GENTLEMAN             Her speech is nothing,

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move

The hearers to collection. They yawn at it

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts

Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them,

Indeed would make one think there might be thought,

Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

HORATIO        ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew

Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman.]   (4.5.7-16)

I think that the Gentleman’s description of Ophelia’s ‘mad’ speech is extraordinary, but easily overlooked in comparison with the vividness of her own utterances; it’s so evocative in its attempt to capture the effects—and affects—of incoherence. Her speech is nothing—it doesn’t make sense, it’s inconsequential, nonsensical—yet the unshaped use of it doth move the hearers to collection. Something about what she says makes those who hear her attempt to find sense in it, to put together the pieces themselves. (Collection suggests recollection too: Ophelia makes people think; she makes them remember.) They—the hearers—yawn at it; they gape with surprise, are struck by her words, and botch the words up fit to their own thoughts. They piece together, patch together her words and find their own significance in them (botch is the word used for mending or altering or remaking, especially of clothes; the term wasn’t necessarily pejorative, and a botcher had the same relationship to a tailor as a cobbler to a shoe-maker). Ophelia’s words are perhaps even given an oracular quality here: yes, her hearers make their own interpretations, but the suggestion is also perhaps that they find a kind of personal significance too. Overall, it’s clear that Ophelia is deeply troubled and distressed: as her winks and nods and gestures yield them, indeed would make one think there might be thought, though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Everything that she’s saying and doing, her tics and gesticulations suggest that something is badly, badly wrong. And people are starting to put two and two together, to join the dots.

Horatio somehow seems to have taken charge, too (in Q2 at least; in F Gertrude says this), as the Queen perhaps dithers: ’twere good she were spoken with—you need to talk to her, no more avoidance (and also, implicitly, if you don’t talk to her, Claudius or his goons might)—for she may strew dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. If you don’t see her, if you don’t take control (of the narrative), people will start to draw their own conclusions—and they’ll gossip, get all stirred up, and this will get out of control. You’ll have a rebellion on your hands, he doesn’t quite say, but that’s the implication. Ophelia’s gone rogue, and people are listening to her. So, let her come in.