I got for my labour only a goitre, a sickness (So muddy water bloats the cats, A common plague in parts of Lombardy!) And my chin wedged into my belly; My chest like that of the harpies; my skull, to spite me, Crept up to my hump; and my beard bristles on

I got for my labour only a goitre, a sickness
(So muddy water bloats the cats,
A common plague in parts of Lombardy!)
And my chin wedged into my belly;
My chest like that of the harpies; my skull, to spite me,
Crept up to my hump; and my beard bristles on end;
And from the brush onto my face drips the muck,
Dressing me in brocade, like a coffin;
My hips have shifted wholly into my belly,
And my rump, as a counterweight, has swollen into a barrel;
My feet meet the ground not all at once;
My skin hangs in a crust out in front,
And behind is pleated into a seam,
And I am all bent, like a Syrian bow.
Amid these vexations
My mind has come to strange judgements
(Shooting is poor with a broken blowpipe!):
So! Painting is flawed!
But you, Giovanni, be bold in its defence:
For I am a stranger, and the brush is not my calling!

Literal translation

This is how Michelangelo Buonarroti speaks of himself while working on one of the greatest masterpieces of world art, the painting of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “I got for my labour only a goitre, a sickness, and my chin wedged into my belly; my chest like that of the harpies; my skull, to spite me, crept up to my hump; and my beard bristles on end.” Indeed, after finishing the fresco, Michelangelo remained for a long time literally bent double and could not straighten up, having spent 4 years in an unnatural position with his head thrown back.

*translation by Abram Efros