Stage-plays also carried me away, full of images of my miseries, and of fuel to my fire. Why is it, that man desires to be made sad, beholding doleful and tragical things, which yet himself would no means suffer? yet he desires as a spectator to feel sorrow at them, and this very sorrow is his pleasure. What is this but a miserable madness? for a man is the more affected with these actions, the less free he is from such affections. Howsoever, when he suffers in his own person, it uses to be styled misery: when he compassionates others, then it is mercy. But what sort of compassion is this for feigned and scenical passions? for the auditor is not called on to relieve, but only to grieve: and he applauds the actor of these fictions the more, the more he grieves. And if the calamities of those persons (whether of old times, or mere fiction) be so acted, that the spectator is not moved to tears, he goes away disgusted and criticising; but if he be moved to passion, he stays intent, and weeps for joy.

I developed a passion for stage plays, with the mirror they held up to my own miseries and the fuel they poured on my flame. How is it that a man wants to be made sad by the sight of tragic sufferings that he could not bear in his own person? Yet the spectator does want to feel sorrow, and it is actually his feeling of sorrow that he enjoys. Surely this is the most wretched lunacy? For the more a man feels such sufferings in himself, the more he is moved by the sight of them on the stage. Now when a man suffers himself, it is called misery; when he suffers in the suffering of another, it is called pity. But how can the unreal sufferings of the stage possibly move pity? The spectator is not moved to aid the sufferer but merely to be sorry for him; and the more the author of these fictions makes the audience grieve,the better they like him. If the tragic sorrows of the characters—whether historical or entirely fictitious—be so poorly represented that the spectator is not moved to tears, he leaves the theatre unsatisfied and full of complaints; if he is moved to tears, he stays to the end, fascinated and revelling in it.

Stage plays also captivated me, with their sights full of the images of my own miseries: fuel for my own fire. Now, why does a man like to be made sad by viewing doleful and tragic scenes, which he himself could not by any means endure? Yet, as a spectator, he wishes to experience from them a sense of grief, and in this very sense of grief his pleasure consists. What is this but wretched madness? For a man is more affected by these actions the more he is spuriously involved in these affections. Now, if he should suffer them in his own person, it is the custom to call this “misery.” But when he suffers with another, then it is called “compassion.” But what kind of compassion is it that arises from viewing fictitious and unreal sufferings? The spectator is not expected to aid the sufferer but merely to grieve for him. And the more he grieves the more he applauds the actor of these fictions. If the misfortunes of the characters—whether historical or entirely imaginary—are represented so as not to touch the feelings of the spectator, he goes away disgusted and complaining. But if his feelings are deeply touched, he sits it out attentively, and sheds tears of joy.

Stageplays made me ecstatic. They bodied forth my own plight and fed my fires. Why does man happily watch unhappy scenes of woe and anguish which he would never wish on himself? Yet he is not only willing to derive unhappiness from these spectacles, but to make that unhappiness his pleasure. What could be more paradoxical than this, that the more he empathizes with the unhappy, the more he comes to resemble them ? An object of pity if he were unhappy himself, he gets credit for a pitying heart when he looks on others' unhappiness. Yet what is the quality of pity given to made-up actions on stage, where one is not moved to help the unhappy, but to enjoy their unhappiness ? In fact, the actor of such fictions gains more applause the unhappier he makes his audience; and if historical or mythical plots are acted and cause no unhappiness, the playgoer stalks out, annoyed and panning the play. Make him unhappy, however, and he sits enthralled, pleasurably weeping.

I was captivated by theatrical shows. They were full of representations of my own miseries and fuelled my fire. Why is it that a person should wish to experience suffering by watching grievous and tragic events which he himself would not wish to endure? Nevertheless he wants to suffer the pain given by being a spectator of these sufferings, and the pain itself is his pleasure. What is this but amazing folly? For the more anyone is moved by these scenes, the less free he is from similar passions. Only, when he himself suffers, it is called misery; when he feels compassion for others, it is called mercy. But what quality of mercy is it in fictitious and theatrical inventions? A member of the audience is not excited to offer help, but invited only to grieve. The greater his pain, the greater his approval of the actor in these representations. If the human calamities, whether in ancient histories or fictitious myths, are so presented that the theatregoer is not caused pain, he walks out of the theatre disgusted and highly critical. But if he feels pain, he stays riveted in his seat enjoying himself.

I was carried away too by plays on the stage in which I found plenty of examples of my own miseries and plenty of fuel for my own fire. Why is it, I wonder, that people want to feel sad at miserable and tragic happenings which they certainly would not like to suffer themselves? Yet as spectators they do want to suffer the sadness and indeed their whole pleasure is just in this. What a wretched sort of madness! For if one is oneself subject to the kind of emotions one sees on the stage, one is all the more moved by them. Yet when one suffers in real life, this is described as "misery," and when one feels for others, we call it "compassion." But there can be no real compassion for fictions on the stage. A man listening to a play is not called upon to help the sufferer; he is merely invited to feel sad. And the sadder he feels, the higher is his opinion of the actor of this fantasy. If the disasters which happen to people on the stage (disasters which either took place in the remote past or else are pure inventions) are represented in such a way that the spectator does not feel sad, he will go out of the theater in disgust and speak disparagingly of the performance; but so long as he feels sad, he will stay fixed in his place, enjoying every moment.

The theater enraptured me, for its shows were filled with pictures of my own miseries and with tinder for my fires.Why is it that a man likes to grieve over doleful and tragic events which he would not want to happen to himself? The spectator likes to experience grief at such scenes, and this very sorrow is a pleasure to him. What is this but a pitiable folly? For the more a man is moved by these things, the less free is he from such passions. However, when he himself experiences it, it is usually called misery; when he experiences it with regard to others, it is called mercy. But what sort of mercy is to be shown to these unreal things upon the stage? The auditor is not aroused to go to the aid of the others; he is only asked to grieve over them. Moreover, he will show greater approval of the author of such representations, the greater the grief he feels. But if men's misfortunes, whether fictitious or of ancient times, are put on in such manner that the spectator does not feel sorrow, then he leaves in disgust and with disapproval. If grief is aroused in him, he remains in the theater, full of attention and enjoying himself.

I was held spellbound by theatrical shows full of images that mirrored my own wretched plight and further fueled the fire within me. Why is it that one likes being moved to grief at the sight of sad or tragic events on stage, when one would be unwilling to suffer the same things oneself? In the capacity of spectator one welcomes sad feelings; in fact, the sadness itself is the pleasure. What incredible stupidity ! The more a person is buffeted by such passions in his own life, the more he is moved by watching similar scenes on stage,although his state of mind is usually called misery when he is undergoing them himself and mercy when he shows compassion for others so afflicted. But how real is the mercy evoked by fictional dramas? The listener is not moved to offer help, but merely invited to feel sorrow; and the more intensely he feels it the more highly he rates the actor in the play. If these tragic human stories-whether referring to events long past or fictional-are played in such a way that they fail to move the spectator to sadness, he walks out in disgust,criticizing the performance; but if he feels sad, he stays on,keenly attentive, and enjoys a good cry.

I was carried away by the pageantry of the theatre, full of reflections of my own miseries and of kindling for the fire that was consuming me. Why is it that a man at the theatre wants to suffer as he watches those tales of tragedy and woe - woes which, however, he would not wish to undergo himself? He is, however, willing to undergo the suffering he derives from them as a spectator, and this suffering is itself a pleasure. What is all this but the most spectacular madness? The less free each spectator is of these emotions, the more he is moved to pity them in others; although when he himself undergoes these sufferings, his plight is said to be pathetic, but when he shares those of others, he is said to be sympathetic. But what sympathy can a man have with the fictitious productions of the stage? As a member of the audience, he is not called on to help the characters,but merely invited to suffer; the more he suffers, the more he applauds the actor who has undergone these imaginary troubles. And if those tales of human woe are acted in such away that the spectator does not suffer, perhaps because they are old fashioned or untrue, then he leaves the show in disgust,criticizing the performance; but if he does suffer, then he stays in rapt attention, and rejoices amid his tears.