To Be Or Not To Be Quotes
Quotes tagged as "to-be-or-not-to-be"
Showing 1-19 of 19
“I know that David Tennant's Hamlet isn't till July. And lots of people are going to be doing Dr Who in Hamlet jokes, so this is just me getting it out of the way early, to avoid the rush...
"To be, or not to be, that is the question. Weeelll.... More of A question really. Not THE question. Because, well, I mean, there are billions and billions of questions out there, and well, when I say billions, I mean, when you add in the answers, not just the questions, weeelll, you're looking at numbers that are positively astronomical and... for that matter the other question is what you lot are doing on this planet in the first place, and er, did anyone try just pushing this little red button?”
―
"To be, or not to be, that is the question. Weeelll.... More of A question really. Not THE question. Because, well, I mean, there are billions and billions of questions out there, and well, when I say billions, I mean, when you add in the answers, not just the questions, weeelll, you're looking at numbers that are positively astronomical and... for that matter the other question is what you lot are doing on this planet in the first place, and er, did anyone try just pushing this little red button?”
―
“Like a snake sheds its skin, we are capable of getting rid of assembled habits, creating space to call matters into question. Instead of the Shakespearian " To be or not to be " we could favor " to become or not to become". By "becoming", we challenge the range of possibilities in our life and go beyond the merely "being". We can retreat, then, from the imprisonment of a deadly routine, acquire an identity and develop our personality. ( "Man without Qualities" )”
―
―
“Life gives us a flair of awareness in the breeze of our daily journey and offers a free reign to explore what we are, to experience what we are not and to find out what we may become: a free ride until everything melts down into the indistinct and indefinite, while walking up to the ultimate gate of non-existence. ("Living on probation")”
―
―
“Hamlet's Cat's Soliloquy
"To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the houselhold's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scraches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.”
― Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse
"To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell. To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt. To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the houselhold's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten? Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scraches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.”
― Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse
“Your insensitivity neither lets me live nor die,
Your betrayal lets me neither smile nor cry,
I can't stand this parting of shores,
Be mine or make me yours.”
― Another World
Your betrayal lets me neither smile nor cry,
I can't stand this parting of shores,
Be mine or make me yours.”
― Another World
“Shaq pe hai yaqeen unko,
Yaqeen pe hai shaq Mujhy.....
.....Kis ka jhoot jhoot hai,
Kis ke sach main sach nahi,
Hai ke hai nahi,
Bas yehi sawaal hai,
Aur sawaal ka jawaab bhi,
Sawaal hai.....
.....Dil ki gar sunoon to hai,
Dimaag ki to hai nahi,
Jaan loon ke jaan doon,
Main rahoon ke main nahi!!”
―
Yaqeen pe hai shaq Mujhy.....
.....Kis ka jhoot jhoot hai,
Kis ke sach main sach nahi,
Hai ke hai nahi,
Bas yehi sawaal hai,
Aur sawaal ka jawaab bhi,
Sawaal hai.....
.....Dil ki gar sunoon to hai,
Dimaag ki to hai nahi,
Jaan loon ke jaan doon,
Main rahoon ke main nahi!!”
―
“Sheep don’t need the shepherd to be what they are. The shepherd needs sheep to be what he is.”
― The New Land
― The New Land
“Do I have the courage of being a ruthless man to myself with the complete knowledge on my manner or I just can be a ruthless man without any clue of "what I am"?
This is the Question.”
―
This is the Question.”
―
“كن دائما واثقا أن اختياراتك هي مرحلة ليس لها نهاية حتي موتك أو موت - الأحلام - التي قد تظهر علي شكل كابوس ....!!”
―
―
“A Phantom Banquet by Stewart Stafford
Forego the seminal salad,
Lest it retraces your lips,
As ambushing vomitus with,
Greasy, peccant aftertaste.
It is not willing regurgitation,
For the young's sustenance,
But spitting of venom, I say,
Rendering venting of spleen.
Savour secret ingredients,
All shall emerge in the end,
A reading of the entrails,
And of potted plots afoul.
© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved”
―
Forego the seminal salad,
Lest it retraces your lips,
As ambushing vomitus with,
Greasy, peccant aftertaste.
It is not willing regurgitation,
For the young's sustenance,
But spitting of venom, I say,
Rendering venting of spleen.
Savour secret ingredients,
All shall emerge in the end,
A reading of the entrails,
And of potted plots afoul.
© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved”
―
“We leave so much in time behind us.
Old worlds, glasses full of whiskey & wine & memories. As children we dreamed of being, becoming. In this twilight we merely dream and sometimes wish for the magnificence of lost moments & days. How could it be that we once lived through these times and never realized that these were the sacred days of magic? Now all we have left are songs & photographs wherein our present being attempts to discover it's own rebirth.
Therefore, 'to be' is the only answer.”
― We Rise Like Smoke Poems Psalms Incantations
Old worlds, glasses full of whiskey & wine & memories. As children we dreamed of being, becoming. In this twilight we merely dream and sometimes wish for the magnificence of lost moments & days. How could it be that we once lived through these times and never realized that these were the sacred days of magic? Now all we have left are songs & photographs wherein our present being attempts to discover it's own rebirth.
Therefore, 'to be' is the only answer.”
― We Rise Like Smoke Poems Psalms Incantations
“The Great Dane by Stewart Stafford
Martyr father of poison sleep,
Rotten carcass of a slain beast,
Wicked stars cast against him,
Beloved, that loved him least.
O maggot of gnawing doubt,
Wriggling along life’s tightrope,
Sleepwalking this broken path,
To a coup de grâce last stroke.
The players unmask dark play,
Trampling nightshade that reeks,
Honour's duel in a snake pit,
The shadow castle grows weak.
© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
―
Martyr father of poison sleep,
Rotten carcass of a slain beast,
Wicked stars cast against him,
Beloved, that loved him least.
O maggot of gnawing doubt,
Wriggling along life’s tightrope,
Sleepwalking this broken path,
To a coup de grâce last stroke.
The players unmask dark play,
Trampling nightshade that reeks,
Honour's duel in a snake pit,
The shadow castle grows weak.
© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
―
“Death's Embrace - A Soliloquy by Stewart Stafford
In sincere tongue, declare with heart:
Art thou but a mimic, shadow of the art,
Or standest thou bold, architect of the new,
Crafting the morrow in thy vision true?
Unburden me from this oppressive weight,
I cannot bear this overwhelming force.
Despair hath found its pinnacle in me,
And I must peer into realms unknown,
If cherished sight fails me at mine end,
I shall renounce all chimeras of the light.
But fall not tamely from Life’s precipice,
Death presses hard on thy frail fingers,
Hold on, cry, resist thy certain ruin!
Trouble's court, may yet bestow thee favour.
Dreams are but fancies giv’n swift wings,
That soar beyond the bounds of reason;
In minds that dare to fly unshackled,
The dreamer becometh the vision.
Love is both a journey and destination:
Long and painful upon the path,
Unsought, yet blissful when it is found.
From dust conjur’d — to stars, we’re turned.
Beware the self-righteous man,
Whose pride does unseat the very world
Before he sees his error.
Piteous wounds of thine own hand,
'Tis easy to judge from afar
Without walking with aching bones.
If there be cause that yet remaineth here,
It showeth their harshness and injustice
To themselves and their loving others.
Mourn their release with mercy and thanks
Transient whispers guide along chance’s way.
Weep not for those who have found Death’s embrace,
They lament for us who tarry on old shores.
Death but ushers a veiled dawn, not life's twilight,
A metamorphosis of guise, not of the spirit's light.
Though we must part for now, we shall be one again.
For love’s wrought by flesh, yet holds not its chain.
Time-worn age stoops; penitents depart.
Pawned as one in vigilant trance
But what a folly 'tis to mark the signs of our undoing;
Memory's comet trails bequeathed to loved ones left,
Contagion's rehearsal on the ephemeral stage.
With luck, a stand-in may go on in thy stead.
Ere thy final bow becomes unavoidable.
With tyrant Death prowling public ways,
I turn from mankind hence to seek delight.
A chamber ceiling seen upon morn's wake,
I say: “The sun does rise? Let's haste away!”
Upon waking, a stone tomb's ashen lid,
I would perchance say: “Alas!..mine eyes do grow heavy.”
A life well-liv’d is not weigh’d by earthly goods
Or the number of mourners at the grave.
Numerous, deep laugh lines tell the tale,
On the face of the person lying still in the crypt,
Reveals threescore years and twelve’s true worth.
Death is not the villain of the piece;
It is the next phase of life, in strange attire.
I accept my fate with grace and courage.
For I have liv’d and lov’d and dream’d enough.
© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
―
In sincere tongue, declare with heart:
Art thou but a mimic, shadow of the art,
Or standest thou bold, architect of the new,
Crafting the morrow in thy vision true?
Unburden me from this oppressive weight,
I cannot bear this overwhelming force.
Despair hath found its pinnacle in me,
And I must peer into realms unknown,
If cherished sight fails me at mine end,
I shall renounce all chimeras of the light.
But fall not tamely from Life’s precipice,
Death presses hard on thy frail fingers,
Hold on, cry, resist thy certain ruin!
Trouble's court, may yet bestow thee favour.
Dreams are but fancies giv’n swift wings,
That soar beyond the bounds of reason;
In minds that dare to fly unshackled,
The dreamer becometh the vision.
Love is both a journey and destination:
Long and painful upon the path,
Unsought, yet blissful when it is found.
From dust conjur’d — to stars, we’re turned.
Beware the self-righteous man,
Whose pride does unseat the very world
Before he sees his error.
Piteous wounds of thine own hand,
'Tis easy to judge from afar
Without walking with aching bones.
If there be cause that yet remaineth here,
It showeth their harshness and injustice
To themselves and their loving others.
Mourn their release with mercy and thanks
Transient whispers guide along chance’s way.
Weep not for those who have found Death’s embrace,
They lament for us who tarry on old shores.
Death but ushers a veiled dawn, not life's twilight,
A metamorphosis of guise, not of the spirit's light.
Though we must part for now, we shall be one again.
For love’s wrought by flesh, yet holds not its chain.
Time-worn age stoops; penitents depart.
Pawned as one in vigilant trance
But what a folly 'tis to mark the signs of our undoing;
Memory's comet trails bequeathed to loved ones left,
Contagion's rehearsal on the ephemeral stage.
With luck, a stand-in may go on in thy stead.
Ere thy final bow becomes unavoidable.
With tyrant Death prowling public ways,
I turn from mankind hence to seek delight.
A chamber ceiling seen upon morn's wake,
I say: “The sun does rise? Let's haste away!”
Upon waking, a stone tomb's ashen lid,
I would perchance say: “Alas!..mine eyes do grow heavy.”
A life well-liv’d is not weigh’d by earthly goods
Or the number of mourners at the grave.
Numerous, deep laugh lines tell the tale,
On the face of the person lying still in the crypt,
Reveals threescore years and twelve’s true worth.
Death is not the villain of the piece;
It is the next phase of life, in strange attire.
I accept my fate with grace and courage.
For I have liv’d and lov’d and dream’d enough.
© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
―
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