This evening, while ruminating on a betrayal of a different nature, I found myself drawn to my well-worn copy of Hamlet. By sheer chance – or perhaps some mischievous cosmic design – the tattered old volume fell open at a particular page. The margins, already adorned with the scrawled remnants of a past attempt to untangle Polonius’ famed advice to Laertes, seemed to beckon me anew. With the evening’s passions running high and thoughts swirling like a tempest, I found myself compelled to revisit and expand upon those earlier musings.
Polonius, the quintessential Shakespearean hypocrite, dispensing wisdom like a doddering life coach who’s read half a self-help book and decided he’s cracked the code of existence. “This above all: to thine own self be true.” A noble sentiment, no doubt, and one that has been embroidered onto countless decorative cushions and plastered across motivational posters. But let us not be blinded by its poetic cadence. I intend to dissect this quote with the precision of a surgeon and the irreverence of someone who knows Polonius is a bit of a prat.
First, the opening line: “This above all: to thine own self be true.” At first glance, it’s a cracker of a maxim. Be true to yourself! Stand firm in your identity! Don’t let the world turn you into a snivelling conformist! Except…what if your ‘own self’ is a bit of a git? What if you’re a Machiavellian schemer or a chronic liar? Imagine giving this advice to Iago from Othello. “To thine own self be true,” and suddenly Venice is a shambles. Polonius seems to assume that everyone’s ‘self’ is inherently virtuous, which, as anyone who’s ever met another human being knows, is a wildly optimistic take.
Then we have the second line: “And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” Here, Polonius leans on the natural order of things to bolster his argument. Night follows day, water flows downhill, and apparently, personal integrity guarantees honesty with others. But life, dear reader, is not so straightforward. People are perfectly capable of being true to their own selfish, self-serving natures while lying through their teeth to everyone else. I can be entirely true to myself while fibbing about why I missed your party (spoiler: I just didn’t want to come).
And then there’s the delicious irony of the speaker himself. Polonius is many things – verbose, nosy, and as subtle as a sledgehammer – but true to himself? Hardly. He spends the play spying, meddling, and orchestrating petty intrigues, often to his own detriment. This is a man who sends someone to France to spy on his own son and ends up getting stabbed behind a curtain for his troubles. If Polonius is the poster child for self-truth, I’d rather take my moral guidance from a used car salesman.
But let us not dismiss the quote entirely. There’s something to be said for its aspirational quality. Polonius may be a walking contradiction, but the advice itself has merit – if taken with a pinch of salt. Striving to be true to oneself is a fine endeavour, provided one’s ‘self’ is worth being true to. And perhaps Polonius’ hypocrisy is the point. Shakespeare was no fool; he knew his audience would see through Polonius’ pompous facade. The Bard might well be poking fun at the gap between lofty ideals and human fallibility.
Polonius’ advice is like an overripe fruit: outwardly appealing but prone to collapsing under scrutiny. It’s a reminder that wisdom, even when beautifully phrased, is only as good as the person delivering it – and that sometimes, the best way to be true to oneself is to acknowledge one’s own ridiculousness. Which, I suspect, is something Polonius never quite managed.
Wording 