Melancholy
Black Bile and Benefits (The Bus 4.7)
Welcome aboard The Bus!
The Stop
Originating in ancient Greek and Roman medicine, the theory of the four humours ‘underpinned European medicine and thinking on the inner workings of the body until at least the 1700s.’ According to this system - known interchangeably as humoural theory, humourism or humouralism - each person contained four bodily fluids mixed in varying proportions that determined a person’s ‘complexions’ or ‘temperaments,’ their ‘physical and mental qualities,’ and their ‘dispositions.’ A healthy, balanced person had an ‘ideally proportioned mixture’ of the four, while an imbalance would lead to illness, the nature of which depended upon which of the humours - blood, phlegm, yellow bile (choler) or black bile (melancholy) - were in excess or deficit.1
Belief in the humours - and melancholy in particular - reached its apex during the Elizabethan/Jacobean ages, culminating in Robert Burton’s 1621 publication of the The Anatomy of Melancholy. A monumental text in which the English clergyman explored a ‘dizzying assortment of mental afflictions, including what might now be called depression,’ the book contained not just his thoughts on the ‘subject of melancholy, but the thoughts of everyone who had ever thought about it, or about other things, whether that be goblins, beauty, the geography of America, digestion, the passions, drink, kissing, jealousy, or scholarship.’
By this time, melancholy had become a ‘common, even fashionable malady … associated with sadness and abnormal psychology, but also refinement and male intellect.’ On stage, melancholic characters were popular and clearly recognisable: ‘lean and pale, moving slowly, sad and brooding, perhaps suspiciously looking around for enemies.’ Black bile was ‘connected to the cold and dry element earth, to old age, and all things dying and rotting.’ Too much of this ‘dark, dull substance’ would cause one to become as ‘dark and dull in body and mind as the humour itself,’ and characters and stories based upon this belief were very popular.
Perhaps the most famous melancholic in literature is Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. The prince recognises his condition, having gone through a recent transformation which caused him to have ‘lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air … appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours’ (II.ii.258-264). Hamlet is depressed, a condition initiated in no small part by the sudden death of his father and the quick re-marriage of his beloved mother to his uncle, the new king,2 and contrary to the wishes of everyone around him just wants to be left alone with his grief. Dressed only in black (the ‘nighted colour’ (I.ii.68)), he refuses to dismiss his father’s death - and to his mother’s assumption that his choice of clothing shows the entirety of his feelings, replies that it ‘does not denote me truly’ (I.ii.83): his emotions rest far deeper than anything signified by what he wears, and they for him are his truth.3
In the centuries following Shakespeare and Burton, the romantic connotations of melancholy were gradually replaced by the medicalisation of these feelings by psychology. Melancholy today refers to ‘extreme features of depression, especially the failure to take pleasure in activities,’ and is seen generally as a condition to be fixed or overcome rather than something to be appreciated or - for some - as a normal way of being at certain times in life. Nevertheless, at times a glimpse of the previous sense of melancholia reappears. In 2001, in an article titled ‘The Book to End All Books,’ the Guardian celebrated the New York Review of Books’ reprint of Burton’s classic, recognising the inherent value in Burton’s belief that ‘everyone on earth is either stupid or mad (himself included),’ and in 2015 the New York Times Style magazine published ‘The Case for Melancholy,’ an exploration of the benefits of melancholic reflection in a culture obsessed with happiness and instant gratification. In an age in which we’re constantly told we should be happy - in which we’re offered innumerable solutions to pick us up when we’re feeling down - it’s important to realise that there’s a benefit - and occasional enjoyment - in recognising, like our ancestors, that life is, in fact, imbalanced.
The Detour
Today’s Detour is to ‘Freshly Cut’, a film (13:37) by artist and woodturner Andy Phillip in which he documents - from start to finish - the process by which he creates a turned wooden bowl from a freshly felled ash tree. It’s very satisfying to watch, and the end result is beautiful.
The Recommendation
Today’s Recommendation is William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The classic tale of murder, revenge, madness (feigned or real), melancholy and profound contemplations on the nature of life and death, Hamlet is an essential work in the literary canon. It’s not necessarily easy,4 but in my opinion getting stuck into this work is one of the most satisfying experiences of literature possible. I also think it needs to be both read and watched (it’s a play, after all), but if you only have the time or inclination to do one, definitely watch it.
For reading, my personal favourite is the Norton Critical Edition,5 and though seeing it live would be best, you can’t go wrong with Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 film. Give it a go - and let me know what you think.
Remember: You can find Hamlet in new and used bookstores and, of course, in your local library. Branagh’s Hamlet is available on DVD and it also streams on multiple platforms. Be warned: it’s four hours long.
The Sounds
Today’s playlist is a selection of five tracks linked by their embodiment - in one way or another - of melancholy: ‘Sad and Beautiful World’ (Sparklehorse, 1995), ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore’ (The Walker Brothers, 1966), ‘People Ain’t No Good’ (Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, 1997), ‘Sorrow’ (The National, 2010) and ‘… Street Spirit (Fade Out)’ (Radiohead, 1995). Enjoy!
The Thought
Today’s Thought is from Hamlet (II.ii.265-269). At this point early in the play, Hamlet has just encountered his childhood friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (who have been summoned by his murderous uncle Claudius to spy on him - a fact he quickly discovers). In these lines, he describes how recent events have shown him that - no matter how unbelievably admirable, godlike, beautiful and amazing humans are, we are - in the end, merely … dust:
‘What piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?’
If you have a thought on this Thought - or any part of today’s issue - please leave a comment below:
And that’s the end of this Stop - I hope you enjoyed the diversion!
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Until the next Stop …
The four humours are far more complex than a single Stop can cover. Consequently, we’ll need to return to look at this system of ‘medicine’ more thoroughly in a future issue. Sources for today’s Stop include Humour - Ancient Physiology (Britannica), Anatomy of Melancholy (Guardian), Shakespeare and the Four Humours (National Library of Medicine), Melancholia (Britannica), Hamlet - The Epitome of Melancholy, Hamlet - The Melancholic Prince of Denmark (Wellcome), The Anatomy of Melancholy (British Library) and The Case for Melancholy (NYT).
And this is, of course, before he’s told by his father’s ghost that his now uncle-father was in fact the one who killed him and swears him to avenge his death. Which doesn’t exactly help his mindset.
In this passage (I.ii.72-86), one of my favourites, Hamlet’s mother - Queen Gertrude - admonishes her son for still grieving his father’s death. After all, she says, ‘Thou know’st ‘tis common - all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.’ Hamlet replies that yes, it is common (meaning both universal and - in his usage - vulgar). She then asks - if he knows this - ‘Why seems it so particular with thee?’ Hamlet’s response is brutal: ‘‘Seems,’ madam, nay it is. I know not ‘seems.’ ‘Tis not alone my inky cloak, cold mother, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river of the eye, nor the dejected havior of the visage, together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, that can denote me truly. These indeed ‘seem’ for they are actions that a man might play; but I have that within which passes show, these but the trappings and the suits of woe.’ Translation: you think I seem sad? You bitch. My black clothes, sighs, tears, downcast face and everything else that grief brings reveal nothing about how I truly feel. How I truly feel is so much worse, so much deeper, than anything on the outside can show.
And there is no reason why things should be.
The Norton Critical Editions are the gold-standard texts. Packed with annotations, summaries, commentaries, criticisms and alternative versions, they have everything needed - whether it’s just to read the story or dive deeper into the themes. The one I recommend here is Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. 2nd Edition. Ed. Robert S. Miola. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 2019.
I love the amount of Hamlet in this issue!