Thanks for this short reflection. Some good ideas from Frye. I sometimes like to speculate that Shakespeare was cracking himself up by taking the "Vengeful Son" trope and imposing it on a bookworm. Add to that the appearance of a ghost from Purgatory (Shakespeare was reputedly Catholic) to one who probably didn't believe in it (a prince from a Lutheran country studying in Wittenberg, where Lutheranism began), and the theological/ethical concerns more or less write themselves. He's correct, perhaps, that the most famous soliloquy is a carryover from the Senecan tradition, but put in general terms it still captures something wonderful: our own ignorance and the corresponding fear of what lies beyond. Still, I think I could make a good case that Hamlet has no interest in taking his own life, but (eventually) he's not afraid to lose it in the service of "heaven."
I'd agree with that. All of Shakespeare's plots seem, in a sense, just sandboxes for him to play around with language and character, perhaps because of the way so many of his characters seem larger than the plots themselves.
Something parallel in Lear, perhaps, but Hamlet's own transformation is far from obvious. It is something of a blend of stoic resignation, honor, and divine purpose. The confusion is part of the fascination, perhaps, as C.S. Lewis seems to suggest.
I'd say he undergoes a change. You can chart it through his monologues. The two most interesting ones, besides "To Be or Not to Be," that suggest this are the monologue right after he's heard the player's speech, when he chastises himself for not being man enough, and the other one is after he meets the soldiers of Fortinbras, and he swears that he'll participate in this revenge tragedy he's in. After that scene there's a strange grace that comes over him. He seems calmer, more in command, more ready.
I mostly agree with that, though one could make the case that it is the confirmation of his uncle's guilt that finally settles his resolve (shown by his willingness to kill soon afterward). The Fortinbras speech is certainly his definitive statement of that conviction. Yes, he returns from the sea voyage with clearer purpose and greater equanimity, but I think that can be partly credited to a sense that his will is at last aligned with Heaven's, and that the "divinity that shapes our ends" is working through him better than his own machinations. There is evidence that this has been his main concern all along: whether it is Heaven or Hell that has asked him to purify the throne of Denmark. As soon as he has confirmation, he commits to accomplishing "divine" justice ("I must be their scourge and minister," etc.). Thus he "let's go, and let's God" to put it tritely. From that perspective, we may observe a transformation of his spirit/mood, a quieting of the doubt and anxiety, but that needn't entail a fundamental transformation of his character.
To me it’s obvious, and I wouldn’t disagree that his transformed state contains elements of those things. The Book of Job somewhat similar in that the obvious plot is only a container for the latent plot.
How would you respond to my comment above about that transformation? In Lear you get a clear shift from rash ignorance and egotism to humility and love. I don't see that kind of transformation in Hamlet. He loses his uncertainty; he commits to action, but his character is still one that acts upon his moral/spiritual convictions (once he has confirmation of Claudius's guilt). He is still a philosopher, a friend, a son. He accepts the final outcome, perhaps, as the will of Heaven, the only way to fully purify the throne (of even himself), but he also appeals to Horatio due his concern about his honor/reputation, something he values from the outset of the play (e.g. Act I.iv). So how do you characterize this "internal transformation"?
I see what you mean. His character has perhaps not changed very much, even if he's gained resolve. Relating it to Job, as Max has, is interesting, as in the Book of Job there is, if not a humbling, a kind of acceptance of divine predestination. Not a resignation, but a taking up of one's destiny. He sees, and believes, the signs ("There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow") and no longer feels the need to test it, to 'make sure.' In that sense, perhaps he has changed from a skeptical philosopher to a knight of faith. He's made the leap.
But the great thing about Shakepseare's characters, as Harold Bloom has pointed out, is that they're so large they swallow up any definite judgement about them. Any interpretation we bring to bear becomes another mirror reflecting who we are. Every time I reread Hamlet I seem to conceive him differently.
Robert hit the nail on the head. Both of them transform from a condition of feeling sorry for themselves to a state of heroic submission to God's will.
Thanks for this short reflection. Some good ideas from Frye. I sometimes like to speculate that Shakespeare was cracking himself up by taking the "Vengeful Son" trope and imposing it on a bookworm. Add to that the appearance of a ghost from Purgatory (Shakespeare was reputedly Catholic) to one who probably didn't believe in it (a prince from a Lutheran country studying in Wittenberg, where Lutheranism began), and the theological/ethical concerns more or less write themselves. He's correct, perhaps, that the most famous soliloquy is a carryover from the Senecan tradition, but put in general terms it still captures something wonderful: our own ignorance and the corresponding fear of what lies beyond. Still, I think I could make a good case that Hamlet has no interest in taking his own life, but (eventually) he's not afraid to lose it in the service of "heaven."
I found the conversation insightful. There's a lot to say about Hamlet. Apologies for the late reply, I was out of town this last weekend.
I don’t think Hamlet is fundamentally a revenge tragedy at all. That is the container for the real plot, which is his own internal transformation.
I'd agree with that. All of Shakespeare's plots seem, in a sense, just sandboxes for him to play around with language and character, perhaps because of the way so many of his characters seem larger than the plots themselves.
Something parallel in Lear, perhaps, but Hamlet's own transformation is far from obvious. It is something of a blend of stoic resignation, honor, and divine purpose. The confusion is part of the fascination, perhaps, as C.S. Lewis seems to suggest.
I'd say he undergoes a change. You can chart it through his monologues. The two most interesting ones, besides "To Be or Not to Be," that suggest this are the monologue right after he's heard the player's speech, when he chastises himself for not being man enough, and the other one is after he meets the soldiers of Fortinbras, and he swears that he'll participate in this revenge tragedy he's in. After that scene there's a strange grace that comes over him. He seems calmer, more in command, more ready.
I mostly agree with that, though one could make the case that it is the confirmation of his uncle's guilt that finally settles his resolve (shown by his willingness to kill soon afterward). The Fortinbras speech is certainly his definitive statement of that conviction. Yes, he returns from the sea voyage with clearer purpose and greater equanimity, but I think that can be partly credited to a sense that his will is at last aligned with Heaven's, and that the "divinity that shapes our ends" is working through him better than his own machinations. There is evidence that this has been his main concern all along: whether it is Heaven or Hell that has asked him to purify the throne of Denmark. As soon as he has confirmation, he commits to accomplishing "divine" justice ("I must be their scourge and minister," etc.). Thus he "let's go, and let's God" to put it tritely. From that perspective, we may observe a transformation of his spirit/mood, a quieting of the doubt and anxiety, but that needn't entail a fundamental transformation of his character.
Also, your comment about sandboxes is spot on.
But you also have to distinguish between professing something and embodying it, which neither Job nor Hamlet accomplishes until the end.
To me it’s obvious, and I wouldn’t disagree that his transformed state contains elements of those things. The Book of Job somewhat similar in that the obvious plot is only a container for the latent plot.
How would you respond to my comment above about that transformation? In Lear you get a clear shift from rash ignorance and egotism to humility and love. I don't see that kind of transformation in Hamlet. He loses his uncertainty; he commits to action, but his character is still one that acts upon his moral/spiritual convictions (once he has confirmation of Claudius's guilt). He is still a philosopher, a friend, a son. He accepts the final outcome, perhaps, as the will of Heaven, the only way to fully purify the throne (of even himself), but he also appeals to Horatio due his concern about his honor/reputation, something he values from the outset of the play (e.g. Act I.iv). So how do you characterize this "internal transformation"?
I see what you mean. His character has perhaps not changed very much, even if he's gained resolve. Relating it to Job, as Max has, is interesting, as in the Book of Job there is, if not a humbling, a kind of acceptance of divine predestination. Not a resignation, but a taking up of one's destiny. He sees, and believes, the signs ("There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow") and no longer feels the need to test it, to 'make sure.' In that sense, perhaps he has changed from a skeptical philosopher to a knight of faith. He's made the leap.
But the great thing about Shakepseare's characters, as Harold Bloom has pointed out, is that they're so large they swallow up any definite judgement about them. Any interpretation we bring to bear becomes another mirror reflecting who we are. Every time I reread Hamlet I seem to conceive him differently.
Yes. Very well put.
Robert hit the nail on the head. Both of them transform from a condition of feeling sorry for themselves to a state of heroic submission to God's will.