[the Wrathful, “those whom Anger defeated,” Canto VII, Circle 5; the post will make clear the relevance of this]
By that foul water, black from its very source,
we found a nightmare path among the rocks
and followed the dark stream along its course.
Beyond its rocky race and wild descent
the river floods and forms a marsh called Styx,
a dreary swampland, vaporous and malignant.
And I, intent on all our passage touched,
made out a swarm of spirits in that bog
savage with anger, naked, smile-besmutched.
They thumped at one another in that slime
with hands and feet, and they butted, and they bit
as if each would tear the other limb from limb.
And my kind Sage: “My son, behold the souls
of those who lived in wrath. And do you see
the broken surfaces of those water-holes
on every hand, boiling as if in pain?
There are souls beneath that water. Fixed in slime
they speak their piece, end it, and start again:
‘Sullen were we in the air made sweet by the Sun;
in the glory of his shining our hearts poured
a bitter smoke. Sullen were we begun;
sullen we lie forever in this ditch.’
This litany they gargle in their throats
as if they sang, but lacked the words and pitch.”
Then circling on along that filthy wallow,
we picked our way between the bank and fen,
keeping our eyes on those foul souls that swallow
the slime of Hell. And so at last we came
to foot of a Great Tower that has no name.
~ The Inferno, Canto VII, Circle 5,
translated by John Ciardi
Sometimes it’s interesting to compare translations. Robert Pinsky’s version seems to me more melodious, but less powerful.
. . . We traveled across
To the circle’s farther edge, above the place
where a foaming spring spills over into a fosse.
The water was purple-black; we followed its current
Down a strange passage. This dismal watercourse
Descends the grayish slopes until its torrent
discharges into the marsh whose name is Styx.
Gazing intently, I saw there were people warrened
within that bog, all naked and muddy – with looks
of fury, striking each other: with a hand
but also with their heads, chests, feet, and backs,
teeth tearing piecemeal. My kindly master explained:
“These are the souls whom anger overcame.
My son, know also, that under the water are found
others, whose sighing makes these bubbles come
that pock the surface everywhere you look.
Lodged in the slime they say: ‘Once we were grim
and sullen in the sweet air above, that took
a further gladness from the play of sun;
inside us, we bore acedia’s dismal smoke.
We have this black mire now to be sullen in.’
This canticle they gargle from the craw,
unable to speak whole words.” We traveled on
through a great arc of swamp between that slough
and the dry bank – all the while with eyes
turned toward those who swallow the muck below;
and then at length we came to a tower’s base.
~ translated by Robert Pinsky
**
In Canto VII, Dante makes Styx “a slough of despond” – a swamp rather than a river, at least in this circle of the Inferno. In the mud (muck, slime) of this swamp he places both the Wrathful and the Sullen. This pairing suggests that Dante regarded anger and depression as two sides of the same coin. The common modern view is that depression is anger turned inward. [image]
Reading the Inferno during the years when I still did depression, I was quite affected by the image of the sullen literally “stuck in the mud,” croaking the same dull words over and over. The image stayed with me, slowly doing its work of showing me that there was nothing noble about descending into that bog (during adolescence I picked up the idea that it was noble to suffer, admirable to be sad – for one thing, sad people looked more intelligent, sunk in thought – unlike those whose silly smile hinted at mindless happiness).
Gradually it occurred to me that Dante must mean the state of Despair, one of the Seven Deadly Sins. There is some controversy over the precise label of this cardinal sin. Wrath or Anger (Ira) is clear enough, but when it comes to “sullenness,” sometimes it’s classified as Sloth, sometimes as Acedia (which can be translated as “apathy”), and sometimes as Despair. I choose the last label as most powerful. That despair should be a deadly sin like pride or gluttony was disquieting, no matter how lapsed I was. Didn't Kierkegaard say that Despair, this acceptance of defeat in the past, present, and future, was the deadliest sin? And wasn’t that the sin against the Holy Spirit, the only kind that will not be forgiven?
I could shrug off the teachings of the church, but it was more difficult to shrug off Dante. I knew that great writers were also great psychologists. What Dante showed through powerful imagery made me shudder. To point out the obvious, Dante sees chronic depressives as sinners, not as victims. That is very provocative right there. I don't think the shift toward the medical model has been entirely positive, except for the pharmaceutical industry. And it’s fabulous that Kathleen Norris has a new book out, and its topic is acedia (it would be too controversial to use the term chronic depression).
The pairing of anger and despair/depression also made sense. Already early on I found out that if someone managed to make me angry while I was depressed, I couldn’t afterwards slip back into depression no matter how much I wished to. I had to do something with that unwelcome influx of energy. I was forced to deal with life, with the world. Oh how I hated that!
For me yet another image for depression was a demon I called my Anti-Self, the part of me that wanted me to die. From demon it’s only a short hop to exorcism. Reading about exorcism, I came upon a statement that when the exorcism fails and the demon refuses to leave the victim, the exorcist must call upon an angel to come do battle with the demon, since an angel is more powerful than a demon.
My favorite angel was Uriel, the angel of light who is also the patron of the arts. It was all coming together.
In the image below, I know that Blake did not mean to represent Uriel battling the demon, but rather the false deity of the Old Testament creating Adam. But there is such a thing as a private meaning, different from that established by scholars, but having power for a particular person. When I saw this image, I thought of the battle between the angel and the demon. True, we don’t think of angels as bearded, but Uriel is the angel of the Face of God. The demon is coiled like a python, a snake of enormous strength. But we know that the angel is stronger yet. In Hölderlin’s uplifting words, “Where danger grows, that which will save us grows also.”
I was very lucky to have an angel to do battle with my demon; I had creative work to turn to. Such work is far from being pure joy, but each day can bring a little progress. “It is there for me” like a steady rhythm, and it brings all kinds of rewards. In fact, it’s not only creative work, but work in general – even housework can be healing. (Saint Anthony of the Desert healed his acedia when he followed the angel’s advice to keep busy plaiting rope.)
In simple words, don’t brood – work. Don’t ask what’s the point – just work. At long last, embarrassingly late in my life, I understood that overthinking was an addiction just like overeating (gluttony – we are back to the Seven Deadly Sins!). “Eating, Drinking, Overthinking.” I didn’t have to read the book – the title told me everything. I could hardly believe it could be that simple. It still feels like a miracle.
You may ask, but wasn’t work always there for me? It was – I had the ability to work hard since childhood. But before I made the commitment not to be depressed, I used to waste a lot of time brooding on all my failures and disappointments, having crying fits, wading into the marsh of Styx, there to rehearse the dull litany of the sullen.
*
Dante uses the term "sad" (tristi) for the "sullen" and accidioso fummo – the smoke of acedia, a medieval term for apathy or “sloth.” This is a controversial post, because of my view that there is a large volitional element in depression (except for depression clearly caused by physical conditions such as being hypothyroid, menopausal, socially isolated, etc). There is also a huge self-centeredness to it. Perhaps Saint Augustine is right when he claims that all sins stem from pride, depression being an extremely disguised and inverted form of pride. One reason that it was so easy for me to descend into the mire of depression whenever I wanted to was that secretly I felt entitled to a “larger life,” a special destiny.” If that’s not pride, what is?
(By way of a PS: 1. recent studies confirm that exercise – intense exercise in particular – is an excellent anti-depressant. 2. InWatermark, his wonderful book of essays about Venice, Joseph Brodsky writes: It is a virtue, I came to believe long ago, not to make a meal out of one’s emotional life. There’s always enough work to do, not to mention that there’s world enough outside.)
I realize that what I say is controversial, but, as always, I don't expect to have more than a handful of readers. I still think of my blog as a beautiful secret.
Michael Peterson:
An important insight for anyone wanting to become psychologically adept, or able for soul-work, is to understand that we need to hear how others manage their travels across the soul. Yours is one tale, mine another, each tale as varied as fingerprints and snowflakes, both are important. We need to be like travelers exchanging travel tips and information about road conditions. I appreciate hearing your experience. Dante's experience is worth noting but I shy from simple explanations, knowing the complex relationships between the body's nervous and chemical systems. Weave these strands into the psychological system and we can stand slack-jawed, silently in awe humans function as more than statues. Trying to unravel the psyche, or soul, with certainty, isn't possible. I am wary of simple explanations because I know this -- depression is one way the unconscious speaks. Dreams are good, images, visions, intuition, the writing process -- and if the unconscious wants or feels its needs to use depression, I want to be open to this possibility. How do we know if our depression(s) is neurological or chemical or psychological or spiritual or?? I don't know. Experience and knowledge gathered over time can help. The bottom line is: I advocate patience with all psychic phenomena. Rarely does any psychic movement need to be understood immediately. Listening, patience, living in the present, honoring the self like a good host, these are all good components of soul-work.
Oriana:
Thank you, Michael, for a fine comment. I don't object to anyone's "listening to depression." Nevertheless, in my own case, I am SOOOO happy to have decided to put an end to decades of that listening. I finally heard that those thoughts were not profound, as I supposed in adolescence. They were closer to repetitive garbage. I became embarrassed when I saw what garbage I kept recycling over and over. I'd been patient long enough, though "patient" isn't quite the word for such a waste of time, of life. Patiently listening to decades of chronic depression -- now there is an inferno! And what an escape from engaging with life's challenges. I'm not saying that this is everyone's case. It's interesting, however, that the term acedia is being resurrected.
And I am grateful to Dante for having helped me out of the Marsh of Styx, the Marsh of Death. He wasn't of course the only writer pointing the way, but the first jolt came from him (in Ciardi's translation). I am also particularly grateful to my best friend for having treated me with "tough love," and to another friend for her reminders about exercise; to yet another for stressing the need for more socializing; to a very special friend who happens to be a therapist for taking the time to present the findings on happiness and achievement; and to other supportive souls who knew I could climb out of the mud if I tried (I am still stunned when I ponder how easy it turned out to be) – and for their cheering me on when I announced my decision.
Basically, I agree with the position that you don’t get anywhere by asking, “What’s wrong with me?” You need to ask, “What’s right with me?” For decades, I asked the first question, and the Anti-Self/Depression would reply that I was worthless and it would be best if I died. Only when I began to listen to a different self (one I like to think of as Oriana, “the rising mind,” as Jane Hirshfield helped me translate the name) that assured me I had unique gifts to give, gifts I could give only if I made an effort to live, and live fully, that I could leave the marsh of Styx.
Anonymous:
I was very interested in your thoughts on depression being like an addiction. Although I had an emotional and physical breakdown once, I still feel, and this is a personal philosophy, that depression is selfish.
Oriana:
This is a very valuable observation. Depression IS selfish -- or at least extremely self-centered, which ends up being the same thing, since the energy of the depressed person goes into brooding about herself; it does not go into being kind and loving toward others. When depressed, if I thought of others at all, it was about how so-and-so had hurt me.
There is mild chronic depression, which is bad enough, and then there is severe depression. In severe depression, thinking is completely irrational, so “listening to depression” is pointless. One might as well “listen to arthritis” rather than apply Penetran (a very effective salve, even when the pain is severe) and do the special physical-therapy exercises (also amazingly effective).
Recognizing that my depressed thoughts were pure irrational garbage was a very big step for me. I went through periods when my thinking, mainly about my past, was definitely delusional! To give one example, I couldn't -- I absolutely couldn't -- recall a single positive thing that ever happened in my life. Besides, one can go so far down that there is no thinking -- just stupor. Not a single thought crawling across the mind like a dying fly. Only sitting on the bed and staring at the wall for hours. It’s scary even to remember this.
Now that I can calmly think back about my depressive years, here is another surprise. The stage when I blamed America and my mother for all my misfortunes was actually a step forward for me! Before then, I blamed only myself, which increased self-loathing. Once I decided to drop depression, my attitude toward mother, America, and the world in general instantly became balanced. This restoration of rationality didn’t take any effort, since the healthy neural circuits already “knew” that nothing is black-or-white. (Oh, that's another thing about depressed cogitation – “shades of gray” are completely lost.)
To get back to your point about selfishness: yes, depression is selfish. It's also boring. Depression-caused thoughts are definitely not exciting.
To get more extreme, I think suicides are ultimately disappointing people. No matter what hits you, it's more INTERESTING to try to cope with it. Of course I understand all too well about pain, both physical and emotional, and about wanting to die in order to end that pain, but in retrospect that is not an interesting reaction. Trying to cope, no matter how bad the situation, is an adventure. Depression is similar to suicide in that you just sit there brooding instead of coping. The immobility is like death. Or even pointless, agitated mobility. I went through a phrase when I used to pace in circles, which only looks like an activity (fortunately it’s better for circulation).
I think I must have walked thousands of miles in the shoes of depression. At first depression was definitely not boring -- it was an unfolding drama, and the part of me that wasn't depressed, that was a witness, seemed fascinated to watch where this was going. The calm witness in me watched these hysterics – or that stupor – with ruthless curiosity. I am amazed how long it took before I finally knew it and said it: This is boring. It's boring, year after year, this mourning for the “larger life” I "should" have (my birthright, I guess) as opposed to my limited but lively real life. Finally, finally I said: depression is boring, and I don't want to do it anymore.
Note how little time Dante devotes to the sullen. Let’s face it: there is only so much to say. These are perhaps the most boring of all the inhabitants of Hell.
Homer says we are like leaves on a tree whose trunk we cannot see, though dimly we know our autumn will come. We are of the moment. Woe to him who ignores the riches of that moment, preferring to contemplate his misfortunes, as though those were greater than anyone else’s. We are of the moment, and living well really is the only revenge.
Anonymous:
Wow, that's a fascinating and powerful piece of writing. I particularly like the Brodsky quote.
I don't know enough about the topic to have an informed view or professional opinion, but my suspicion – based on my own experiences, and what I know of those of others – is that there are probably lots of different phenomena that get lumped under the heading of "depression" nowadays. I would also guess that "depression," like happiness, is only partly a chemically induced brain state, and that a lot goes missing when we ignore its conceptual surroundings and the various circumstances that occasion it. And of course, these change over time, so it is almost certainly a mistake to treat acedia, despair, melancholy, existential angst, etc. as equivalent to each other and identical with whatever it is that anti-depressants are meant to cure. "Despair," for instance, seems to be a religious category (a sin), whereas that wasn't how the Romantic poets viewed melancholy, which wasn't a vice.
There is nowadays a tendency to pathologize whatever responds to pharmaceuticals, but there is also a lot of horrible stuff going on in the world, and something in the vicinity of depression might sometimes be a perfectly rational response to it. Of course, none of this is to deny that there are real medical/psychological conditions from which people suffer for no redeeming purpose and that ought to be treated.
It does seem to me, though, that at least some of the forms of malaise that get labeled as “depression” do involve self-centeredness, and that sometimes the way out of the woods is to stop focusing on one's emotional state and start involving oneself in life. Put the other way around, happiness doesn’t strike me as a worthy or attainable goal to aim at, so much as something that supervenes on people who are doing what they take to be meaningful work in the world.
WHAT MAKES ME HAPPY MAKES ME STRONGER
Oriana:
Thank you for an excellent, well thought-out response. I agree that there are many types of depression. This post is concerned chiefly with chronic depression, whose symptoms strike me as identical with those of acedia.
I wonder whether any form of depression is ever a rationalresponse – though it may be an inevitable NATURAL response when we are truly overwhelmed, without the emotional and conceptual support available to ardent religious believers, or those who have a truly effective life philosophy to protect them, or – and this is the most important point here, brought up in the post above – a meaningful task at hand (for instance, I was deeply impressed by an American surgeon after the recent Haiti earthquake – when I saw him on TV, totally concentrated, doing surgery at no fee, I thought he was the happiest man in the world; another and more common example wd be a mother who has to be strong for the sake of her children).
While it makes sense that happiness should not be a goal, but a by-product of meaningful work, oddly enough, studies show that people who are most successful at work are those who were happy to begin with. The happiness came first, the success later. I had a fascinating interchange with a therapist-friend on that, with specific examples. (A mystical digression: "Be happy, and the beloved comes.") Maybe "happiness" is the wrong word; an attitude of contentment? Jack Gilbert's words, "It's too late for discontent" also had a deep impact on me.
Jack Gilbert also said, To make injustice the only / measure of our attention is to praise the Devil. Chronic depressives tend to erect a whole system to defend their “right to be depressed,” and can easily cite all the evil in the world. There is an interesting parallel here with what one finds in pro-anorexia websites.
I have never experienced or witnessed any form of depression (I don’t mean transient melancholy, as at the sight of withering flowers) that wasn’t self-centered. People may have a genuine emotional response to the current genocide in Africa, but that response is not depression, especially not chronic depression. The depressives who say, "Of course I am depressed; look at the horrible things happening in the world," are trying to justify their low mood and non-involvement in life. It’s a socially acceptable mask for a negative mood and inaction (what Dante portrays as being stuck in the slime of the Marsh of Death). Whatever triggers depression is personal. Of course turning on the news doesn’t help, with all the bad stuff out there. But depression is not about caring for the suffering Africans; it's about the (often narcissistic) wound to the self/ego. Chronic depression and narcissism are usually two sides of the same coin (excluding conditions such as hypothyroidism, malnutrition, and so forth).
I can see that if this Dante/depression post got to a wider audience, it could grow to the length of a book!
And eventually I’d be getting more comments that are apologia for depression, while I am firmly against depression, at least the kind of acedia that has a large volitional component . All I achieved I owe to my being obsessive-compulsive ("extreme effort"), more than any other kind of pathology. I don't think being a depressive ever helped me write, and I'm so glad to be done with that useless suffering. Now I am eager to explore happiness.
A lot of people couldn’t care less about the right to pursue happiness; they want the right to be depressed. The Declaration of Independence needs to be revised: “Life, liberty and the right to be depressed.” The right to sulk, to be sullen, to disengage from life and wallow in negative thoughts. A short period of that is only human. When it goes on for years, for decades, for practically the entire lifetime -- what a waste. (“It’s not just that youth is wasted on the young; it’s worse: life is wasted on people” – from the movie “Greenberg”)
Of course happiness needs to be defined, perhaps the way Freud did it: "Love and work." Love is only partly under our control, and the only love we can buy is a dog. Work is always there for us. It’s not always as meaningful and rewarding as we would like it to be, but any work, performed with attention, is healing.
This knowledge wasn't new to me; I simply lacked the motivation to cease being depressed. Happiness didn't interest me and could never be my goal. But strength of character did interest me, and finally I understood that Nietzsche was wrong: What makes me happy makes me stronger. All those years, I was gradually traveling toward that fraction of a second that changed everything: the decision not to be depressed.
Only then the first stanza of Gerard Manley Hopkins’s “Carrion Comfort” became truly meaningful to me, and not just a brave but futile cry. After a year and a half of never once sliding back into even mild depression, I know the power of making a commitment.
Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist – slack as they may be – these last strands of man
in me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
That "I can" makes all the difference. The core part of us that is not depressed, the Observer, the Witness, knows perfectly well that we can; but when we cling to depression, we don't want to.
Note also that, like Dante, Hopkins does not mince words. Despair is “carrion comfort.” Everyone loves the alliteration, but in what sense is despair “comfort”? In my experience, it is comfort because it’s total acceptance of defeat in the past, present, and future ("I will always be defeated, and there's nothing I can do about it"); its siren song is “Struggle no more.” It is comfort because if we take refuge in it (I don’t mean transient despair, a part of life, but a chronic state of mind), it’s an escape from having to cope with reality.
As for the praise of melancholy by the Romantics, it can be innocuous, as in Keats’s lovely “Ode to Melancholy”:
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
Veiled 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.
Yes, flowers wither, leaves fall, a friend moves to another town; we go to a movie, the hero dies and we cry. That kind of transient melancholy is part of being human. There is a sweetness to this passing sorrow. It's not self-destructive. Some Romantic writers, alas, glorified self-centered sadness and even suicide as part of having a superior, artistic sensitivity, and being a superior person in general, an exceptional being for whom nothing that life could offer was good enough. We must not listen to the ravishing voices of those Sirens. When it comes to mental health, it’s much better to listen to Dante, that giant, who says to your (acedic) face: you are wallowing in slime. And thus, for the lucky few, he saves what remains of your life.
