The Most Moving Part of 'Sonnets'

What I wish to do is forge ahead into what we are doing now in class. In accordance with Prof. Kuin's advice, I will catch up on the blogs I have missed over winter break: Sidney and Dryden.

However, before I blog about last week's lecture, the transition to Romanticism, I want to just post this last comment about Sidney. I had written this a while ago, and I'd like to have it posted before I move on:

Certain Sonnets: I am going to expand on absolutely my favourite verse in Certain Sonnets. You can tackle meaning out of anything, but the significance is so much more passionate when you have it screaming off the page in sentimental verse:

Sonnet 24. 'To the tune of 'The Smokes of Melancholy'

Read the lines carefully aloud to yourself, to hear every word:

"Who hath ever felt the change of love
And known those pangs that the losers prove
May paint my face without seeing me,
And write the state how my fancies be
The loathsome buds grown on sorrow's tree:
But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully felt
What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt
Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease;
Feeling my pulse, miss my disease."

WOOOOOW! SO, what makes this verse so fantastic? Why is this so incredibly insightful?

I've had my heart hurt like many people have. And I think all such people will agree that it is a treacherous experience. You never beleive that you will recover from the pain until the day that you do. At the time of my growings-up and my heart-breakings, I had a close girl friend who too fell in love and was tremendously hurt. I also had, and still have, one other friend who has never felt 'love'. While I do beleive that Love means very different thing for every person and every situation, I learned at that time that it has one binding factor: When it stings, it hurts more than imaginable.

The pain of, say, loss of Love, unrequited Love, etc. is unique. It is distinct from any other emotional pain. To say that it is lighter or more heavy I cannot quarantee; I have been fortunate not to have experienced many. But I will say this, whenever I come across a human in Love, whether it be on the bus, at home or shopping, I feel like I know it. And I smile, because I know.

Now how genuine the Love is for the particular individual I cannot know, because that would entail an intricate understanding of that persons emotional tendency and capability: To measuer the meaning of another person's Love would necessitate a comparison to my own tendencies. Some people may naturally Love more intensely, or less.

Or, I may find a person who's eyes glow with comsumption. They may grow pale and timid, loving and desperate. But, watching, there is nothing that says that they may Love another person even more radically. Or, who can tell how much of their action is personal characteristics, and how much is characteristics brought upon them by the special Power? Certainly, the ways one Loves is mostly dependent upon the lover; the beloved cannot make a lover. On the other hand, every animal is able to Love to an extent, therefore from any such being a lover can be made.

Damn, okay, now I have to approach all you optimists out there with an apology. Please don't misunderstand, I believe in True Love. Every Love is Ultimate Love. But do grant me this: It is true that one may Love a few in their lifetime, and no Love is necessarily more worthy than the other. Only different; more powerful, more intense, connected in more ways, more open, etc. But Love, so long as it can pain you tremendously, is True. See, I am an idealist. A romantic. I promise. I am representing Sidney of all people, aren't I?

Now, back to what this stanza is all about:
1. The comparison between my friend who is in Love, with whom I empathize immediately. And, my friend who has never loved. When I call her to express my woes, she gives a simple reply; beyond that does not know what to say. How many friends of yours have told you, "Don't worry, there are other fish in the sea." Oh my god. While in pain, hearing something like that will make me want to jump off the nearest cliff. Hel-lo! I am crying because I don't want the other fish. I want him. It's like trying to convince a kid to get the other flavour of ice cream when they see the what they want right behind the glass. "Don't worry, there are another 48 flavours..." Good luck with that.

This friend never understood that pain because she never felt that she needed, someone else in that way that Love. She never experienced that emotional dependency but through family, a much more fickle and relaxed relationship. My friend who also Loved...well we were on the phone for hours. Despairing, we knew there was nothing to say to one another. So we said nothing, but talked for hours.

2. That kind of despair that Love may bring, if you are one of those unlucky heart-broken types. Once you experience it, you know it inside-out. You know there is nothing you can really say to your heartbroken friend short of get over it, and you know better than to say that (since it has been said to you). So like me you smile. You empathize. A person happily in Love is more questionable. Sometimes, only sometimes, you're not sure if its extreme infatuation. But when they are not getting out of bed, you know.

There is my favourite line from a favourite movie that I will share with you that depicts this exactly. Tune in to this and then I will stop blabbing. For those of you that know me personally, you know my name. For those that don't, look to the left of the screen. Sabrina. Have you seen the movie? That's what I was named after. I would find this distrubingly depressing, except that the wonderful Audrey Hepburn played the main role of Sabrina, which somehow made it okay. Off-topic again. So, in this movie, the young Sabrina spends her youth in Love with the son of the successful family for whom her father shewfers. The son pays no attention to her; he has not a clue of her affections. Her frustrated father cannot cure her disease, and sends her to cooking school in Paris. There we find her in class, where the instructor is about to judge the class on the sufles they have made. Some are too burnt, some too high, and poor Sabrina's is 'way too low'. Sabrina does not know what she has done wrong. "I know what you have done," says the wise old French man to her left. "You forgot to turn on the oven." She is imbarrassed to find that he is correct. "You are in Love, and I will venture to go further than that. You are unhappily in Love."
"Is it that transparent?"
"Madame, happily in Love, you burn the sufle. Unhappily, you forget to turn on the oven."
Hurt from Love is understood by the experienced in Love, the hurt is distinct and so pained that it is memorialized, and is a identified aspect to life. It is this that Sidney portrays in his stanza.

Love, so intense and exact a feeling, is not capable of being empathized with from someone who has not loved himself, or "hath ever felt the change of love". Someone who "hath not fully felt what kind of fires that be in which those spirits melt", although will feel his feelings somehow, will "miss his disease." Notice: "hath not FULLY felt." Love as a complete feeling; not lacking at all. There is Love or there is not Love. If it is not full Love or full feeling, it is not legitimate enough. You can not truly understand what is complete feeling. Disease; Lack/unrequited Love is a Disease. Not simply pain, but something deep and severe. This is Sidney's final cutting word to prove his thoughts. It is, after all, a DISEASE. Don't expect to understand the pain.