SIGN IN to access Harper’s Magazine
1. Sign in to Customer Care using your account number or postal address.
2. Select Email/Password Information.
3. Enter your new information and click on Save My Changes.
Subscribers can find additional help here. Not a subscriber? Subscribe today!
In this hard toil I’ve such a goiter grown,
Like cats that water drink in Lombardy,
(Or wheresoever else the place may be)
That chin and belly meet perforce in one.
My beard doth point to heaven, my scalp its place
Upon my shoulder finds; my chest, you’ll say,
A harpy’s is, my paintbrush all the day
Doth drop a rich mosaic on my face.
My loins have entered my paunch within,
My nether end my balance doth supply,
My feet unseen move to and fro in vain.
In front to utmost length is stretched my skin
And wrinkled up in folds behind, while I
Am bent as bowmen bend a bow in Spain.
No longer true or sane,
The judgment now doth from the mind proceed,
For ’tis ill shooting through a twisted reed.
Then thou, my picture dead,
Defend it, Giovan, and my honour–why?
The place is wrong, and no painter I.
–Michelangelo Buonarroti, Sonnet V (to Giovanni da Pistoia)(ca. 1509), transl. S. Elizabeth Hall, The Sonnets of Michelangelo Buonarroti, p. 89 (1903).
The final lines of this sonnet may refer to a famous incident, recorded by Michelangelo’s biographer, Ascanio Condivi:
Meanwhile difficulties were not wanting, inasmuch as, when [Michelangelo] had begun the work, and had painted the picture of the Deluge, the painting began to turn mouldy, so that the figures could hardly be discerned. So Michelangelo, thinking that this excuse would suffice to relieve him of the task, went to the Pope and said : “I told Your Holiness that I was no painter. What I have done is ruined: if you do not believe it, send some one to see.” The Pope sent San Gallo, and he, examining it, perceived that the lime had been made too watery, and that the moisture oozing through had produced this effect: and having informed Michelangelo of the reason, he directed him to continue the work; nor was excuse of any avail.
(Ascanio Condivi, Vita di Michelangelo Buonarroti cap xxxvi (1553).)
Listen to a performance by Jonas Kaufmann of Michelangelo’s Sonnet LV from Benjamin Britten’s Seven Sonnets of Michelangelo for tenor and piano, op. 22 (1940):
More from Scott Horton:
Mark Denbeaux on the NCIS cover-up of three “suicides” at Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp
From the June 2014 issue
No Comment — March 28, 2014, 12:32 pm
On CIA secrecy, torture, and war-making powers
Chances that an organ transplanted in New York City last year came from a murder victim:
Two thirds of U.S. teenagers experience uncontrollable rage.
In Gainesville, Florida, a drunk man who jumped out of his pickup truck to yell at the driver in front of him was run over by his own vehicle.
Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!
“I hope that after reading the following pages the leaders of the Y. M. C. A. will start a campaign to induce good young men to do nothing. If so, I shall not have lived in vain.”