The apprentice saint.

1) "Margery Brunham, or Burnham, was born about 1373 in Bishop's Lynn, as King's Lynn was then called, in Norfolk. When an old woman, she dictated the memoirs on which this book is based. Her autobiography is remarkable in many ways. It is the first to be written in English. Though she wished to depict herself as, above all, a saintly woman on familiar terms with God, many of the conversations with friends and enemies are recorded in a thoroughly down to earth spirit. These are real people speaking to a real woman. They say the kind of things anyone would in similar circumstances. They are bored by continual piety. In some cases, they laugh scornfully at religious excesses. In others, they become suspicious and denounce the writer to the authorities as a detestable heretic. Yet others were fully convinced of her sanctity, declaring that a place was reserved for her in heaven. There were also those who believed in spite of themselves: if in trouble, they desired her prayers; if not, they avoided her. They may not have used the very words reported, but one can't help feeling the sense is true enough."

2) "A young monk stepped forward, taking his tone from the other, and said: 'Eythyr thow hast the Holy Gost or ...a devyl wythin the, for that thu spekyst her to us, it is Holy Wrytte." Still not realizing the danger, Margery retorted: 'I pray you ser, geve me leve to tellyn yow a tale.' The monks seem to have hesitated to prolong the scene, for the crowd which had collected cried: 'Late hir sey what sche wyl.' This was the sort of invitation Margery never could resist. She addressed the audience in a parable of her own composition about a man who, as a penance for his sins, paid others to abuse him and was always very glad to meet disagreeable people, because it enabled him to get through a part of his punishment free of charge. In her own case, she thanked them for the disgraceful treatment she had received, since the more she suffered for the love of God, the sooner she'd go to heaven. This tactless oration can scarcely have conciliated the monks; and to the congregation it proved her a heretic. As she marched out of the church they followed, shouting: 'Thow shalt be brent fals lollare. Her is a cartful of thornys redy for the and a tonne to bren the wyth.'"

3) [Aboard ship] "After eating, one might doze for a time, being careful to secure one's money to one's person; it was unsafe to lay down even a pen on board ship, if one hoped to see it again. There were days when everyone seemed to be in a happy dream and an almost celestial harmony to descend on the decks. On other days, tempers were lost on the smallest provocation, knives snatched up and damage done. The crew did not intervene in really fierce fights. It was not wise to do so. Never make enemies at sea, advise experienced travellers, the memory of these fatal disputes before them as they write. Never occupy another man's place unless he has expressly allowed it, or you will be taken for a thief and dealt with accordingly. Make yourself agreeable even to slaves, for you can't tell when you may have need of help. The prudent man, who hopes to survive the perils of the sea, is always watchful, not sitting down anywhere without first testing for soft pitch, keeping away from ropes, above all, not fancying his skill as a sailor and offering to help during storms. On the other hand one should be manly and not spend one's days miserably taking every medicine recommended by the doctors and poking suspiciously at food in the fear of being poisoned. Moderation and tact are the supreme virtues in these circumstances. One wonders that Margery came through alive."

4) "After they had gone too far to put back into port, suddenly 'it began waxin gret tempestys and dyrke wedyr'. The bark wallowed alarmingly. The passengers thought they would surely sink. 'Than thei cryed to God', repeating the most efficacious prayers they knew. Luckily, it was only the tail end of the last week's storms and did not last long: 'anon the tempestys sesyd and thei had fayr wedyr' for the rest of the crossing. The next day, in the evening 'thei cam to londe' in East Anglia. Now a great feeling of relief and joy overcame her. How many times in the past year had it seemed likely that she would not reach home again? She might have died in the Alps with William Weaver; or in Venice where she was so ill and her maid refused to nurse her; or in the Holy Land of exhaustion and fever; or on the Italian roads from attack by bandits; or in Rome of starvation. All these dangers she had triumphantly passed, for her courage had never failed. She 'fel downe on hir knes kyssyng the grownde'."

5) "'And so (they) went hom togedyr to Lynne', Margery, we must presume, talking at a great rate of the wonders she had seen; of the fire of love and celestial music; of life on shipboard; of vendetta; of how she had always got the better of everyone in the end. She must have asked him [husband John Kempe] to give an account of himself, particularly in regard to his religious observances. His replies were, evidently, not sufficiently interesting to remain in her memory. We only know, from subsequent events, that he had still not been successful in business. As Margery had spent her inheritance, they were very poor. In spite of this, and the vow of celebacy, they remained on good terms. Once, they had been deeply and satisfyingly in love and the bond was never entirely broken."

6) "Perhaps her philosophy could even have embraced her book's curious posthumous adventures. Evidently quite popular, it was copied, it may be more than once. In the early sixteenth century short extracts were printed as a pamphlet. These, by their selection and owing to their being given out of context, lent a spurious air of wisdom and holiness to Margery's thought. All self-esteem, all excess, were removed by the editor with remarkable effect. These seemed to be the broodings of a holy anchoress. At some later date, the original manuscript, no longer read or consulted, disappeared. For hundreds of years it lay forgotten in one library or another. The holy anchoress, Margery Kempe, passed into oblivion until 1934, when she was suddenly discovered in a country house in Yorkshire. There was great excitement: a major writer of the fifteenth century had been found. There was equal disappointment: she was not a saint after all, nothing like one. But many saints have written books, whereas only one member of the medieval public has had the industry, self-confidence and will-power to describe for us the everyday life and vicissitudes of a mayor's extraordinary daughter. [...] Though shrewd enough in other matters and penetrating in her judgements, about her connection with the divine she remained obdurate. She knew how to be tactful. She was alert, intelligent and a woman of the world in many respects. But when the religious mood came on her, she lost all control and could not be persuaded by any number of dangerous misadventures that some, at least, of her critics might be justified. Her story thus descends from the heights on which she intended it to rest and becomes the tale of a woman we can understand and with whom we can sympathize across the gap of five hundred years."