Monks are not saints.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Back in the Middle Ages, when Illuminated Manuscripts were all the rage, the monks poured themselves into this craft.\u00a0 Written on velum, animal hide or sheets of parchment, the monks would painstakingly–with a sharpened quill feather– copy and illustrate ancient texts. For whatever reason, I imagined that they did so with a kind of superhuman stoicism, so blissed-out by God that they\u2019d be oblivious to the actual drudgery of this ball and chain office job. However, I recently came across a list of comments that monks had written into the marginalia of the pages they were working on. \u00a0This is a sample of some of them:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

New parchment, bad ink:<\/p>\n

I say nothing more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am very cold.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Often, when my mind<\/p>\n

is idle, I wonder of<\/p>\n

women.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

That\u2019s a hard page and a<\/p>\n

weary work to read it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Brother Michael has gas<\/p>\n

from the cabbage, and<\/p>\n

I can take no more.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The parchment is hairy.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thank God, it will<\/p>\n

soon be dark.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Oh, my hand.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

If I had a horse,<\/p>\n

I would ride her away<\/p>\n

through meadows and<\/p>\n

into the sun!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My chair is wobbly.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My heart has been<\/p>\n

sad for a long time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Now I\u2019ve written<\/p>\n

the whole thing: for<\/p>\n

Christ\u2019s sake, give me a<\/p>\n

drink.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Writing is excessive<\/p>\n

drudgery. It crooks your<\/p>\n

back, it dims your sight,<\/p>\n

it twists your stomach<\/p>\n

and your sides.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

If Brother Ignatieff<\/p>\n

coughs one more time<\/p>\n

I will be called to act.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The hair shirt is<\/p>\n

asking too much today.<\/p>\n

Why, O Lord, why?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

St. Patrick of Armagh,<\/p>\n

deliver me from writing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The ink is thin.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Impure thoughts,<\/p>\n

Impure thoughts,<\/p>\n

Impure thoughts!<\/p>\n

Curse you Brother Francis!<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

While I wrote I froze<\/p>\n

and what I could not<\/p>\n

write by the beams of<\/p>\n

the sun I finished by<\/p>\n

candlelight.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And to make matters worse,<\/p>\n

today the bread did not rise!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This is sad! O little<\/p>\n

Book! A day will come<\/p>\n

in truth when someone<\/p>\n

over your page will say,<\/p>\n

\u201cthe hand that wrote it<\/p>\n

is no more.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I can see what he is<\/p>\n

doing beneath his cloak<\/p>\n

and I am curious.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Vespers cannot come soon enough.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I fear it is my feet that smell rotten.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I should like to be the<\/p>\n

wolf that devours the lamb.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I killed a bird yesterday,<\/p>\n

so rich is the boredom in my life.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I like killing birds.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pink rays are spreading<\/p>\n

over the blush of sky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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