Son animali al mondo de sí altera
vista che ’ncontra ’l sol pur si difende;
altri, però che ’l gran lume gli offende,
non escon fuor se non verso la sera;
et altri, col desio folle che spera
gioir forse nel foco, perché splende,
provan l’altra vertú, quella che ’ncende:
lasso, e ’l mio loco è ’n questa ultima schera.
Ch’i’ non son forte ad aspectar la luce
di questa donna, et non so fare schermi1
di luoghi tenebrosi, o d’ ore tarde:
però con gli occhi lagrimosi e ’nfermi
mio destino a vederla mi conduce;
et so ben ch’i’ vo dietro a quel che m’arde.
–––––
Some animals enjoy such special powers of sight
that they can look straight at the sun, however bright,
and take no harm; while others shun its glare, and wait
in hiding until evening’s in the sky.
Still others are possessed to launch themselves in flight
at light that emanates from fire, for sheer delight.
Fire’s other property—to burn—they sense too late.
Alas, in this last company am I.
For want of strength I cannot face that lady’s light,
nor shelter in dark places, or the hours of night.
Fate forces me to gaze on her when she appears,
through eyes already injured and half-blind with tears,
knowing too well my true desire, my shame:
to go beyond her light, into her flame.
Love is paradoxical. It’s lightness and darkness. Comfort and Isolation. It can enrich us and it can destroy us. It can give us hope while taking that very same hope away.. It’s… Ok, maybe I’ll stop here. I’ve already finished a big slice of tiramisu and toyed with the idea of unblocking an ex. Need I go on?
Francesco Petrarch would get it. Born in the Tuscan city of Arrezzo, Italy in 1304, Francesco Petrarca is considered one of the key poets of Renaissance Italy. He had a vibrant and varied life, travelling widely as an ambassador, recovering significant writings from the likes of Cicero and Homer, and was best friends with Boccaccio himself (talk about VIP). For Petrarch, rediscovering the tongues of Classical Latin and Greek texts was a way of reentering the world of Classical thought and imagination, a purer mode of understanding oneself and the world–a way of reconciling the pagan past (how does man really feel?) with the present Christian doctrine (what’s our relationship with God?). The Father of Humanism, so passionate that people should have access to these works, Petrarch even had Greek translated to Latin.
After his own father’s death, Petrarch pursued a career with the Church. “I couldn’t face making a merchandise of my mind,” he claimed (you’ll see that Petrarch is a fan of the overstatement). But the Church would not allow Petrarch to marry, and Mr. Humanist over here was a true, inquisitive romantic. Shortly after giving up his priesthood on April 6th, 1327, Petrarch set his eyes on Laura. And the rest… is Poetry.
Laura is fair-headed. Laura is electric. Laura is a mystery (critics have tried to guess her real identity, with some believing her to be Laura de Noves of Avignon, France). But more crucially, Laura is married. In 1327, she’s utterly unattainable–and so begins the despair that we feel through Petrarch’s language of love.
Laura
That one look across the room sparked in Petrarch a lifelong obsession that lasted over two decades, even after Laura’s death in 1348. There are 366 poems–sonnets, 14-line poems, to be precise–dedicated to this woman in his Il Canzoniere: the sweeping, grand Sonnets 1-263 are for the living, breathing Laura, while Sonnets 264-366 were written following her death (the plague). Petrarch’s poetry is the quintessential Renaissance mixtape, and the journey of his love goes a little like this:
He catches sight of Laura for the first time and falls in love through his eyes–even in Petrarch’s era, it was said men fell with their eyes, while women through their ears. Petrarch is, as we Brits would say, a “gonner”, a man lost to love. He earnestly praises Laura and her pure virtues, but for now, she’s unnamed while he admires from afar and plans his approach. It’s the classic will-they-won’t-they. Ross and Rachel.
Tape Two. Petrarch is beside himself when Laura, now aware of his feelings, does not return them. Plot twist! In true gentlemanly behaviour, however, Petrarch withdraws his affections: he wants to protect her honour, and retreats from her company. But alas! She’s now been lured by another man, and Petrarch curses his previous timidity. We’re in the thick of it now: wallowing in the agony as Petrarch burns with unrequited love, a rabbit hole of anger, hate, self-pity, self-loathing, envy, remorse. *Sigh*, we’ve all been there.
The waters have calmed–momentarily–and Laura now sits on a metaphorical throne as Petrarch literally and linguistically worships her. He fictionalises her so that she may live in his heart forever. Language, here, is Petrarch’s ultimate embalmment. I’m not sure why images of beetles in amber are springing to mind, and I’m not calling Laura a beetle, but–I’ve gone there now. Laura is a beautiful beetle.
Tape Four, and we’ve turned over the cassette. Drums kick in. The plague. 1348. The shock of Laura’s death. Petrarch is a suffering man. He pictures her in heaven and dreams of a time where he may join her. He expects he’ll soon die of grief, but when he doesn’t, he imagines that he’s up there by her side: finally, Laura is aware of his undying love and they can be together. Oh, so Hollywood! Petrarch is at peace with this idea, and he too is now growing old. The hedonistic, scholarly tourist is ready to hang up his tools. Eventually, Petrarch begs for death from the Virgin Mary herself… Intense.
So, lovers of all types, welcome to Petrarch and the Petrarchan sonnet: a poem of fourteen lines divided into two sections, an eight-line stanza (octave) rhyming ABBAABBA and a six-line stanza (sestet) rhyming CDCDCD or CDECDE. It’s a strict rhyme scheme that became a model for countless poets (not just Italian) to follow. Throughout all of these poems, as you’ve probably guessed by now, we see a lover caught between hope and despair, trapped in his love and desire for a woman who neither embraces nor rejects his romantic approaches.
Let’s call Petrarch the rock and roller of this new poetic scene. Italian lyric poetry derives from centuries of orally transmitted songs (get the mixtape thing now?) and the no-need-for-introductions Dante Aligheri’s decision to skip Latin for the language of the people (in his case, Tuscan). And although Petrarch also chose to write his sonnets in the vernacular, in comparison to Dante’s Divina Commedia where we’re taken on a rollercoaster through heaven and hell literally and figuratively, Petrarch brings us down to his world: there’s no choir of angels framing Beatrice as Dante would have it–in fact, Petrarch can never quite reach Laura. Dante’s “he” becomes Petrarch’s “I”. Petrarch’s humanist philosophy means an emphasis on the value of individual experience and expression (enlightenment for all!); from Mediaeval allegory we have… human autobiography?
Petrarch’s torturous heartbreak is encapsulated by juxtaposing images of the heat and the cold, flame and ice, peace and war. The infamous Laura is both the “gran lume” (as declared in our introductory poem), a full glare of sun that draws our hopeless Petrarch only to be consumed by its very strong rays–“quella che ‘encende”. In another poem, “Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera”, Laura is both “dolce” and a “guerrera”, both a warrior, enemy to his desire, and a sweetheart because she is oh-so-loved. It’s very much love/hate isn’t it. I’ve blocked his number, but I’ve created a fake Instagram account and now I’m watching his every story while I order more salted crisps with my spritz.
But if we thought Petrarch was being a realist here (albeit a dramatic one), enter Sir Thomas Wyatt stage left, centuries later. Politician. Ambassador. English poet. Over six feet tall, which, in the 16th century, is particularly unusual. In between his diplomatic trips around the Mediterranean (how terrible for him), Wyatt’s professed passion was to “civilise” the English language so that it might compete with those of the Europeans. He feasts his eyes on Petrarch’s sonnets and translates them for his time and context (think Bradley Cooper doing that third version of A Star is Born). For Petrarch, Laura is the apple of his eye; a presence other-worldly yet real (that humanist combo again). Wyatt however, keeps his feet firmly on the ground. “Ch’i’ non son forte ad aspectar la luce” becomes “for to withstand her look I am not able.” There’s no “light” from Laura in Wyatt’s world, just a plain old “look”. Where Petrarch replaced Dante’s heaven/hell with a dream vision, Wyatt’s stage is that of the English court and its hunting ground (some say Wyatt was having an affair with Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII’s crush at the time… They’re all at it!) Long banished is the despairing passivity of Petrarch’s Italian heartbroken lover who hungers after the mirage. Instead, we have a vigorous, assertive spirit–a new kind of lover. Ladies and gentlemen we have… the hunter.
The “diamond” of Petrarch’s “Amore, fortuna e la mia mente schiva” is “steel” in Wyatt’s “Love, fortune and my mind, remember’rer”. A stone, usually associated with romance, women, and elegance, has been replaced by one that is industrial, heavily masculine, and brash. For Petrarch, love is all-consuming, both empowering and belittling. For Wyatt, love is intrigue, it’s calculated, it’s a game of chess. Do these linguistic departures indicate a difference in how love has been considered throughout the centuries and cultures?
This entire walk down Love Lane was prompted by a consideration of language itself: Dante’s choice to write in Tuscan marked the beginning of poetry as an art accessible to the wider public–those who didn’t read or write Latin. Petrarch, also using the vernacular but leaning on his Classical scholars, grounding his sonnets in non-allegorical settings, made his poetry, his expression of love even more approachable. His favouring of the natural world in lyrical form implied a worthiness to the human realm–basically, feelings happen in the here and now, not just in the celestial hemisphere! And because of this, Petrarch’s Il Canzoniere is in many ways the first widely accessible collection of poems. Without it, Elizabethan and Jacobean literature would be strikingly different. And Wyatt? Well… I have no idea. In embalming his lovely beetle of a Laura through language, Petrarch ultimately embalmed his own emotional journey–his mix-tape continues to play on, both from the source and through remasters.
