Of all the cities in Europe, none could hope to steal the crown of the capital of melancholy from Lisbon, a sad city to rival all others which appears to confront the end of the world on a daily basis with its disturbing, quiet beauty. These days it is somewhat difficult to talk about melancholy. According to some dictionaries, it is to do with a kind of hazy, deep, and endless sadness which means that the sufferer is unable to find pleasure or enjoyment in anything. Or an obsession with all things to do with sadness, as confirmed by the laconic styles of the bewitching, disappearing language employed by Robert Burton, who spoke of it during the first half of the 17th century, emotionally crippled as the the victim of what modern medicine has come to term as clinical depression.

Burton was a modest professor, and librarian at Christ College in Oxford, who passed his sedentary, silent and solitary life of books, devoted to the study of magic, medicine, theology, mathematics, astrology and literature. Like a considerable number of his contemporaries, he suffered from “melancholy“, which according to the theories of physics (according to whom, each natural humour corresponded with the ascendance of a mysterious planet), was attributed to a predominance of black bile, ruled by Saturn. Burton proposed various different types of melancholy, each one expressing itself and manifesting in different ways. His causes were also diverse – from religion, to love, and much more besides; like desire, spells, charms; an overactive imagination, the movement and position of the stars, loneliness, indolence, work, lack of or too much sleep, too much studying, vanity, the death of a loved one, or bad diet.
Burton scrutinized all of these causes in one of the most lively, memorable books ever written. Anatomy of Melancholy, is a wonderfully chaotic, incoherent masterpiece, which challenges all of the conventional genders, being at once a critical book and a literary creation; a book about medicine, and philosophy, about theology, and mythology – as well as a seductive, fascinating compendium of ancient knowledge, which through various digressions, brilliantly draws in the reader to each page, each paragraph and each line.
It is perhaps also, above all – like all good books – a self-help book. Burton himself confessed that he wrote it hoping to find a cure for what had tortured him so relentlessly throughout his life (“I write about melancholy so as to try and avoid melancholy“) – and Samuel Johnson, compiler of the enormously influential dictionary of the English language which appeared in 1755, and sufferer of a depression which he had inherited from his father, declared that the book was an incomparable source of consolation – and the only book capable of getting him out of bed two hours earlier than usual.
Paul Oilzum
You’ll find few books such a perfect travel companion when you rent Lisbon accommodation It’s deep melancholy is like that of the Portuguese capital. Both inspire, confound, and paradoxically, cure.
Translated by: Poppy
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