In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me; you say it wearies you.
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn.
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.
Famous first lines from an equally famous Shakespearean play. The noble Antonio speaks these words I believe while standing at the balcony at a sea port and gazing out at the sea. His friends go on to suggest that it is his cargo currently aboard his majestic ships that are to blame. That his mind dwells upon the possibility of mishap, of his spices and silks being carelessly strewn on the waters of the mighty ocean.
Back when I read this as part of high-school English, I failed to grasp the true idea behind these words. I was a mere child and children do not know or dwell on the causes of sorrow. Their fare is more primitive - laughter, mischief, instinctive jealousy, hunger, pain. To repeat what causes joy and to avoid what makes them sad. A physical trigger to a physically justifiable and curable feeling.
As I got on to my motorcycle today, I suddenly realized I was reciting these words to myself. And in an instant the profoundness of these lines came to me, filling meaning into words I had read about 13 years back - a gush of red as today's wine came swirling eagerly into yesterday's glass. Little did his friends know of the nature of this sorrow. All the silk, gold and spices may yet fail to allay the dull despair he spoke of. Laughter, and good company may to some extent succeed where material wealth has failed. Good will and selfless giving better serve this ailment and a fulfilling life lived by ones own beliefs may be the best stance against this invincible enemy.
The yellow leaves of sadness float about like an everlasting autumn. There is an incurable sadness in this world and its made of unrequited love, of the eyes of the old, of the loss of life, of helplessness, of the feeble hand raised against the tyranny of money, of all the hunger of children in a world they did not build, of the castles of guilt in our minds and of the stupidity of the blind pursuit of material wealth.
It gets me down, and when it does I will henceforth remember the saintly Antonio, the shrewd Shylock, the prodigal Bassanio and the clever Portia. More than all I will remember the goofy, fun-loving Launcelot Gobbo - for only by trivializing this life can I be careless and courageous, and by laughing at and accepting my misfortune will I be able to combat the sorrow it brings.
