Thursday, March 26, 2009

290. I WAS RAGING WITH BOETHIUS

I WAS RAGING WITH BOETHIUS
'Lady Philosophy, now let me ask you,
is this what you had in mind?' - the settled cell
with the stone seat and the bare-bricked wall,
the cut-out for the window, letting in air.
With nothing so much as a shudder, she entered
and stayed. Tales and stories and then questions
and answers. So many it all seemed endless.
-
I was alone, if only for a moment, with Boethius
just then. I tried to have him say something.
I asked him : 'Primitive? Pagan? A form of
Nature Worship in its way? Tell me, won't
you?' For the first time since I'd known
him (beleaguered and sad) he smiled, and
said : 'It's no difference for me to be,
one or the other. I am merely
here.' Then I realized,
he was but a scribe.
-
A writer of words doesn't really need
the threat of impending death to
prod him along. There are
always a million other
things to do it for him.

No comments: