To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow…
I feel a bit Shakespearean today.
I don’t want to sit at the office and look at ridiculous stories about ridiculous celebrities. Or potter past the political bureau and see them write ridiculous stories about ridiculous politicians. Or stroll into the crime reporters’ section and hear them discuss ridiculous stories about ridiculous Indian men. (I dislike Indian men. I dislike them intensely. They are nasty little creatures with big egos and small brains and we all know in which part of the anatomy those small brains are situated – certainly not the skull.)
All those ridiculous stories about those ridiculous people have been done before and will be done again, over and over and over and over and over again.
More than any other profession perhaps, journalism makes you cynical.
I feel particularly cynical today.
I want to go home and curl up in my armchair and read Macbeth.
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 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 upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.”
Macbeth, Act V, Scene v.