The Anatomy of Melancholy

Extremely passionate: “whatever they wish, they wish intensely,” and they pursue what they desire most furiously. Always anxious and deeply concerned, distrustful and fearful, envious, malicious, extravagant at one time, sparing at another, but mostly covetous; muttering, repining, discontented and always complaining, resentful, ill-tempered, “holding fast to injuries,” prone to revenge, quickly troubled and most violent in all their imaginings; unfriendly in speech and disinclined to ordinary courtesies, but surly, dull, sad and stern; always “absorbed in thought,” deeply intent.

And, as Albrecht Dürer depicts Melancholy, like a sad woman leaning on her arm, with a fixed stare and neglected dress, and so on. Some therefore consider them proud, feeble, foolish or half mad, as the people of Abdera thought Democritus; yet they have deep understanding, excellent powers of perception, sound judgement, wisdom and intelligence. For I agree with that nobleman: melancholy advances people’s thoughts more than any other humour, and improves their meditations more than any strong drink or sack.

They judge some things profoundly, although in others, “being troubled, they do not judge rightly,” says Fracastorius, book 2, On Understanding. And as Arculanus, chapter 16 on book 9 of Rhazes, puts it: “Judgement is generally perverse; they are corrupted when they judge honourable things dishonourable, and take friendship for hostility.” They count honesty dishonesty, friends enemies; they will abuse their best friends and dare not offend their enemies.

Mostly cowards, “and exceedingly fearful of inflicting injury,” says Cardan, book 8, chapter 4, On the Variety of Things: reluctant to offend; and if they happen to overstep the mark in word or deed, or any small business or detail is omitted or forgotten, they are miserably tormented and picture a thousand dangers and difficulties for themselves, “an elephant out of a fly,” once they get the idea into their heads.

Overjoyed by every favourable report, story or fortunate event, they are carried beyond themselves; then, at every small loss, bad news, imagined injury, loss or danger, they are afflicted beyond measure, in great agony, perplexed, dejected, stunned, unable to bear it, utterly undone; fearful, suspicious of everyone. Yet again, many are desperate, reckless people, rash and careless, fit to be assassins, being free of all fear and sorrow; according to Hercules de Saxonia, extremely bold, daring to walk alone at night through wildernesses and dangerous places, fearing no one.

They are prone to love and easily captivated: “inclined to love and to bursts of anger” (Montaltus, chapter 21), quickly enamoured and doting on everyone. They love one woman dearly until they see another, then dote on her: “this one, and this one, and that one, and all.” The one present moves them most, and they usually love the latest best. Yet others, opponents of love, cannot bear the sight of a woman and abhor the sex, like that melancholic Duke of Muscovy who became sick immediately if he so much as saw them; and that hermit who fell into a cold palsy when a woman was brought before him.