go—I deserve to let it go, to dwell on new hopes instead of old wounds.

But the seven of us are here for a different kind of power. The kind even money can’t command. It isn’t enough to make this town our own. We want the same thing the Shade sought—an eternity to savor and forge.

But the thing about Hansel and Gretel is that their parents abandoned them in the woods to starve. Perdita didn’t want to know if she’d been left in the woods. It was easier to imagine that she’d just been born there.

Don’t.” Shai squeezes her hand. “You’ve got your reasons for hiding your Jewishness, and I’ve got my reasons for wearing mine on my sleeve. Or, more literally, on my head, I guess. We both know the world isn’t exactly kind to us.

I want … to be respected. To be loved by someone who won’t tie me down and force me to do things I don’t want to do. I want to be independent but know that I have someone to come home to. I want to be myself and to not be mocked.

No way,” Lando scoffed. “Cabin Tenners? Please. The Poffenbergers don’t care about art. I’d prefer someone who didn’t think reality TV counts as cinema verité. Besides, I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a secret crush.

But why does it have to be a tragedy, just because of what our parents decided to do?” he asked. He was shifting in his seat, clearly agitated. “Don’t we have any say in how things work out? Isn’t it our turn to make our own choices?

And then Shai steps around him like he’s nothing more than an inconvenient ant in the path of an elephant’s paw and lets himself into the library, where Mx. Tubal awaits with the shadow of a smile on their lips and ears full of earbuds that play nothing at all.

Even now, almost grown, I am more pet than child. And they remain, to me, more king and queen than the mother and father they proclaimed themselves when I was too small to realize I was not just being brought to see the fairy court. I was being folded away into it.

isn’t watching Fox News with his dad, is the thing. Well, he does that too, but mostly his dad sits and yells about how the Jews and the Chinese and the Mexicans are destroying the economy. He doesn’t do anything about it, though, and Tony’s tired of not doing anything.

You know I play each villain with glee, but the ‘bastard brother’ with a bizarrely anglicized name might be the lowest of the Bard’s baddies. I spent nearly six months stomping the stage, indicating evilness until my eyebrows hurt. Evil eyebrows are a thing, did you know?

Tony laughs. “Yeah, because it’s hilarious. Anyway, kid deserves it, hiding his horns under that little Jewfro, acting like he’s some poor ‘minority’ when he could probably buy and sell all of us.” “Man, I think you might be spending too much time watching Fox News with your dad.

Oh, you think I’m acting like I’m the only one impacted by this?” Katherine spat. “It’s not like I’m not dealing with enough nonsense, it’s not like I’m about to conceal my sister’s elopement a few weeks from finals. You have no idea the amount of stress I’m under right now. I can’t do this.

Over the course of just the last two days Mateo was clearly getting worse, wilting and going brittle, barely hanging on. If he were a plant, I could repot him in this new, chocolate-cake soil and water him, and maybe he’d take root and get a second life, but, unfortunately, Mateo was a boy, not a plant.

Not give—lend! Isn’t that what your people do? You lend money to poor suckers and then charge a million percent interest? That’s all I’m asking for here. You lend me … let’s say, three hundred bucks now, and I’ll pay it back with interest.” “If you can afford to pay back a loan with interest, then why don’t you just lend Sebastian the money?

It means something like purification or cleansing. It’s why stories can make us feel better about our emotions. They give us the opportunity to clean out our mental chaos and feel the emotion from a safe distance. You don’t have to tell me anything, of course, but just for yourself, it might help to do some journaling, or—” “I’ll think about

I’m stunned, watching this scene, uncomprehending. Is Benjamin this distraught my sister’s leaving? It’s not like Patience isn’t coming home, not like she’s being shipped off to some deserted island or exiled from Oklahoma permanently. Her internship is only six weeks. I feel bad for him, even if I can’t empathize with sadness at my sister’s absence.

Themes of descent often turn on the struggle between the titanic and the demonic within the same person or group. In Moby Dick, Ahab’s quest for the whale may be mad and “monomaniacal,” as it is frequently called, or even evil so far as he sacrifices his crew and ship to it, but evil or revenge are not the point of the quest. The whale itself may be only a “dumb brute,” as the mate says, and even if it were malignantly determined to kill Ahab, such an attitude, in a whale hunted to the death, would certainly be understandable if it were there. What obsesses Ahab is in a dimension of reality much further down than any whale, in an amoral and alienating world that nothing normal in the human psyche can directly confront. The professed quest is to kill Moby Dick, but as the portents of disaster pile up it becomes clear that a will to identify with (not adjust to) what Conrad calls the destructive element is what is really driving Ahab. Ahab has, Melville says, become a “Prometheus” with a vulture feeding on him. The axis image appears in the maelstrom or descending spiral (“vortex”) of the last few pages, and perhaps in a remark by one of Ahab’s crew: “The skewer seems loosening out of the middle of the world.” But the descent is not purely demonic, or simply destructive: like other creative descents, it is partly a quest for wisdom, however fatal the attaining of such wisdom may be. A relation reminiscent of Lear and the fool develops at the end between Ahab and the little black cabin boy Pip, who has been left so long to swim in the sea that he has gone insane. Of him it is said that he has been “carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro . . . and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps.” Moby Dick is as profound a treatment as modern literature affords of the leviathan symbolism of the Bible, the titanic-demonic force that raises Egypt and Babylon to greatness and then hurls them into nothingness; that is both an enemy of God outside the creation, and, as notably in Job, a creature within it of whom God is rather proud. The leviathan is revealed to Job as the ultimate mystery of God’s ways, the “king over all the children of pride” (41:34), of whom Satan himself is merely an instrument. What this power looks like depends on how it is approached. Approached by Conrad’s Kurtz through his Antichrist psychosis, it is an unimaginable horror: but it may also be a source of energy that man can put to his own use. There are naturally considerable risks in trying to do so: risks that Rimbaud spoke of in his celebrated lettre du voyant as a “dérèglement de tous les sens.” The phrase indicates the close connection between the titanic and the demonic that Verlaine expressed in his phrase poète maudit, the attitude of poets who feel, like Ahab, that the right worship of the powers they invoke is defiance.

Pretty sure I can. You signed the contract. You’re a witness that he owes me this. And before you get high and mighty about it, why didn’t you just use your own money to take out Persia? I mean, it’s kind of your fault he’s in this position in the first place, isn’t it?” “I’d have had money if he hadn’t ‘borrowed’ it from me for a concert ticket he couldn’t afford,” Bas snaps. “You’re not the only one he screwed over.

Marx was troubled by the question of why ancient Greek art retained an ‘eternal charm’, even though the social conditions which produced it had long passed; but how do we know that it will remain ‘eternally’ charming, since history has not yet ended? Let us imagine that by dint of some deft archaeological research we discovered a great deal more about what ancient Greek tragedy actually meant to its original audiences, recognized that these concerns were utterly remote from our own, and began to read the plays again in the light of this deepened knowledge. One result might be that we stopped enjoying them. We might come to see that we had enjoyed them previously because we were unwittingly reading them in the light of our own preoccupations; once this became less possible, the drama might cease to speak at all significantly to us. The fact that we always interpret literary works to some extent in the light of our own concerns - indeed that in one sense of ‘our own concerns’ we are incapable of doing anything else - might be one reason why certain works of literature seem to retain their value across the centuries. It may be, of course, that we still share many preoccupations with the work itself; but it may also be that people have not actually been valuing the ‘same’ work at all, even though they may think they have. ‘Our’ Homer is not identical with the Homer of the Middle Ages, nor ‘our’ Shakespeare with that of his contemporaries; it is rather that different historical periods have constructed a ‘different’ Homer and Shakespeare for their own purposes, and found in these texts elements to value or devalue, though not necessarily the same ones. All literary works, in other words, are ‘rewritten’, if only unconsciously, by the societies which read them; indeed there is no reading of a work which is not also a ‘re-writing’. No work, and no current evaluation of it, can simply be extended to new groups of people without being changed, perhaps almost unrecognizably, in the process; and this is one reason why what counts as literature is a notably unstable affair.

with this line of reasoning. If it makes you feel better, you are free to go on calling Communism an ideology rather than a religion. It makes no difference. We can divide creeds into god-centred religions and godless ideologies that claim to be based on natural laws. But then, to be consistent, we would need to catalogue at least some Buddhist, Daoist and Stoic sects as ideologies rather than religions. Conversely, we should note that belief in gods persists within many modern ideologies, and that some of them, most notably liberalism, make little sense without this belief. It would be impossible to survey here the history of all the new modern creeds, especially because there are no clear boundaries between them. They are no less syncretic than monotheism and popular Buddhism. Just as a Buddhist could worship Hindu deities, and just as a monotheist could believe in the existence of Satan, so the typical American nowadays is simultaneously a nationalist (she believes in the existence of an American nation with a special role to play in history), a free-market capitalist (she believes that open competition and the pursuit of self-interest are the best ways to create a prosperous society), and a liberal humanist (she believes that humans have been endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights). Nationalism will be discussed in Chapter 18. Capitalism – the most successful of the modern religions – gets a whole chapter, Chapter 16, which expounds its principal beliefs and rituals. In the remaining pages of this chapter I will address the humanist religions. Theist religions focus on the worship of gods. Humanist religions worship humanity, or more correctly, Homo sapiens. Humanism is a belief that Homo sapiens has a unique and sacred nature, which is fundamentally different from the nature of all other animals and of all other phenomena. Humanists believe that the unique nature of Homo sapiens is the most important thing in the world, and it determines the meaning of everything that happens in the universe. The supreme good is the good of Homo sapiens. The rest of the world and all other beings exist solely for the benefit of this species. All humanists worship humanity, but they do not agree on its definition. Humanism has split into three rival sects that fight over the exact definition of ‘humanity’, just as rival Christian sects fought over the exact definition of God. Today, the most important humanist sect is liberal humanism, which believes that ‘humanity’ is a quality of individual humans, and that the liberty of individuals is therefore sacrosanct. According to liberals, the sacred nature of humanity resides within each and every individual Homo sapiens. The inner core of individual humans gives meaning to the world, and is the source for all ethical and political authority. If we encounter an ethical or political dilemma, we should look inside and listen to our inner voice – the voice of humanity. The chief commandments of liberal humanism are meant to protect the liberty of this inner voice against intrusion or harm. These commandments are collectively known as ‘human rights’. This, for example, is why liberals object to torture and the death penalty. In early modern Europe, murderers were thought to violate and destabilise the cosmic order. To bring the cosmos back to balance, it was necessary to torture and publicly execute the criminal, so that everyone could see the order re-established. Attending gruesome executions was a favourite pastime for Londoners and Parisians in the era of Shakespeare and Molière. In today’s Europe, murder is seen as a violation of the sacred nature of humanity. In order to restore order, present-day Europeans do not torture and execute criminals. Instead, they punish a murderer in what they see as the most ‘humane

I’m having my lunch when I hear a familiar hoarse shout, ‘Oy Tony!’ I whip round, damaging my neck further, to see Michael Gambon in the lunch queue. … Gambon tells me the story of Olivier auditioning him at the Old Vic in 1962. His audition speech was from Richard III. ‘See, Tone, I was thick as two short planks then and I didn’t know he’d had a rather notable success in the part. I was just shitting myself about meeting the Great Man. He sussed how green I was and started farting around.’ As reported by Gambon, their conversation went like this: Olivier: ‘What are you going to do for me?’ Gambon: ‘Richard the Third.’ Olivier: ‘Is that so. Which part?’ Gambon: ‘Richard the Third.’ Olivier: ‘Yes, but which part?’ Gambon: ‘Richard the Third.’ Olivier: ‘Yes, I understand that, but which part?’ Gambon: ‘Richard the Third.’ Olivier: ‘But which character? Catesby? Ratcliffe? Buckingham’s a good part …’ Gambon: ‘Oh I see, beg your pardon, no, Richard the Third.’ Olivier: ‘What, the King? Richard?’ Gambon: ‘ — the Third, yeah.’ Olivier: “You’ve got a fucking cheek, haven’t you?’ Gambon: ‘Beg your pardon?’ Olivier: ‘Never mind, which part are you going to do?’ Gambon: ‘Richard the Third.’ Olivier: ‘Don’t start that again. Which speech?’ Gambon: ‘Oh I see, beg your pardon, “Was every woman in this humour woo’d.”‘ Olivier: ‘Right. Whenever you’re ready.’ Gambon: ‘ “Was ever woman in this humour woo’d –” ‘ Olivier: ‘Wait. Stop. You’re too close. Go further away. I need to see the whole shape, get the full perspective.’ Gambon: ‘Oh I see, beg your pardon …’ Gambon continues, ‘So I go over to the far end of the room, Tone, thinking that I’ve already made an almighty tit of myself, so how do I save the day? Well I see this pillar and I decide to swing round it and start the speech with a sort of dramatic punch. But as I do this my ring catches on a screw and half my sodding hand gets left behind. I think to myself, “Now I mustn’t let this throw me since he’s already got me down as a bit of an arsehole”, so I plough on … “Was ever woman in this humour woo’d –”‘ Olivier: ‘Wait. Stop. What’s the blood?’ Gambon: ‘Nothing, nothing, just a little gash, I do beg your pardon …’ A nurse had to be called and he suffered the indignity of being given first aid with the greatest actor in the world passing the bandages. At last it was done. Gambon: ‘Shall I start again?’ Olivier: ‘No. I think I’ve got a fair idea how you’re going to do it. You’d better get along now. We’ll let you know.’ Gambon went back to the engineering factory in Islington where he was working. At four that afternoon he was bent over his lathe, working as best as he could with a heavily bandaged hand, when he was called to the phone. It was the Old Vic. ‘It’s not easy talking on the phone, Tone. One, there’s the noise of the machinery. Two, I have to keep my voice down ’cause I’m cockney at work and posh with theatre people. But they offer me a job, spear-carrying, starting immediately. I go back to my work-bench, heart beating in my chest, pack my tool-case, start to go. The foreman comes up, says, “Oy, where you off to?” “I’ve got bad news,” I say, “I’ve got to go.” He says, “Why are you taking your tool box?” I say, “I can’t tell you, it’s very bad news, might need it.” And I never went back there, Tone. Home on the bus, heart still thumping away. A whole new world ahead. We tend to forget what it felt like in the beginning.

It's certainly hard to find fault with a work that quotes Shakespeare, Homer, and a dirty limerick about "the young man from Oswego.

a history of English seafaring and exploration that helped kindle interest in New World colonization; the Earl of Southampton (William Shakespeare’s patron); and other notables whose names made up a veritable who’s who of Early Stuart England.

Poetry does not immortalize the person but the virtue for which the person is notable just as Shakespeare's sonnets promise immortality not to the young man but to his beauty and truth.

But it is said that certain memorable lines or phrases cannot be expressed in any other language. Yet it should also be said that while at times we must lose, at others we gain, and the good translator will take advantage of the text, improving upon the weaker lines of the original, while doing his best with the best. More important, it is forgotten that translation provides an opportunity for languages to interact upon each other, for one tongue to alter and enrich the possibilities of expression in another. In the past some translated works have changed both literary language and tradition: notably the Petrarchan sonnet, Luther's Bible, Judith Gautier's haiku. Milton went as naturally to the King James Version for vocabulary as Shakespeare turned to Holinshed for plots; when Rimbaud's Illuminationswere translated into English, the tradition of our literature was expanded to the extent that diction and subject never before found in English were presented to us. In a word, the quality of a work in translation is dependent on the translator's skills. His forgery is not necessarily better or worse than the original or than other works in his own language; it is only necessarily different—and here the difference, if new and striking, may extend the verbal and thematic borders of his own literature. And as a corollary to his work the new poem may also be seen as an essay into literary criticism, a reading, a creative explication de texte.

But it is said that certain memorable lines or phrases cannot be expressed in any other language. Yet it should also be said that while at times we must lose, at others we gain, and the good translator will take advantage of the text, improving upon the weaker lines of the original, while doing his best with the best. More important, it is forgotten that translation provides an opportunity for languages to interact upon each other, for one tongue to alter and enrich the possibilities of expression in another. In the past some translated works have changed both literary language and tradition: notably the Petrarchan sonnet, Luther's Bible, Judith Gautier's haiku. Milton went as naturally to the King James Version for vocabulary as Shakespeare turned to Holinshed for plots; when Rimbaud's Illuminations were translated into English, the tradition of our literature was expanded to the extent that diction and subject never before found in English were presented to us. In a word, the quality of a work in translation is dependent on the translator's skills. His forgery is not necessarily better or worse than the original or than other works in his own language; it is only necessarily different—and here the difference, if new and striking, may extend the verbal and thematic borders of his own literature. And as a corollary to his work the new poem may also be seen as an essay into literary criticism, a reading, a creative explication de texte.

The actors were all in place. And then—in possession of the truth, standing in their own selves, breathing the air of possibility—they danced. They did as they would. And the night went on.