To Be or Not to Be

 

To Be or Not to Be

“To be or not to be, that is the question” is the beginning of the soliloquy delivered by Prince Hamlet in Act 3, Scene 1, of the play “Hamlet” written by the English dramatist William Shakespeare (1564-1616).

The phrase “to be or not be” means to live or not to live.” It is a question which Hamlet asked himself when he had become temporarily insane after his father had been slain and a multitude of existential questions had started torturing his mind.

It was in this critical  situation when he began to ask himself whether he should continue to live and face the situation boldly or commit suicide and get rid of life’s various calamities.   

The situation faced by Hamlet is almost universal .  Many people become depressed at some stage of their  life and begin to ask: Which option is better to live or to die.

Given below is the full text of the soliloquy. It is so famous that writers and speakers do not hesitate to quote it wherever it appears to be appropriate. .  

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 heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. 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 dispriz'd 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 undiscovere'd 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 doth make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.

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G.R.Kanwal

5^th May 2025