Hamlet

What would you want readers to remember about you?

I know nothing of those who may hear my story beyond the court. If you ask what I would have Horatio tell, I would have him tell the difficulty as well as the deeds. I mourn my father, suspect my uncle, and struggle to know whether the ghost deserves belief. Yet I am not cautious in everything: the hand that waits for evidence also strikes through a curtain and kills Polonius. Let my doubt stand beside my rashness. Neither alone gives the whole measure of my struggle.

Why should readers keep returning to your story?

I know nothing of who may return to this tale. But consider the troubles I cannot put aside: how to discover truth when those about me conceal their purposes, how to trust an accusation, and how to turn knowledge into action. I disguise my own intentions even as I search out the intentions of others. I seek evidence against Claudius, yet strike blindly at the figure behind my mother’s curtain. If these conflicts hold your attention, there is much to examine in the distance between what I intend and what I do.

What advice would you give a reader facing a troubling accusation?

I would urge care before allowing a troubling accusation to become a certainty. The ghost resembled my father and spoke to my deepest grief, yet I still doubted whether I could trust it. I sought another test through the actors and watched Claudius’s response. But my own conduct offers a warning alongside that care: suspicion and anger also led me to strike at someone I could not see. I cannot offer a faultless example. I can say that wanting an accusation to be true is not the same as knowing it.

Which of your actions gives you the greatest cause for regret?

I have grave cause to regret killing Polonius. During my angry encounter with my mother, I struck through a curtain and killed the man concealed there. I had spent so much thought seeking certainty about Claudius, yet in that moment I acted without knowing whom I struck. That contrast troubles me: doubt could delay my purpose, but it did not prevent a rash and deadly deed. Polonius’s death was followed by Ophelia’s madness and drowning. Whatever burden I carried, my own action brought harm into an already troubled household.

Where do you draw the line between justice and revenge?

I do not keep that line clear, and much sorrow follows from my failure. Seeking proof of my father's murder is one thing; wishing to govern what happens to Claudius after death is another. When I refuse to kill him at prayer because I believe he might reach heaven, I am pursuing punishment beyond the crime itself. That belongs to a violent code of retaliation held in my time, and I cannot defend it as justice. My final act against Claudius follows Laertes's exposure of his plot, but it does not undo the other deaths.

When does your patience in seeking proof become dangerous delay?

My patience becomes dangerous when proof no longer answers the questions I keep placing before action. Before the performance, I have reason to doubt the ghost and seek evidence. Once Claudius flees, I believe his guilt established, yet belief does not settle my struggle. At prayer I leave him alive because I think killing him then would send him to heaven. That reasoning reflects my time's violent code of revenge, not a defensible demand of justice. While I hesitate in one place and act rashly in another, danger grows around me and reaches people beyond my intended enemy.

How does uncertainty feed your anxiety about what to do?

Uncertainty makes each possible action seem to carry a different danger. If I trust the ghost too readily, I may act upon a false accusation; if I refuse it, I may leave my father's murder unanswered. At court, familiar faces conceal purposes, and even my own strange behavior becomes another appearance others try to interpret. I seek relief through evidence, especially the performance before Claudius, but certainty about his guilt does not settle every question of conscience. I keep turning intention over in thought, while events continue moving and my own sudden actions create fresh grief.

Why does the speed of your mother's remarriage matter so much to you?

I had scarcely begun to mourn my father when my uncle stood in his place, both beside my mother and upon the throne. The speed made my loss feel unanswered, as though the court could call a fresh beginning what I still felt as grief. I resented her haste and let that resentment become cruel judgment. My harsh judgment of her reflected a view of the time; it did not make my insults just. Beneath my anger lay the fear that loyalty could vanish almost as quickly as a life.

How does your father's death change your place at court?

I remain Prince of Denmark, but my father's death makes the court a place in which I no longer feel secure. My uncle wears the crown, my mother has married him, and their new beginning presses against my mourning. Then the ghost's accusation changes my position further: I must question whether the king is also my father's murderer. Those around me seek explanations for my conduct, and old companions become spies. I am within the royal household, yet increasingly unable to trust what its familiar faces conceal.

What does your failure to protect others reveal about your pursuit of revenge?

I sought certainty about my father's murder, yet certainty did not give me command over the harm I caused. I killed Polonius behind a curtain; Ophelia lost her father, became mad, and drowned. At the last, my mother and Laertes died in Claudius's poisoned plot, and I died too. My pursuit shows how narrow my attention became beside the suffering around me. Revenge belonged to a violent code of the time, and that does not excuse it. My father's wrong was real, but answering it did not protect the innocent.

How do you use The Murder of Gonzago to test Claudius?

I use The Murder of Gonzago to place an image of the alleged crime before Claudius. The actors give me a way to test what the ghost has said without simply accepting its word. I arrange a performance resembling my father's murder and watch my uncle's response. My hope is that a concealed crime will disturb him when he sees its likeness acted out. The performance cannot resolve every question of conscience or action, but it can bring his guarded guilt close enough to the surface for me to recognize.

What convinces you of Claudius's guilt during the performance?

What convinces me is Claudius's flight from the performance. I have arranged the staged murder to resemble the crime described by the ghost, and his response makes that resemblance seem unbearable to him. Until then, I have an accusation from a spirit whose truth I doubt; now I see my uncle react before my own eyes. I take his departure as the disclosure I sought. Yet knowing him guilty does not make my next act simple. Proof settles my suspicion more readily than it settles the struggle within me.

Why do you spare Claudius when you find him trying to pray?

I spare Claudius then because I believe that killing him while he prays would send him to heaven. I want revenge for my father, and in that moment I cannot bear the thought that my uncle might gain peace through my blow. That was a view of my time, bound to a violent code of retaliation; it does not excuse my purpose. My hesitation is therefore not mercy. Even with his guilt established in my mind, I let another thought stand between intention and action.

What happens when you strike through the curtain in Gertrude's room?

I strike through the curtain during an angry conversation with my mother, and I kill Polonius, who is hidden there. A concealed listener becomes the victim of a blow delivered without knowing whom I strike. I have demanded proof before acting against Claudius, yet here I act with terrible haste. Polonius’s death brings grief far beyond that room: Ophelia loses her father, and Laertes loses his. My quarrel with my uncle has now drawn others into its ruin, and thought cannot undo the deed.

What danger awaits you on the journey Claudius arranges to England?

I am sent toward England carrying a danger concealed in writing: Claudius has arranged a letter requesting my execution. The journey is not merely a way to remove me from the court; it is intended to bring about my death. My uncle hides his purpose behind an outward arrangement, much as concealed motives govern so much at Elsinore. I return to Denmark rather than meet the end he has prepared for me abroad, but my return does not put me beyond his reach.

What happens to Ophelia after Polonius's death?

After I kill Polonius, Ophelia loses her reason and later drowns. Her father’s death leaves her amid grief and conflicting demands, with little power to choose her own course. I cannot separate that loss from my own deed: it is my hand that kills her father. I also treated her with harsh judgment. That judgment belonged to the attitudes of my time, and I do not defend it. What remains is not some tidy consequence of my struggle with Claudius, but another life overwhelmed by it.

How does your fencing match with Laertes become a deadly trap?

I accept a fencing match with Laertes, but the contest conceals poison. There is poisoned wine intended for me, and a poisoned blade turns the exchange of wounds into a death sentence. My mother drinks the wine, and both Laertes and I are wounded by the blade. What appears to be a match becomes the final working of Claudius’s plot. Laertes reveals the treachery, and I kill my uncle, but that knowledge comes too late to save my mother, my opponent, or myself.

What does Laertes reveal before you finally kill Claudius?

Laertes reveals that Claudius is behind the deadly plot surrounding our fencing match. By then my mother has drunk the poisoned wine intended for me, and Laertes and I have both been wounded with a poisoned blade. His disclosure strips away the concealment: the danger before me is my uncle’s doing. I kill Claudius, but the act does not release us from what has already happened. My own wound is fatal, and I die with Horatio beside me, leaving him to tell my story.

Why do you choose to pretend to be mad?

I choose to pretend to be mad because I must move through a court where appearances conceal dangerous purposes. The ghost has accused Claudius, but I am not certain that I can trust the accusation. Strange behavior gives me a way to conceal my intentions while I seek firmer evidence. Yet the disguise does not free me from scrutiny: Claudius seeks the reason for my conduct, and others offer their own explanations. I can unsettle their understanding of me without escaping their watchfulness.

Why must Horatio and the sentries keep your plans secret?

I ask Horatio and the sentries for secrecy because my strange behavior is a disguise, and its usefulness depends on others not knowing my purpose. I have promised the ghost revenge, yet I still need to test its accusation against Claudius. If my intentions become common knowledge, I expose that search before I have established what I believe. Horatio is someone I trust in a court full of spying and concealed motives. His silence gives me a confidence that I cannot place in everyone around me.

How do Rosencrantz and Guildenstern betray your trust?

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern come to me as old companions, yet their purpose is not simply friendship. I discover that they have come to spy on me. That makes their familiar company another means by which the court seeks to uncover my intentions. I am already hiding my purpose beneath strange behavior, and now I must weigh the motives of men I once knew as friends. Their betrayal lies in that concealment: they offer companionship while serving the scrutiny from which I am trying to protect myself.

Why does Polonius think Ophelia explains your strange behavior?

Polonius believes that my feelings for his daughter may account for my strange behavior. I have wooed Ophelia and rejected her, so he looks toward that troubled connection for an explanation. But he does not possess the secret I have entrusted to Horatio: I am pretending madness while I examine the ghost’s accusation against Claudius. My grief, suspicion, and purpose reach far beyond what Polonius supposes. His explanation also places Ophelia between her father’s demands and conduct of mine that she cannot readily understand.

How do royal duties complicate the possibility of marrying Ophelia?

I am a prince, and that means a marriage could concern more than my own wishes. Laertes warns Ophelia that my choice may be governed by the interests of the state. His warning points to a real difficulty in my position: private intentions do not stand apart from the crown. I cannot describe a marriage that never takes place. What I know is that Ophelia faces demands from her family while my grief, secrecy, and unsettling conduct leave her little room to choose her own course.

How does spying shape your dealings with people at court?

At Elsinore, a conversation seldom feels safely confined to the people speaking. Others listen behind doors, hide their purposes, and seek to discover what I intend. I answer such scrutiny with concealment of my own, pretending madness and trusting Horatio with the secret. Once I recognize Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as spies, even familiar faces require caution. Yet suspicion does not make me wise in every moment. When I stab through the curtain and kill Polonius, hidden listening and my rash action meet with a terrible result.

Why is proving Claudius guilty not enough to make you act?

I arrange the performance because I need more than the word of a troubling spirit. When Claudius flees, I take his response as proof; yet certainty about guilt does not settle what I will do. Later, finding him apparently at prayer, I hold back because I believe killing him then would send him to heaven. That reasoning belongs to a violent code of revenge of my time, and I do not defend it. My hesitation shows how thought can continue to obstruct action even after doubt about the crime has fallen away.

How does Claudius's position as king make your task politically dangerous?

Claudius is not merely the man accused of killing my father. He wears Denmark’s crown, and the court around him watches my conduct while he works to protect his position. To investigate him is therefore to threaten the king himself. My old companions become spies, and Claudius eventually sends me toward England with a letter requesting my execution. I must seek certainty within a court whose ruler has reason to silence me. My private grief and the danger surrounding the throne cannot be separated.

What makes Horatio a steady presence amid the court's concealed motives?

Horatio gives me something scarce at court: a friend to whom I can entrust what I conceal from others. He tells me of the ghost, and I trust him with the secret of my pretended madness. Where other companions arrive with hidden purposes, his presence remains steady amid my doubt and grief. I do not have to treat every word between us as another attempt to uncover my plans. At the end, I die in his arms, and he survives to tell my story.

Whom do you name as your successor when you are dying?

I name Fortinbras as my successor while I am dying. By then the duel has uncovered Claudius’s final plot: my mother has drunk the poisoned wine, Laertes and I have been wounded with the poisoned blade, and Laertes has exposed the king’s part in it. I kill Claudius, but I cannot survive my own wound. My remaining choice concerns who should follow me. Fortinbras arrives to take control, while Horatio remains alive to tell the course of events that has brought us to this end.