Hamlet himself is probably one of the most unsavory, melodramatic, whiny, self-obsessed, misogynistic and ridiculous characters Shakespeare ever concocted. If I were rating this book based on the character of Hamlet, I wouldn't give it any stars. Just a good, hard kick in the pants. 
 But I'm a fool for Shakespeare. I'm a fool for his language, this brilliance he cuts from his skin and pours on to the paper. I'm a fool for his ability to work an insanely gripping and engaging plot out of a premise that, when explained over dinner, seems like the most boring and simplistic thing on earth. What's Hamlet about? It's a revenge play. 
 What does that mean? 
 It's about revenge. A power struggle. Justice. And the cold, hard truth. 
 Yeah, but what's it about? 
 IT'S ABOUT-- 
 Oh, never mind. 
 Hamlet really is a masterpiece. That's not the holier-than-thou booksnob inside me talking, either. It truly is one of Shakespeare's best works, if not the best. Y'all are aware of my soft spot for Macbeth, but that's cultural. Hamlet is a standing triumph. 
 My main reasoning? Oh, you know already. Shakespeare's revolting ability to knead and mould the English language, in all its vulgarity, into this glorious, shining thing. 
 It's disgusting, really, and quite dishonest to be able to weasel four stars out of me with the sheer beauty of the writing, when pretty much all the characters in this play ought to have handlebar mustaches. It's like witchcraft. 
 Shakespeare, you and I. Our relationship. 
 It's a tricky one.