I shall be honest with you, dearest diary. I detest my job, but it is of no service to complain about such menial, servile and base subsistence. As Richard Harris said in the opening scene of Man in the Wilderness, "Complaining never helped anybody." I surmise that the best thing to do is to simply keep buggering on, no matter the difficulties.
If I am honest, I am placing all my faith in my current translation project. It has the best potential. It is not as epic or anywhere near as poetic or elegant as my magnum opus, id est: Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni. It is a late work (a product of the 13th century, seemingly), but based on a much earlier original in ancient Greek. It is also highly technical and most certainly prosaic. Therefore it is an ideal work for the literary Dark Age - void of elegance, love or poetry, and filled with technical minutiae written in the most bland and dreary prose imaginable - formulaic, just like the hallmarks of the Dark Age. Informative, but without any kind of grace, no finesse, no style, perfect for Dark Age Britain.
I should have been more attentive to my duties lately. I have a book to edit. I should have met the luthier's mother and had Sunday lunch with them, in order to facilitate this little job I am to do for her. I should have done many things, translate, do more chores. Yet, an opportunity arose upon the spur of the moment, and I took it. My friend is... not exactly what one might call a learned man, but he is honest, and seems to have a heart. I confess, that like many of my friends, he is a rough diamond, with his own rigid set of principles and moral compass. It was as terrifying as it was delightful to spend time with him. (I actually detest playing computer games, with the sole exception of Rome, Medieval or Empire TW). Yet it was more company than anything else.
Tomorrow I must make good on a few things (the artwork for Boadicea, a hundred pounds worth of extremely rare books I have ordered - all in ancient Greek - and indeed pay some other dues which are necessary). I also have to buy a new pair of shoes, for mine are now worn through with many miles of walking (the heel of the shoe came apart today - surely a tell tale sign that I must invest in a new pair of brogues). I must also buy some smart trousers, and possibly a shirt or two. I should like to spend more money on books and shelves, but a limit of £100 on books and £200 on a commissioned artwork is quite sufficient for this month.
Would that I could translate poetry, mythology, or great religious texts from the classical canon (namely, the Biblia Sacra) or even the prophecies of Hildegard von Bingen. Yet this is the path of the pauper. For my sins, I see the most prudent course of action is to translate astrological texts, texts on neo-paganism (runic magic) and other such niches yet to be exploited. These are the Dark Ages, therefore poetry and Christianity have no place here. Philosophy, while laudable, is for slaves, beggars and paupers. Were I to dedicate my life to translating works of philosophy, or Walter Hilton or Thomas a Kempis or Hildegard von Bingen, or even Ovid, Virgil or Juvenal, I would wake up the next morning in bondage. Prosaic works of magic and prognostication are where it's at in the Dark Ages, not such silly things as magnificent poetry or having a moral compass.
Max.
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