Archive for October 2014
Oxbridge University Press is pleased to announce our new Shakespeare Today® series. Our aim is to eliminate all the awkward and pretentious Elizabethan English that makes the bard virtually impossible for modern college students, especially those who’ve been educated in American secondary schools, to read. After all, did Shakespeare’s original groundling Globe Theater hoi polloi audience — London’s fishmongers, shop-keepers, and chimney-sweeps — need dictionaries to look up all those weird words? Did they have to ponder over the complicated sentence constructions? No, it was ordinary language to them. We think it’s in the true spirit of Shakespeare to translate his works into a modern vernacular that today’s semi-literate readers can relate to.
Please enjoy the following sample from our edition of Hamlet, which shows Shakespeare’s original wording followed by our clear, modernized version:
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Should I just stick my head in an oven?
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind
I mean, is it better, brainwise,
to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
to put up with the bullets and missiles of a hypothetical personified power that unpredictably determines events,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?
Or instead to get a bunch of weapons and fight back like Rambo?
To die: to sleep; no more;
Death is sleep.
And, by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache
A sleep where we end acute symptoms of coronary artery disease,
and the thousand natural shocks
and the large number — probably not less than 800 (or else we’d say ‘hundreds’), or more than 1999 (i.e., ‘thousands’), and not astronomical (e.g., ‘millions)’ — of annoyances
that flesh is heir to,
that our bodies are genetically programmed for.
’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.
To die, to sleep;
Recap: death is sleep.
To sleep: perchance to dream:
Wait a second — when you sleep, you dream.
Ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
Who knows what lousy dreams there are
when we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
once we’ve wriggled out of our skin like a snake or frog?
Must give us pause.
Better slow down, dude.
There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life;
That’s why we take all this bullsh*t.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
For who’d put up with letting time first spank and then look down its nose at us,
the oppressor’s wrong,
the proud man’s contumely.
being harangued by a**holes,
the pangs of dispriz’d love,
feeling crappy because your girlfriend or boyfriend dumps you,
the insolence of office,
diplomats who double-park but don’t get tickets,
the law’s delay,
cops never being there when you need them,
and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes,
and bad people pushing you around, no matter how many patience points you’ve earned,
When he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?
when he could make it all go away with an awl, or a stiletto-shaped steel hairpin, or, by extension, any dagger or dagger-like object?
Who would fardels bear,
Who’d carry piles of sticks around on their backs,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
To perspire and make pig-like noises when really tired?
But that the dread of something after death,
If we didn’t get nauseous thinking how it could actually be worse
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns,
beyond the boundaries of that place for which Travelocity only sells one-way tickets?
puzzles the will,
It makes us give up and look for the answers at the bottom of the page,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of?
And ask like “Why fly to Rio, only to get kidnapped there or worse?”
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
Thus, either (1) a socially-conditioned mental function that inhibits expression of natural instincts, or (2) an innate moral faculty which some associate with the ‘image and likeness’ of God, makes us all chicken.
And thus the native hue of resolution
And the red face we get, like an indigenous person, when we’re fired up and rarin’ to go
is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
is plastered over the sick look of someone who thinks too much.