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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

A Victorian etching of a sarcophagus in a crypt. On the back of the postcard, L. had copied out these lines by Denton Welch: I saw all this, and Ray’s jaw had fallen open, as the jaws of all corpses in schoolboys’ books are fallen open. His mouth gaped so that I could see the place where his wisdom teeth had begun to sprout. And his dead tongue was stiff as the metal clapper of a bell and the purple-brown color of burnt iron. “Everything spoilt and wasted,” I thought.

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This novel records my breakdown; conventional narrative is preserved but the interest lies elsewhere. Like L., Jesus must be real but must also represent a crisis. After Margery gave every penny away, she sat in the rear of Marcellis’s church and reminded herself, To Jesus, isn’t everyone dependent and voiceless? He complains that his father makes a blind spot of his loved ones, withdraws from a demand, inflicts pain casually, but he duplicates these traits. Discrete rays falling from the lantern windows give shape to my love for L.

26

Jesus and Mary squatted, making little cries, then looked curiously at each other’s shit.

Later they sat on a marble bench in the yard outside St. John Lateran. Mary wore a white mantle and robe. The English priest grabbed her white collar. “You wolf, what is this cloth you wear?”

Mary looked happily into his face. Swifts gliding by on stiff wings shrieked, “Wool, sir.”

“Now I know you have a devil because I hear him speak.”

“Ah, good sir,” she laughed, “drive him away, drive him away.” Her laughter touched an exposed nerve; the priest lurched back and retreated in confusion.

A light drizzle darkened the flagstones except for a dry gray rectangle under their bench. Contorted roots of umbrella pines had gripped and dislodged some of the stones. Jesus could not define himself through Mary. She caressed the folds of his mantle as though they were membranes. She whispered, “I see pale angels round about you.” She felt the thick surge that lifts us towards a person we love. He looked up. The angels were primitive, like golden orchids.

Jesus felt muddled, a fog of sadness closing in. He depended on Margery for motivation but a cold bar plunged through his heart when she asked, Did you miss me? Their time together was more definitive for him since he had much more to define. Their sex was satisfying but he was undermined by the terror of the incomplete: If her cheekbones were higher or personality cooler would their union be more compelling? Safety meant being recognized without returning recognition. That is, everyone was his slave. As though to confirm this, Jesus asked his own mother to beg for Margery’s food and wine.

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