William Hogarth, A Rake's Progress 3

Whenever I look at this picture, I immediately think of my time at college. Now you may assume this means I was a partying frat boy, but that was hardly the case. While I do enjoy wine, women, and song very much, and sometimes too much, my years of so-called higher education, which they tell me were supposed to be my best years, were sadly filled with disappointment and despair. 

What was claimed to be one of the top 50 universities in the country was ultimately little more than a place for rich kids to fall down drunk and hook up with strangers. I'm afraid that's not my idea of a good life. 

The students were certainly bright, and yet most of them only saw their studies as a necessary chore to later win fancy jobs. My peers showed up to class, if they actually bothered to show up at all, in sweatpants they had probably slept in, and stinking of stale beer. There was usually much whispering around me during a lecture,  inevitably about who had "bagged" whom the night before. 

Do not think me a prude, though I do believe that sex is meant to be joined with love, and a fine bottle of whiskey is meant to cement genuine friendships. Love and friendship were, unfortunately, a rare commodity on my campus. So I was a lonely soul, because what I craved in life was nowhere to be found. 

What happens to a fellow when you give him the luxury of wealth, without first making sure he has taken the time to build up his character? You end up with a Tom Rakewell. You end up with thousands upon thousands of lost souls, hardly men at all but stunted boys, who will put on tailored suits during the day and cheat on their trophy wives at night. 

So you will please forgive me when I look at this picture and don't just see a raucous party. I see Tom well on his way to losing everything, by which I don't just mean his inheritance. He is throwing away his very human dignity. It is the saddest thing to watch happening to any person. 

Observe how the prostitutes, covered in syphilitic sores, are stealing Tom's watch. His unsheathed sword gives a clear indication of where his drunken night is going. Though you can really only see it in the the engraved version, there are portraits of Roman emperors lining the walls, and all have been defaced, expect for Nero. How tragically fitting! The portrait of Pontac, also still intact, refers to a trendy restaurant of the time. 

One of the prostitutes is burning a world map with a candle, with all the symbolism that entails. By Tom's feet you will note a lantern and a staff, stolen from a night watchman during the evening's escapades. This reminds me of how a popular college pastime involved stealing street signs after drinking binges, which were then proudly displayed in dorm rooms. 

William Hogarth, A Rake's Progress III: The Orgy (1734)