Shakespeare Journey Quotes

Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies not plenty; Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Why can’t you remember your Shakespeare and forget the third-raters. You’ll find what you’re trying to say in him- as you’ll find everything else worth saying. 'We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with sleep.'' - 'Fine! That’s beautiful. But I wasn’t trying to say that. We are such stuff as manure is made on, so let’s drink up and forget it. That’s more my idea.

Her stare fixed me. Without rancour and without regret; without triumph and without evil; as Desdemona once looked back on Venice. On the incomprehension, the baffled rage of Venice. I had taken myself to be in some way the traitor Iago punished, in an unwritten sixth act. Chained in hell. But I was also Venice; the state left behind; the thing journeyed from.

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; My master calls me, I must not say no.

I once expected to spend seven years walking around the world on foot. I walked from Mexico to Panama where the road ended before an almost uninhabited swamp called the Choco Colombiano. Even today there is no road. Perhaps it is time for me to resume my wanderings where I left off as a tropical tramp in the slums of Panama. Perhaps like Ambrose Bierce who disappeared in the desert of Sonora I may also disappear. But after being in all mankind it is hard to come to terms with oblivion - not to see hundreds of millions of Chinese with college diplomas come aboard the locomotive of history - not to know if someone has solved the riddle of the universe that baffled Einstein in his futile efforts to make space, time, gravitation and electromagnetism fall into place in a unified field theory - never to experience democracy replacing plutocracy in the military-industrial complex that rules America - never to witness the day foreseen by Tennyson 'when the war-drums no longer and the battle-flags are furled, in the parliament of man, the federation of the world.' I may disappear leaving behind me no worldly possessions - just a few old socks and love letters, and my windows overlooking Notre-Dame for all of you to enjoy, and my little rag and bone shop of the heart whose motto is 'Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.' I may disappear leaving no forwarding address, but for all you know I may still be walking among you on my vagabond journey around the world." [Shakespeare & Company, archived statement]

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,   The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd;   But then begins a journey in my head   To work my mind, when body's work's expired:   For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—   Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,   And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,   Looking on darkness which the blind do see:   Save that my soul's imaginary sight   Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,   Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night,   Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.     Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,     For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

I want to give just a slight indication of the influence the book has had. I knew that George Orwell, in his second novel, A Clergyman's Daughter , published in 1935, had borrowed from Joyce for his nighttime scene in Trafalgar Square, where Deafie and Charlie and Snouter and Mr. Tallboys and The Kike and Mrs. Bendigo and the rest of the bums and losers keep up a barrage of song snatches, fractured prayers, curses, and crackpot reminiscences. But only on my most recent reading of Ulysses did I discover, in the middle of the long and intricate mock-Shakespeare scene at the National Library, the line 'Go to! You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter.' So now I think Orwell quarried his title from there, too.

Only now, years after having read though the works of Shakespeare, Dickens, Scott, Poe, Balzac did he realise that even the most prolific writer created only one novel; throw away the individual bindings and the whole of each man's writing constituted one book: the true and complete portrait of himself. An artist had one thing to say, and one only; he might flail about, seek new techniques, forms, colour combinations, subjects, but intrinsically he would always paint the same canvas, write the same book.

In my nervous frame of mind I expected to see the ghost of Hamlet wandering on the legendary castle terrace.

Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Journeys end in lovers’ meeting—

Greatest is the person who completes his Journey’, I say and; ‘Journeys end in love of meeting’, said Shakespeare.

From this perspective, we were all divine Shakespeares, creating and playing the roles of muscled heroes and conniving villains, pious saints and debauched sinners, corrupt CEOs and disinterested temp workers.

Nay, rather every tedious stride I make Will but remember me what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages, and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to

In no particular order, I read what I could, sometimes with Fadiman as my docent, sometimes not: Flaubert, Twain, Kerouac, Brontë, Kafka, Camus, Ibsen, James, Thurber, Shakespeare. But in the course of reading great books, something happened. My reading molded me, the tool hammering its hand into shape. By some miracle—and by miracle, I mean great teachers—I pushed past the shallowness and stupidity of my own motivations. I fell in love with the actual literature and the actual ideas of great literature. As an immigrant, as a Vietnamese kid, as a poor kid, I had collected so many scarlet letters of alienation that I connected profoundly to the great works. As I read, I began to understand that all the great works wrangled with big questions, important questions: our place in the world, the value of our experience, the fairness and meaning of our suffering, our quest for love and belonging. Universal themes bound these great works together, and they bound me to their oaky, yellowed pages like Odysseus lashed to the mast of his ship. I felt a connective and humanizing resonance in books: I wasn’t alone in my aloneness. I wasn’t alone in my longing for love. I wasn’t alone in my fear of being rejected, my fear of never finding my place, my fear of failing. The snarl of my journey was untangled and laid out clearly by books.

How heavy do I journey on the way,   When what I seek, my weary travel's end,   Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,   'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'   The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,   Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,   As if by some instinct the wretch did know   His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:   The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,   That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,   Which heavily he answers with a groan,   More sharp to me than spurring to his side;     For that same groan doth put this in my mind,     My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

I suppose that an American's approach to English literature must always be oblique. We share a language but not a landscape. In order to understand the English classics as adults, we must build up a sort of visual vocabulary from the books we read as children.... I contend that a child brought up on the nursery rhymes and Jacobs' English Fairy Tales can better understand Shakespeare; that a child who has pored over Beatrix Potter can better respond to Wordsworth. Of course it is best if one can find for himself a bank where the wild thyme grows, or discover daffodils growing wild. Failing that, the American child must feed the "inward eye" with the images in the books he reads when young so that he can enter a larger realm when he is older. I am sure I enjoyed the Bronte novels more for having read The Secret Garden first. As I stood on those moors, looking out over that wind-swept landscape I realized that it was Mrs. Burnett who taught me what "wuthering" meant long before I ever got around to reading Wuthering Heights. Epiphany comes at the moment of recognition.

Letter to read on your way to Success Dear Me If you see someone successful. Don't envy them, but rather remind yourself that we all had to start somewhere. I mean if you think about it we were all kids at once with big dreams. What separates us as we grow older is the choices we had to make along the way. Shakespeare to put it well when he said, "some are born into greatness and others simply choose to be." I simply love these to quotes when you put them together, "Don't compare yourself with others cause it is because were different that each of us is special" and "If you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will always seem like failure to you." The message here is that we are all good at something. So if you haven't made it thus far, don't be to hard on yourself by comparing yourself with others, cause you know nothing about their journey. We are all on our own individual paths in life. Some people have already given themselves the job of trying to put you down every chance they get, don't make it worse for yourself by doing the same. Its never to late to be what you always wanted to be. But before you start on your journey be sure what that is exactly, so as to prevent you climbing a ladder only to end up on the wrong wall.

Let us begin, then, with the mad-house; from this evil and fantastic inn let us set forth on our intellectual journey. Now, if we are to glance at the philosophy of sanity, the first thing to do in the matter is to blot out one big and common mistake. There is a notion adrift everywhere that imagination, especially mystical imagination, is dangerous to man’s mental balance. Poets are commonly spoken of as psychologically unreliable; and generally there is a vague association between wreathing laurels in your hair and sticking straws in it. Facts and history utterly contradict this view. Most of the very great poets have been not only sane, but extremely business-like; and if Shakespeare ever really held horses, it was because he was much the safest man to hold them. Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination. Artistic paternity is as wholesome as physical paternity. Moreover, it is worthy of remark that when a poet really was morbid it was commonly because he had some weak spot of rationality on his brain. Poe, for instance, really was morbid; not because he was poetical, but because he was specially analytical. Even chess was too poetical for him; he disliked chess because it was full of knights and castles, like a poem. He avowedly preferred the black discs of draughts, because they were more like the mere black dots on a diagram. Perhaps the strongest case of all is this: that only one great English poet went mad, Cowper. And he was definitely driven mad by logic, by the ugly and alien logic of predestination. Poetry was not the disease, but the medicine; poetry partly kept him in health. He could sometimes forget the red and thirsty hell to which his hideous necessitarianism dragged him among the wide waters and the white flat lilies of the Ouse. He was damned by John Calvin; he was almost saved by John Gilpin. Everywhere we see that men do not go mad by dreaming. Critics are much madder than poets. Homer is complete and calm enough; it is his critics who tear him into extravagant tatters. Shakespeare is quite himself; it is only some of his critics who have discovered that he was somebody else. And though St. John the Evangelist saw many strange monsters in his vision, he saw no creature so wild as one of his own commentators. The general fact is simple. Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion, like the physical exhaustion of Mr. Holbein. To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain. The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in. The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits.

… the conjunction of Beethoven’s last symphonic masterpiece with crucial works or events in the lives of so many other outstanding artists made 1824 a particularly fertile year…. The fact that the Ninth Symphony, Byron’s death, Pushkin’s Boris Gudunov and “To the Sea,” Delacroix’s Massacres at Chios, Stendhal’s Racine and Shakespeare, and Heine’s Harz Journey and North Sea Pictures all futhered, in one way or another, Romanticism’s rear-guard action against repression underlines the significance of that speck of time. And perhaps these brief glances at those artists and their states of being at that moment will have helped to remind readers—as they reminded this author—that spiritual and intellectual liberation requires endless internal warfare against everything in ourselves that narrows us down instead of opening us up and that replaces questing with certitude. Nearly two centuries later, the world still overflows with people who believe that truth not only exists but that it is simple and straightforward, and that their truths—be they political, religious, philosophical, moral, or social—constitute The Truth. Federico Fellini’s characterization, a generation ago, of the fascist mentality as “a refusal to deepen one’s individual relationship to life, out of laziness, prejudice, unwillingness to inconvenience oneself, and presumptuousness” describes the obedient adherents of most prefabricated beliefs, everywhere and at all times. The others—the disobedient, the nonadherents, those who think that the world is not easily explained and that human experience does not fit into tidy little compartments—are still fighting the eternally unwinnable War of Liberation. Until our sorry species bombs or gluts itself into oblivion, the skirmishing will continue, and what Beethoven and company keep telling us, from the ever-receding yet ever-present past, is that the struggle must continue (pp. 110-11).

The sad mask/happy mask image that some might associate with Shakespeare is actually ubiquitous in gang culture and has been inked on literally thousands of California gangsters. They call it “Laugh Now, Cry Later,” and it reflects the idea that they will have their fun in the moment but know they’ll eventually either die or go to prison.

Stories can be incredibly powerful and beautiful devices that form and assist our perception and understanding of the world. However, according to twentieth-century American author Kurt Vonnegut, stories rarely tell the truth. After studying stories from an anthropological standpoint, examining the relationships with various cultures, Vonnegut found that stories and myths across many cultures share consistent similar shapes that can typically be broken down into just a few main categories. These shapes can be found graphing the course of a protagonist’s journey through a story along an axis of good and ill fortune. In all stories, someone or something starts somewhere, either in a good place, bad place, or neutral place. Then things happen related to that person which is conveyed as good or bad, bringing the character up and down the axis of fortune as they traverse forward through the story. Then, the story ends and its shape reveals itself. Vonnegut discovered that many popular stories follow common, consistent curves and spikes up and down the good/ill axis and that most end with the protagonist higher on the axis than where they started. However, what’s perhaps most interesting about Vonnegut’s analysis is this argument that these shapes, and consequently most stories, lie. Vonnegut proposed that a more honest, realistic story shape is simply a straight line. In a story of this shape, things still happen and characters still change, but the story maintains ambiguity around whether or not the events that occur are conclusively good or bad. According to Vonnegut, Hamlet is the closest literary representation of real life. “We are so seldom told the truth. In Hamlet-Shakespeare tells us that we don’t know enough about life to know what the good news is and the bad news is and we respond to that.” One story medium that seems to inadvertently coincide with this idea, is the medium of the television series. The goal of TV series is to keep viewers watching as long as possible. Each episode must be an engaging enough story to keep the viewer watching until the end, but each episode must also be left unresolved enough so the larger season-long and series-long stories continue and the viewer is interested in watching all the following episodes. In order to keep the whole thing going, none of the stories can reach a conclusion, and thus, the main characters can’t find ultimate peace or freedom from the uncertainty between good and ill-fortune. Of course, most shows don’t qualify as the straight-line shape in Vonnegut’s analysis, because most shows attempt to convey conclusively good and bad fortunes within them. However merely by the requirements of the medium TV series are forced to self-impose the same sort of universal truth that Vonnegut suggests. That neither the viewer nor the characters in a series can ever know what anything that’s so-called “good” or “bad” in one episode might cause in the next. And that on a fundamental level, the changes in each episode are futile because they are a part of a never-ending cycle of change through conflict and resolution, for the mere sake of its continuation, with no aim of a final resolution or reveal of what’s ultimately good or bad. Of course, eventually, a show reaches its series end when it stops working or runs its natural course. But the show fights its whole life to stay away from this moment. A good TV series, a series that we don’t want to end, is only a series that we don’t want to end because it can’t seem to resolve itself. In this, the format of Tv series also shows us that there is meaning, engagement, and entertainment within the endless cycle of change, regardless of its potential universal futility. And that perhaps change in life can exist not for the sake of some conclusion or ultimate state of peace, but a continuation of itself for the sake of itself. And perhaps the ability to be in this cycle of continued change for the sake of change is the actual good fortune.

Despite these occasional lumps, the life became infectious and he came up with an even grander scheme: to walk around the world, an 113,000-mile journey, with 30,000 of them on foot. He set out from California in 1936 and walked for months, down through Mexico, where he met Mayans in the Yucatan, then onto Belize, where he met some Caribs.

Rowe’s account—the first so-called biography of Shakespeare—was a jumble of myths fitted to the archetypal narrative of the hero’s journey: from his “fortunate fall,” setting him on his adventure and encounter with destiny, to his return home. But it appealed to the sensibilities of eighteenth-century readers, offering an excuse for Shakespeare’s unchristian conduct in abandoning his family, a warning about the dangers of “ill Company,” and a happy ending whereby his sin turned out to be his salvation.

Love is the greatest adventure of all, a journey that takes us to the highest peaks and the deepest valleys, but ultimately leads us to a place of profound happiness and fulfillment.

Mutations can be caused by chemicals, radiation, or extreme heat or cold. But in nature mutations generally occur spontaneously for no clear reason. More to the point, mutations are rarely beneficial, and cells generally work to keep the number of mutations as few as possible. A Nobel Prize was given in 2015 for the discovery of this error-correcting system. It’s as if every cell has its own personal copy editor. This copy editor is not perfect, but it is extraordinarily effective, and essential. Without it our fertilized egg cells would die long before developing to an embryo. Thanks to this error-correction system, only about one mutation for every ten billion DNA letters is inherited by the next generation. If we could hand-copy the more than four million letters in the complete plays of William Shakespeare with the same speed and accuracy that bacteria read and copy their genomes, we could dash off some 200 copies of all his plays in twenty minutes with only a single typo in just one of the 200 copies.

This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” —William Shakespeare

Délután kisüt a nap. Valami olyan jóleső, békés nyugalom fog el. Keresem az okát. Mi lehet az? Talán mert nem kell dolgoznom, ürügyem van henyélni? Nem, ez túlságosan felületes magyarázat. Valami van a hangulatomban, amit soha nem éreztem. Először élvezem a teljes felelőtlenség boldogító állapotát. Hogy magyarázzam a normális, rendes embereknek? Értsétek meg, az ilyen görcsös lélek, amilyen az enyém, állandóan és szüntelenül abban a feszültségben szorong, amibe ti, boldogok, csak egyszer-kétszer kerültök egy élet folyamán: az élet minden pillanatában kénytelen vagyok az egész életemre gondolni. Nekem minden percem olyan, mint nektek, ha a hatodik emeletről zuhantok alá, vagy elkapott a forgószél – ostoba érzékenység, hogy lehetne kigyógyulni belőle? Vagy talán csak túlzott aggodalmaskodás, gyerekkorból megmaradt, nádpálcától, büntetéstől való félelem? Hogy mondja Shakespeare: A gyáva ezerszer hal meg, a bátor csak egyszer.

life is an intresting journey where the beginning is known,way is a puzzle and the end is unknown

How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek, my weary travel’s end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, “Thus far the miles are measur’d from thy friend!” The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide; Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side; For that same groan doth put this in my mind; My grief lies onward, and my joy behind —William Shakespeare[

We cannot really understand another human being without understanding his dharma story. And we cannot understand his dharma story without grasping the importance of his dharma mentors. The more I dug into Keats, the more I discovered that one cannot understand Keats without understanding Shakespeare. Mark apparently discovered the same thing. His second major play would be about Shakespeare.