Boethius, Dunbar, and a Literary Friend

A dear friend of mine, a cognitive literary theorist, took me to task the other day for my blog's focus on the end of life. When it comes to death, she wrote, "we just don't get it." She advised me not to waste my time trying to figure it out. I'm not going to do better than Boethius, she told me.

It would be pleasant to report that I knew who Boethius was, but I didn't. So I turned to Wikipedia, that remedy for neglected educations. It informed me that Boethius was a sixth-century philosopher, whose most influential work was Consolation of Philosophy. Written during the final year of his life, when he awaited trial for treason and eventual execution, it argues that we cannot fathom the reason divine providence permits the world's injustices and inequalities. Fortune is fickle - the rich and powerful are sometimes brought low, as he had been (he had occupied the summit of wealth, power, and reputation) - so one's only inalienable possession is one's virtue. My friend was right. I'm not going to do better than that.

On the assumption that my concentration on death is an addiction, my friend suggested I taper off gradually and in the meantime read poetry about death, such as "the macaronic poem in English called Timor Mortis Conturbat Me." Well, I had gone through life without either knowing what macaronic means or having heard of the poem. Again, Wikipedia came to the rescue. Macaronic refers to a text that employs two languages, and the poem in question is a sequence of 24 four-line stanzas, with the first three lines in English and the last line repeated in Latin, "Timor Mortis conturbat me."

William Dunbar, a medieval Scottish priest attached to the court of the Scottish king James IV, wrote it. The poem, which Dunbar called "Lament for the Makars" (poets) is, as its title suggests, a requiem for poets - Chaucer, Gower, Heriot, and the like, but it seems to me that it also represents Dunbar's attempt to come to terms with his own mortality. The repeated Latin line, commonly translated as "the fear of death disturbs me," comes from the Catholic Office of the Dead. "Sinning daily, and not repenting, the fear of death disturbs me. Because there is no redemption in hell, have mercy on me, O God, and save me." Since Dunbar was a priest and presumably a believer, he must have been anxious as to what awaited him after he died.

Here are the first two stanzas:

I that in heill [health] was and gladness
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our pleasance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle [feeble], the Feynd is slee [sly]:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

And here is the last:

Since for the death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone [make disposition]
After our death that live may we:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

I'm grateful to my friend for having brought this poem to my attention, which in addition to having touched me also showed me the power of a repeated line. I'm also grateful to her for giving me a chance to learn new things, in this case quite a few, including Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy, macaronic, William Dunbar, and "Lament for the Makars." Not bad for an old man. I'm also grateful to her for letting me see that my views are consonant with at least some of those held by the two great men to whom she introduced me. Like Boethius, I believe that life is capricious and grossly unfair, and like Dunbar, I hope to Death dispone. If one can't be learned oneself, it's good to have learned friends.