Priapea critique brutalizing & commodifying male gender stereotypes

Priapus weighs penis against money

Today even in societies professing ideals of gender equality, men’s bodies are brutally penetrated in institutionally structured men-on-men violence. Outside of battlefields, men’s sexual value is commonly measured in material resources — whether an outrageously expensive luxury car or state-imposed payments for forced financial fatherhood. These brutal structures of gender oppression are deeply rooted historically. In ancient Roman art and literature, the figure of a man with a rigid, hyper-extended penis, known as Priapus, appears in a variety of contexts. Priapus doesn’t merely represent misandry through a depersonalizing caricature of masculinity. Highly polished and sophisticated Priapea (Priapus poems) became a focal point for urbane critique of the brutalizing social construction of men’s person.

Priapea figure Priapus as a minor god who receives offerings and provides services in return. While such reciprocity was common in ancient Greco-Roman religion, Priapea dedicatory poems are typically parodies. For example, a woman offers Priapus a sex manual illustrating a variety of coital positions and requests that he bring those acts to life with her. A man delivers to Priapus a picture of his penis in fulfillment of a promise to do so if his injured penis were healed. A dancing girl dedicates her instruments to Priapus and requests that she continue to arouse men.[1] No ancient Roman reader could possibly interpret these poems literally. Priapea dedicatory poems are better understood as ridiculing the commodification of men’s sexuality.

Priapea also ridicule stereotypes of Roman masculine sexuality. Priapus emphasizes the size and hardness of his penis and compares it to that of other gods and men.

No god is more strong-chested than fierce Mars,
but if among the gods a place remains for me,
no God is better cocked than Priapus!

The size of my member has this great use;
For me no woman can be too loose.

{ nemo est feroci pectorosior Marte,
quod si quis inter haec locus mihi restat,
deus Priapo mentulatior non est!

Commoditas haec est in nostro maxima pene,
laxa quod esse mihi femina nulla potest. }[2]

Priapus expresses his insatiable desire to fornicate with young women, boys, and men.

I’ll plainly tell you what I have to say
(My nature is to be open and blunt).
You’d like some apples; I want to stick your ass;
Give me what I seek — you take what you want.

{ Simpliciter tibi me, quodcunque est, dicere oportet,
natura est quoniam semper aperta mihi:
pedicare volo, tu vis decerpere poma;
quod peto, si dederis, quod petis, accipies. }

Priapus cruelly disparages the bodies of old women while expressing the evolutionary-biological truism that typically men sexually prefer young women to old women.[3] Modern scholarship has tended to stereotype Roman men’s sexuality.[4] Priapea were an ancient, parodic response to disparaging men with sexual stereotypes.

A conventional setting for an objectified Priapus is guarding a garden. This Priapus is commonly a rustic, wooden statue. The statue threatens to rape any person who steals goods from the garden. Of course, a wooden or stone statute cannot rape anyone, but that reality is no more relevant than the reality of rape is to social discourse today. The rigid statue doesn’t question why guarding the garden is his responsibility.  In one poem, Priapus observes:

You will say that this is a shameful duty for a god to have. I know myself that it is shameful, but I would have you know that for this purpose I was set up.

{ αἰσχρὸν ἔχειν τοῦτ᾿ ἔργον ἐρεῖς θεόν· οἶδα καὶ αὐτός,
αἰσχρόν· ἀφιδρύνθην δ᾿, ἴσθ᾿ ὅτι, τοῦδε χάριν. }[5]

Priapus, like men generally, are socially set up in a degrading position. For the set-up statue, his penis is a weapon at the service of protecting the household’s goods.[6] The penis is thus alienated from the person of the man.

A significant protrusion in Priapea arises from conjoining penis as weapon with penis as means of desired pleasure. In another poem, a Priapus guarding a garden angrily complains that the householder has built a fence around the garden. That fence punishes Priapus by denying him the vigorous sexual activity of punishing thieves. Undermining a crude interpretation of Priapus as a sexual sadist, Priapus elsewhere appeals:

O citizens, Romans, I pray you, please,
There must be a limit — I’m brought to my knees;
For passionate women from hereabout
Importune me nightly and tire me out
And always they’re lustful as sparrows in spring.
So either you’ll have to cut off my thing,
Or Priapus’ life will soon ebb away.

{ Porro — nam quis erit modus? — Quirites
aut praecidite seminale membrum,
quod totis mihi noctibus fatigant
vicinae sine fine prurientes
vernis passeribus salaciores,
aut rumpar nec habebitis Priapum. }[7]

Lamentationes Matheoluli, a medieval masterpiece of men’s sexed protest, provides a highly sophisticated commentary on the figure of penis as weapon. Matheolus laments:

Ha! often, often I played! My summer passes,
Winter follows, and no power for erection.
And why do I further endure? Now that winter has yielded to spring,
I am not what I was, my manliness has totally faded,
who once nine times his wife’s garden tilled,
I have been made frigid who used to be hot.
My wife wants it, but I can’t. She petitions for her right.
I say no. I just can’t pay.

Then she sharpens her claws, and devours me. They
without grace rain on me, and I lose a thousand hairs.
After this, face painted with blood, I leave.
Every day the wife renews her curses.
My sword and shield are worth nothing against her;
I always yield, or retreat out into the street.

{ Ha! quociens, quociens lusi! Mea preterit estas,
Cui succedit hiems, est nulla morosa potestas,
Et cur plura feram? Ver brume jam quia cessit,
Non sum quod fueram, virtus mea total recessit,
Olim qui novies uxoris claustra colebam,
Factus sum glacies qui fervidus esse solebam.
Vult uxor, sed ego nequeo; petit hec sua jura;
Non sovendo nego factus;

Tunc ungues acuit, ut eis me devoret; illi
Gratia nulla pluit; pereunt michi mille capilli.
Post hec cum facie discedo sanguine picta.
Hec quasi quottidie renovat conjunx maledicta.
Nil adversus eam michi prosunt ensis et umbo;
Semper succumbo vel ei dimitto plateam. }[8]

Without a vigorously functioning penis, Matheolus experiences brutal punishment from his wife. His penis isn’t an instrument of violence, but a key to peace.

Some recent scholarship has recognized that Priapea aren’t a description or celebration of the Roman masculine ideal. Brutish, farcical representations of Priapus serve an urbane critique of cultural crudeness. That critique aims at crudeness in reading as well as in other forms of behavior.[9] Within the large Priapea collection Carmina Priapea, the poems are ordered so as to lead to Priapus experiencing sexual problems and impotence.[10] That’s far from any plausible ideal of Roman masculinity. The sensuous poetry of the Carmina Priapea enacts within the reader the pleasure of being a receptive body, whether man or woman.[11] Beautiful poetry isn’t brutal rape. Priapea critique the mass-media popularity of extreme, wildly unrepresentative stories of sex and violence.

Ancient Rome encompassed an alternate perspective on masculine sexuality. A singular ancient Roman Priapus poem teaches:

Assemble together, each and every one of you,
young women who dwell in the sacred grove
and the sacred waters,
assemble all and in winning tones
say to charming Priapus,
“Hail, Priapus, holy father of the world.”
Fasten a thousand kisses on his crotch,
gird his phallus with fragrant garlands
and again all say,
“Hail, Priapus, holy father of all things.”

All of you say, “Kindly Priapus, show favor;
hail, holy father Priapus, hail.
Priapus, potent friend, hail,
whether you desire to be called parent
and origin of the world or nature itself and Pan, hail.
For it is through your potency that everything is conceived
that fills sky, sea and land.
Therefore hail, Priapus, hail, holy one.”

Priapus, potent friend, hail.
Chaste maidens call on you in prayer
that you untie their girdle long knotted,
and married women call on you that their husbands
have penises often erect and always potent.
Hail, holy father Priapus, hail.

{ Convenite simul quot estis omnes,
quae sacrum colitis nemus puellae,
quae sacras colitis aquas puellae,
convenite quot estis atque bello
voci dicite blandula Priapo:
Salve, sancte pater Priape rerum.
Inguini oscula figite inde mille
fascinum bene olentibus coronis
cingite illi iterumque dicite omnes:
Salve, sancte pater Priape rerum.
..
O Priape, fave alme, dicite omnes,
salve, sancte pater Priape, salve.
O Priape potens amice, salve,
seu cupis genitor vocari et auctor
orbis aut physis ipsa Panque, salve.
Namque concipitur tuo vigore
quod solum replet aethera atque pontum.
Ergo salve, Priape, salve sancte.

O Priape potens amice, salve.
Te vocant prece virgines pudicae,
zonulam ut solvas diu ligatam,
teque nupta vocat sit ut marito
nervus saepe rigens potensque semper.
Salve, sancte pater Priape, salve. }[12]

Charming and kindly, holy father, potent friend — that’s an understanding of Priapus far from his narrow job of guarding a garden. That understanding doesn’t serve to draft men into military service on behalf of the Empire. It doesn’t value men’s sexuality relative to fungible commodities. Not surprisingly, that understanding has long been socially disfavored. To those who deny the goodness and beauty of men’s penises, a highly cultured and discerning Roman poet ironically declared:

I with my dick will bang up your crapper and stuff your mouth.

{ Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo. }[13]

Priapus as Mercury, racing to provide money

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Read more:

Notes:

[1] Carmina Priapea 4 (Obscaenas rigido deo tabellas), 37 (Cur pictum memori sit in tabella), 27 (Deliciae populi, magno notissima circo), Latin text with English translation available in Parker (1988) and Hooper (1999), and online in Smithers & Burton (1890). For aids in reading Priapea, Gau, Hayes & Nimis (2017), Porter (2021a), and Porter (2021b).

The Erotopaegnion of Hieronymus Angerianus (Girolamo Angeriano), published in Florence in 1512,  provides Priapea in Latin. An edition of the Erotopaegnion published in Paris in 1798 is available online (alternate presentation).

Priapea (also known as Priapeia and Carmina Priapea) is a conventional term for a collection of poems about Priapus. Priapea formally have a distinctive Latin poetic meter, but here I use the term Priapea thematically. The Latin Library provides Latin text for the Priapea. Unless otherwise mentioned, I use that Latin text.

The number of poems associated with Carmina Priapea varies somewhat. The poems probably were written sometime between the establishment of the Roman Empire and the early second century. Subtle connections between the poems and the ordering of the poems suggest that they are the work of a single author. Holzberg (2005) pp. 369-70.

[2] Carmina Priapea 36 (Notas habemus quisque corporis formas) vv. 9-11 of 11, Latin text from Elomaa (2015), my English translation. Cf. Hooper (1999) p. 70; Carmina Priapea 18 (Commoditas haec est in nostro maxima pene), trans Parker (1988) p. 87. The medieval woman physician Calabre of Paris reportedly could make women’s vaginas small again. The subsequent quote is Carmina Priapea 38 (Simpliciter tibi me, quodcunque est, dicere oportet), trans. Parker (1988) p. 129. Id. translates pedicare volo as “I want your back way.” Above I have substituted “I want to stick your ass.”

[3] E.g. Carmina Priapea 12 (Quaedam serior Hectoris parente), 32 (Uvis aridior puella passis). Some sophisticated Hellenistic epigrams celebrated the sexual allure of old women. In a famous early Arabic love poem, Jamil laments that Buthaynah describes him as old. Jamil declares that Buthaynah hasn’t aged at all, or at least as he sees her.

[4] In a text that reflects contemporary academic orthodoxy, Williams declared:

{Priapus} can be seen as something like the patron saint or mascot of Roman machismo, and his vigorous exploits with women, boys, and men indiscriminately are clearly a mainstay of his hyper-masculine identity. Like this phallic deity, a Roman man is ideally ready, willing, and able to express his domination over others, male or female, by means of sexual penetration.

Williams (1999) p. 18. Reasoning superficially from the brutalizing and commodifying Priapus stereotypes of men, Hooper opines:

Since men controlled both the political and economic worlds, the phallus, as the organ of penetration, came to symbolize the right to rule.

Hooper (1999) p. 16. Similarly, Richlin (1992) p. 127.

[5] Greek Anthology 16.260, from Greek trans. Paton (1920) vol. V, p. 315. Priapus threatens to rape women vaginally, boys anally, and men orally. That’s known as the tripartite punishment.

[6] Amid discussion connecting patriarchy, pornography, sadism, and rape, Richlin described the Carmina Priapea as “hymns to phallocentrism — not serious, of course.” Richlin (1992) p. 79. Scholars who ignore violence against men, social contempt for men’s paternity interests, gross anti-men bias in determinations of child custody, and imprisoning men for being too poor to pay state-ordered sex payments are not serious, of course. Id., p. 8o declares: “The arguments in favor of humor and against it reach no conclusion.” Nonetheless, “humor itself is a patriarchal discourse.” Id. p. xvii. Keuls (1985) and much similar work provide a strong argument for obscene humor.

In reviewing Hooper (1999), Butrica (2000) dared to speak truth to dominant ideology:

more surprising is the suggestion that these poems — apparently dolo malo — “increase societal violence” and “institutionalize” the “debasement of women.” First of all, I wonder whether even in the collection itself women are “debased” any more than the male thieves who are to have a penis shoved down their throats; nor do I perceive any opportunity for “institutionalization” of Priapus’ behaviour. Hooper has earlier cited the Priapea as “an excellent illustration of the subordinate position of women in Roman society” on the grounds that “the male narrator consistently defines women according to his standards” (4-5), which seems nothing more than an inevitable consequence of human nature. Determined to find hostility toward women, Hooper continues: “They are beautiful if he desires them, ugly if he does not (no surprise here), and unbelievably ugly if they are old and lust after him” (one would hardly guess that there is not a single poem in the collection where an ugly old woman lusts after Priapus). … That wit and humour {of the Priapus poems} is unfairly reduced to brutal invective against women and cinaedi, so that one is left wondering why one should bother to read this poetry at all, except as a curiosity from an intolerably primitive age. Recent advances in Puritanism now allow us to read and speak the dirty words, but it seems we must still tut about something.

[7] Carmina Priapea 26 (Porro — nam quis erit modus? — Quirites) excerpt, trans. Parker (1988) p. 111. The Priapus poem with a fenced garden is 77 (Immanem stomachum mihi videtis). Medieval European literature recognized women’s vigorous sexuality.

[8] Lamentationes Matheoluli ll. 571-78, 585-590, from Latin my translation. Van Hamel (1892) vol. 1, pp. 40-1, provides the Latin.

On tilling the garden nine times and then failing, cf. Ovid, Amores 3.7.23-26, and Greek Anthology 11.30.1-2, from Greek into Latin trans. Paton (1920) vol. IV, p. 83, from Greek into English trans. Richlin (1992) p. 117. Jehan Le Fèvre summarized Matheolus’s experience:

In this chapter he tells us
how long ago he used to dig in the garden
forcefully, but now he grieves
that he can’t work the plow any longer.
This is what made him cry —
that the times were bad for him,
and that he couldn’t do it any longer,
even in Parrette’s little garden,
for his quiver was empty
and his bow no longer could extend.
So he had no way to defend himself.
He who has nothing with which to make peace
must be in agony from now to forever.

{ En cel chapitre nous raconte
Comment jadis fouïr souloit
Puissamment, mais or se douloit
Quant plus ne pooit labourer;
C’est ce qui le faisoit plourer
Du temps qui ly estoit contraire,
Et qu’il ne le pooit plus faire,
Mesmement ou courtil Perrette;
Car vuide estoit sa pharetre
Et son arc ne pooit plus tendre.
Ainsi n’ot de quoy se deffendre.
Qui n’a de quoy faire sa paix,
Souffrir l’estuet des ore mais. }

The Book of Gladness {Le livre de Leesce}, ll. 720-32, Old French text from Van Hamel (1892), English translation (modified) from Burke (2013) p. 80. Parrette (Petra) was Matheolus’s wife. Amid considerable attention to domestic violence in recent years, domestic violence against men has largely been ignored.

Poem 8 of the Arundel Lyrics provides an earlier, contrasting narrative of a man’s sexuality in relation to the seasons and beasts:

The wind’s blast rages and the leaves stream away from the trees completely before the violent frosts. The birdsong in the woodlands falls silent. Now the sexual passion of animals, ardent only in the spring, becomes inactive. Ever the lover, I refuse to follow new changes in the seasons like a beast.

{ Sevit aure spiritus
et arborum
come fluunt penitus
vi frigorum,
silent cantus nemorum.
Nunc torpescit vere solo
fervens amor pecorum;
semper amans sequi nolo
novas vices temporum
bestiali more. }

Latin text and English translation from McDonough (2010) pp. 36-7. Matheolus’s phrase gratia nulla pluit also recalls the common phrase gratia plena.

[9] Uden (2007).

[10] Holzberg (2005).

[11] Young (2015).

[12] Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 14.3565, “Hail, Priapus, holy father of all things {Salve, sancte pater Priape rerum},” vv. 13-22, 31-8, 47-52, from Latin trans. Courtney (1995) p. 149, with my minor adaptations to more closely reflect the Latin. Parker (1988), pp. 28-9, and Hooper (1999) pp. 118-21 provide alternate, looser English translations. The latter also provides the Latin text. Antonio M. Fuentes’s transgressive Himno a Príapo page provides the full Latin poem and a variety of translations into a variety of languages, along with many images of Priapus.

The text reportedly was inscribed  on the sides of a herm-pillar at Tibur (now known as Tivoli). Located about 30 kilometers northeast of Rome, Tibur was a resort area with elite Roman villas, including that of Maecenas. The text includes a dedication:

To the genius of the god Priapus,
mighty, powerful, and invincible,
by Julius Agathemerus, freedman of Augustus,
in charge of access to the emperor,
on the warning of a dream erected this.

{ Genio numinis Pria[pi]
poten[t]is polle[ntis invi]cti
Iul(ius) Agathemerus
Aug(usti) lib(ertus) a
cura amicorum
somno monitus }

Latin text and English translation (modified insubstantially) from Courtney (1995) p. 149. The stone containing the inscription apparently hasn’t survived. Id. pp. 148, 18 (indication of double asterisk is that the actual inscription “not seen by the compilers of CIL or their informants nor since”). Courtney dates the inscription to the first century and notes some suspicion that it’s a humanistic forgery. Id. pp. 356-7. The text has considerable similarities with the Greek girl’s ode to the penis in Maximianus, Elegies 5.86-104. Maximianus is generally regarded to date to the mid-sixth century.

[13] Catullus 16. In Horace, Satires 1.8, a statue of Priapus scares away two witches with an enormous fart. Farting is as much an ideal of Roman male sexuality as is raping.

[images] (1) Fresco of Priapus in the Casa dei Vettie, Pompeii. First-century Italy. Priapus, wearing a soldier’s helmet, weighs his massive, erect penis against a bag of gold. The fruit basket below similarly indicates commodity wealth. Thanks to Fer.filol and Wikimedia Commons. (2) Fresco of Priapus, from Pompeii. Priapus, with the attributes of the commercial Mercury, races to deliver a bag of gold. Fresco currently in the Secret Room, National Archaeological Museum, Naples. Thanks to Carole Raddato and Wikimedia Commons.

References:

Burke, Linda, ed. and trans. 2013. Jehan Le Fèvre. The Book of Gladness / le livre de Leesce: a 14th century defense of women, in English and French. Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc.

Butrica, James L. 2000. Review of Richard W. Hooper (ed.), The Priapus Poems. Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2000.02.23

Courtney, Edward. 1995. Musa lapidaria: a selection of Latin verse inscriptions. Atlanta (Georgia): Scolars Press.

Elomaa, Heather. 2015. “The Comparison of Art in the Carmina Priapea.” Paper presented at CAMWS 2015 Annual Meeting.

Gua, Tyler, Evan Hayes, and Stephen Nimis. 2017. Priapea: Songs for a Phallic God. An Intermediate Latin Reader: Latin Text with Running Vocabulary and Commentary. Faenum Publishing.

Holzberg, Niklas. 2005. “Impotence? It Happened to the Best of Them! A Linear Reading of the Corpus Priapeorum.” Hermes. 133 (3): 368-381.

Hooper, Richard W. 1999. The Priapus Poems: erotic epigrams from ancient Rome. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. (review by James Butrica)

Keuls, Eva C. 1985. The Reign of the Phallus: sexual politics in ancient Athens. New York: Harper & Row.

McDonough, Christopher James, ed. and trans. 2010. The Arundel Lyrics; The poems of Hugh Primas. Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library 2. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

Parker, W. H., ed. and trans. 1988. Priapea: poems for a phallic god. London: Croom Helm.

Paton, W.R. 1920. The Greek Anthology with an English Translation. London: William Heinemann (vol. I, bks. 1-6; vol. II, bks. 7-8; vol. III, bk. 9; vol IV, bks. 10-12; vol. V, bks. 13-16).

Porter, John R. 2021a. Carmina Priapea: A Grammatical Commentary for Students. Posted on academia.edu.

Porter, John R. 2021b. Carmina Priapea: An English Crib for Students Reading the Poems in Latin. Posted on academia.edu.

Richlin, Amy. 1992. The Garden of Priapus: sexuality and aggression in Roman humor. New York: Oxford University Press.

Smithers, Leonard C. and Richard Francis Burton. 1890. Priapeia, or, The sportive epigrams of divers poets on Priapus: the Latin text now for the first time Englished in verse and prose (the metrical version by “Outidanos”). Cosmopoli. Alternate copy.

Uden, James. 2007. “Impersonating Priapus.” The American Journal of Philology. 128 (1): 1-26.

Van Hamel, Anton Gerard, ed. 1892. Mathéolus, Jean Le Fèvre. Les lamentations de Mathéolus et le livre de leesce de Jehan Le Fèvre, de Ressons: poèmes français du XIVe siècle. Paris: Bouillon.

Williams, Craig A. 1999, 2nd ed. 2010. Roman Homosexuality: ideologies of masculinity in classical antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Young, Elizabeth Marie. 2015. “The Touch of the Cinaedus: Unmanly Sensations in the Carmina Priapea.” Classical Antiquity. 34 (1): 183-208.

Margery Kempe's husband as figure of Christian abasement

Margery Kempe's husband in bed after fall

In a leading medieval work of men’s sexed protest, a husband compared his experience of marriage to Christ being crucified. Margery Kempe’s husband provides a less poetic, more idiosyncratic representation of a husband’s abasement. Senile and befouling his clothes with bowel movements, Margery Kempe’s husband ended his life in degrading suffering like that of Christ on the cross.

Margery’s account of her husband’s serious injury lacks compassion and engages extensively in self-rationalization and self-justification. The date and other significant aspects of his injury she didn’t recount or remember:

It happened one day that the husband of the said creature, a very old man more than sixty years old, as he came down from his bedroom bare-footed and bare-legged, he slipped or else lost his footing and fell down to the ground from the steps. His head was under his body and grievously broken and bruised, injured so badly that he had in his head for many days five rolls of soft material to drain the wounds while his head was healing. As God willed, some neighbors became aware that he had fallen down the steps, perhaps through the din and scraping of the falling. And so they came to him and found him lying with his head under him, half alive, all streaked with blood, never likely to have received final confession unless by high grace and miracle. Then the said creature, his wife, was sent for, and so she came to him. Then he was taken up and his head was sewn, and he was sick a long time after, so that men thought he should have been dead. [1]

This account includes no sense of Margery’s fear for her husband’s life. Margery was most concerned with what others said:

people said, if he died, his wife deserved to be hanged for his death, for she could have lived with him as a care-giver and did not. They didn’t dwell together or sleep together, for as is written before, they both with one assent and with free will of the other had made a vow to live chastely. And therefore to avoid all perils they dwelt and traveled in separate places where no suspicion would arise of them having sex. First they dwelt together after they had made their vow of chastity, and then people slandered them and said they used their lust and pleasure as they did before their vow-making. When they went on pilgrimage or to see and speak with other spiritual persons, many evil folk speaking in worldly ways, people lacking respect and love for our Lord Jesus Christ, thought and said that they went rather to the woods, groves, or valleys to use the lust of their bodies so that people should not see or know of it. They, having knowledge of how prone people were to think evil of them, desiring to avoid all occasion, inasmuch as they might be able, by their good will and their mutual consent, they parted asunder with respect to meals and sleeping quarters, and went to take meals in separate places. This was the cause that she was not with him, and also because she did not want to be hindered from her contemplation. And therefore, when he had fallen and was grievously hurt, as is said before, people said, if he died, she deserved to answer for his death.

Margery’s rationalization and justification for her blamelessness is more extensive than her account of her husband’s terrible injury and how it happened. Margery seems to have been an extraordinarily self-centered woman.

Margery took her husband into her home for care only under God’s explicit instructions. In response to her husband’s life-threatening injury, Margery prayed that God would act to save her from blame:

she prayed to our Lord that her husband might live a year and she be delivered from slander if it were the Lord’s pleasure. Our Lord said in her mind, “Daughter, you shall have the blessing you request, for he shall live, and I have done a great miracle for you that he is not dead. And I bid you take him home and attend to him for love of me.

Christianity teaches love of God and love of neighbor. No neighbor is closer than a spouse. To God’s instructions on how to love, Margery responded with a counter-argument:

She said, “No, good Lord, for then I shall not be able to attend to you as I do now.”

Margery seems not to have loved her husband. God, who did not act like a subservient husband, stood up to Margery in her prayer:

“Yes, daughter,” said our Lord, “you shall have as much spiritual reward for caring for him and helping him in his need at home as if you were in church to make your prayers. You have said many times that you would gladly attend to me. I pray that you now attend to him for the love of me, for he has sometime fulfilled your will and my will both, and he has made your body free to me so that you would serve me and live chastely and purely, and therefore I will that you be free to help him with his need in my name.”

The Lord praying suggests blurring of God and self in Margery’s mind. The reference to Margery’s husband as someone who “has sometime fulfilled your will and my will both” associates spousal love with judgment of worthiness through obedience. In Margery’s mind, God indicated that if her husband hadn’t agreed to a sexless marriage, she wouldn’t be under any imperative to care for him in his time of need.

Margery cared for her husband without love for him. She took him into her home and cared for him for years:

she took her husband home with her and attended to him years after, as long as he lived. She had much work in caring for him, for in his last days he became senile and lacked reason. He could not ease his bowels in the proper place, or else he would not, but as a child voided his natural digestion in his linen clothes where he sat, by the fire or at the table. Wherever he was, he would spare no place. Therefore her labors were much increased in washing and wringing and her expense too in making fires. He hindered her greatly from her contemplation, so that many times, she should have been irked at her labor. But she thought to herself how in her young age she had a great many delectable thoughts, fleshly lusts, and inordinate loves for his person. Therefore she was glad to be punished with the same person and took it much more easily. She served him and helped him, in her view, as she would have done for Christ himself. [2]

Desire to punish herself motivated Margery to the burdensome labor of caring for her invalid husband, not love for him. Following several sentences outlining her son’s death, she mentioned her husband’s death only in a single sentence, with a third-person reference to her husband:

In a short time after, his father followed the son the way which every man must go.

Many husbands die knowing and experiencing their wives’ love. That’s not inevitable. Dying within a sense of spousal love for one’s own person probably wasn’t the experience of Margery Kempe’s husband.

A neglected spiritual aspect of Margery Kempe’s book is the figure of her husband’s last years. Crucifying someone was the most degrading form of punishment that the Romans imposed. Lacking one’s reason while being in feces-filled clothes is an end that anyone might potentially meet. A redemptive dimension of such humiliating experience is difficult to perceive. The figure of Margery Kempe’s husband gives readers an experience like that of the first Christians looking upon Christ suffering on the cross. Amid large and growing modern appreciation for Margery Kempe and her book, the figure of her husband’s last years deserves more appreciation.

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Notes:

[1] Book of Margery Kempe 1.76, from Middle English my translation following closely Staley (2001) p. 131. I refer to passages in the Book of Margery Kempe by book.chapter and page number in id. All the subsequent quotes, except the final one, are from 1.76, pp. 131-2. The final quote is from 2.2, p. 164.

The Middle English, ll. 4240-1, has for the precipitation of his injury “he slederyd er ellys faylyd of hys fotyng … .” Id. translates that as “he slithered or else failed of his footing.” Slithering evokes the serpent of humans’ fall in the biblical book of Genesis.

[2] The chronology of Margery Kempe’s life isn’t well established. She probably was born in 1373. She married her husband when she was “twenty years of age or somewhat more” (1.1, p. 6). Her husband and the one adult son she mentioned probably died in 1432. Bale (2015) pp. xlii-xliii. Margery traveled to Norwich to care for Richard Caister, vicar of St. Stephen’s in Norwich. Caister died shortly before Margery arrived. 1.60, p. 108. That dates Margery’s visit to 1420. She was then newly delivered of a child. According to Margery, Jesus told her to have no more children. Id. That’s a plausible motive for Margery seeking to live chastely with her husband. She and her husband didn’t begin to live chastely for three or four more years. Hence her husband probably suffered his injury in the late 1420s. Margery then would have cared for him for a few years before his death.

[image] Illumination of Mordechai dreaming. Grande Bible historiale complétée. Latin manuscript made in Paris from 1395-1401. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des Manuscrits, Français 159, folio 256r. Thanks to Gallica.

References:

Bale, Anthony Paul, trans. 2015. Margery Kempe. The book of Margery Kempe. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Staley, Lynn, trans. 2001. Margery Kempe. The book of Margery Kempe: a new translation, contexts, criticism. New York: Norton.

Celestina: heroine of the first European novel

The sleep of reason in reading Celestina

The first European novel and the first Spanish best-seller first appeared in 1499 under the title Comedia de Calisto y Melibea. By 1518, its title had become La Celestina. That title change indicates the attraction of one of the work’s characters, the celestial Celestina. A leading scholar of Spanish literature recently explained:

{Celestina} is an old whore and procuress who runs a brothel, restores virgins, arranges for clandestine sexual encounters, and corrupts young men and women. Yet, for all these unsavory characteristics and immoral activities, Celestina is a self-possessed, willful, and courageous character whom the reader cannot but admire. She is a modern tragic heroine [1]

Under a global trend toward repressive orthodoxy in thought and expression, imaginative literature like Celestina now might be regarded as dangerous and unacceptable. Yet Celestina remains “as fresh and relevant a work of fiction as if it had been written today.”

The original title characters Calisto and Melibea are much less interesting than Celestina. Calisto is a young, rich, well-educated noble completely immersed in the foolish delusions of courtly love. Calisto loves Melibea. Calisto’s religion is courtly love of Melibea. He explains:

I am a Melibean, and I worship Melibea and I put my faith in Melibea and I adore Melibea. … She is a goddess! A goddess! [2]

Calisto declares that the sight of her beautiful hair can turn men into stone, while the sight of her breasts rouses them.[3] Calisto perceives Melibea in a mash of classical myth and mundane reality:

Has her equal ever been born in the world? Did God create a sweeter form? Can such features, a model of beauty, be painted? If Helen were alive today, the one for whom so many Greeks and Trojans died, or the beautiful Polyxena, they would obey this comely mistress for whom I pine. Had she been present in that contest among the three goddesses for the golden apple, they would never have given it the name discord because, without dissent, they would have agreed that it be given to Melibea, and thus it would have been called the apple of concord. For women who know of her curse themselves. They wail to God because he did not remember them when he made this my sweet mistress. They use up their lives, envy gnaws their flesh, they inflict brutal martyrdom upon themselves, thinking that with artifice they will equal the perfection nature effortlessly bestowed on her. They thin their eyebrows with eyebrow pluckers and plasters and fine cords; they look for golden herbs, roots, branches, and flowers to make bleaches so their hair will be like hers; and they maul their faces, covering them in various hues of unguents and ointments, acid lotions, white and red paints, and powders that for the sake of brevity I will not detail.

Calisto considers himself unworthy of Melibea. Nonetheless, he intensely desires her.

Melibea lacks an ethical core. Her behavior rapidly shifts across extremes of values and desires. She presents herself as a genteel woman concerned for her reputation and her parents. When Celestina tells Melibea of Calisto’s deep devotion to her, Melibea viciously attacks her:

May you burn at the stake, you deceitful procuress, you vile convent-trotter, you witch, you enemy of decency, you cause of secret sins! Jesú, Jesú! Lucrecia! Take her from my sight. I am through; she has left no drop of blood in my body! The person who gives ear to such women deserves this and more. Were it not that it would reflect upon my purity, and spread the word of the audacity of this brash man, I would, you wicked drab, have seen that your words and your life were quickly ended. [4]

Melibea also cruelly disparages Calisto:

Jesú! I do not want to hear another word about this crazed wall jumper, this night specter, this leggy stork, this badly woven figure in a tapestry, lest I drop dead on the spot! This then is the man who saw me the other day and began to rant and rave and act the gallant. Tell him, my good woman, that if he thought everything already won and the field his, I listened because I thought it better to listen than to publicize his flaws; I wanted more to treat him as a madman than to spread word of his outrageous boldness.

Melibea’s attitude toward Calisto changes rapidly as Celestina spins out a story of Calisto’s toothache and his many noble attributes. Soon Melibea is suffering from exhausting swoons and heartaches. She urgently seeks a return visit from Celestina. Melibea prays to God:

I humbly ask you to bestow upon my wounded heart the patience to conceal my terrible passion! Do not strip away the fig leaf I have placed before my amorous desire, pretending my pain to be other and not what is tormenting me. But how shall I be able, when I am so cruelly aggrieved by the poison dealt me at the sight of that caballero. O shy and timid womankind! Why are women not given the power to reveal their anguishing and ardent love, as men are? O that Calisto should not live with a complaint, nor I with pain.

Subsequently meeting with Celestina, Melibea confesses her love for Calisto:

O my Calisto, my señor, my sweet and gentle joy! If your heart feels as mine does now, I marvel that my absence allows you to live. O Mother, Señora Celestina, if you want to save my life, find the way for me to see him soon.

Melibea subsequently relishes illicit sex with Calisto. After he dies in an accident, she commits suicide by jumping off a tower in the presence of her distraught, loving father.

Unlike Melibea, Celestina is a strong, independent woman, a professional, and a business-owner. One of Calisto’s servants engages her to arrange for Calisto to have sex with Melibea. The servant explains:

From some time now I have known a bearded old crone who lives at no great distance from here. A witch, astute, wise in every wickedness that exists, she calls herself Celestina. I understand that in this city over five thousand maidenheads have been restored and undone by her hand. If she puts her mind to it she can move rocks and stones to lust.

Celestina has six trades:

seamstress, perfumer, wondrous concocter of paints and powders, and restorer of maidenheads, procuress, and, on occasion, witch. The first office was cover for the others, under which pretense many girls, among them servants, came to her house to be stitched and to stitch neck coverings and many other things. None came without a rasher of bacon, wheat flour, a jug of wine, and other provisions they stole from their mistresses. And other thefts of even greater worth were hidden there. Celestina was friend to many students, and stewards, and servants of clerics, and to these she sold the innocent blood of the hapless girls who foolishly took risks on the basis of the restitution she promised them.

Celestina is the leading sex trafficker in the city. She declares:

Few virgins, praise God, have you seen open shop in this city for whom I have not been the agent of their first sale. When a girl is born I enter her name in my register in order to know how many escape my net. What were you thinking? Do you think I live on air? That I inherited an estate?

When Celestina is out walking, a hundred women call out, “old whore.” Dogs bark it, birds sing it, donkeys also bray out “old whore.” So too proclaim frogs. Craftsmen wielding tools of every shape and size hammer out that name. All of creation, even two rocks touched together, proclaim Celestina an old whore.[5]

Celestina is filled with wisdom. She is an expert on the ways of women. To a colleague questioning her ability to get Melibea to have sex with Calisto, Celestina explains:

For even if Melibea is a fierce opponent, she is not, may it please God, the first I have choked the cackle out of. They are all a bit skittish in the beginning, but after they have once been saddled they never want a rest. … And even as old as I am, God knows my longings. How much more these girls who boil without fire!

To a whore affecting reticence toward a suitor, Celestina says:

How plump and fresh you are! What breasts and all so lovely! … Do not be miserly with what has cost you so little. Do not hoard your loveliness, for it is by its nature as good an exchange as money. … Do not believe that you were created for no reason; when a she is born a he is born, and when a he, a she. Nothing is superfluous in the world, nor anything that nature does not provide for. What a sin it is to weary and torment men when they can be helped.

Celestina collects and concocts for medicines and cosmetics a wide array of exotic substances: root of aphodel, bark of sienna, benzoin, serpents’ venom, ointments from bears, horses, camels, whales, and other beasts, fruit pips, St. John’s wort, rosemary, musk, and many different types of threads.[6] Celestina is so learned that she speaks of love in rhetorical contrasts arising from learned Latin literature:

Love is a hidden fire, a pleasant wound, a delicious poison, a sweet bitterness, a delectable hurting, a happy torment, a sweet, fierce wound, a gentle death.

When Celestina tells Calisto that Melibea is in love with him and at his command, Calisto responds naively:

But speak to the conventions of courtly love, Mother. … Melibea is my beloved. Melibea is my goddess. Melibea is my life. I am her captive, I her servant.

Unlike Calisto, Celestina perceives and rejects men’s fruitless subordination in courtly love. She chides Calisto for his lack of self-confidence in relation to Melibea. Wisdom knows that to arouse women, nothing is more important for men than self-confidence. Celestina knows what many men don’t.

Celestina is a treacherous, self-centered, gluttonous schemer and liar. She lies to everyone effortlessly. Her words have no meaning other than her intent to manipulate. She dines on food that others have stolen. To ease her loneliness at night as an old whore, she drinks jugs of wine.[7] She has a knife scar on her face that seems to tell of a scheme gone wrong. When she attempts to cheat two of her men co-conspirators out the share of the booty from procuring Melibea for Calisto, they kill her. These men in turn are killed for their crime. Men’s lives matter much less than the life of the magnificent, admirable, modern tragic heroine Celestina.

Spain’s greatest living writer has applauded Celestina as representing our current world. In a text written about 2009, he declares:

Celestina portrays with disturbing lucidity and precision the fast-approaching universe of chaos and strife we now endure. … The only laws that rule the pitiless universe of Celestina are the sovereign edits of sexual pleasure and the cash nexus. … Does human life exist outside the laws of the market, or is it just one more product for sale? To the anguished question posed by growing inequalities, a close reading of Celestina brings us an inexorably negative answer from five hundred years ago: nature and its blind laws reduce us all to the status of an expendable commodity in a godless, iniquitous world. [8]

Such hackneyed bombast generates warm feels for today’s literary elite. No market has performed worse than the status market for literature and imagination. Celestina no longer represents an aberrational world.

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Notes:

[1] Roberto González Echevarría, Introduction, in Peden (2009) p. xiii. The subsequent quote is from id. On the title becoming La Celestina in 1518, id. p. xv. Bush & Goytisolo (2010), back cover, describes Celestina as “the first-ever Spanish bestseller.” See also Translator’s Afterword, id. p. 218. About seventy editions of Celestina were printed by 1605. Snow (2008) p. 82. Celestina was translated into Italian in 1505, adapted into English about 1525, and by the end of the seventeenth century translated into French, Flemish, German, Hebrew, and Latin. Celestina had considerable influence on Spanish literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Ayllón (1958) pp. 284-5, Snow (2008).

[2] Celestina, from Spanish trans. Peden (2009) Act 1, pp. 10-2. Calisto’s servant Sempronio tries to enlighten Calisto with a brief review of themes from the literature of men’s sexed protest. Sempronio explains that women taught him that literature. Sempronio also asserts NAWALT:

Listen to Aristotle, look at Bernard. Gentiles, Jews, Christians, and Moors, are all in agreement. But despite what is said, and what women may say, do not commit the error of supposing all women are like that, for they are many, and some are saintly, virtuous, and noble, and their shining crowns exempt them from vituperation.

Act 1, pp. 13-4.

Celestina is available online in the original Spanish. Early editions of Celestina exist in shorter (16 acts) and longer (21 acts) versions. Peden’s translation is the longer version and includes paratext from early editions. In her Translator’s Note, Peden declared:

I wanted what appears on the English language page to be as close as possible to the original Spanish … I wanted to change as little as possible the tone of the original, which would be the inevitable effect in creating a more readable version.

Id. p. viii. Peden also expressed belief in the “true meaning” of words and in the existence of a “perfect translation.” Id. p. viii, x. Even for readers who lack such beliefs, they inspire confidence in Peden’s translation. I find her translation more readable and more enjoyable than that of Bush (2010).

All the subsequent quotes from and references to Celestina are based on Peden’s translation, cited by act and page. The quote sources: Act 6, pp. 95-6 (Has her equal …); Act 4, pp. 67-8 (May you burn …); Act 4, 68 (Jesú! I do not want to hear … ); Act 10, p. 141 (I humbly ask … ); Act 10, p. 149 (O my Calisto …); Act 1, p. 18 (From some time …); Act 1, p. 24 (seamstress …); Act 3, p. 49 (Few virgins …); Act 3, pp. 51-2 (For even if Melibea …); Act 7, 106-7 (How plump and fresh …); Act 10, p. 147 (Love is a hidden fire …); Act 11, p. 154 (But speak to the conventions …).

[3] In Greek myth, Medusa was a woman with a hideous face and venomous snakes for hair. Anyone who looked her in the eyes was turned to stone. Calisto incongruously adapts the Medusa myth in conjunction with a much more naturalistic claim about men’s sexual response.

[4] The epithet “convent-trotter” alludes to Trotaconventos of the fourteenth-century Spanish work Libro de buen amor.

[5] Celestina, Act 1, p. 23. Cf. Psalm 19:1-4. The description is from the servant Parmeno, who grew up with Celestina. Celestina describes much differently how the world addresses her. Act 9, p. 137.

[6] Celestina, Act 1, pp. 25-6; Act 7, p. 107. Other medieval texts similarly describe women collecting exotic materials for medicines, cosmetics, and witchcraft. See, e.g. the Mirror of Jaume Roig. Celestina uses letters written in blood on paper, serpent’s venom, and thread to conjure Pluto. Act 3, p. 55. Her actions in invoking Pluto are similar to erotic spells described in the Greek Magical Papyri, dating from the second to the fifth centuries.

[7] Celestina, Act 9, p. 129. Celestina’s extravagant praise of wine echoes an Arabic poetic tradition (wine poetry, in Arabic khamriyyah) dating from the sixth century. The ninth-century Arabic literary genius al-Jahiz made an important contribution to wine praise.

[8] Juan Goytisolo, Introduction, Bush (2010) pp. x, xi, xvi.  The biography blurb inside the front cover of id. describes Juan Goytisolo as “Spain’s greatest living writer.” In 2014, he won the Miguel de Cervantes Prize.

[image] The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (El sueño de la razón produce monstruos). Etching by Francisco Goya, no. 43 in the series Los Caprichos.  Dated 1797-8.  See also no. 7,  Even Thus He Cannot Recognize Her (Ni así la distingue). Thanks to Museo del Prado (Madrid) and Wikimedia Commons.

References:

Ayllón, Cándido. 1958. “A Survey of Celestina Studies in the Twentieth Century. ” Pp. 283-99 in Mack Hendricks Singleton, trans. 1958. Celestina; a play in twenty-one acts, attributed to Fernando de Rojas. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Bush, Peter R., trans. and Juan Goytisolo, intro. 2010. Fernando de Rojas. Celestina. New York: Penguin Books.

Peden, Margaret Sayers, trans., and Roberto González Echevarría, ed. 2009. Fernando de Rojas. Celestina. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Snow, Joseph T. 2008. “Notes on Cervantes as a Reader/Renewer of Celestina.” Comparative Literature. 60 (1): 81-95.

Dante’s Boethius buried in Boccaccio’s Decameron X.9

Dante sees Boethius in Paradiso X

Raising his eyes to gaze rapturously at the Master’s work, Dante in Canto X of his Paradiso saw “living lights of blinding brightness.” Those lights were the souls of the twelve most eminent Christian thinkers. Dante with thirsting eagerness saw the soul of Boethius within the eighth light:

Within it rejoices, in his vision of all goodness,
the holy soul who makes quite plain
the world’s deceit to one who listens well.

The body from which it was driven out
lies down there in Cieldauro, and he has risen
from martyrdom and exile to this peace. [1]

Defending poetry, Boccaccio criticized those failing to fully understanding Boethius’s words, those who “consider them only superficially.”[2] Boccaccio’s Decameron X.9 magically returned the rich, noble Torello to the Church of Ciel D’Oro where Boethius’s body was buried. In Decameron X.9, Boccaccio responded to Dante with a vision of the true consolation of Lady Philosophy: personally loving, virtuous action in worldly living.

Decameron X.9 begins with a chance encounter between the mighty sultan Saladin and the gentleman Messer Torello di Stra da Pavia. Saladin along with two of his wisest senior counselors were disguised as merchants. Torello, together with servants, dogs, and falcons, was going to his country estate. Torello evidently was wealthy by the standards of European nobility. He was also an influential and respected public figure in his home city of Pavia. Lady Philosophy warned Boethius about valuing too highly wealth and power. Saladin and Torello were men with great wealth and power.

Torello extended lavish hospitality to Saladin and his companions. Since they were looking for lodgings, Torello had them guided to his country estate. There Torello hosted Saladin’s party with pleasant conversation, a meal, and comfortable beds. The next day Torello escorted Saladin’s party to his mansion in Pavia. Fifty leading citizens greeted Saladin’s party in Pavia and joined in a banquet in Torello’s great hall in honor of them. After the dinner was over and the leading gentlemen of Pavia had left, Torello’s wife met privately with Saladin and his companions. She gave them gifts of magnificent robes, doublets, and undergarments.[3] The three tired, old horses that Saladin and his companions rode were quietly replaced by three fine, sturdy palfreys. In response to Torello’s entreaties, Saladin’s party spent another day with him and enjoyed another magnificent feast with many noble guests. Torello had told them that he could not believe that they were merchants. Just before departing, Saladin told Torello, “we may yet have the chance to show you some of our merchandise and make a believer out of you.”[4] A deceit of the world is believing that merchants cannot be noble.

Saladin received an opportunity to make a believer out of Torello. On a Crusade attacking Saladin’s Islamic empire, Torello was captured. Torello’s skill as a falconer brought him into service to Saladin. One day Saladin recognized Torello. Saladin joyfully embraced him and declared that he would be co-ruler of his empire. Despite his new position of wondrous wealth and power, Torello still agonizingly yearned for his wife back home in Pavia. He told Saladin that he wanted either to die or to return home to his wife. Boethius’s Lady Philosophy would have applauded Torello’s valuing of wealth and power relative to being with his wife.

Saladin arranged to transport Torello home quickly. Torello was put to sleep on a bed. Torello thus took the position of Boethius at the beginning of the Consolation of Philosophy. Boethius was in bed in prison, deprived of wealth and honor, and facing execution. Saladin put Torello in bed with dazzling wealth: a extremely valuable crown, a ruby ring, a brooch studded with pearls and precious stones, two enormous golden bowls and doubloons, and much more. Torello in this bed was then magically transported within a single night to Boethius’s burial place, Pavia’s Church of San Pietro in Ciel D’Oro.[5] All in Pavia had believed that Torello was dead. Torello rose as a living man in Boethius’s burial place.

Torello’s return home warded off his wife’s remarriage. After she had mournfully passed the agreed one year, one month, and one day without Torello’s return, Torello’s wife was persuaded to take a new husband. Torello, disguised as an ambassador from Saladin, appeared at the nuptial banquet for his wife’s remarriage. A ring placed in a wine cup prompted her to recognize that the ambassador was really her first husband Torello. She overturned the banquet table in front of her and started shouting:

Then she dashed over to where he {Torello} was sitting, and without giving a thought to her clothing or any of the things on the table, she flung herself across it as far as she could and hugged him to her in a tight embrace. Nor could she be induced to let go of his neck, for anything the people there could say or do, until Messer Torello himself told her to exercise a little self-control, for she would have plenty of time to embrace him later on. [6]

They lived happily together as a wealthy and honored couple for many years thereafter.

Boccaccio framed with worldly reality Decameron X.9’s vision of all goodness. The narrator Panfilo recognized human failures in love:

even though our defects may prevent us from winning the deepest sort of friendship with another person, by imitating the things you hear about in my tale, we may at least derive a certain delight from being courteous to others and hope that sooner or later we will receive our reward for doing so. [7]

Decameron X.9 isn’t told as just a marvelous romance. It’s a moral exemplum showing tribulations ended under the economy of punishment, reward, and credit:

This, then, was how the tribulations of Messer Torello and his beloved wife came to an end, and how they were rewarded for their prompt and cheerful acts of courtesy. There are many people who strive to do the like, but although they have the wherewithal, they perform such deeds so ineptly that before they are finished, those who receive them wind up paying more for them than they are worth. And so, if people get no credit for what they do, neither they nor anyone else should be surprised.

That’s a divine comedy of merchant philosophy and aristocratic performance. That’s Boccaccio’s deep reading of the concluding prayer of Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy.

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Notes:

[1] Dante, Commedia, Paradiso X.124-9, from Italian trans. Robert Hollander at the Princeton Dante Project. The previous quote is from X.64. Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy influenced Casella’s song and Cato’s rebuke (Purgatorio II.76-133), Beatrice dispelling the false lady of Dante’s dream (Purgatorio XIX.1-33), and Beatrice’s sudden appearance as a guide for Dante (Purgatorio XXX.49-145). More generally, just as Consolation of Philosophy has Lady Philosophy instructing Boethius, Dante’s Commedia features a series of knowledgeable guides (Virgil, Beatrice, Statius, Bernard of Clairvaux) leading a troubled man. Goddard (2011) argues that Dante included within his Commedia a typological fufillment of Philosophy’s attempt to console Boethius.

[2] Boccaccio, Geneologia deorum gentilium XIV.20, from Latin trans. Osgood (1956) pp. 94-5.

[3] The gifts of undergarments emphasizes intimate friendship.

[4] Boccaccio, Decameron X.9, from Italian trans. Rebhorn (2013) p. 827. Roman aristocratic ideals of Latin antiquity are important context for Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy. Donato (2013) Ch. 1.

[5] Singleton (1970), p. 188, observes:

He {Boethius} was buried in the church of San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro, where in 722 a tomb was erected to his memory by Liutprand, king of the Lombards; this was replaced in 990 by a more magnificent one erected by the Emperor Otto III, for which Pope Sylvester II wrote an inscription.

[6] Decameron X.9, trans. Rebhorn (2013) p. 837.

[7] Decameron X.9, trans. id. p. 820. The Latin etymology of Panfilo is “all loving,” with loving carrying the sense of earnest care for the good of the other, as in deep friendship. The subsequent quote is from id. p. 838.

[image] Illumination of Dante’s Paradiso X, showing twelve lights of the Church, including Boethius. From manuscript of Dante’s Divina Commedia, made about 1444 to 1450 in Northern Italy. BL Yates Thompson 36, fol. 147. Thanks to the British Library and Wikimedia Commons.

References:

Donato, Antonio. 2013. Boethius’ Consolation of philosophy as a product of late antiquity. London: Bloomsbury Academic.

Goddard, Victoria Emma Clare. 2011. Poetry and Philosophy in Boethius and Dante. Thesis (Ph.D.)–University of Toronto.

Osgood, Charles Grosvenor. 1956. Boccaccio on poetry; being the preface and the fourteenth and fifteenth books of Boccaccio’s Genealogia deorum gentilium in an English version with introductory essay and commentary. New York: Liberal Arts Press.

Rebhorn, Wayne A., trans. 2013. Giovanni Boccaccio. The Decameron. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

Singleton, Charles S., trans. and commentary. 1970. Dante Alighieri. The divine comedy. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.