The Man Who Talked to Buttons (Coleridge’s Monologue)

We all have that one friend who tells stories that go nowhere. But Samuel Taylor Coleridge was the Michael Jordan of not shutting up.
Coleridge was a genius, a visionary, and an addict. But mostly, he was a talker. When the mood struck him, he would launch into monologues about metaphysics, poetry, and the nature of the soul that could last for hours. He didn’t have conversations; he held filibusters.
There is a famous story involving his friend, the essayist Charles Lamb. One morning, Lamb was hurrying to work when he ran into Coleridge on the street. Coleridge, delighted to see an audience, grabbed one of the buttons on Lamb’s coat, closed his eyes, and began to preach.
Lamb was trapped. He was going to be late. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise because Coleridge was in a trance, eyes shut, vibing with the universe.
So, Charles Lamb did the only logical thing. He took out a penknife, quietly sliced the button off his own coat, and tiptoed away.
Hours later, Lamb returned from work. He passed the same spot. And there was Coleridge—still standing there, eyes closed, holding the severed button in his hand, passionately explaining the secrets of the cosmos to a piece of plastic.
Was he a genius or just the world’s most exhausting dinner guest? We find out this Wednesday.