BOOK REVIEWS (2014): Robert Burton’s (1620) The Anatomy Of Melancholy [Part 3]

17 May 2014

Summary (the TLDR Version)

Before anyone takes the self-pity of the nouveau pauvre seriously …

Framing/Background for Replies[1]

The full title of this 1620 book by Robert Burton runs: The Anatomy of Melancholy, What It Is: With All The Kinds, Causes, Symptomes, Prognostickes, And Several Cures Of It. In Three Maine Partitions With Their Several Sections, Members, And Subsections. Philosophically, Medicinally, Historically, Opened And Cut Up.

This year, I haveset myself the task to read four or five pages of this book per day, which for its nearly 1,400 pages will put me finishing it sometime in October 2014, once I skip the indexes and footnotes that source Burton’s Latin quotations, &c.

Since I cannot hope to remember with a book this large, especially one read at this pace, whatever I might write as a reply to it, I plan to collect reflections along the way, not particularly numbered or systematically, maybe sometime(s) sporadically placed online, but primarily to memorialize the reading in some way.

In the scheme of temperaments—sanguine (pleasure-seeking and sociable), choleric (ambitious and leader-like), phlegmatic (relaxed and thoughtful), and melancholic (analytical and literal)—I fall into the last category. These days, melancholy gets abused as a synonym for depression, but it more arises from self-reflection.

A Reply To: Robert Burton’s (1620)[2] The Anatomy Of Melancholy [Part 3]

I have finished what Burton calls partition 1 of his book, some 523 pages altogether. And I have to say, I find myself generally disappointed by it on most levels—usually less because it irks me and more because it spins around in seemingly banal circles. Sometimes I find myself marvelling at Burton’s ability to pull material from numberless sources but (1) I don’t actually know how difficult or easy that task could have been when Burton wrote, (2) I remember that he had decades to compose the book, and (3) I know he makes errors of attribution and so forth, which other researchers have conducted surveys and analyses for. The much greater ease of the task now notwithstanding, how long would it take me to pull together 1,400 pages of text from Wikipedia and the Internet about a subject?

When Anthony Burgess descries Anatomy as one of the great comic works of the world, I suspect he may mean unintentionally comic—that the book can come across comically despite itself. For instance, Burton iterates at vast length about the madness of all men, seemingly not acknowledging that this must catch him as well in his own net, and only very much later finally gets around to acknowledging the point, which means either (1) we should disregard him as a madman and fool also or (2) one cannot avoid madness or foolishness so we have no reason whatsoever to remark upon madness or foolishness as a problem. This move reminds me, albeit in a very different register, of the point that Horselover Fat makes in Dick’s (1981)[3] Valis, “Fat had reverted back to his most dismal insight, that the universe and the Mind behind it which governed it are both totally irrational” (62) and that only the mad might therefore interface with the universe. In which case the category “madness” ceases to have any utility. And importantly:

“How would we know” [asked Dr Stone]

“The whole universe would be irrational,” Fat said.

Dr. Stone said, “Compared to what?”

That, Fat hadn’t thought of. But as soon as he thought of it he realized that it did not tear down his fear; it increased it. If the whole universe were irrational, because it was directed by an irrational—that is to say, an insane—mind … (62–3)

Whatever sympathy we want to expend on someone indubitably experiencing this fear, the fact that the fear finds a way to persist despite an apt demonstration otherwise points to the root of the (internal) problem not the (external) one. In a similar way, Burton’s sense of the word “melancholy” (as simply a symptom of its use in diagnostics up to his day) becomes equally emptied of meaning as he does nothing to the term except to taxonomise it according to the received categories. And as Todorov (1975)[4] aptly notes, “To say that the elements of a whole can be classified is to formulate the weakest possible hypothesis about these elements” (18–9).

Blame the poor fit on me if you must. I do believe that one would have to do some fancy footwork to prop this monument up, and if Lezard’s (2001)[5] perhaps overly indulgent review in the Guardian points to the quality of such propping, where he writes, “Paperback not so much of the week as of the year, of the decade—or, I am inclined to say, of all time. And why? Because’ it’s the best book ever written, that’s why” (¶1), then I foresee confidently only a poor defence forthcoming. By this I mean, the backs of books often resort to hyperbole,[6] and we might even suspect that the higher the praise the less worthy the book—in which case Lezard exposes this “best book ever written” as something else.

Not the worst book either. Lezard at least doesn’t stop at his opening claim though one might still take issue with the elements of the much more moderate defence he offers for the book in the rest of his short review. Significantly, the passage Lezard quotes from Anatomy as an example provides a case of stacked deck:

Burton, you suspect, felt the miseries of scholars keenly. “To say truth, ’tis the common fortune of most scholars to be servile and poor, to complain pitifully, and lay open their wants to their respective patrons… and… for hope of gain to lie, flatter, and with hyperbolical elogiums and commendations to magnify and extol an illiterate unworthy idiot for his excellent virtues, whom they should rather, as Machiavel observes, vilify and rail at downright for his most notorious villainies and vices.” And that’s a good quote to be getting on with: it shows you that Burton is on the side of the angels, that he’s prepared to stick his neck out, and that he is funny (¶2)

For one, in point of fact, Burton goes on for many more pages than typical when he talks about the melancholy of scholars, and he certainly shows himself more detailed, more knowledgeable, and more forthright than elsewhere, where he tends to provide merely reiterations of so-and-so said this, so-and-so said that. No wonder, given that he worked as a scholar. Still, one would like to think the phrase “hyperbolical elogiums” runs with irony, but I’ll say the jury should remain out on that as yet.

But before I go on, the point I’d emphasise: that Lezard picks a passage from Burton at his better (not necessarily his best) to epitomise the whole book does not present a faithful picture of Anatomy.

Burton frequently impresses me—rather, the text Burton wrote frequently impresses me—with a lack of self-consciousness, even when the durations of obsessive focusing draw the text out. Again, the late admission that the author exhibits no better (or worse) case of stupidity or madness than anyone else doesn’t operate in the text like a qualifier—not after 50 pages of “everyone is a fool”.[7]

I mean, what pleasures Burton offers occur more aptly when he writes about the melancholy of the scholar. Lezard states, “When opened at random, it offers not only dense slabs of 17th-century prose, but insane lists that seem to go on forever, meandering digressions, whole chunks of italicised Latin” (¶1). More than this, Lezard insists, “The lazy browser won’t even pick this book off a shelf, let alone open it” (¶1). In point of fact, the non-lazy browser finds this on every page as well. Lezard says, “No one on earth is going to expect you to read it cover to cover” (¶3). Why? Because Burton has already died? I wonder if Joyce expects us to open Ulysses or Finnegans Wake at random or if Bely expects the same for Petersburg.

Since Lezard recommends reading piecemeal and randomly, here I offer you a chunk, grabbed quite randomly out of (part II) of the Gutenberg edition of Anatomy (from here):

These few rules of diet he that keeps, shall surely find great ease and speedy remedy by it. It is a wonder to relate that prodigious temperance of some hermits, anchorites, and fathers of the church: he that shall but read their lives, written by Hierom, Athanasius, &c., how abstemious heathens have been in this kind, those Curii and Fabritii, those old philosophers, as Pliny records, lib. 11. Xenophon, lib. 1. de vit. Socrat. Emperors and kings, as Nicephorus relates, Eccles. hist. lib. 18. cap. 8. of Mauritius, Ludovicus Pius, &c., and that admirable example of Ludovicus Cornarus, a patrician of Venice, cannot but admire them. This have they done voluntarily and in health; what shall these private men do that are visited with sickness, and necessarily enjoined to recover, and continue their health? It is a hard thing to observe a strict diet, et qui medice vivit, misere vivit, as the saying is, quale hoc ipsum erit vivere, his si privatus fueris? as good be buried, as so much debarred of his appetite; excessit medicina malum, the physic is more troublesome than the disease, so he complained in the poet, so thou thinkest: yet he that loves himself will easily endure this little misery, to avoid a greater inconvenience; e malis minimum better do this than do worse. And as Tully holds, better be a temperate old man than a lascivious youth. ‘Tis the only sweet thing (which he adviseth) so to moderate ourselves, that we may have senectutem in juventute, et in juventute senectutem, be youthful in our old age, staid in our youth, discreet and temperate in both (Part 2, page 29)

I have no idea what this passage relates to, &c, and for my purposes here, I don’t care. I leave it to you to decide “best book ever” and “great comic novels of English”. Nor do I mean by this to impugn what Burton factually accomplishes with his book, whatever that might consist of, but only to put in context the extravagant and excessive claims for this book. A book so good you shouldn’t read it all, certainly not in order—it would seem then that Wikipedia should have surpassed Burton for the title “best book ever”.

Ultimately, the greatest problem does not arise from either the sheer length of the book or even the sheer length of the seeming digressions. Not that Burton proposes a novel here, but Tolstoy’s War and Peace seems unsurpassed in digressiveness and certainly has a place on the short-list of longest (actually worth) novels in the history of letters. The novel, in general, vastly accommodates the digression, and Bakhtin (1981)[8] might even propose digression as a structural aspect of the novel. One narrative use for the digression involves the deferral of an anticipated or expected action in the narrative. This sort of digression works (when it does) because a reader has a desired point to reach in the narrative and its deferral increases expectation, it whets the whistle.

Digression in Burton seems more like an unrelated anecdote whose relevance never gets established. In joke form, this amounts to a shaggy dog story, but if that comedy plays here, it occurs accidentally or in the mind of the reader. Digression in Burton functions like someone going on at very great length with a personal anecdote unrelated to the topic of discussion, that never comes back to the topic. The book has no forward momentum whatsoever, not even argumentatively. Almost immediately, you find yourself at sea in a heap of details—or simply words—and every occasionally now and then, Burton fires off a worthily pithy phrase. Too few and far between. That makes for the vastest defect of this book. Reading the Benjy section of Faulkner’s Sound and the Fury, one continually experiences this sense of being at sea, hopelessly lost, but then suddenly some luminous phrase or image appears then disappears again. Never mind that this attempts to depict the mental world of someone developmentally disabled; simply from the standpoint as a reader, these experiences don’t take twenty pages to recur.

Again, one may say the comparison applies the criteria of fiction to non-fiction. Rather, I describe an artful use of the kind of verbose overdetermination (I didn’t pick Faulkner for no reason) as a proven capacity of discursive prose that Burton’s book does not avail itself of, and not for want of previous models (c.f., the Menippean satire).

William Gass, in his introduction that reads more promisingly than Burton’s text, I believe he says something to the effect that Burton often sounds quite modern in his description of current problems. Yes. One might read the melancholy of scholars and recognise something very like the current so-called adjunctification of education, &c. This credit remains only partial—I swear, I don’t aim to nit-pick the book to death—because as often as not Burton cites Classical examples of present cases. I do laugh out loud (figuratively speaking) when he starts bashing Turks as infidels and Papists as the scourges of the earth (compared to stalwart Protestantism). Nothing like some provincial narrow-mindedness.

Occasionally, he manages to rise above common superstition. And, in fact, I might even think his heaping up of “superstitious” data he genuinely counterpoises with the opinion, “Superstition is dumb.” However, any whiff of scientific spirit goes right out the window as soon as Catholicism enters the picture again. In discussing cures for melancholy, he begins to distinguishing lawful from unlawful forms of cure—the unlawful varieties being principally magical or witchcraft. Here, one gets tempted to read a “rationalist spirit,” but in the very next section, he poses the question that if the only lawful form of cure consists of those that come from Yahweh, then do cures that originate from saints and saint’s relics, &c, constitute valid or lawful cures, and he answers unambiguously no. Because he hates Catholicism, not because he believes in reason.

It also seems, so far, that he has managed not to run his mouth in a grossly sexist way, and not so imply for want of opportunity.

One passage at least I’d like to pull out for praise, in part because Burton actually applies some intelligence to the material he collects and does not simply heap it down in front of us and say yay or nay to it. He writes:

If [a person] be of [a] little better condition than those base villains, hunger-starved beggars, wandering rogues, those ordinary slaves, and day-labouring drudges; yet they are commonly so preyed upon by polling officers for breaking the laws, by their tyrannising landlords, so flayed and fleeced by perpetual exactions, that though they do drudge, fare hard, and starve their genius, they cannot live in some countries; but what they have is instantly taken from them, the very care they take to live, to be drudges, to maintain their poor families, their trouble and anxiety takes away their sleep, Sirac. xxxi. 1, it makes them weary of their lives: when they have taken all pains, done their utmost and honest endeavours, if they be cast behind by sickness, or overtaken with years, no man pities them, hard-hearted and merciless, uncharitable as they are, they leave them so distressed, to beg, steal, murmur, and rebel, or else starve. The feeling and fear of this misery compelled those old Romans, whom Menenius Agrippa pacified, to resist their governors: outlaws, and rebels in most places, to take up seditious arms, and in all ages hath caused uproars, murmurings, seditions, rebellions, thefts, murders, mutinies, jars and contentions in every commonwealth: grudging, repining, complaining, discontent in each private family, because they want means to live according to their callings, bring up their children, it breaks their hearts, they cannot do as they would (352).

This sudden line “it breaks their hearts” noticeably stands out as quite an emotional note by Burton, who seems to me in this passage quite genuinely moved by the plight of the poor and to a degree not typically encountered (at any time in history). Kudos. The strength of this seems qualified some by the preceding passage, where (collecting from sources again) he writes, “For what can filthy poverty give else, but beggary, fulsome nastiness, squalor, contempt, drudgery, labour, ugliness, hunger and thirst … fleas and lice … rags for his raiment, and a stone for his pillow (352). That ugliness gets attributed to poverty and the peculiar tone of the phrase “fulsome nastiness” suggest something more like the conventional moral indignation of the middling classes (as Burton calls them) for the poor—so, caveat for that. Nonetheless, this phrasing may result more from the sources he cites than from his own opinion, which seems expressed in the paragraph above.

And then, unfortunately, it takes a less reassuring turn.

No greater misery than for a lord to have a knight’s living, a gentleman a yeoman’s, not to be able to live as his birth and place require. Poverty and want are generally corrosives to all kinds of men, especially to such as have been in good and flourishing estate, are suddenly distressed, nobly born, liberally brought up, and, by some disaster and casualty miserably dejected (352–3).

In multiple places, I have addressed the psychology of the nouveau pauvre; one summary statement I’ve made runs like this—that the miserable dejection experienced specifically by the haves who no longer have:

makes them especially act like selfish dicks, and history has hundreds of examples. Burton’s (1620)[9] Anatomy of Melancholy notes that few become so miserable and awful as those who had but now don’t. Canetti’s (1960)[10] [in my estimation apologetics for abuse of Power] waves its hands a lot about what Canetti calls “the survivor,” exemplifying this type of bastard at one point with the notorious historical figure Josephus, who so offended his Jewish community members that his writings were placed under interdiction from reading for more than one thousand years.[11] Solzhenitsyn’s (1974)[12] Gulag Archipelago details how the worst political prisoners were those who had previously enjoyed the privileges of Communist Party advantages; one might expect similar embittered whining from Wall Street failures. The biblical curse of Noah upon his son Ham represents a focussed case in point, while Abraham himself presents no end of entitled abuse of everyone around him under the guise of someone who had but lost.

One might add the so-called Ecclesiastes (taken to task here) as another sterling example of classist whining. The summary of that post runs: “The actual apparatus of Power will exploit the nihilism of a cry-baby in order to extort our obedience, obsequiousness, or apathy in the face of that Power,” where by a cry-baby I mean an individual entrusted with (supposedly or actually) helming the apparatus of Power, its figurehead.

In view of the swelling ranks of the nouveau pauvre thanks to the deliberate and wilful act of financial terrorism in 2008 by Wall Street, we may expect such dickishness from them as they “discover” the quality of life they have been demanding, inflicting, and imposing on the underclasses for a very long time.

But neither Burton, nor Ecclesiastes, nor Canetti (and probably not Solzhenitsyn, but it has been a long time since I read Gulag Archipelago) offer much or any analysis why this happens. Of course, people accustomed to foie gras (or Applebee’s) may find Wal-Mart food (or McDonald’s) unpalatable, and that will cause a psychical discomfort in their being and fundament. And people in a state of grumpiness tend to get operatic, touchy, and shitty toward other people. But the issue has not so much to do with the discomfort.

One can go from a middle class existence to a prison setting with surprisingly little adjustment. And, I would argue in fact, to some extent even less mental stress than middle class people experience when laid off. Why? Because all other issues aside, prison generally offers a security of shelter, food, and water. Also, these things get provided to you; one doesn’t have to find a way to find them in the world.

For the nouveau poor, to lose one’s home certainly denotes a luxury most poor people would love to suffer, since it means they owned a home (i.e., did not rent). And any poor people evicted—or simply thrown out because some shit-fuck developer has decided to tear down their neighbourhood—generally have a lot of wherewithal for how to deal with that calamity. Why? Because it makes a common occurrence in the experience of the poor generally. You lose your apartment, you end up sleeping with your family at an uncle’s—13 people packed into a home. Uncomfortable, cramped, awkward, a fire hazard, but simply not something that occurs to the middle-class soccer dad who finds himself without a home.

I summarise for the sake of brevity. This total unfamiliarity with how to “get by on nothing or little” certainly makes the nouveau pauvre start acting like selfish, hoarding fucks. The idea that they would simply stop paying their car insurance to save money doesn’t cross their mind, much less that they should spend $60 on a bus pass and ride public transportation. &c

And a very large portion of that arises from vanity. They drove their car (at the expense of all of the rest of us) precisely to prove they didn’t ride public transportation. Or, more precisely, if they stop to think of it—after someone suggests they should ride public transit—they suddenly have half a dozen reasons why that won’t work, but the biggest reason (I say) involves vanity; they think public transit beneath them.

Same with work. People who proudly declare, “I would never work fast food” fly an ugly classist flag they should have stuffed down their throat. They will self-righteously patronise (I chose the word deliberate) such restaurants and benefit from the exploitive labour practices there, but they themselves would never work there.

However, I do not see merely no familiarity with “getting by with little” and vanity as getting quite exactly to the root of why the formers haves (the now nouveau pauvre) tuned to act like such dicks. It does have something similar to do with vanity. It does have to do with the kind of grotesque selfish individualism that characterises the bourgeois ethos and which arrogantly pretends that how “they” live will never do (i.e., the amazing generosity of the poor around food and hospitality).

The nouveau pauvre have no familiarity with living with little because they make a point to not associate with “those people”. At this very moment, people get by on scant amounts of money, so their example of economy stands ready for anyone to learn from: if they’d just come down off their high horse long enough to ask. And this ignorance arises from vanity, of course, that sees how “those live” as nothing “but beggary, fulsome nastiness, squalor, contempt, drudgery, labour, ugliness, hunger and thirst … fleas and lice” &c.

But simply walk through a poor (not an impoverished) neighbourhood and you will very often see nothing like “but beggary, fulsome nastiness, squalor, contempt, drudgery, labour, ugliness, hunger and thirst … fleas and lice.” Instead, one will see folks getting along, and often with more human conviviality than most middle class folks. So this idea that poverty equates with “but beggary, fulsome nastiness, squalor, contempt, drudgery, labour, ugliness, hunger and thirst … fleas and lice” in its most frequently heard iteration (in discourse) amounts to a fantasy. It denotes a lie told by the middle class, whose beggary, fulsome nastiness, squalor, contempt, drudgery, &c, might seem lessened by a (false) comparison.

The falseness of this lie told about the greater portion of the poor (again, the poor, not the impoverished) becomes the reality that the nouveau pauvre think they must live when they become poor. Or, perhaps more precisely, it raises up the spectre of what they will experience as their poverty worsens—and thus, in a state of desperate fear at that coming to pass—they become hyperdicks. They refuse food to people; they permit themselves all kinds of illegalities and immoralities. All to avoid becoming (ironically enough) merely poorer, since the middle class already denote the laughingstock of the actually rich. They denote only the “relatively poor” (or relatively rich) but as they slide more toward the threat of “but beggary, fulsome nastiness, squalor, contempt, drudgery, labour, ugliness, hunger and thirst … fleas and lice” they will tend to become more and more awful.

It probably follows that those who have more become the more awful as they fall further. One ventures that Daniel Noriega cut a ghastly spectacle of entitlement in his Federal prison. (Mafia bosses likely less so, since they knew all their gains were ill-gotten—“no money today, money tomorrow” as the Italian adage runs.)

So not just non-familiarity and comparative vanity, but a positive falsehood about what poverty consists of provides the storm-front of shittiness that makes poverty and want not just “generally corsives to all kind of men [but] especially to such as have been in good and flourishing estate” (352). And, again, not how these titled and entitled thieves cut a different picture than the thieves )mafia) who far less often turn into the kind of malignant narcissists that people like Canetti’s survivor, Josephus, Noah, Abraham, or Solzhenitsyn’s ex-Communists do.

Finally (for now), having said all this, I can’t exclude the end of Burton’s paragraph, which again adds an ugly qualifier to the sympathy he seemed to express before.

For the rest, as they have base fortunes, so have they base minds correspondent, like beetles, e stercore orti, e stercore victus, in stercore delicium, as they were obscurely born and bred, so they delight in obscenity; they are not thoroughly touched with it. Angustas animas angusto in pectore versant.

In other words, the poorer one, the less you suffer the sort of nouveau pauvre condition, but principally because you have less refined sensibilities and mind. One can make this into a compliment by saying that the already poor tend less to act like dicks in the face of disaster. And one might compare occidental style apocalypse fantasies, where collapse of civilization leads immediately to cannibalism, compared to the sorts of things that actually happen (especially elsewhere in the world). Most people already live in a world as severe as if not more so than our apocalyptic fantasies, but they have no resorted to cannibalism; in fact, they tend to get along just fine, albeit with usually harder work than we ever have to do. And they do so without blunted sensibilities, obviously. Frequently, their human interrelatedness has a far more articulate and well-realized topos than our empty, vapid lives do. As Burton closes with:

Yet, that which is no small cause of their torments, if once they come to be in distress, they are forsaken of their fellows, most part neglected, and left unto themselves; as poor Terence in Rome was by Scipio, Laelius, and Furius, his great and noble friends (353).

Here again, he does not describe the typical poor. It takes some pretty serious social destruction (like a war or IMF loan) to so completely decimate a community that this description holds. In the US, we saw it happen where the War on Drugs stuck its nose—or in the transformation of Harlem into a ghetto, &c.

Beyond this, Burton permits himself a fantasia on how awful poverty seems, e.g., “Which is worse yet, if he be poor every man contemns him, insults over him, oppresseth him, scoffs at, aggravates his misery” (353).

This only describes how the relatively poor take on airs toward the slightly more relatively poor.


[1] If you’ve read this already in my other book replies, you can skip it. Otherwise: two years ago in 2012, I set myself the task to read at least ten pages per day; last year, I did so. Continuing from then, I now have the task to read fifteen pages per day, and I’ve added that I will write a book reaction (or reply) for each one that I finish (or give up on, if I stop). I plan also to devise a way to randomly select books to read (given certain constraints) from the public library; this, to avoid the tendency only to read books that pique my already existing interests. These replies will not be Amazon-type reviews, with synopses, background research done on the author or the book itself, unless that strikes me as necessary or if the book inspired me to do so when I read it. Rather, these replies amount to assessments of the ways I found the book helpful somehow. More precisely—and this describes what I mean by a reply, as opposed to a reaction (review) or a response—I try to focus in these pieces on what I could not have said (or would not have known what to say) except that the intersection of this text and my consciousness brought it about. Consequently, I will sometimes say stupid stuff, poorly informed stuff, &c. Some in the world expect everyone to possess omniscience and won’t bother to engage in a human dialogue toward divining how to make the world a better place. To the extent that each reply I offer provides a I found this helpful in this book, then it becomes up to us (you, me, us) to correct, refine, trash and start over, or do something else we see as potentially helpful as part of attempting to make our world a better place. If you won’t bother to take up your end of that bargain, that signals of course part of the problem that needs a solution.

[2] Burton, R. (1620). The anatomy of melancholy, what it is: with all the kinds, causes, symptomes, prognostickes, and several cures of it. in three maine partitions with their several sections, members, and subsections. philosophically, medicinally, historically, opened and cut up . New York: New York Review of Books.

[3] Dick, P. K. (2011). Valis. 1st Mariner Books ed. Boston: Mariner Books.

[4] Todorov, T (1993). The fantastic: a structural approach to a literary genre (trans. Richard Howard). Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

[5] Lezard, N. (2001, 17 August). The book to end all books. Accessed 23 May 2014 from

[6] Lezard’s lead sentence wound up on the back of the book.

[7] Just to offer two examples where self-admission occurs first, we may remember the Underground Man’s admission that he “is sick, spiteful, and his liver hurts”; or as a much more pious example, one commentator on the Bhagavad-Gītā, in his elaborate and formal obeisance at the beginning of his text, follows a tradition of acknowledging his own position relative to the disciplic succession of scholars before him.

[8] Bakhtin, MM (1981). The dialogic imagination: four essays (ed. And trans. M. Holquist and C. Emerson). Austin: University of Texas Press.

[9] Burton, R. (1620). The anatomy of melancholy, what it is: with all the kinds, causes, symptomes, prognostickes, and several cures of it. in three maine partitions with their several sections, members, and subsections. philosophically, medicinally, historically, opened and cut up. New York: New York Review of Books.

[10] Canetti, E. (1981). Crowds and Power (trans. Carol Stewart), 6th printing. New York: NY: Noonday Press. (paperback)

[11] That Canetti flags this type of personality as a wretched example of a human being and a significant social problem gets that much right, but his book by no means guards against drawing the conclusion that if one seeks not to become a victim in society, then one should take on the conceit of a victimizer.

[12] Solzhenitsyn, A. I. (1974). The Gulag Archipelago, 1918-1956: an experiment in literary investigation. [1st ed.] New York: Harper & Row.

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