Hamlet and Eggheads

The reader closed the book with a sigh. “Poor sweet prince, why did he have to end so badly?”

“Well, you see,” answered the first critic, “Hamlet was the victim of an unusual complex—.”

“No,” cried the other critic. “You have the wrong idea. It was all caused by his natural hate for Claudius, which was a result of—.

“Greetings!” said a quiet voice behind them. “Are you talking of me?”

“Why it’s Hamlet,” cried the reader aghast. “What are you doing out of the play?”

“Ask me not,” he shrugged. “It was your doing. People have been up to it ever since I can remember. They won’t let me alone. They keep dragging me out of my play and going over me with a feather duster and a magnet to see what they can picket up.”

“My your jargon is certainly poor,” observed the first critic. “Although you do look a little mad.”

“Well, you see,” Hamlet replied, “This whole idea getteth me very mixed up.”

“How do you mean?” inquired the reader.

“Well, things were so much simpler in the days of yore, when I just plain hated Uncle Claudius. Now everyone hath me so confused I can’t ever remember which century I am in.”

“I agree that you don’t seem to be yourself today,” said the second critic, “but please tell me, why did you hate your uncle?”

Hamlet seated himself on a nearby chair. His once noble eyes filled with tears and he placed his chin in his hand. “To be or not to be; that is the question. Why must you keepeth after me with these others?”

“Don’t you see, Hamlet?” cried the enthusiastic reader. “You can solve this whole thing; if only you’ll cooperate. Please try and help us. These questions have been plaguing men for hundreds of years.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course,” replied the first critic. “Now please pull yourself together. I know you’ve had a hard time, being stabbed and everything, but please try.”

“I’ll try, alas.”

“Now, Hamlet,” continued the first critic. “Did you hate Claudius because you loved your Mother in a sort of—well you know—unusual way?”

“Or,” said the second critic. “Was it because he was cruel to you as a child?”

“Wasn’t it because he was overweight and sloppy in his dress?” asked the reader.

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I think it was because he was a dirty rat who had no business taking my father’s place. Besides, he led poor mother astray. How would you feel if someone murdered your father and got your mother in the bargain?”

“But Hamlet,” cried the first critic, “You’re overlooking the underlying subconscious reasons. The important thing is why, why.”

Hamlet moved his chin to his other hand and shook his head sadly. “That wasn’t in the play.”

“Yes, it was,” said the reader, “between the lines, as plain as day.”

“Between my lines?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you know? I’ll be!”

“It’s there,” said the first critic. “You really had an Oedipus complex. It’s all right there.”

“No kidding. No wonder I couldn’t maketh up my mind.”

“What about the ghost?” asked the second critic. “It was merely your imagination, wasn’t it—out of your mind?”

“Or,” asked the reader, “was it actually a personage from the world of the dead?”

“Well, it was my father.”

“Poor fellow,” sighed the first critic, “still quite mad.”

“Oh, I’m not mad,” replied Hamlet. “I was a little put out at first, but this is getting to be fun.”

“Then tell me,” implored the reader, “did you really love Ophelia?”

Hamlet stood to his feet. “I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers could not with all their love—“

“Yes,” interrupted the second critic. “We know about that, but did you really love her. There’s more to love than boyish infatuation.”

“There is?”

“Why, yes,” cried the reader, “but you felt a deep passion for her didn’t you?”

“Well I liked her a lot.”

“I told you so,” cried the first critic. “It was a conflict between his natural attractions to Ophelia and his love for his mother.”

“Wait!” cried a voice from the shadows in the back of the room. “Think you to breathe life into a vacuum?”

Hamlet sighed with relief. “Oh good, here’s the boss.”

“You mean? Oh my!” Three sets of eyebrows rose and fell.

The owner of the voice drew near. “Hamlet, my boy, return to your rightful place.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Now, just a moment,” said the first critic. “Hamlet here was clearing up a few things for us. You’ve no business spoiling it all.”

“I’ll say you haven’t,” snapped the reader.

The stranger also raised his eyebrows. “You cry ‘Dance!’ to the puppet, but forget the man who pulls the strings.” He turned again to Hamlet. “Go back to thy play.”