Poor Ophelia, that she should go mad for Hamlet’s actions. If he’s not mad, but she goes mad for his choices, it’s a sorry outcome.

That Hamlet should see the sacrifice of many, for a poor trifle of land, as justification for his own murderous actions, well that makes more sense.

That I should be acquiring two-dollar copies of Hamlets at used bookstores, stuffing them up in my closet—there’s a tragedy!

Until now, I’ve never read Hamlet. Not entirely, not specifically. I am 32 years old, close to the age of Jesus when crucified (supposedly 33). He never read Hamlet either. But he had an excuse. If he exists, we can assume he’s read it now. He’s had enough time. By that measure, I’m not doing so bad.

If I’d taken those advance placement English classes, I would have read it. But at some point I made the foolish decision that to be writer, you should take writing classes. That I made it through high school and college without reading of the Danish Price, is evidence of a failure. But most probably with me. That I took four semesters of drama (five if you count junior college) without reading Hamlet, that’s something else: drama classes are based on scenes and monologues.

To say it plainly: I never read ‘Hamlet’. Never. After a while you just pretend, since the play is so much a part of us. It’s like saying that you have no DNA. So I make schoolboy errors in my reading today. And yet, missing ‘Hamlet’ is not the greatest of my youthful regrets. Yet, if I’d read the play, it probably would have given me an idea of how much my indecision would haunt me (Holden Caulfield was then my god).

Just today, the King has learned that his step-son was captured by pirates. I could rush the end, but I savour my endings. Plays unfold either in your head or on the stage. Even if all my observations are obvious—or even worse, wrong—they are honest. Plus, I have other ideas.