Horatio hasn't idealism, only philosophy, which is a kind of idealism in itself. An opposite of logic, really, since one is saying what if. What if the soul, what if God, what if heaven, what if love, what if life? No All, None, Some, or Somenot, none of that.
The tea and bread, of course, have more to do with his nature than his philosophy; but he does make them very well, and his nature and his philosophy both would suggest that sharing them with Guildenstern is a good thing to do with them.
As also, Guildenstern's enjoyment of good tea and bread doesn't necessarily stem from his silent faith in idealism -- but as situations go, this is pretty close to perfection. There isn't anything immediately confusing, that's always a plus: and there's the company of a relatively sane man, as well as good tea and bread.
"Thank you," he says abruptly, two beats too late for timeliness.
Not immediately confusing and relatively sane describe Horatio quite accurately, really, and his china is the kind of normal flowered white that anybody would have, none of his mismatched cups and saucers; and the bread is hot and new.
He smiles, at his ease, and doesn't seem to notice the space. "Thou'rt welcome."
Banality reassures Guildenstern before the perfection of the setting pricks uncomfortably at his defenses. It might be a little rude to be on guard, though, he thinks.
Comments 39
The tea and bread, of course, have more to do with his nature than his philosophy; but he does make them very well, and his nature and his philosophy both would suggest that sharing them with Guildenstern is a good thing to do with them.
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"Thank you," he says abruptly, two beats too late for timeliness.
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He smiles, at his ease, and doesn't seem to notice the space. "Thou'rt welcome."
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He had something to say, but he's forgotten it.
Instead, he blurts out -- "How do you do it?"
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