What a Piece of Work is Man

A friend invited me to see "Hair" tonight, on Broadway, which I realized with a start once it began I had never before seen performed live. Some of the songs seemed wholly unfamiliar, including one, whose lyrics struck me, both because I liked them, and because they echoed a phrase that so reminds me of my mother, and my grandfather, a phrase I myself use all the time. I know it is only a matter of time before Lily utters it; I hope she will be grateful that although I have continued in the longstanding tradition of "piece of work," I have fully exorcised "gauchos" and "slacks." But mostly I like the concept. I usually refer to individuals as a piece of work, but Shakespeare, as per usual, had it right (even though he was actually using the phrase reverentially, not with exasperation, as per the excerpt that follows). But man is a piece of work. The whole damn lot of us.

From Shakespeare's Hamlet:

I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.