HAMLET         Heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee.

I am dead, Horatio. Wretched Queen, adieu.

You that look pale and tremble at this chance,

That are but mutes or audience to this act,

Had I but time (as this fell sergeant Death

Is strict in his arrest) – O, I could tell you –

But let it be. Horatio, I am dead.

Thou livest: report me and my cause aright

To the unsatisfied.     (5.2.316-324)

Claudius is dead, Laertes is dead—and Hamlet forgives the latter, at least, for being the cause of his own death: heaven make thee free of it. I follow thee: such a simple statement, a wondering concession, yes, I’m coming after you, to that undiscovered country, and soon. And Hamlet’s lurching, fighting for breath, those short sentences as he gathers himself for his last words, beginning with the obvious—and there can still be a note of surprise: I am dead, Horatio. This is it, after all the wondering, flirting with the possibility, looking over the edge, testing the ice. This is it. A glance to his mother—can he even get to her, to touch, embrace, kiss farewell? Probably not. Wretched Queen, adieu. (I’m sorry, mum, is implicit.) Then he rallies just a touch, addressing the appalled onstage spectators, and the audience: you that look pale and tremble at this chance, who are so shocked, lost for words at what’s played out here, all this terrible bad luck, you who are but mutes or audience to this act, doomed to be bystanders, witnesses, unable to intervene or even comment. (The condition of the theatre audience; the condition, all too often, of being human.) Oh, had I but time—and now he asks for time?—as this fell sergeant Death is strict in his arrest—because time is really running out now, I’m in the grip of death, here vividly imagined as a warrant officer, a guard, both taking him away and stopping him in his tracks—O, I could tell you. The things I could tell you. I could EXPLAIN everything. I could. (Hamlet’s echoing his father: I could a tale unfold. But the tale remains untold.) But let it be. No time. No words. No need? Again, gasping, gripping his friend’s hand: Horatio, I am dead. Definite this time. Almost there, not incredulous, but rather firm. Thou livest: he’s not just stating the obvious, he’s making it the most salient thing. You can do all the things I can’t; you have time. Report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied? Can you try to explain, give a fair account of what I’ve done and why I did it? Tell the truth, the tale of me?