The Antidote: A Reading of ‘The Fly’ by William Blake

The Fly

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
—William Blake (1757-1827)

[topic]Who hasn’t “brushed away” an annoying fly and thought no more about it? For Blake, however, this encounter expresses something of the tragedy and the comedy of our life here on earth. His poem is somewhere between innocence and experience, sincerity and irony, laughter and tears.

The fly’s “summer play” suggests carefree innocence—even paradise. Yet this has been swept away in an instant. His golden years have come to an end. His “play” turned out to be a tragedy, where his killer was utterly unconcerned, indifferent. Blake’s use of simple, sing-song rhyme gives the poem a deceptive sweetness that slowly sours.

In the first stanza, man and fly seem utterly opposed. One is big, one small. One strong, one miserably squashed. Yet as the poem continues, the identities of the man and fly appear oddly ambiguous, if not confusingly the same. The speaker asserts, to our surprise, that he is, in fact, a fly—and the fly is a man. How is this possible?

He explains with disarming candor that his life is as thoughtless as the fly’s. Just as the insect flies around, so he will “dance” and “drink” and “sing.” Man is an ephemeral being, living for the moment, living for pleasure, and, like the fly, he too will be struck down by “some blind hand.” This hand is death. Death is the great equalizer. All are subject to its power.

In the third stanza, we find ourselves contemplating the very nature of life and death. If “thought is life”—and the “want” or absence of thought is death—then as the owner of the “thoughtless hand,” the speaker suggests that the loss of his life is really nothing to concern him. His happy-go-lucky existence is already a form of oblivion.

Is his state our own? Is our happiness enlightened or delusional? Would we sacrifice bumptious well-being for the agonies of wisdom? Maybe the answer will come the next time we swat a fly.

William Blake (1757-1827) was a British poet, painter, visionary mystic, and engraver, who illustrated and printed his own books. He proclaimed the supremacy of the imagination over the rationalism and materialism of the 18th century. He lived and died in poverty.

Christopher Nield is a poet living in London.

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