"Be like a flower and turn your face to the sun."
- Kahlil Gibran
"Children don't read to find their identity, to free themselves from guilt, to quench the thirst for rebellion or to get rid of alienation. They have no use for psychology.... They still believe in God, the family, angels, devils, witches, goblins, logic, clarity, punctuation, and other such obsolete stuff.... When a book is boring, they yawn openly. They don't expect their writer to redeem humanity, but leave to adults such childish illusions." ~Isaac Bashevis Singer~
"Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own." ~William Hazlitt~
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts," said Ophelia to her brother Laertes. "There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died."As I mentioned before, Shakespeare knew exactly what he wanted to portray when he wrote about specific flowers. Shakespeare and many of his contemporaries had a fascination with early civilizations, especially the "Golden Age of Greece" and incorporated their myths for themselves. In Ophelia's speech, most of the flowers are based upon the Greek myths and stories. Ophelia starts off with "rosemary for "remembrance". Greek students would wear wreaths of rosemary as they believed it helped them with memorizing their studies. In Shakespeare's time, rosemary developed new meanings and associations. If a man couldn't smell the fragrance of rosemary, he was known for never being able to love a woman properly. If a home had a rosemary bush in the front yard it said to everyone that the woman was the head of the household. It was also believed to ward off certain types of illness. If you slept with a sprig of rosemary beneath your pillow, it would help to bring sweet dreams. Ophelia sadly beseeches Hamlet to remember.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.