Fatigue, Spufford, Chaucer

Fatigue, general systemic fatigue, for the past few days: I imagine that I simply have not yet recovered fully from the Coloradan visit, which is kind of shocking. Two weeks to recover from something like that? Apparently so. Revise expectations accordingly.

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I had a good plan for yesterday, and executed basically none of it. Finished Spufford’s Unapologetic, though, which was lovely. I like how candidly he says “no, there is no theodicy that works for me, and I just have to live with that; the rest of this tradition works so well that I’m not going to abandon it on that account.” I’m never going to be a dues-paying Christian, but Christianity is the country I come from – as I realize more and more – and I become more and more skeptical about how much we get to re-invent ourselves. I can reject particular Christian doctrines all I like, but I will always be, in many fundamental ways, Christian. The way it places “the human propensity to fuck things up” (the phrase Spufford substitutes for “sin”) as central and inescapable seems necessary and true to me. We fuck things up. And quite often we mean to fuck things up. That’s certainly true of me, and I don’t think I’m obviously the worst of my kind: I’m pretty typical.

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Spufford answers the question: “what sort of religion would take an instrument of torture as its emblem?” with: “well, one that takes suffering seriously.” This life hurts. Not all the time: but it is frequently difficult, and every so often, even for those of us who have lucked out, almost unendurable. Any understanding of life that ignores that is going to be a shallow and useless one. If you can’t cope with the stress points, you can’t cope at all. (Spufford has a wonderful rant inspired by an atheist injunction “to enjoy life.” Call us delusional?)

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So Chaucer again:

But -- Lord Crist! -- whan that it remembreth me
Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee,
It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote.
Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote
That I have had my world as in my tyme.
But age, allas, that al wole envenyme,
Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith.
Lat go. Farewel! The devel go therwith!
The flour is goon; ther is namoore to telle;
The bren, as I best kan, now moste I selle.

The pun on flour/flower is haunting. (For Chaucer, as for us, a perfect homonym.) Bran? Weren't we just talking about a flower?

Maddening and unwieldy he may be, but Chaucer is the master.