Rosencrantz

Guildenstern: — England! I don't believe it!
Rosencrantz: — Just a conspiracy of cartographers you mean.

— Hamlet is not himself outside or in. We have to glean what afflicts him. He's melancholy. Melancholy? Mad.
— How is he mad?
— How's he mad? More morose than mad perhaps. Melancholy. Moody. He had moods. Of moroseness? Madness and yet. Quite. For instance. He talks to himself which might be madness. If he didn't talk sense, which he does. Which suggests the opposite. Of what?
— I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself... is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself. Or just as mad. Or just as mad. And he does both. So there you are. Start raving sane.

Half of what he said meant something else, and the other half didn't mean anything at all.

Do you think death could possibly be a boat?

— The old man thinks he's in love with his daughter.
— My God... We're out of our depth here!
— No, no, no, he hasn't got a daughter, the old man thinks he's in love with his daughter.
— The old man is?
— Hamlet. In love. Man's daughter. The old man thinks.