"Dude, exactly:" Such Transcendent Poetry, Part I

I have always sought solace in the arts. My "break-up routine" has evolved over the years to include a specific playlist of songs, a specific menu of comfort foods, the fetal position, and T.S. Eliot's epic poem "The Wasteland:" This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang with a whimper.

Dude, exactly.

Like exercise and sex, great poetry can stimulate dopamine production in the brain, triggering a burst of good feeling.

Watching Timon of Athens, I was once again mesmerized – spellbound – by the hypnotic language of Shakespeare. This play was new to me, so I was especially thrilled to experience a "dopamine moment" during Act 3, Scene 4 of the action.

After frittering away his fortune on gifts and parties for friends, Timon of Athens sought help from these friends, only to be thrice denied. The rejection destroys him. He takes up residence in a cave, strips naked, and lives off the “roots” he finds in the earth. Then, in an interesting twist, he finds an abundance of gold in the ground. His misanthropy is so far gone, he recoils from the gold:

"Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold!

No, gods, I am no idle votarist:

Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this will make

Black white, foul fair, wrong right,

Base noble, old young, coward violent.

Ha, you gods, why this? What this, you gods? Why, this

Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,

Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads.

This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions, bless th’accursed,

Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves

And give them title, knee, and approbation

With senators on the bench. This is it

That makes the wappened widow wed again;

She whom the spital house and ulcerous sores

Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices,

To th’ April day again. Come, damned eart,

Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds

Among the rout of nations, I will make thee

Do thy right nature.”

Here are echoes of Hamlet’s great soliloquies; here is a universally relevant analysis of gold and its power.

Later in the scene, Timon cries out against the gold again:

“O thy sweet king-killer, and dear divorce

‘Twixt natural son and sire; thou bright defiler

Of Hymen’s purest bed; thou valiant Mars;

Thou ever young, fresh, loved, and delicate wooer,

Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

That lies on Dian’s lap; Thou visible god,

That sold’rest close impossibilities

And mak’st them kidd; that speak’st with every tongue

To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts!

Think thy slave man rebels; and by thy virture

Set them into confounding odd, that beasts

May have the world in empire!”

I mean, exactly.

Some speculate that Timon of Athens was never staged in Shakespeare’s time, but this is what I seek: amazement, joy in beauty, joy in quality. That someone could create (could write) something so beautiful beggars the mind, and affirms my faith, my joy, in being alive to enjoy it. The rhythm of it is wondrous as well, capable of carrying me off into a world of imagination, that transcends all momentary hurt.