suspiration

I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly.

(14) So, Shakespeare in Love got him exactly inside out when Tom Stoppard imagined his existential crisis to be a writer's block, since what his recurring execution metaphors make plain is how this most secretive of writers identified "windy suspiration of forc'd breath" (Hamlet, 1.2.79) with racked confession and self-expression itself with disembowelment on the scaffold.

I know not 'seems.' 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good-mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected behaviour of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief That can denote me truly.

His diction in many places is difficult: "onanisms," "cataleptic," "tryptychs," "super-decibelled," "octopused," "sclerosied," "catacomb," "clavicles," "chiaroscuro," "reticulate," and "suspiration." Moreover, he is fond of biblical, classical, and other forms of allusions, not only to give breadth and profundity to his experience but also to register his humanity.