Ian Donaldson (1) (1935–2020)

Poor wretches! I rather pity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss of time and money; for these may be recovered by industry: but to be a fool born is a disease incurable.

I had harbored such high hopes for this effort. Donaldson isn't blessed with an abundance of source material, primary accounts are existent but oblique. Jonson's own creative output is astonishing yet this 450 pages appeared both muddled and muted. This Life, simply, is just a mess.

We do learned of Jonson's efforts at a scholar, his penchant for neologism: he introduced the word plagiarism into English from the Latin for kidnapping. If only Donaldson had snatched some prose with aplomb. We learn Jonson was from humble stock, his stepfather was a bricklayer. His predilection converse to the family was one for books. He qualified for university and excelled, he then joined the military to sate longings for Adventure and Glory. Self-preservation thankfully soon cured him of that.

As a player in traveling troupe he once killed a man, joining Caravaggio, Leadbelly and Aaron Burr in that endeavor. Jonson fortunately avoided the gallows and converted to Catholicism. This places him in a strange position during the reigns of Elizabeth I and then James I. He became good friends with John Donne, whose religious conversion went the other way. He then wrote some wicked-smart comedies and wrote tons of verse, most of the latter for his friends. Jonson became successful, never appeared to find much love and continues drinking until he was nearly 280 pounds. He turned to serious scholarship full time later in life and was mad friends with Robert Burton: oh, would I love to think all day about those conversations.

While the book did situate Jonson in the religious/political turbulence of the time, it itself was flat and bereft of personality.… (altro)