The Anatomy of Melancholy

they rake through all that rubbish and those dungheaps, often valuing a manuscript above the Gospel itself and a treasury of textual criticism above any treasure. With their “delete this,” “others read it this way,” “my manuscript has this,” their latest editions, annotations, corrections, and so on, they make books expensive and themselves ridiculous, and benefit nobody;

yet if anyone dares oppose or contradict them, they go mad and spring to arms. How many sheets they write in their defence, what bitter attacks, what apologies! These are mere gleanings, sheer trifles. But I dare say no more about them, for them, with them, or against them, since I am as exposed to their lash as anyone.

Of these men and the rest of our learned practitioners and philosophers, I will conclude in general that they are a kind of madmen, as Seneca judges them. They raise doubts and quibbles over how to read old authors correctly, and amend their texts, yet will not amend their own lives or teach us to heal our minds, remember our duties, and maintain good faith in human affairs: to keep our wits in order or correct our conduct.

Does someone seem mad to you if he devotes his efforts to these things? Is he not mad who draws geometrical figures with Archimedes while his house is being plundered and his city besieged, while the whole world is ablaze? Or are we not mad, while our souls are in danger—death pursues us, life escapes—to waste our time on trifles, idle questions, and worthless things?

That lovers are mad, I think no one will deny. Even Jupiter is not granted the power to love and be wise at once: Jupiter himself cannot attend to both together. Majesty and love do not agree, Nor dwell together in one place.

When Cicero was urged to marry again, he answered that he could not love and be wise at the same time: be wise and love together. Love is a hell, an incurable force, a mad frenzy; love is madness, a hell, an incurable disease. Seneca calls it ungovernable and insane desire, an uncontrolled and raging lust. I shall discuss this subject separately; meanwhile, let lovers sigh out the rest.

Nevizanus the jurist treats it as an axiom that most women are fools: women’s judgement is weak. Seneca says as much of men, young or old. Who doubts it? Youth is mad, as Elius says in Cicero: foolish young men; old age is scarcely better: doting old men, and so on.

Theophrastus, in his hundred and seventh year, said that he was only then beginning to be wise—only then did his wisdom begin—and therefore lamented his departure. If wisdom comes so late, where shall we find a wise man? Our old people dote at seventy. I would cite more proofs and a better authority, but for now let one fool point at another.