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] [imagem: Kumi Yamashita]
Por que não citar também os versos que antecedem esses e que lhes dão a sequência? 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 [etc]…