هاملت لا يشرع سيفاً وانما ينتقم مسرحاً

كم أحب هذا المقطع الذي يبكي فيه هاملت مسرحاً و يتنفس فيه مسرحاً وينتفض فيه مسرحاً ...إنه يبكي عجزه ويلفظ نفسه لأنه غير قادر على تجسيد نفس الإحساس الذي يعبر عنه الممثل ...انظروا إليه كيف يعلق على الأداء الجيد و المسرح الشافي والصوت النابض لقد تحول الركح عنده لعلاج للنفس.لقد بكى هاملت لأنه عجز حينما نجح الممثل فوق الركح...لقد إغترب هاملت لأنه إفتقد الركح. لقد إنقلب المعطى وأصبح الإبداع فوق الركح دواء للحياة ومثالاً يحتذى به. لقد أصبح المسرح حياةً ومشاعراً وإستحالت الحياة خارجه جموداً وجبناً. انظروا إلى هاملت كيف يستمد شجاعته من المسرح ... فلا سيفاً ينتقم به وانما مسرحاً ولا دواء لشجونه غير مسرح ولا حياة له غير مسرح يعد له وفنانين صامتين فوق الركح مجسدين سريان السم في جسد الملك...المصيدة هي الكمين وموت قونزاقو فوق الركح يصعد بروح الملك الاه النور هايبيريون إلى الخلد.
هل كرم احدهم مسرحاً أكثر من شكسبير و هاملت؟ ليتهم يعتبرون! فحد الركح وحد الكلام أشد قطعاً من حد السيف وهو أشد علاجاً وهو أشد نشوة. يا ليت لعنة هاملت تحل بنا!  

Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift 
As MEDITATION or the THE THOUGHTS OF LOVE,

 May sweep to my revenge

لهذا السبب هم يرفضون المسرح واليكم الحكاية في هذا الرابط 

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,
Make mad the guilty and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing; no, not for a king,
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat,
As deep as to the lungs? who does me this?
Ha!
'Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be
But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall
To make oppression bitter, or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!
O, vengeance!
Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murder'd,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a-cursing, like a very drab,
A scullion!
Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heard
That guilty creatures sitting at a play
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions;
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the devil: and the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds
More relative than this: the play 's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.