orginal image taken with fujifinepix
manipulated in PS Elements 7
own stock used
lighting: industrial floodlight
170 veiws 14-01-11
the sorrow and pain of Shakespeare’s Ophelia, is something that always seems to touch deeply in my heart everytime i read “Hamlet”. The madness and the torment she suffers, with the final descion beng suicide, of beliving there is no other option, i think somewhere in the back of my mind, i understand.
One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,
So fast they follow; your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.
Drown’d! O, where?
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Alas, then, she is drown’d?
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will: when these are gone,
The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord:
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly douts it."