HAMLET         ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, cold mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,

Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,

That can denote me truly. These indeed ‘seem’,

For they are actions that a man might play,

But I have that within which passes show,

These but the trappings and the suits of woe.        (1.2.77-86)

Now he’s finally speaking, it’s as if he can’t stop, as Hamlet bites back at his mother’s suggestion that this mourning business has gone on long enough, that he’s showing off, perhaps, claiming some kind of special status for his grief. Oh no, he says, not having that—you think I’m just putting on some kind of act? ’Tis not alone my inky cloak—this all-enveloping wrapper (I use the word wrapper deliberately: books of mourning and memorial poems were sometimes printed with black pages or black wrappers, hence, inky). It’s not just the mourner’s cloak, cold mother (notorious crux, etc etc—sometimes good mother, or could smother). Cold mother seems appropriate to the not very implicit accusation he’s levelling at her: where are your feelings? why aren’t you still grieving too? why don’t you care any more, about him, about me? And it’s not just the customary suits of solemn black, the formal mourning that one should wear, even after the funeral’s over and done with. And, setting aside the clothes, it’s not the windy suspiration of forced breath, the sighs and groans of grief, a little personal storm, big feelings trying to get out, the gasping for breath in between the sobs even. It’s not the fruitful river in the eye, all the tears I’ve wept, am weeping, will weep in torrents, overflowing in floods. And it’s not the dejected haviour of the visage, the fact that I look, you know, really really down all the time. None of those things, together with all the other forms, moods, shapes of grief—whatever you can imagine—that can denote me truly.

Everything I’m wearing, every expression, every sound I make, every action—all of them together can’t add up to how I’m actually feeling at the moment, can’t capture the essence of me, grieving and bereft. All of them might indeed ‘seem’,go some way towards gesturing at the state of me, the nature of my grief; after all, they are actions that a man might play, going through the motions, to perform some approximation of the grief-stricken son. All of these are not inconsiderable; they’re not pointless or wholly superficial; they have their place—as you can see. But I have that within which passes show, these but the trappings and the suits of woe. All of this—including all of what I’ve just said, spitting it out at you, perhaps causing you pain—it barely scratches the surface or touches the sides, only gives the most weak and partial expression to the violence and desolation of my grief. Thanks for asking, though.