HAMLET         That it should come to this:

But two months dead – nay not so much, not two –

So excellent a king, that was to this

Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven

Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth,

Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him

As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on.       (1.2.137-145)

Hamlet’s distress, the sense that he’s only just hanging on to some kind of control over what he’s saying and doing, is manifested in his syntax almost more than in what he’s saying. He interrupts himself, ends sentences on the half line; it’s choppy, flailing, a rush of memories and emotions that he can’t manage to process or even fully articulate before it’s on to the next thing. That it should come to this, that this is where things have ended up: but two months dead, that’s how long he’s been gone, my father, only two months—nay, not so much, not two—is it even that long? It feels not much more than yesterday. Then another thought: so excellent a king he was, all you could ask for, a paragon, my role model—that was to this–there might be a contemptuous gesture after his uncle Claudius, in comparison with, that, that thing, he was like Hyperion, the actual sun-god, in comparison to a satyr, a shaggy, drunken, permanently priapic monster, half-man, half-goat. No comparison! And in particular—another shift, another facet of memory—he was so loving to my mother (perhaps in comparison with what’s already been seen of Claudius?), so gentle and solicitous, that he might not beteem the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly. A fleeting sensuality there, a lingering close-up, as Hamlet imagines the breeze playing with his mother’s hair, cooling her cheeks, remembers his father pulling her closer, sheltering her from any chill. He remembers his father as attentive, protective, kind—heaven and earth, must I remember? A kind of unanticipated horror: that beautiful image that’s just flashed into my mind, it’s torture, absolute torture. Is this what it’s going to be like, every glowing memory, every pin-sharp recollection a new agony, a fresh reminder of what’s been lost? Have I no control over what I remember, and when, and how? Then, almost as if it’s the next few frames in that old family movie: why, she would hang on him as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on. He loved her so much—and she loved him too, passionately; the more she had of him, the more she wanted him. I can see her now, clinging to him, her arms around his neck, as if she couldn’t get enough of him… It’s an idealised picture, almost a child’s-eye view of the grown-ups, as Hamlet cannot but remember.