julius-caesar

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus, and we petty menWalk under his huge legs and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonorable graves.Men at some time are masters of their fates.The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our starsBut in ourselves, that we are underlings.

There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune..._ _ William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Alas, my lord, your wisdom is consumed in confidence.

Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.

The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.

The educated man, habitually, almost without noticing it, sees the present as something that grows out of a long perspective of centuries. In my the minds of my RAF hearers this perspective simply did not exist. It seemed to me that they did not really believe that we have any reliable knowledge of historic man. But this was often curiously combined with a conviction that we knew a great deal about Prehistoric Man: doubtless because Prehistoric Man is labelled "Science" (which is reliable) whereas Napoleon or Julius Caesar is labelled as "History" (which is not.

You must bear losses like a soldier, the voice told me, bravely and without complaint, and just when the day seems lost, grab your shield for another stand, another thrust forward. That is the juncture that separates heroes from the merely strong.

Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know / When though didst hate him worst, thou loved__t him better / Than ever thou loved__t Cassius.

Brutus: Kneel not, gentle Portia.Portia: I should need not, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

Must I observe you? Must I stand & crouchUnder your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom ofyour spleen,Though it do split you, for, from thisday forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea,for my laughter, when you are waspish.

Marcus Brutus was the original tragic hero of the play __ulius Caesar_, Aditya concluded. Perhaps, Shakespeare should have named his play __arcus Brutus_. But then again, it all must have boiled down to saleability and marketing; Julius Caesar being the more famous and thus bankable name. Ironical it was, Aditya smiled. The same Shakespeare had once said-__hat__ in a name...

Are you ready to be rejoined for all time with your fellow gods? Oh yes, she explained, For not only was he a god, but so were all mortals gods in disguise, divorced from their divine lineage, their true identities, shrouded from their earthly selves. That is what she now revealed to him; He had been one of the rare humans who had not forgotten the connection with his divine self, and had lived like a god his mortal life.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus; and we petty menWalk under his huge legs, and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonourable graves.

As they spoke, the only thing I could think about was that scene from Julius Caesar where Brutus stabs him in the back. Et tu, Eric?

Hot from hell. Caesar's spirit raging in revenge. Cry,havoc! And let slip the dogs of war.

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!