Video Meliora, proboque; Deteriora sequor

Fictional Friday

Often a quick glance at the printed characters induced a small fever. A momentary flash and he was off to work, the quick kiss that would leave him unsatisfied, like R. Montague beneath the balcony, but which also gave him hope and something oddly material. He could put the words in his pocket, figuratively speaking, and pull them out anytime, morning, noon, or night. When the taste of gall reached his lips it could be replaced with the taste of the morning wine. He was suspicious though, suspicious that he liked the wine for what it did for him rather than for the wine itself. But how could he separate the one from the other? How could he say "I like the wine because it is good, not because it makes me feel good," as if goodness could be anything other than itself? Yet he wanted to like the wine for its own sake and not because of the feelings it produced.

He grew attached to the book, the one that contained the sweet words, holding it reverently when he read it and trying to preserve its pristine condition, careful as he placed it in his jeans's back pocket, worried for its corners. He understood it as a lifeline, a totem that made him glow when it was on him. He could feel it burn in his back pocket and he felt about it in the way a person who can scarcely breathe appreciates a respirator. Scripture was the antidote to his own ridiculousness.



His years were divided into those in which he lopsidedly emphasized the Liturgy of the Word and those in which he lopsidely emphasized the Liturgy of the Eucharist. When he was young, he bore impatiently the readings that were obvious prologue for he was interested in miracles and not instruction and adults always had a way of burying the lede. He was used to having things happen without effort on his part, the way food magically appeared every night on the dinner table.

Years later he grew up and got a job and came to the conclusion that nothing got done unless he did it himself. He gorged on Scripture but saw Communion as an adjunct, far too magical for a budding rationalist. He was an American, which is to say practical, and believed that you pull yourself up by your bootstraps and there didn't seem to be much practically gained by ingesting what looked and tasted like bread and wine.

But he was grateful, when it suddenly happened, that the words pointed to the Word and the Word back to the words, and he consumed both as the Maker intended. He felt like Someone understood him, understood him better than he did himself, understood that he was body and soul. And he thought how odd it was that the ancients who'd constructed the Mass as a reflecting pool seemed to know what they were doing. He wondered: What else were they right about?