The Ode by John Keats that was mentioned in my previous post:
NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
— John Keats (The Oxford Book of English Verse:
1250-1900, 1919 edition)
Monday 3 March 2008
Sadness has a direct line to the soul
One of the best articles I've read in a long long time:
OURS are ominous times. We are on the verge of eroding away our ozone layer. Within decades we could face severe oceanic flooding. We are close to annihilating hundreds of animal species. Soon our forests will be as bland as pavement. Moreover, we find ourselves on the verge of a new cold war. But there is another threat, perhaps as dangerous: we are eradicating a cultural force, the muse behind much art and poetry and music. We are annihilating melancholia.
A recent poll conducted by the Pew Research Centre shows that almost 85 per cent of Americans believe that they are very happy or pretty happy. The psychological world is abuzz with a new field, positive psychology, devoted to finding ways to enhance happiness through pleasure, engagement and meaning.
What are we to make of this obsession with happiness, an obsession that could well lead to a sudden extinction of the creative impulse, that could result in an extermination as horrible as those foreshadowed by global warming and environmental crisis and nuclear proliferation? What drives this rage for complacency, this desperate contentment? Surely all this happiness can't be for real. How can so many people be happy in the middle of all the problems that beset our globe, not only the collective and apocalyptic ills but also those particular irritations that bedevil our everyday existences?
I, for one, am afraid that this overemphasis on happiness at the expense of sadness may be dangerous, a wanton forgetting of an essential part of a full life. I am concerned that to desire only happiness in a world undoubtedly tragic is to become inauthentic, to settle for unrealistic abstractions. I am finally fearful of our society's efforts to expunge melancholia. Without the agitations of the soul, would all of our magnificently yearning towers topple? Would our heart-torn symphonies cease? MORE
OURS are ominous times. We are on the verge of eroding away our ozone layer. Within decades we could face severe oceanic flooding. We are close to annihilating hundreds of animal species. Soon our forests will be as bland as pavement. Moreover, we find ourselves on the verge of a new cold war. But there is another threat, perhaps as dangerous: we are eradicating a cultural force, the muse behind much art and poetry and music. We are annihilating melancholia.
A recent poll conducted by the Pew Research Centre shows that almost 85 per cent of Americans believe that they are very happy or pretty happy. The psychological world is abuzz with a new field, positive psychology, devoted to finding ways to enhance happiness through pleasure, engagement and meaning.
What are we to make of this obsession with happiness, an obsession that could well lead to a sudden extinction of the creative impulse, that could result in an extermination as horrible as those foreshadowed by global warming and environmental crisis and nuclear proliferation? What drives this rage for complacency, this desperate contentment? Surely all this happiness can't be for real. How can so many people be happy in the middle of all the problems that beset our globe, not only the collective and apocalyptic ills but also those particular irritations that bedevil our everyday existences?
I, for one, am afraid that this overemphasis on happiness at the expense of sadness may be dangerous, a wanton forgetting of an essential part of a full life. I am concerned that to desire only happiness in a world undoubtedly tragic is to become inauthentic, to settle for unrealistic abstractions. I am finally fearful of our society's efforts to expunge melancholia. Without the agitations of the soul, would all of our magnificently yearning towers topple? Would our heart-torn symphonies cease? MORE
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