Inversion.

"The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark"

SCENE I. Elsinore. A platform before the castle.

FRANCISCO at his post. Enter to him BERNARDO

BERNARDO

Who's there?

FRANCISCO

Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.

BERNARDO

Long live the king!

FRANCISCO

Bernardo?

BERNARDO

He.

FRANCISCO

You come most carefully upon your hour.

BERNARDO

'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.

FRANCISCO For this relief much thanks: 'tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.

Across the continent and on the island for the first time: here's one from the Bard. But first, I want to quickly explain why I've chosen this particular passage for tonight: events in and around my life have curiously enough reflected a conversation I had with one of my professors this last Thursday. During coffee and Dante-housekeeping, he suddenly referenced the opening of Hamlet and noted that there is something terribly awry in the scene that presents itself. As an opening scene it does much to reflect the disorder that will follow in the play for at this point, it is not the guard who asks "who's there" but the apparent passer-by. Yet, while thinking about this scene right now, I am thinking of sheer uselessness of prophecy and warning-- do we ever read the signs to begin with?
This question sequence is a fascinating one though; "Who's there" says Bernardo who has just entered upon Francisco's guard. Francisco's reply "nay, answer me," however, is uncanny-- suggesting almost as if an exchange unknown to audience or reader has taken place already. This, of course, is yet another reflection of the events to follow-- there will be events and conversations that take place without Hamlet's knowledge. This exclusion of his figure from the events of the play make him resemble, strangely enough, us, the readers or audience who watch and read, but emerge finally without much knowledge of what has occurred.
I wonder if inversion comes hand-in-hand with a loss of the self. Bernardo's self-identification is his loyalty to the King of Denmark, and by his attachment to the hour of midnight. He is not Bernardo, but rather the King's servant and the midnight guard. He begins after the day ends. In other words, he is someone who is not himself-- in fact, perhaps we can say that he hails the spirit of inversion and chaos that not only characterizes Hamlet, but is also seen in other Shakespearan tragedies, Romeo and Juliet and King Lear (I just cannot forget the scene of Cordelia carrying her aged father) being among them.

Now to come back to the question I asked at first, what does it mean to have a sign in the first place? Is the sign or the prophecy just a privilege of the author, and a trick that is played upon the reader? There are several things at play here I think-- yes, the sign is most likely something the author wants to show off with, but it may well be also something that is completely unimportant. What I mean to say here is that the sign enters at the very beginning of many Shakespearan and sometimes even Greek plays, precisely because the beginning is the point that no one cares about, that audiences fail to hear, and that readers tend to dismiss. Who cares whether Benvolio and Tybalt fight at the beginning-- this is a supposed to be a play about lovers? Who care whether the guards are babbling nonsense on a cold night-- isn't this play about a royal family? The unimportant place of the sign is then, I think, an awful reflection on human nature itself, on its optimism, its perseverance, and its inability to admit defeat until the benign sign is suddenly the unleashed beast.