“Comparisons are odious,” this tot was taught.
“But how else know?” I never thought to ask.
I compare myself continually. So did Shakespeare.
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast stateAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless criesAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Feeling punk – “in disgrace with fortune” – I pout with regret. The comparative poverty of my portion pesters. Why aren’t I smarter, lither, handsomer, younger, etc.? As with poor liddl Shakespeare in this greatest of poems, mocking self-pity doesn’t muzzle it. Four hundred years later, we find ourselves rooting from the sidelines, “But you’re Shakespeare, Will, cheer up!”
Comparing is the human curse. It seems we’re the only creature who wonders left and right, “Why not me?” I couldn’t be luckier. I know this because there’s nobody whose lot I’d exchange for mine, even Shakespeare. Sure, I’d love to have written so wondrously, but I’ve something he’d trade with me in a heartbeat, the chance to write better tomorrow. I envy my grandchildren their runway – but not at the cost of my memories!
We train ourselves to stifle our discontent. Buck up, stiff upper lip, it’s weak to cry. Essential to Shakespeare’s greatness was admitting his distress. He had the courage to weep – and rebuke his weeping. As did the Psalmist:
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedBut I am a worm, and no man;a reproach of men and despised of the people.
Who doesn’t feel crappy now and then – for “no good reason!” The measure of character is how we wrestle our wretchedness.
A Shakespearean sonnet splits into two parts. The first eight lines – or two quatrains – poses the problem; the next six – the third quatrain and concluding couplet – resolve the dissonance. I know of no sonnet where the turn after the eighth line so thrills.
Our poet is in what nowadays we call “a bad place.” Nothing’s going right, nobody likes him, he’s whimpering, envying, humiliating himself with his unmanliness, “with what I most enjoy contented least.” “YET” – that “yet” is the miraculous ball-bearing of the piece, on which it pivots – he remembers his beloved – and abracadabra, he feels like a million bucks. No simile prods me to write harder:
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedLike to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.
Relief! Ecstasy! For who else possesses such a love!
Love overcomes the anguish of comparing. Love of a beloved, of God, of life itself, of words – the object of one’s love doesn’t matter, only its intensity. Love is the anodyne for being. Consciousness hurts: the deeper one’s perception, the sharper one’s regret. But then – in love – one wouldn’t trade places with anyone.
We live in a dire hour. I wake raging, fit to be tied, incredulous at the vileness of our kind. I fear for tomorrow and my grandkids’ tomorrow. Woe! But then I look at Jane beside me, and the sky through the blinds, and Henry, and
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.