The Anatomy of Melancholy

Cardinal Brundusinus had this epitaph inscribed on his tomb in Rome, to show his willingness to die and to rebuke those so reluctant to depart. Weep and howl no more, then: it serves little purpose. As Cicero advises in a similar case, “Let us consider not whom we have lost, but how much mourning is fitting”: consider what we are doing, not whom we have lost. David did so, in 2 Samuel 22: “While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept; but now that he is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back? I shall go to him, but he cannot return to me.”

Anyone who acts otherwise is uncontrolled, weak, foolish and lacking in judgement. Although Aristotle denies that intemperance has anything to do with sorrow, I agree with Seneca: whoever is wise is temperate; whoever is temperate is steadfast and free from passion; and such a person is without sorrow, as all wise people should be.

The Thracians always wept when a child was born, and feasted and rejoiced when anyone was buried. So we too should be glad for those who die well, since they have been so happily freed from this life’s miseries. When that noble young Greek Eteoneus was universally lamented by his friends, the poet Pindar imagines a god saying, “Be silent, mortals, for he is not unhappy,” and so on: quiet, good people; this young man is not as miserable as you think. He has gone neither to Styx nor to Acheron; “but a glorious hero, untouched by old age,” he lives for ever in the Elysian fields. He now enjoys the happiness your great kings seek so earnestly, and wears the garland for which you compete.

If our present weakness prevents us from moderating our emotions in this matter, we must use every means to turn them aside: do something else, think about another subject. Italians mostly sleep away care and grief if it seizes them at an inconvenient time; Danes, Dutchmen, Poles and Bohemians drink it down; our countrymen go to plays. Do something, whatever it may be; do not let grief unhinge you. Or make such misfortunes familiar by thinking of them beforehand, like Ulysses, who wept for his dog but not for his wife, “because he was prepared, his mind made firm” (Plutarch, On Tranquillity of Mind). Accustom and harden yourself beforehand by seeing others’ calamities and applying them to your own situation: “An evil is lighter when it has been foreseen.”

I shall conclude with Epictetus: “If you love a pot, remember that it is only a pot you love, and you will not be troubled when it breaks. If you love a son or wife, remember that they are mortal, and you will not be so unable to bear the loss.” As for groundless fears and all other accidental troubles, misfortunes and calamities, our best course is to resist and prepare ourselves, without losing heart. “It is foolish to fear what cannot be avoided”: foolish to fear the inevitable, or to be discouraged at all.

For whoever trembles with fear or desire Has thrown away his shield and, driven from his ground, Forges the chain by which he can be dragged away.

For whoever thus loses heart or gives way to fear, surrendering to his passion, throws away his own weapons, makes a cord to bind himself, and pulls a beam down upon his own head.