Sound and Fury
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour on the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
All this time I have been trying to be practical, to avoid big and empty talks, to see things in their material terms, to live the now, and in other words, to restrain from being too philosophical and miss the whole point of living. So I try to take in all the arguments that are going on out there and react in a way that has some significance to the society instead of assuming a stoical stance. Yet I realize I am one of those who are more capable of wearing myself out by thinking too much than productive actions. I feel keenly this – even more than powerlessness, which my colleague mentioned earlier – futility, this meaninglessness, this nothingness, of human passions, desires and actions, and of life itself, which is expressed by Shakespeare through Macbeth and many of his other tragic heroes, and some other authors who have a reputation for nihilism. I never wished to detach myself from life but I can feel in me this tendency to withdraw from it. And when this mood strikes me, I know I am going back to write. A tale full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.