Fine Arts: Theatre Arts
Final Project

Soliloquies

What Should I Do As A Final Project?

To make a webpage, or not to make a webpage: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of erroneous code,
Or to take arms against a sea of invalidation,
And by debugging end them? To code, to not sleep;
No more; and by not sleeping to say we end
The spring quarter and the thousand caps of Advil
That headache will be heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be graded. To code, to not sleep;
To not sleep: perchance to make something awesome: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that one enlightened moment of eureka what grades may come
For when we have shuffled off this Fine Arts requirement,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long to get a degree;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of red ink,
The professor’s wrong, the proud graduate’s contumely,
The pangs of an uneven boy-girl ratio, campus safety’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
Without a winter jacket? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under unrealistic assignments,
But that the dread of something after graduation,
The undiscover’d job market from whose bourn
Makes graduates rich, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the insane cold
Than fly to others that we look snootily upon?
Thus conscience does make n00bs of us all;
And thus the native hue of procrastination
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of learning,
And projects of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And gain the name of action. – Soft you now!
The fair Fine Arts professor! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be my Fine Arts requirement remember’d.

View original from Hamlet, Act III scene 1

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Graduating Senior, Act V, Scene 4

Is this a degree which I see before me,
The red ribbon toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee,.
I have thee not, but yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, distant vision, sensible
To education as to a piece of paper? or art thou but
A degree of an online school, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this for which I labor
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an education I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else not worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy diploma and ribbon gouts of ink,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the learning business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked projects abuse
The curtain'd sleep; hackers celebrates
Pale nerdy offerings, and wither'd hands,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, Bill Gates,
Whose operating system's his watch, thus with his steady pace.
With Gates's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou swampy and not firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, but suck my shoes off me for fear
Thy very reeds prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now rapidly approaches 11:59:59. Whiles I threat, it lives:
Code hacked during late-night deeds too cold breath gives.
A clock chimes
I submitted, and it is done; the bed invites me.
Hear it well, professor; for it is a knell
That summons me to heaven or hell.

View original from Macbeth, Act II scene 1