So here I am, once again caught in the throes of dying artist, and Boethius seems here to speak to me and point out a direction; in short, be done with it and leap the cliff:
When she saw that the Muses of poetry were present by my couch giving words to my lamenting, she was stirred a while; her eyes flashed fiercely, and said she, ‘ Who has suffered these seducing mummers to approach this sick man? Never do they support those in sorrow by any healing remedies, but rather do ever foster the sorrow by poisonous sweets. These are they who stifle the fruit-bearing harvest of reason with the barren briars of the passions: they free not the minds of men from disease, but accustom them thereto. I would think it less grievous if your allurements drew away from me some uninitiated man, as happens in the vulgar herd. In such an one my labours would be naught harmed, but this man has been nourished in the lore of Eleatics and Academics; and to him have ye reached? Away with you, Sirens, seductive unto destruction! leave him to my Muses to be cared for and to be healed.’ (Consolation, Part I)
Is poetic writing then a threat to intellect and deeper meaning rather than the reverse as is believed? A danger to one who "has been nourished in the lore of Eleatics and Academics" and best left instead to those within "the vulgar herd"?
The narrator speaks of death, and how writing that once brought pleasure brings pain. Is that the time to seek out philosophy instead, the timeliness of importance in one’s life and the importance of timeliness?
Possibly not the best time to be reading this, but then, if time is short, it need be known.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology