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Parlement Journale, Digressioun: Bookmania!

Geoffrey heere. Many aventures haue me befallen sithen ich haue elected ben to speken at parlement for the sake of the realm, and eek ther ys much for me to tellen yow of, my goode rederes, but for nowe ich wolde speke of sum thyng yet more paisable and swete: buyinge hell of newe readyng material!

By seynt Jerome, gentil folk, ich nede no Philobiblon of Richard de Bury to instructe me of the grete power and vertu and joie that is to be found in bokes. As messire John of Gaunt loueth women, so ich loue bokes: without limit or discriminacioun, ich loue hem oolde and newe, short and longe, frensshe or latin or on englysshe tonge, of heigh sentence or of lowe japerye, from the smalest leef of parchemin to the gretest volume clad in blak or reed wyth commentarye and big honkinge metal claspes for fasteninge it shut.

Thogh the pees of Kent pleseth me much, yt is right hard to fynde goode bokes ther, so as ich make my stay in Londoun for Parlement, ich haue been going crazy about the purchasyng of bokes. Euery daye ich visit the scriveneres for to see the newe bokes and maken requestes for copyes. My shire doth paye me IV shillinges for ech daye ich am in parlement, and by cause of al the monkey business of this straunge parlement yt is lastinge longer than a voyage to Spayne. By cause ich lodge myself with my frende Langeland, ich spende but iii pens for a capon ech daye (and a somedeel greter amount for ale, wyn, and batidas), and thus a gret surplusage of cash moneye remaineth for the acquiringe of bokes.

Sikerly it taketh nat a wise philosopher to reken that the rederes of my blog peraventure wolde wisshe to knowe of the bokes ich haue picked up or planne to buye, so heere ich shal liste sum notable ensaumples of my haul of ink and wordes:

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Battlestar Ecclesiastica
by Johannes Wycliffe

In this boke of science ficcion, a man ycleped Wycliffe is the bishop of the gret chirche of Seynt Paules, the which is lyk vnto a mighty shippe and kan moue thurgh the voyde of the planetes. Al othir chirches on the earth haue ben destroyed by the deuil and his feendes, who haue taken on the visages of men and look exactlie lyk friares. Ther is a mighti ladye of feyth called Margery Starbaxter, who ys a loyal warryour for the chirche and sleyeth the friares. And eek ther ys a traytour named Belshazzar who doth see visions of a sexie friar yn his heed who telleth hym to betraye the goode folke of Seynt Paules. Sum oon nedeth to jump on this sucker and turne hit in to a series of television.

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The Harley Lyrics
by Anonymous

Oon of anonymouses bettir workes, thes poemes are ycopyed fresshe from a manuscript contaynyge many othir thinges. Thei are songes of loue both goostly and bodili, and oft speke of a knightes loue for his horse, the which he calleth hys ‘motourbyk,’ the which he “liveth to riden, and rideth to liven,” or othertimes thei speke of a knightes affecioun for his ‘chopper’ (his axe?) or his ‘hogge’ (why raiseth a knight pigges?) or his “mama” (gentil remembraunce of oones mothir ys fayre and chivalrous). Heere ys oon ensaumple of this straunge but plesaunte verse:

"Maketh motor for to runne
Shoopen vs to to heigh-waye
No aventure shal we shunne
In what-evir cometh ower waye

Yn the smok and lightening
Blastes of hevy metal
Wyth the wind goon racing-
The felinge is so goode

An hendy happe ichabbe hent,
From nature pure we aren sent
Vndyinge we kan make ascent
For borne we are to wexen woode

BOOOOOORNE TO WAXEN WOODE (refrain repeateth)"

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The Doctours: The C and I Moost Dangerous Scholastic Thinkers in Europe
by Archbishop Thomas Arundel

This boke pointeth out the dangerous doctrine of many of the doctors of theologie and maysters of the artes who teche yn the universitees and scoles. For many of hem, thys boke telleth me, teche nat simply the dogma of the chirche but also injecte heretical doctrine from auncient philosophres and thus pose a grete threte to ower future ecclesiastical administrators and preestes. The worste by far ys Thomas Aquinas, who hath argued from Aristoteles principle of the first entelechy that the forme of the soule containeth the sensitif and vegitatif soules, in contradiccioun of the gret tradiciouns of the chirche. Ich drede what shall come to pass yf thes techinges are allowed to poyson the mindes of goode cristen folke.

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Piers Plowman: The I-Text
by William Langelande

This boke confuseth me, by Seynt Charles Borromeo, so ich do copye the text from the back of the avertisement:

“Ye gentil folke haue rede the compact A-Text, haue thrillede to the cliff-hanger endinge of the B-Text, and haue enjoyed the occasional addiciouns and politicallie prudente modificaciouns of the C-Text; if ye haue got Piers-fevere lyk we do, ye haue probablie even hunted the bootleg market for the fabled Z-Text. NOW PREPARE YOWERSELVES TO EXPERIENCE THE EPIC TALE OF PIERS THE PLOWMAN YET AGAIN IN A RELATIVELY NEWE WAY. The I-Text of Piers Plowman ys available on the I-Bokes web-syte – ye kan download a passus for a mere XCIX pens and carrye the boke around on yower I-Pamphlet for esy readynge whil in parlement, while sayinge matins, or just when sloshinge around the feelde yn the bitre cold. Ech I-Text passus featureth even more intricate changes to the texte – who will establish the power of the king in the prologue of this versioun? How will the elaborate grammatical metaphor get even more complicatede? Don't miss Passus V: the I-Text version includeth an expanded apologia pro vita sua the which narrateth Willes earlier experiences as a clerke in a department store and hys misshaps in the datinge world of 1360s Londoun. HOW CAN YOU RESIST THIS AMAZING AND CONVENIENT WAY OF SEEING THIS ACTION-PACKED CLASSIC IN YET ANOTHER SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT FORM? Go to the I-Bokes web syte and download the Piers Plowman I-Text today. legal information: the ink vsid alloweth you to make but V copyes of the poeme in to yower owen household boke or pamphlet and doth nat permit excerpts or trademarked character names to be included in rebellious letteres. eny sign of tresoun shal be punisshed wyth death. only compatible wyth I-Bokes and I-Pamphlet, and euen in that situacioun sum tymes yt doth nat werke for sum reason

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The VII Habits of Heighly Effective Hangers-on
by Thomas Vsk, Serjeant-at-Armes for his Trespuissant Majestee Richard Kyng of Engelonde

Sithen ich haue just spoken of oon of my frendes bokes, yt semeth proper to maken mencioun of the othir. This litel volume is in no wise semblable to Vskes earlier Testament of Loue, but rather yt is a pamphlet of “helpe-thi-self,” that telleth how to survyve in Londoun factional politics. Vskes maner of late doth bringe me grete unease; mesemeth he hath grown too grete for hys britches. But yet to return to the matter of hys boke, he maketh seven poyntes of conseil, the which ich shall liste for yow heere:

"I. Be Proactif at Changing Alliaunces
II. Yet Begin Thy Werkes Wyth Thine Eternal Ende (RESPECT!) in Thy Minde
III. Paye Heed to First Thinges: Who Kan Yive Thee Bettir Livery?
IV. Think Winne/Winne: Thou Shalt Winne Honour, and Thyne Former Allies Shal Winne Exile
V. Seek First to Vndirstond the Factional Situation, & Aftir Make Thy Loyaltee Vndirstood to Thy Sovereign Lord Kyng Richard
VI. Synergize Boethius and Love Allegory and Sum Thyng About a Knot into a Literary Werke Proclaymynge Thy Trewe and Honorable Nature
VII. Drop Names of Famous Writers Whom Thou Knowst As Often As Possible (for as Geoffrey Chaucer the gret poete and my faste and loial freende hath seyde: “For may no man fordon the law of kynde”)"

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The Stoner Letters
Compiled from the collecioun of the Stoner Family

Ich am crazie about readynge of the histories of families and specially in hire owen wordes. This boke doth collect the writinges of many generaciouns of good gentry folke in the shire of Oxford, hire letters and hire bokes of accountes and charteres. Oon the straungest thinges of families ys the similaritee shared by parents and childer. For the Stoner family semeth consistentli to seke certayn items. To wit:

1290 Accounte of Household Expenses of Richard de Stoner:
“X poundes for potato crispes
III poundes II shillinges for poster wyth a wizard and sum skeletons that sheweth well and fayre vndir black-light
IV poundes X shillinges III pens for a balle for to pleyen hackey-sack
II shillinges paid to Harold Chillouttent esquire for restraininge of John Stoner who kynde of freaked out a litel”

1380 Edmund de Stoner to John Bounge, Grocer of Londoun
“Dude, please sende lyk a wagon full of potato crispes for the munchies soore possess me. And eek plese sende newe bulbes for the black light - ich kan scarce see the orange dragon that decorateth the basement. Of gretest importaunce, telle my servaunt to return right quick, for Elisabeth hath gone oon toke ovir the lyne and hath just now lokked hirself in the tower for feare that all folk aren set ayeinst her. My servaunt kan fynde me outside of the tower - probabli I wil be lyk playinge hackey-sacke or just chillaxinge.”

...trewely, kinship runneth deepe and strong in the Stoner blood!

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And eek, ich did discover a charminge boke by a man of grete wit who konneth much of lettrure, ywis he beth an arbiter elegantiarum for ower age: oon Lord Whimsy. He hath written a volume ycleped The Affected Provinciales Companioun. By the grace of Lady Fortune, ich did meet wyth Lord Whimsy yn Londoun, and he did answeren several questions of interviewe for me, the which ich shall pooste eftsoon, oones my tales of parlement are done.

O wey-la-wey! Spekynge of parlement, ich must soon go to meet wyth the communes, and thus ich must stop thys pooste. Thogh this be but a smal liste of bokes, peravanture yt yiveth yow a samplinge of the manye deliteful purchases ich haue in Londoun y-maad. And now, ich am off to grabbe yet oon more book bifor ich muste return to the stinkinge busynesse of debaat and politickinge. Peraventure ich shal see yf the new David Eggers beth as objectionable as hits premise maketh it to seme...

Sir John in Whitby

O, creuel fate! Whan laste I posted heere I was y-deep in love, as I pray yow gentils well remembre. Allas, I have y-lost myne hertes love, the faire Kayleigh! Whan I retourned to Londoun I despatched to her a token of myne affecioun--a dozen boxes of fisshe fingers and half of a stagges corpse. (Thankes to Katherine de Swineford for thisse advice!) Ymagine myne surprise whan I was y-told by myne messanger that she is already y-wedded! It seemeth that her housbond y-was in Margate for the nyght and that the fair Kayleigh y-was untrewe to hym and me! She did nat retourn the fisshe fingers or stagges corpse, neither. Woe, woe unto me! The search for a bride, it beginneth anew.

Thus have I yspent much of Novembre in love-longyng, but now I am agayn on the kinges priveee businesse, in York-shirre. I confess, before two dayes ago I had nat ventured north of Stoke (and then only to go to Alton Towers), but I lyke it heere. There y-been muchel good seafood, and the comouns of Whitby are ryght polite, albeit that they y-weare muchel blakke.

I am y-lodgyng at the abbey, the whych place ys verray draughty, but I kepe warme ynough. This business of the kynges is such that I schal likely be heere in York-shirre until the nexte yeere, but that ys all ryght: I may make some day-trippes. I have been y-told of a carpentere who ys a man in the forme of a mouse in a village nat too far awaye, and I must go and see that wondere with myne owne eyes! Whan I do I schal y-telle yow of yt.

Ugh. It beeth late in the nyght, and I must retire to bedde. Good nyght, lordes and ladyes all, and I schal telle yow all more of York-shirre soone.

Sir John in Folkestone

Benedicitee, goode readers alle! Sir John heere agayn, bidding yow sad greetinges from Folkestone.

Whan last I posted I was en route to Dungeness, there to ascertayn yf a breaded concocioun of cheese y-hadde uppon its selfe an ymage of our late kyng, Edward the Secounde. Sothliche, gentils, yt was nat so. Uppon closer inspecioun it semed me that this breaded snakke bore the ymage nat of Edward the Secounde but of Henry of Lancastre, the thirde earle of Lancastre, and thus it dyd nat merit inclusioun in our lorde the kynges compilacioun of the wonderes and miracles of hys greet-grandsire.

Also whilst in Dungeness I met a fair gentil yclept Derek who is deepe in studye of the lyf and werkes of Edward the Secounde, and he hath assured me that he ys labourynge to make a certayne thynge—a performaunce, methinketh—in honour of the memorie of that sayde kynge, the whych will honour his manliness and virtu. I schal be ryght glad to report thatte to oure kynge, and I was muchel plesed to maken acquayntaunce of thys foresayd gentilhomme.

But there I was, good readers alle, with yet another day before I had to be back in Londoun (I there am nat due until tomorrowes eve). So I thoughte backe to whan I hadde but xv winteres age, whan first I went fro St Albans to the see. I went to Folkestone, and there saw I the schore of Fraunce and passed thatte see, only now to retourn. So I thoughte it ryght gode sport to revisit Folkestone before retourning to London.

I arrived in Folkestone thys evening, and I toke lodging at an inne near the cite centre. But just as I was setting outte from thatte inne to fynde diner (I was y-seeking a Petit Chef; theyre food sitteth juste ryghte with thys traveler) I sawe a greet wonder, the whych I schal share wyth yow.

Yt was at nyghtfalle that I stepped fro myne inne, and I saw onne the hygh street a greet diversitee of lytel chyldren—or lytel feendes, I scholde saye! “What manere of children are these?” asked I to no-one in particuleer. Thanne a lytel chyld in the foule visage of a devil y-walked uppe to me.

“Trick ‘n treat,” sayde the lytel devil.

“Whatte?” sayde I. “I am a knyght, thought that I am unworthy, and I wolde nevere trick any gentil, nat even a devil. And whatte wolde yow have me trete?”

“I wan' candy!” shouted the lytel feendish imp. “Candy!” And than dyd the drasty lytel thynge begynne to pryck at myne legges wyth hys lytel deviles speere, the whych was more hurteful than I hadde thought possible.

But then, goode readers, a visioun of greet beautee y-stepped from the thronge, there to save me fro the unkynde proddynges of the devil. Oh, readers, she was radiant and ypassed all her kynde in lovelinesse. She wore a coroun of red gold atop her fayre, yelew hair, and uppon her shyrt were the wordes "Council Flat Princess". Ay, thought I, thys ys a princess indeed!

“Damien,” quod she, “stop it! Wot ‘ave I told you ‘bout poking people? We’ll go straight back ‘ome!”

“Nay, nay, goode madame,” quod I. “Youre lytle sonne, thought that he ys ful unwholesomely y-dressed, myght make a ryght gode and gentil knyght one daye. He hath, uh, spiryt.”

Then ynto conversacioun with this gode woman felle I, and I learned that Kayleigh (for thatte ys her name, and a ful beauteous one ate thatte, mayhap out of the Yrysshe langage) spendeth her tyme in meditacioun of thynges astrologickal. Wel it pleaseth me that wommen nowadayes are learnynge of the sciences and the artes. Ne never thought me that wommen ne coulde nat of those thynges. Dyd nat God create man and womman, the verray two, togedir t’erth to rewle? So semeth it me, any-way. She told me muchel about my signe, and sayde that fate us togethre threw!

So Kayleigh and I y-toke her lytle child, Damien, to a place yclept the Leisure Centre, whar he was to yspende the eve with other lytel ghouls and goblins. Thys ys a newe custome to me, thys All Hallowes Eve, when gentils neer and fare y-dress lyke unto straunge and churlish thynges. Thys pleaseth me also; next yeere I schal be a Cynocephalus.

Any-way, we went us two to a local publick house, and there Kayleigh hadde the “wyne speciale”, the whych thynge was many large glasses of white wyne, the whych were on speciale sale to those in costumes. We passed muchel of the eve in thys manere, drynkynge oure wine and conversynge.

“So, wot are you—really?” asked Kayleigh after we hadde had muchel of the rede and of the whyte.

“Ich am a knyghte of St Albans,” quod I.

“And I’m a princess, tee hee,” quod she.

“I knew yt!” quod I. “I knew of your grace and gentilesse! O, your merciless beautee! Would yow take on thys humble knight as your humble suitor, pryncess fair?”

“You can walk me back to my flat,” she saide.

O, readers! If only I knewe what tristesse was to yfalle! No sooner hadde we but exited the publick house than I knewe that thys fair maybe had ydronken of the wyne overmuch—she was dronke! And I was a bit buzzynge, I do admyt, but I am a kyght, and the holdynge of our wyne is part of kynghtly trayninge.

But verily, I did walk the fair Kayleigh to her flatte, the whych place I was able to locate by going through the ladyes hande-bag, which contained that informacioun. Finally we arrived there, Kayleigh stumblyng and belching. “Fayre Kayleigh,” quod I, “are yow aryght? I am muchel distourbed and trowbled, and heavey in herte. Kayleigh,” I sayde, “are yow aryght?”

Atte thys her stomack yrupted ful horribly all over myne doublet. The wyne yt was nat so speciale then.

I putte Kayleigh to bedde in her flatte, and than rushed I outsyde, there to divest me of myne doublet, thatte thynge to wasshe (leste yt stayne), but yn the doing I lette the door to the flatte blow shutte, with the fayre Kayleigh and here hand-bag and keyes ynside! O creuel fate! O creuel destinee! I have come back to myne inne to aske if anyone knows of this fair princesse, but no one knows, and all and sundry calleth me dronke. O! Tomorrow muste I retourn to London, at our kinges commaund! Kynge and parlement beckon! But whatte of the fayre Kayleigh? Gentils, gentils, whatte am I to do?

UPDATE: O, creuel, creuel fate. I have just done a Love Test and ylearned this:

LoveTest Question Analysis
*****************************************************************

Kayleigh Is Your Perfect Soulmate, Sir John!

To have the best possible relationship with your dream date,
you need a lot of quality time to communicate. Also make
sure that you ask the right questions right from the start
in order to avoid problems and misunderstandings later on.

How, O how can we communicate yf I am in London and away on the kynges privee businesse? O, she ys myne soules mate! Creuel, creuel, love!