Did literature's most famous character have a near-death experience? Literally, no. But figuratively or symbolically, maybe yes.
I'm talking about Hamlet, the title character in William Shakespeare's greatest tragedy. About halfway through the play, Hamlet is shipped off to England by the perfidious King Claudius. Unknown to the prince, but revealed to the reader or spectator of the play, Claudius has enclosed letters of instruction with Hamlet that will result in the young man's execution when he touches English soil.
After this unsettling development, Hamlet disappears from the play for the second half of Act Four. He does not die, of course -- not yet. But his extended absence from the stage, coupled with a recurring motif of close shaves with death, powerfully suggest that he has symbolically died and been reborn. In fact, he may be said to "die" three times.
His first death -- or near-death -- involves the aforementioned letters. They are meant to seal his doom, but by a lucky accident (or stroke of fate) he discovers their contents and deftly substitutes new letters which ensure the death of his companions, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. That's his first escape.
Next, his ship is set upon by a pirate vessel, and in the fighting he -- and he alone -- is taken prisoner. Most prisoners of marauding pirates would be executed without delay, but these pirates recognize that Hamlet is of noble birth, and not wishing to get themselves in trouble with the Danish crown, they deposit Hamlet unharmed on the shore of Denmark.
Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them: on the instant they got clear of our ship; so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy: but they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them.
That's his second escape.*
Having cheated death twice, Hamlet is reunited with his friend Horatio in time to see the funeral of his beloved Ophelia. During the burial, he impulsively leaps into Ophelia's grave and struggles with her brother, Laertes. The fight is broken up, and Hamlet emerges from the grave saying dejectedly,
I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.
It appears to be the first time he has realized that he truly loved her.
Many readers have wondered why Hamlet engages in this rather melodramatic action. "He is mad," Claudius says, but is he? Perhaps the main reason for this bit of business is that it serves as a visual dramatization of the idea of death and rebirth. He enters a grave, then leaves it.
In short, three times we are confronted with the same idea: Hamlet is effectively dead yet somehow still alive. His time off stage seems to involve more than a simple respite for the fatigued actor, though doubtless it serves this purpose as well. It is as if, by hiding Hamlet from us for a while, Shakespeare wishes to convey the idea of his temporary departure from this earth and then his reappearance.
If this were all there was to it, the motif of close shaves with death -- or near-death experiences, as I would prefer to call them -- would be only a meaningless gimmick. But there is something more. In Act Five, Hamlet is a markedly different man than he was when we last saw him. He seems considerably older, even though in "real-time" only a few weeks have passed. More important, he seems wiser, more philosophical, more fatalistic, and less prone to the self-doubt that hampered him throughout the first three and a half acts.
It is in Act Five that Hamlet delivers his famous lines about destiny:
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
He considers the briefness of life:
It will be short: the interim is mine;
And a man's life's no more than to say 'One.'
But instead of being discouraged by this fact, he takes it in stride:
Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?
He has come to a calm acceptance of his own mortality, a subject that tortured him in previous scenes, most notably in the famous "to be or not to be" soliloquy. He also has a new perspective on the meaninglessness of worldly affairs -- whether they are the conquests of Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar or the pretenses of courtiers like the fawning Osric.
Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:
O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw! ...
He [Osric] hath much land, and fertile: let a
beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at
the king's mess: 'tis a chough; but, as I say,
spacious in the possession of dirt.
Kings and conquerors are, in the end, only "clay," and the estate of an ambitious courtier is but "dirt." Here is the rejection of all material striving.
Finally, just before his climactic duel with Laertes, Hamlet apologizes with obvious sincerity for having wronged him.
Give me your pardon, sir: I've done you wrong;
But pardon't, as you are a gentleman.
This presence knows,
And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd
With sore distraction. What I have done,
That might your nature, honour and exception
Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness....
Sir, in this audience,
Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil
Free me so far in your most generous thoughts,
That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,
And hurt my brother.
Now, if we think about it, Hamlet's new vantage point on matters of life and death, destiny and fate, ambition and revenge, is surprisingly similar to the change of heart often reported by near-death experiencers.
People who have undergone a near-death experience will frequently say that they no longer fear death, that they believe in a higher purpose for their lives and for the universe, that they are less concerned with material things, and that they seek to atone for their earlier wrongdoing. They are often described as exhibiting newfound serenity and philosophical detachment combined with sincere compassion and uncharacteristic outpourings of love. And they seem to be older and wiser than their years.
Just like Hamlet.
What are we to make of this? Is it only a coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe the author of Hamlet had a close brush with death himself -- even an actual NDE -- and emerged from the experience altered in the same way that modern near-death experiencers are altered.
Most scholars agree that Hamlet is Shakespeare's most autobiographical play and that the protagonist is, in some sense, a stand-in for the author himself. If so, and if the author had a life-changing experience like an NDE, then this is the play in which we would expect to see some evidence of it.
And I think that possibly -- just possibly -- we do.
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*For those who, like me, are partial to the theory that the true author of Shakespeare's works was the Earl of Oxford, Edward De Vere, it is worth noting that, upon his return from Europe, De Vere himself was captured by pirates. Like Hamlet, he was faced with the prospect of immediate execution until his noble status was discerned. At that point, the pirates made the prudent decision to land him on English soil. This is only one of many remarkable parallels between incidents in Shakespearean plays and in the life of Edward De Vere. See Mark Anderson's superb biography of the Earl of Oxford for further details.
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