CW: suicidal ideation
HAMLET Who would fardels bear
To grunt and sweat under a weary life
But that the dread of something after death
(The undiscovered 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. (3.1.75-81)
Who would fardels bear—carry a burden, a load; it’s the word used for a bundle, the pack that a traveller or pedlar might bear, the suggestion perhaps being not simply of bearing a heavy load but having to carry it from place to place, implicitly on one’s back. There’s a particular class angle here, metaphorically and literally: who would be a labourer, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, simply existing to work, to be exhausted, like an animal, a beast of burden, reduced to mere physical capacity, staggering, crawling, weighed down. Who’d want to do that? Well, that’s all of us, drained, worn out by the stress and strain of existence. Why bother? Why not just—end it—if that’s all life offers?
Ah. But that the dread of something after death. Something. Dread, not just fear, dread, creeping, visceral, full-body. Death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns: the fardel sets up the conceit, partly, death as the place where, on crossing the border, the burden might finally be laid down? But there’s no way of knowing, because no one ever comes back… (Except the Ghost, and he’s carrying a heck of a lot of baggage. A fardel is, etymologically, something that can be unfolded, unbundled, like a tale.) The country remains unknown, undiscovered, in the sense of undescribed, unrevealed. But that dread, it puzzles the will, it baffles and frustrates us, leaves us bewildered, confounded, unable to act. That fear of the unknown and the unknowability of death—that it might be worse than what we have—makes us rather bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. We put up with what we’ve got, even if it’s unbearable, because the alternative could be so much worse.