"Accurst be he that first invented war"
About this Quote
A curse hurled at the originator of war reduces centuries of glory-talk to a single moral recoil. To damn the inventor is to strip conflict of its vaunted necessity and expose it as a human contrivance, not a fate decreed by gods. The phrasing treats war as an art or technology, something designed and refined like other Renaissance inventions, which makes the condemnation sting: what ingenuity could be less worthy than the craft of killing?
Marlowe built his reputation on plays that thunder with ambition, conquest, and charismatic violence. Yet amid the blare of trumpets and the swagger of conquerors, he repeatedly lets in a contrary voice that names the cost. This line belongs to that countercurrent. It halts the momentum of martial rhetoric and points to bodies, widows, orphaned cities. The word accurst carries the weight of theology and tragedy; it does not merely scold but consigns the nameless progenitor of war to moral exile. The simplicity of the sentence, dominated by monosyllables, gives it the blunt force of a hammer blow in the midst of rolling blank verse.
The historical horizon amplifies the sentiment. Late sixteenth-century Europe reeled from religious wars, sieges, and massacres; England had just faced the Armada. Audiences knew what banners and drums really meant. Marlowe, fascinated by the reach of human will, also probes its wreckage. If war is invented, it can in theory be uninvented, or at least resisted; the line invites listeners to imagine politics and glory unhooked from slaughter.
There is irony, too. In a theater that profits from staging battles and spectacle, a character condemns the very appetite the play gratifies. That tension is deliberate. Marlowe is less sermonizer than provocateur, letting the audience feel both the intoxication of power and the aftertaste of blood. The curse clears a space for pity, reminding us that behind every triumphal title stands the oldest craft of all: grieving.
Marlowe built his reputation on plays that thunder with ambition, conquest, and charismatic violence. Yet amid the blare of trumpets and the swagger of conquerors, he repeatedly lets in a contrary voice that names the cost. This line belongs to that countercurrent. It halts the momentum of martial rhetoric and points to bodies, widows, orphaned cities. The word accurst carries the weight of theology and tragedy; it does not merely scold but consigns the nameless progenitor of war to moral exile. The simplicity of the sentence, dominated by monosyllables, gives it the blunt force of a hammer blow in the midst of rolling blank verse.
The historical horizon amplifies the sentiment. Late sixteenth-century Europe reeled from religious wars, sieges, and massacres; England had just faced the Armada. Audiences knew what banners and drums really meant. Marlowe, fascinated by the reach of human will, also probes its wreckage. If war is invented, it can in theory be uninvented, or at least resisted; the line invites listeners to imagine politics and glory unhooked from slaughter.
There is irony, too. In a theater that profits from staging battles and spectacle, a character condemns the very appetite the play gratifies. That tension is deliberate. Marlowe is less sermonizer than provocateur, letting the audience feel both the intoxication of power and the aftertaste of blood. The curse clears a space for pity, reminding us that behind every triumphal title stands the oldest craft of all: grieving.
Quote Details
| Topic | War |
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