The Anatomy of Melancholy

Many years afterwards, the memory of such friends and such events remains most grievous to us. Even seeing or hearing of them is painful, though they concern others rather than ourselves. Scaliger says that he never read of Socrates’ death in Plato’s Phaedo without weeping. Augustine shed tears when he read of the destruction of Troy. Yet, however violent and bitter this sorrow may be, and however commonly it seizes the wise, courageous and prudent, it can surely be resisted and turned aside. For what is there in this life that should make it so dear to us, or make us lament a friend’s departure so much? Its greatest pleasures are companionship, enjoying one another’s presence, feasting, hawking, hunting, streams, woods, hills, music, dancing and the rest. All this is merely vanity and wasted time, as I have sufficiently explained.

While we drink, while we call for garlands, perfumes and girls, Old age creeps upon us unnoticed.

While we drink, dress ourselves up and dally with women, Old age attacks us unawares.

As alchemists spend what little they have in pursuit of gold and never find it, we lose and neglect eternity for a little momentary pleasure which we cannot enjoy and will never attain in this life. We abhor death, pain and grief, yet do nothing that would free us from them; instead, we willingly thrust ourselves upon them. The lustful man prefers his prostitute to his life or well-being; the angry man, his revenge; the parasite, his belly; the ambitious, honours; the covetous, wealth; the thief, his booty; the soldier, his spoils. We abhor diseases, yet bring them upon ourselves.

We are never better or freer from cares than when we sleep. Yet death, which we so greatly shun and lament, is only a perpetual sleep. Why, as Epicurus argues, should it frighten us so much? “When we exist, death is absent; but when death is present, we no longer exist.” Life is tedious and troublesome even for the person who lives best. “It is misery to be born, pain to live, anguish to die.” Death ends our miseries, yet we cannot bear to think about it.

A little before Socrates drank his draught of hemlock, he cheerfully said farewell to the citizens of Athens and ended his speech with this short sentence: “My time has now come to depart: I to my death, you to live on. Which of these is better, God alone knows.”

For there is no pleasure here without sorrow attached to it and regret following it. “If I eat freely, I am likely to fall ill or overeat; if I live sparingly, my hunger and thirst remain unsatisfied. I am well neither full nor fasting. If I live chastely, I burn with desire.” If I indulge myself, I exhaust and waste myself, harming both body and soul. “From so little merriment, how much sorrow! After so little pleasure, how great the misery!” Both sides trouble me: getting up and going to bed, eating and providing my food. Cares and quarrels attend me all day long, fears and suspicions all my life. I am discontented: why should I be so eager to live? But a happy death will end all our woes and miseries.

The one sure remedy for all my troubles.