15 years on: appreciating my high school literature class (5)

There are times when big decisions have to be made. Do I get a dog, or not? Do I pursue a graduate degree, or not? Do I make a major purchase, or not? 

Late last week, I was faced with two great opportunities but I had to choose only one. I mulled over these options over the weekend because this was a win-win situation: whatever I chose would be the right decision... and how rare does that kind of dilemma come one's way, right? I made my decision known earlier today and Plan B is now in place because I opted out of the other opportunity. It's just a pity I'll be missing out on that adventure and won't be able to take photos; but the opportunity I've chosen, I think, is the better option in the long run for me. I'll write about it pretty soon... when I know what I've put myself into.

My happy situation contrasts the misfortunes of one of William Shakespeare's tragic heroes: Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. I'm so glad I've never been in a position as grave as his; I just had to recite his moment of indecision for my Literature III class.

Hamlet's Soliloquy by William Shakespeare


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 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: aye, 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 traveler 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 makes 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 current turn awry
And lose the name of action.