The Anatomy of Melancholy

Although Macrobius teaches otherwise—that the sages of old banished all such frivolous writings from their studies to nurses’ cradles, as things that merely please the ear—I will set against him equally honourable supporters from Apuleius: Solon, Plato, Xenophon, Hadrian and others, who approve these works just as highly. Looking at the other side, I think they need not be condemned; they are not so inappropriate.

I will not declare imperiously, as someone did, “I shall recount such delightful misdeeds that a plague on anyone who takes no pleasure in them”: I will tell you such pretty stories that ill befall whoever is not pleased with them. Nor shall I say, “I shall tell things that will be useful for you to have heard and delightful to remember,” with Beroaldus’ confidence in his commentary on Propertius.

I will neither expect nor hope for the praise Lipsius gives his Epictetus: “I value it more when I reread it: always like something new, and, when I have returned to it, something to return to again.” The more I read, the more I shall want to read. I will not force my pamphlets on you or beg for attention; but if you like them, you may read them.

Pliny considers it useful and entirely fitting “to season seriousness with pleasantness even in writing”: to season our works with some entertaining discourse. Synesius approves: “In playful matters we may play.” The poet praises it:

He wins every vote who mixes the useful with the pleasant.

There are certainly people more eager to read such trifles than I am to write them. “May I die,” says Aretino’s Antonia, “if I would not rather hear your conversation than watch a play!” No doubt others share her mind, as they always have and always will; Jerome is my witness. “Far more people would rather read Apuleius than Plato.” Cicero himself admits that he could not understand Plato’s Timaeus and therefore cared less for it, while every schoolboy knows the famous will of Grunnius Corocotta Porcellus by heart. The comic poet:

He thought this his sole task: To make the plays he wrote please the public.

He made it his only concern and sole endeavour to please the public, tickle the ear and give delight. My earnest intention, however, is as much to benefit as to please: “not so much to please the people as to help them.” I hope these writings will go down like gilded pills, prepared both to tempt the appetite and deceive the palate, and to help and work medicinally upon the whole body. My lines should not only refresh the mind but set it right.