HAMLET         ’A took my father grossly full of bread

With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May,

And how his audit stands who knows, save heaven,

But in our circumstance and course of thought

’Tis heavy with him. And am I then revenged

To take him in the purging of his soul

When he is fit and seasoned for his passage?

No. [Sheathes sword.]            (3.3.80-87)

Then fury and disgust and grief overcome Hamlet again, his anguish over the manner of his father’s death even more prominent in his imagining than the fact of it in this moment: ’a took my father grossly full of bread with all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May. My dad wasn’t ready to die, he had no chance to prepare himself! No time to repent! (He was full of bread because he could not fast in repentance, here standing for repentance in general, but it suggests a life of pleasure, of appetites indulged.) He hadn’t confessed his sins, done penance; he wasn’t in a state of grace when he died, but rather all his crimes were broad blown, as flush as May, verdant as springtime: Hamlet’s echoing his father’s own description of dying in the blossom of his sin. It’s an image ironically appropriate for a garden death, but that’s part of its horror, as if a decaying, overblown wreath of roses, a ghastly funeral tribute, has interposed itself on Hamlet’s memories. My father’s sins were ripe, full-blown—but he wasn’t ready! (And neither were we; we couldn’t say goodbye!)

And so I’m really worried, I’m just agonized at the thought that my dad’s in hell. The not knowing, it’s eating me up (along with everything else that’s eating me up). And how his audit stands who knows, save heaven, but in our circumstance and course of thought ’tis heavy with him. It just doesn’t look good, there’s no way of knowing the details, what’s on his charge sheet, as it were, and I HATE not knowing, hate it. I’m so worried, I feel so helpless, not being able to do anything.

So, in the circumstances, am I then revenged to take him in the purging of his soul, when he is fit and seasoned for his passage? If I were to kill my uncle now, he’d be in exactly the opposite position, praying, confessing, in a state of grace. (Probably. No way of knowing.) But in any case, the best possible circumstances in which to die, surely? The next best thing to a direct flight, with a get out of jail free card? No. No. I can’t do it, I can’t take that chance. I won’t do it. No. (The movement in this speech from now to no is striking, and extremely cool.)