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,
The 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 the 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 undiscover'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 does 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. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Whatever distance you choose to put the skull, it is obviously a representation of your own view on your mortality. So you should put it as far away as you see fit. That being said, we all wish that the skull wasn't even visible!
"Ham.
Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick!--I knew
him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent
fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times;
and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge
rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols?
your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to
set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your
own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now, get you to my
lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to
this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.--
Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Hor.
What's that, my lord?
Ham.
Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth?
Hor.
E'en so.
Ham.
And smelt so? Pah!
[Throws down the skull.]
Hor.
E'en so, my lord.
Ham.
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not
imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it
stopping a bung-hole?"
Comments
Getting closer to the skull.
I absolutely love the idea, though.
Cody Weber Photography.
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Spring is coming!
You probably still have a few good days left, George!!
Nice conversion.
Moderator of the Technique Forum and Finishing School on Dgrin
yes, ted, I want to keep as much distance between us as I possibly can (most of the time)-
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,
The 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 the 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 undiscover'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 does 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. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Wm Shakespeare
Moderator of the Technique Forum and Finishing School on Dgrin
www.joemcdowellphotography.com
www.joemcdowellphotography.blogspot.com
Canon 30D, EF-S 17-55mm f/2.8 IS USM, EF 28-135mm 3.5-5.6 IS USM, EF-S 10-20mm f/3.5-4.5 USM, EF 70-200mm f/2.8L USM, EF 75-300mm 4-5.6 III USM
50mm 1.4, 85mm 1.8, 24-70 2.8L, 35mm 1.4L, 135mm f2L
ST-E2 Transmitter + (3) 580 EXII + radio poppers
(Great shot by the way!
pathfinder-
"Ham.
Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick!--I knew
him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent
fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times;
and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge
rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols?
your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to
set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your
own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now, get you to my
lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to
this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.--
Pr'ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
Hor.
What's that, my lord?
Ham.
Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth?
Hor.
E'en so.
Ham.
And smelt so? Pah!
[Throws down the skull.]
Hor.
E'en so, my lord.
Ham.
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not
imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it
stopping a bung-hole?"
wm shakespeare
hah!-
that's good!-
although, I'm not so sure I would be bored by a jabbering skull!-