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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 woman famous for her tears turned a corner in the 1430s and wrote the story of her life. I respond to the failure that permeates her book: Margery lacked a criterion for the discernment of spirits.

She didn’t lack faith in prayer or anecdote. She took for granted the belief that a pear has flavor, all the ecstasy of description. The angels have full lips; their features are soft but their heavy necks seem masculine. I have less faith in existence than Margery so I describe it more thoroughly.

Margery tried to change her future by recasting herself in the medium where she was strong. Her book opens an argument so final judgment can’t be passed; it rebuilds the exterior that love had erected, purveys an endless continuity, recreates the promise of life-as-it-is.

She turned her second-rate obsession into her last bid for endless response, a self asserted just as the world withdrew its support. She fell for so long she lost the sensation. Margery still loved the strength of words but she had no world to use them on. Let Jesus float forever, a wicked god condemned to her shifting currents of language that leave him dependent. She acknowledged an interrupted feeling, belief withdrew and entered on a higher level as doubt.

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Margery sees she is abandoned, that she will age and die alone, but only in a story. When her character knows that, what does it know? Emptiness is contained in the work. She’s writing in the early morning. Suddenly she’s aware of her body, its being underneath her, heavy and contorted. Her left leg crosses over the right, toes press against the floor for stability. Her neck aches. Her cunt is minimal. The skin on the back of her hands is thin and dry. Her hair hangs in her eyes and her mouth tastes like rust. But to note all this is to track her awareness shifting through a remote terrain.

A hornet hovers next to the windowpane, bouncing against it. That’s Jesus trying to get in, Margery tells herself without conviction. She’s comfortable for the moment—for the moment that lives and dies.

She had access to the body of Jesus—that is, belief in the value of life and such ecstasy as my corruptible tongue cannot express. I reconstruct the memory of that access as a ruin, a hollow space inside meaning, a vehicle for travel. Still, Jesus can lift me out of time to be his lover.

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