"To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of Death what Dreams may come"

(Copyrights belongs to me)

If you, my dear reader, have never read any of the William Shakespeare's work, I recommend that you do. I'm currently - at least one quarter of my time - completing a course of "English" literature. Few books I need to read and I chose books I've already read at least once before. I'm trying to save up time as much as possible.

And Shakespeare's "Hamlet" is one of those books. It's a short, tragic story about a man, who has a short and tragic life. He's obsessed and haunted by the dark truth around him and in the end his path for vengeance becomes with a high cost not only for him, but for his loved ones around him. I'm sure someone with more talent for words could paint you a very attractive picture of the story, but I can still recommend the book for anyone curious enough. I can say this for sure, it's a book worth reading.

“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! 

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet