Sir Thomas Browne, another old friend of mine, lists among the bugbears of his childhood such terrifying figures as Kit-with-the-Candlestick, the Puckle, the Spoorn, and Boneless. Obviously, it was a more exciting world before the invention of the electric light.
Speaking of "melancholy" and its various names, I can't resist appending here a poem of my own which has had a favorable audience response, especially from readers over 40:
BREAKING DOWN IN THE SOUTH
It knocked me over to learn there's no such thing
as a nervous breakdown. My aunts and uncles had them
all the time. It was spoken of in whispers,
like drink, divorce, and cancer. Aunt Leona
had a Nervous Breakdown back in '67
and never took communion again -- she thought
the devil had her. Enviable Aunt Leona,
sure of her standing with the Lord and Satan.
Uncle Eugene got violent when he drank
and ended up in a Home. They never said
whose home it was. Some people who broke down
looked fine to me, but still the fame and glamour
of a Nervous Breakdown hung around their necks
like a name-brand diamond. Now in middle age
I'm told my dismal state is just depression,
reactive mild -- here, try a little Prozac.
Damn it, I don't want drugs. I only want
to be eccentric, batty somewhat daft,
covered by Aunt Leona's mental mist.
Again, my generation gets the shaft:
I'm due for a breakdown, and they don't exist.
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