The Joke’s On You.

When we think “Shel Silverstein” we think “The Giving Tree”. Though he is

renowned well and wide for his children’s literature, he also has works centred on more

“mature” topics for the more “mature” reader.

Cloony the Clown by Shel Silverstein is a light simple poem that any child could

read with an ironic twist that any adult would appreciate. As the title of the poem oh so

subtly suggests, the poem is about the Cloony the Clown as told by the narrator to the

reader. I can attach personas to the narrator and to the addressee, but seeing as their

identities and interaction are for the most part presumably inconsequential to the poem, I

won’t talk about them much. My interpretation of the “I” persona is that he’s a

disinterested townsman who just happens to know the story of Cloony the Clown. I

assumed the narrator to be male because of the apparent lack of sympathy towards

Cloony and his sad conditions, negating what the stereotypically emotional female is

made out to be. The “You” persona could be anyone and everyone who doesn’t know the

story of Cloony the Clown. Or it could very well just be anyone – ignorant of the story or

otherwise – who wanted to hear the story of Cloony.

Cloony is a clown who just wasn’t, just wasn’t funny at all. He worked hard and

went to great lengths, trying to make people laugh. But it was in vain; he just wasn’t

funny at all. It could be that the way he looked wasn’t jovial enough for the townsfolk. It

could be that he was a little too loud. It could be that he was a little to ugly. It could be
that his tricks were a little too sick and twisted. It could be that his jokes were a little too

improper. It could be that he just tried too damn hard.

Or it could be that he just wasn’t funny at all. But then again, judging humour is

quite subjective; so who’s to say he wasn’t funny at all? Maybe the townsfolk didn’t

want him to be funny.

The way I see it, there’re only two kinds of people who become clowns: those

who really do wanna be clowns, and those who for some reason were forced to go into

the clowning business. I think Cloony’s the former. Why else would he stick to being a

clown when the townsfolk’s made it so blatantly clear that they think he sucks at it?

But everyone has a breaking point. Financial crisis and excessive dejection is

what pushed Cloony to his. I can’t blame Cloony for his breakdown; everyone has needs

– food, stability, acceptance, a sense of accomplishment – and Cloony was barely

meeting his, if he was reaching any at all. When he reached his breaking point, he

decided to tell them all about his problems and his demons. He wanted to tell them how

he felt – how they made him feel. So he told them of every pain he’s felt, every hardship

he’s ever been dealt, every demon that climbed out from the darkness in his soul that he’s

ever faced.

At the end of it all, one would expect sympathy and words of comfort to be

offered to the suffering clown. Not even a single sympathetic glance was directed his
way; instead, the whole world rang loud and shook hard with laughter. Cold and callous

was their glee. As they laughed their asses off, Cloony was left there to drown in his

despair, not even given a second thought.

The irony of the ending’s just sad. When Cloony didn’t mean to make the people

laugh, that’s when they laughed. The people laughed at something they weren’t meant to

laugh at. For cryin’ out loud, they laughed at Cloony’s freakin’ pain! Are they freakin’

sadists or something? It’s a sad truth though that society finds humour and a sort of

comfort in the pain and suffering of others. Sick as it may sound, it’s true.

Why did they laugh anyway? A clown, the very epitome of joy and laughter,

broke down and showed the world that even his big bright grin is tainted by a darkness in

his soul. They weren’t alone in their misery; even the happiest person in the world is

miserable. It made them feel less bad about themselves, knowing that their misery is

“normal”. I guess misery does love company, and together they all wallow in the

darkness.

This poem reminds me of a joke Rorschach from Watchmen told:

Heard a joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life

seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where

what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says "Treatment is simple.

Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should

pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says "But, doctor...I am Pagliacci."
 Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains. Fade to black.

(Moore)

Why do we laugh when someone trips? Why do we revel in others’ misery?

What’s up with us?