Ducks @ Oregon - University of Oregon

Mental Illness in Literature

Korrin B.

October 2, 2009 - 4:30 PM

Today, I had my first class of my Honors College colloquia course, Mental Illness in Literature. I am so excited. First of all, my teacher, Jane Mendle, seems incredible. I could tell from the moment that she walked into the classroom that she was going to be a good teacher. She just exuded such a positive energy and when she began to talk about the subject, she was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic. She said this is her favorite class that she teaches. Throughout the class, we are going to read several texts and explore them in term of psychology. Finally! My kind of literature class! We are not going to dwell on why the author decided to put a common here instead of a hyphen, but rather discuss the text's madness! Put it into terms of something of reality. For once, I want to read my class's required reading! Although, this could also be due to the fact that I'm just more academically inclined this year in general. Nevertheless, I can't wait.

Since it was our first class today, we hadn't done any of the reading to discuss, so mostly we just talked about what to expect in the class and some of the topics that we will be covering. The class is small, about twenty students, so it is perfect for discussions. Later on in the class, we did end up reading a couple of poems and discussed them a little. The first poem was called "Having It Our With Melancholy" by Jane Kenyon and the second was called "Ode on Melancholy" by John Keats. Kenyon's poem was written with modern language, whereas Keats was written much longer ago, and thus utilized rhyme, meter, and rich language. I really enjoyed both poems. I thought they were brilliant. However, I did find myself more drawn to Keats' poem. As we discussed it in class, I became hesitant to explain why it was that I liked it so much, for fear of revealing too much. I mean, let's face it, we're in a class titled "Mental Illness in Literature." I didn't feel too inclined to begin saying that I could relate to a poem where it appears that the narrator may be talking himself away from suicide. Note: I do not at all relate to the suicide part. I feared that in class I wouldn't be able to verbally explain my reasoning well enough for the class to understand. I feared I might come across as the "mad" college senior. So, I just sat back and observed the discussion and chose to save my thoughts for the blog. Here, in the written word, I feel like I can truly explore it.

My fellow classmates had really interesting ideas about what Keats may be trying to portray or why he seems to reflect upon joy more than Kenyon did in her poem. The class discussed how due to the poor public view of mental illness and depression during Keats' time, Keats was forced to appear to have some happiness to hide his actual emotion. Keats threw in the joyous description of melancholy to seem less questionable in the public eye. This all may be very true, however, if Keats was at all a Korrin of his time, then I know exactly why he referred to "melancholy" as something that comes from the heavens, "dwells with beauty," and builds its shrine in the "temple of delight."

College students are prone to fits of existential angst. Why am I here? What is the meaning of the Universe? Where do I belong in all of this? How do I know if I'm even picking the right major? For many people, melancholy and angst are something they'd much rather avoid. Many rather live a shallow life, than to dwell into the darkness of their own solitude and, after an exhausting journey, resurface with newfound understanding. This makes complete sense. Why put yourself in a situation where you might feel alone? Why be at risk of feeling sad? Point of clarification: I love joy. I love - love. I love to feel complete happiness, feel fabulous, and cherish life's every moment of beauty. I also think that I love these moments even more, because I know the importance of being alone and asking those questions. I love an occasional late night talk, face to face with existence, with myself, with "melancholy." In those moments where you feel as though nothing could be any worse, there's a strong beauty because you know that this too shall pass. If you take the time to search those voids of darkness, you can find a special light that only those who took the trip learned to find. Melancholy is an intense emotion. So much art and creation and wisdom come from this seemingly dark emotion. What would joy be without sadness? I find a great beauty in melancholy and I love, from time to time, to take it for a waltz. I think that John Keats also took ballroom dance with an odd partner. I don't think that in his poem he is trying to downplay his sadness for the public and I'm not even convinced that he is actually suicidal. I think that he is merely saying, why would I be suicidal when this emotion is so real? Why should I not, instead, just love the beauty of the sorrow? In one instance, Keats writes, "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" in this case is "melancholy" and Keats, like me, is encouraging you to not run from her, but instead to gaze into her eyes. A painful emotion has a "soft hand." All of his language is so gorgeous. The poem, no doubt, focuses on the power of the sadness, but I think the overall message is not "I am so sad," but rather "I'm sad and it is so beautiful."

Perhaps I am a bit mad, but at least it led for a good blog post. Our first assigned reading for the class is Shakespeare's Hamlet. I'm going to go curl up by my fire now and read.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
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 globed 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.