Olmak ya da olmamak, işte bütün mesele bu!
Düşüncemizin katlanması mı güzel
Zalim kaderin yumruklarına, oklarına
Yoksa diretip bela denizlerine karşı
Dur, yeter demesi mi?
Ölmek, uyumak sadece!
Düşünün ki uyumakla yalnız
Bitebilir bütün acıları yüreğin,
Çektiği bütün kahırlar insanoğlunun.
Uyumak, ama düş görebilirsin uykuda, o kötü.
Çünkü, o ölüm uykularında
Sıyrıldığımız zaman yaşamak kaygısından
Ne düşler görebilir insan, düşünmeli bunu.
Bu düşüncedir felaketleri yaşanır yapan.
Yoksa kim dayanabilir zamanın kırbacına?
Zorbanın kahrına, gururunun çiğnenmesine
Sevgisinin kepaze edilmesine
Kanunların bu kadar yavaş
Yüzsüzlüğün bu kadar çabuk yürümesine
Kötülere kul olmasına iyi insanın
Bir bıçak saplayıp göğsüne kurtulmak varken?
Kim ister bütün bunlara katlanmak
Ağır bir hayatın altında inleyip terlemek
Ölümden sonraki bir şeyden korkmasa
O kimsenin gidip de dönmediği bilinmez dünya
Ürkütmese yüreğini?
Bilmediğimiz belalara atılmaktansa
Çektiklerine razı etmese insanları?
Bilinç böyle korkak ediyor hepimizi:
Düşüncenin soluk ışığı bulandırıyor
Yürekten gelenin doğal rengini.
Ve nice büyük, yiğitçe atılışlar
Yollarını değiştirip bu yüzden
Bir iş, bir eylem olma gücünü yitiriyorlar.
Shakespeare - Hamlet
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 traveller 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 enterprise of great pitch 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.
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 traveller 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 enterprise of great pitch 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.