I was trying to write a poem. What I was after was a melancholic mood. I had several goes and couldn't get it right. It either came out as positively suicidal or else as inappropriately flippant or else as just downright awful.
So I stopped and looked this up, partly remembered from my schooldays, instead.
So I stopped and looked this up, partly remembered from my schooldays, instead.
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.
(William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice Act 1 Scene 1: Antonio)
2 comments:
It is hard to describe melancholy. It is not true sadness, but as you said, it is not depression as well.
It is more in the gut. So,ething is not working right and the whole universe, or at least the corner in which the writer is dwelling, is out of whack.
Were you experiencing the melancholy or trying to conjur the feeling?
Shakespeare really did have this mood nailed.
I wasn't feeling especially melancholic at that exact moment although I had just heard a couple of very melancholic songs on Garrison Keeler's show which had set me thinking about it. I suppose you could argue that if you are thinking about melancholia then you are probably experiencing it as the thinking is part of the process.
I do have plenty of experience of the feeling though.
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