Melancholy, so frequent in artists, raw material of almost all poetic work, classified by Poe as “the most legitimate of all the poetical tones,” seems strange to my nature. I fall into melancholy, if I may put it that way, only when I am distracted by everyday issues. Taking melancholy, of course, with sadness among its manifestations. If taken as a general disenchantment—which does not necessarily result in sadness—then I am as close to it as a brother. Affliction, psychological torture, endless mental conflict: these are as natural to me as day and night. I do not know where this psychological disposition comes from, but through sadness I do not feel united to any of the great poets.
Melancholy…
