HELE VERDEN ER EN SCENE

Hele verden er en scene, skrev Shakespeare. Jeg fant diktet for å se hvilket sceneskife som står for tur. Et sted mellom kriger og rettferdighet er kanskje stedet jeg befinner meg på? Jeg sloss fortsatt - om enn med lite resultat, syns jeg nok. Og strever med rettferdighet som ikke finns på denne jorda. De to neste tidsaldrene frister meg lite, selv om brillene sitter på nesen allerede. 

Ordet pantaloon er bukser og oblivion er glemsel. Ikke et stadium man higer etter, akkurat.

 

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts, 

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history, 

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.