The Love of Books: The Philobiblon of Richard de BuryBury, Richard de
Philosophy
The Love of Books: The Philobiblon of Richard de Bury
Bury, Richard de
Book collecting; Manuscripts, Medieval -- Collectors and collecting
And hence it is that we have to mourn for the homes of which we have
been unjustly robbed; and as to our coverings, not that they have not
been given to us, but that the coverings anciently given to us have
been torn by violent hands, insomuch that our soul is bowed down to the
dust, our belly cleaveth unto the earth. We suffer from various
diseases, enduring pains in our backs and sides; we lie with our limbs
unstrung by palsy, and there is no man who layeth it to heart, and no
man who provides a mollifying plaster. Our native whiteness that was
clear with light has turned to dun and yellow, so that no leech who
should see us would doubt that we are diseased with jaundice. Some of
us are suffering from gout, as our twisted extremities plainly show.
The smoke and dust by which we are continuously plagued have dulled the
keenness of our visual rays, and are now infecting our bleared eyes
with ophthalmia. Within we are devoured by the fierce gripings of our
entrails, which hungry worms cease not to gnaw, and we undergo the
corruption of the two Lazaruses, nor is there anyone to anoint us with
balm of cedar, nor to cry to us who have been four days dead and
already stink, Lazarus come forth! No healing drug is bound around our
cruel wounds, which are so atrociously inflicted upon the innocent, and
there is none to put a plaster upon our ulcers; but ragged and
shivering we are flung away into dark corners, or in tears take our
place with holy Job upon his dunghill, or--too horrible to relate--are
buried in the depths of the common sewers. The cushion is withdrawn
that should support our evangelical sides, which ought to have the
first claim upon the incomes of the clergy, and the common necessaries
of life thus be for ever provided for us, who are entrusted to their
charge.
Again, we complain of another sort of injury which is too often
unjustly inflicted upon our persons. We are sold for bondmen and
bondwomen, and lie as hostages in taverns with no one to redeem us. We
fall a prey to the cruel shambles, where we see sheep and cattle
slaughtered not without pious tears, and where we die a thousand times
from such terrors as might frighten even the brave. We are handed over
to Jews, Saracens, heretics and infidels, whose poison we always dread
above everything, and by whom it is well known that some of our parents
have been infected with pestiferous venom. In sooth, we who should be
treated as masters in the sciences, and bear rule over the mechanics
who should be subject to us, are instead handed over to the government
of subordinates, as though some supremely noble monarch should be
trodden under foot by rustic heels. Any seamster or cobbler or tailor
or artificer of any trade keeps us shut up in prison for the luxurious
and wanton pleasures of the clergy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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