not so much a review, so i shall call it a rant

Dydd sul hapus! Y bore 'ma es i’r eglwys gatholig gyda fy nhad i, a dw i eisiau ysgrifennu rhywbeth nawr, fel arfer—oh sod it, no one speaks Welsh and mine is wretched. Happy Sunday, I meant to say. I am alive. Ill again, but alive. I haven’t been reading much of late, but church reminded me of this book I meant to share ages ago:

The Cloister Book: For Shut-In Worshipers and Pastorless Congregations

David James Burrell, 1909

My ninth adventure (yes, I read this that long ago!) in 2011 was this old thing I saw in an antiquarian bookshop two years ago and had been eyeing ever since; I liked the title because I have a thing for cloisters, am interested in Christianity, and enjoy preaching of any sort, but could never get past the idea of spending that much for a book. I suppose it was worth the cost: the book itself is in excellent condition—no tears, foxing, or stains. Someone did sketch Jesus being crucified in it; probably decreases the value, but it was amusing.

For the record, I am not a Christian. My father is a devout papist, my mother a convert, and I have always been one to go “out there” in terms of belief, from when I was a pious Catholic girl who dreamt of being a nun to now. I have a tendency to blaspheme and an all-encompassing urge to write profane verse that delights in its sacrilegious message beneath a veneer of respectability. A lot of my poetry is inspired by church services, which I occasionally attend for artistic inspiration, free coffee, and, in the case of Catholic churches, Eucharist wafers (shut up, they’re delicious). So put an antiquarian book of sermons in front of me and you will have me practically pissing myself over passages like these:

“They are chiefly Epicureans, who, if a passing thought of the hereafter comes to them, thrust it away with all possible haste and go on groping with downcast eyes for yellow dust."

“The dead are dead, and the world’s tears have no rainbows in them. The sepulchre is sealed and the great stone is ever before it … Dead men and dead gods go together. The dust that arises from our streets is the dust of past and gone generations. Will they live again? Not unless there is a living G-d who triumphs over death. The stone on the sepulchre is sealed with the seal of oblivion. All are dead! The Pantheon stands opposite G-d’s Acre, and that too is sealed with the seal of oblivion. Zeus and Apollo are there; the gods of Walhalla and the dreamy-eyed Buddh. All are dead! They were and are not. Their altars smoked with oblations. Now there is none so poor to do them reverence. All are dead! The Pantheon answers to G-d’s Acre, ‘Death ends all.’”

Yes, they’re really not all that special, but imagining these phrases being read and prayed and thought by someone who was alive in 1909—it blows my mind and conjures up the most fantastic images of… well, things that have nothing much at all to do with church. Some aren’t sexual, if you can believe me. Reading what people thought, what they felt, what they hoped, what they believed is what gets me. I want to write stories about these people… and their sex lives, but mostly about the moral and spiritual and material quality of their time and faith.

Burrell evokes the martyrdom of ancient days and it is beautiful. Hell, religion is beautiful in the sickest, most primitive yet most artistic and glorious and highest way. And yes, this review is biased and not at all useful. I know. If you’re an actual Christian, this would make a nice devotional for when you can’t attend services, or for daily use. Each chapter has an invocation, some hymn suggestions (lyrics and music not included, sadly), prayers, and a sermon. Best of all, it’s free, and if you’re anything like me, you’ll like the old-fashioned preaching.