An exploration of what constitutes the literary arts – plus all the ‘troubled hearts’ and demons that accompany it – through the lens of Shakespeare’s HamletNow, Mother, What’s the Matter?Only the monsters do not have troubled hearts. Life is for troubled hearts. Art is for troubled hearts. For my whole life, Hamlet has been a bridge between. Hamlet’s ‘Now, mother, what’s the matter?’ is life on earth. Something is always the matter, and not just for mothers. (As I write this, the Angelus rings.) Every character in Hamlet is troubled, there are no monsters in it. I render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s — everything is troubled there and, if I am lucky, Caesar is troubled. I render unto God the things that are God’s and feel — want to feel? Do feel — that God is troubled. I also render unto art. But I have no idea what art is. What Edward Thomas’s ‘Adlestrop’ is. What the luminous chaos of The Portrait of a Lady is. What The Pilgrim’s Progress is. My feet knew the way before I opened the book: that just before the gate to heaven is yet another hole to hell. Continue reading...