Subtrahend


Thursday, April 24, 2003

    · Everyone seems to go from one hopeless day to the next. Each day at 5:00 they say, "Phew! That's the day finished. Now to tackle the evening, get through that somehow. Then get some sleeping in, then get started on the next day." The only remotely high point of anyone's life is the last half hour of work.


     — posted by P | at 3:30 PM | |

Friday, April 11, 2003

    Here's the Spectator, being shocked and awed:
    The US Agency for International Development has shown a remarkable lack of gratitude to the British in announcing that the main contracts for the reconstruction of Iraq will go to American companies, but that foreign companies 'might be considered' when it comes to subcontracting work. This is the America of steel tariffs and import quotas speaking, and it is an America guaranteed to win few friends abroad.
    Silly British! Trix are for kids.


     — posted by P | at 12:00 PM | |

    · My Bad Leftie Friend says: "Yeah, well David Frum is an idiot and a traitor. He should just concentrate on keeping the stupidity from coming out of his mouth. Hard task, of course."


     — posted by P | at 10:53 AM | |

    · My Bad Leftie Friend says: "Oh well, yeah, I can see that: America woke up after 9/11 with a fierce desire to help the Iraqi people out of their nightmare. That's the main thing going through everyone's head: Gosh, how to help the poor suffering Iraqis? Because, forget that oil they may have (oil? they have some oil?), we're mainly concerned about their well-being. We want the Iraqis to be happy and free, and that is the chief (if not only) reason we are fighting. We are unhappy to see our Iraqi friends, or indeed any Arabs, suffering under a dictatorship. We have come to save them."

    I must argue with him about this.


     — posted by P | at 7:56 AM | |

Thursday, April 10, 2003

Wednesday, April 09, 2003

    · I don't mean to seem dismissive of some struggling writer's efforts, but a few lines from Mr John Moss' Being Fiction really annoyed me.

    One of his stories is entitled "Kafkaesque". It goes something like this:

    The names of some writers exceed in importance the achievement of their work. In my present state of distraction I find a search for examples unyielding. I can think of only one. Kafka. There must be others but Kafka is so appropriate to the moment the others seem unimportant enough to let the generalization collapse. I have no fondness for Kafka's writing, no sympathies, epiphanies or relevelations come to mind as I recall his texts.

    Then he proceeds to tell a pretty weak story of his own for a few pages. It contains the phrase "moving back to Toronto", which practically guarantees the story will be a terrible bore.

    First of all, just notice the sheer bad writing in this little paragraph, which is, after all, the beginning of a story about writing. (If the writer were going to talk about motels or Swiss watches, that would be one thing. But if he's going to dish out criticisms of Franz Kafka — or Mister Franz Kafka, as I knew him — then you'd think he would have tightened this initial paragraph up a little. "Exceed in importance" — doncher mean "are more important than"? Oh, and I don't mean to be picky, but by "achievement" we should probably understand "value". And what's this guff about "epiphanies?" I thought only James Joyce enthusiasts were allowed that word.)

    Maybe I've missed the point of this, but what sort of person starts a poorly-written, dull story by inviting comparison with the author of "A Hunger Artist"? A tactical error, surely.


     — posted by P | at 10:44 AM | |

    · Speaking of regime change, I happened to come across a book by Genadii Chemodanov entitled Nerchinskaia katorga, the memoirs of a prison convoy commander in Siberia. It was published in 1930 and describes events in the Tsarist prison system. One of the editors is listed as "N. Chuzhak", which I decided must be a pseudonym, since it means "outsider" or something. Sure enough, a little research revealed that the man's real name was Nikolai Fedorovich Nasimovich. He was the co-editor of V tsarskoi kazarme, a collection of historical accounts about soldiers and sailors in the 1905 revolution. More importantly, he was a literary theorist, and compiled (and contributed to) a collection called Literatura fakta, which calls for some new revolutionary way of thinking about literature. When I saw that he died in 1937 a few alarm bells went off. Did he suffer the fate of so many other proponents of the new regime? I can't seem to find out much more about him.


     — posted by P | at 9:56 AM | |

    · No reports yet on the fate of Saddam's private fairground. It has to be seen to be believed: A satellite picture of "An amusement park for vacationing Iraqi leadership and their families. A Merry-go-round, Ferris Wheel and other amusement park rides are visible."

    Frankly, the idea of Iraqi leaders and their families going on vacation is strangely untoward, though I don't know why it should be. Hussein, like Hitler, is reported to have enjoyed watching movies. Well, who doesn't? I suppose. Some particular favourites: The Day of the Jackal and The Godfather, according to Mark Bowden in The Atlantic.

    I imagine at the fairground the menfolk would spend some time chortling into their moustaches and looking around for whom they might devour, but at some point they would have to indulge the kiddies and go on the Ferris Wheel.

    Given what has been written about the fortunes of Saddam Hussein's inner circle, these vacations were probably a bit tense at times. Good times, but—


     — posted by P | at 7:17 AM | |

Tuesday, April 08, 2003

    · Obsession for Slogans: Run the Government like a Business and Run Business like the Government!

    · Here are some thoughtful considerations about the scientific couth of studying the possibilities of antigravity at aeronautics.ru:

    Respectable research institutions look at this problem and weigh the unlikely possibility of a positive outcome (however significant its consequences may be) against a guaranteed avalanche of criticism and outright condemnation from the scientific community.
    If they had any faith in it they wouldn't be weighing anything.


     — posted by P | at 11:37 AM | |

    ·No doubt someone will explain to me why I am wrong, but I think it strange that the more ambiguous a question is, the fiercer people polemicize about it. Think of any issues automatically deemed by the press to be controversial: don't they invariably allow legitimate arguments both ways? Isn't that what keeps people arguing? And in that case, isn't it inappropriate for people to get that vicious about it? After all, since people who are not demonstrably insane can keep arguing, it's safe to assume they have some point, so there's no call for spitting and swearing.

    At first I thought the problem might be the mere complexity of the issues: there are so many threads to untangle, so much background you would have to master, etc. Mathematics, however, is such a field. It's complex, and there's a lot you need to know before you even start. Yet mathematicians don't scream at each other. You either prove your theorem or you don't. And people don't just dismiss it angrily as so much eyewash, they spend weeks or months checking the work for flaws.

    So I propose that if a thing inspires lots of angry rhetoric, then the thing itself is uncertain and nebulous.


     — posted by P | at 10:10 AM | |

Saturday, April 05, 2003

    · A curious story about Fritz Kolbe, the legendary cog in the machine who tries to undermine the machine, in the Boston Globe. It's a fascinating and yet very sad story, and the reason people are thinking about it is that, of course, the west needs to take a look at who we're dealing with and why, and what will happen to potential intelligence resources. In Iraq I see brouhaha in the making.


     — posted by P | at 9:23 AM | |

Thursday, April 03, 2003

    · Erik Satie's house was very untidy. He didn't entertain much, at least not in the conventional sense of inviting people over. The most he would do was perform one of his miniature pieces for the piano, preferably at someone else's house, which caused everyone to look serious for a moment or laugh ironically, depending on who they were at the time. In his own home M. Satie had a sort of routine: Wake up. Eat something. Go out. Come back. Drink some more cognac. Wake up. Drink some more cognac. Wake up. Et cetera. In between times he managed to write a fair number of compositions. Not a staggering volume of things. A modest output. He was busy, much of the time, mulling over things and observing his friends. As for the house, there really isn't time to tidy up - books and magazines get stacked here and there, papers and things lie down in heaps. One accumulates things, and things accumulate dust. There are all sorts of things, all over the place, and one is too busy thinking about people and things to clean up.

    People said: "There you are again, observing, never taking part. Why is that?"

    Erik Satie said: "Well, I get a bit tired of Erik Satie sometimes."


     — posted by P | at 9:40 AM | |

    · Even as I speak there are developments. Talking Points Memo has just mentioned that dead Iraqis have been found outside Baghdad wearing chem-gear, as reported by CNN's Walter Rodgers. From this he speculates that the Iraqis are considering using chemical weapons of some kind:

    The question that arises is basically a political one for the Iraqis. Once they use chemicals, if they do, they will not only lose a lot of ground in the propaganda war in the Arab world and even more in Europe, they will also confirm a lot of the rationale for American action. So, for them, it must be a difficult calculation. If they have hopes of dragging this out in a guerrilla war or some urban fighting then you'd expect they wouldn't do it -- it would be counterproductive, since they believe they have some hope of eventually wearing America down and turning world opinion further against us. On the other hand, if they think they're on the verge of complete collapse -- which looks like a distinct possibility -- then they may be in 'go down in blaze of glory' mode.
    Maybe. But it's much simpler to assume that they are doing what the Coalition forces are doing—donning gasmasks whenever shells hit. They may be expecting some kind of non-lethal gas, for example, such as the Russians used on the Chechen terrorists in Moscow. Just an ideoid.


     — posted by P | at 9:04 AM | |

    · I'll bet the next two or three days will be very important in the Iraq war. According to Flit: " ... with the Adnan [Guard Mechanized Division] showing up, all Iraq's remaining offensive combat power is basically inside or just outside Baghdad now." Should I put an exclamation mark in square brackets behind that? I just don't know.


     — posted by P | at 8:51 AM | |

    · Every so often you read something new and—well, good.

    On the far side of the Rockies the land flattened out and lost the excessively lived-in appearance that begins to make Colorado look like the East. I realized that I hadn't crossed the deserts since I had hitchhiked them in the Sixties. Much had changed since then, and more since I had first seen the big empty lands while crossing the continent at age six with my parents. The deserts were still appallingly large despite the intrusion of the Interstates. Towns, though, were giving way to the homogenization and franchised conformity that cause any part of America to look like any other. The West remains magnificent territory.

    That's from Mr Fred ("Fred on Everything") Reed's piece on his recent trip to the Grand Canyon in the U.S. Everything he writes is worth a look. It's not only, or principally, opinion-airing, but some thoughtful writing.


     — posted by P | at 8:16 AM | |

    · I notice Mr Raed (of Where is Raed?) hasn't broken web silence since March 24th.

    He is presumably in Baghdad and used to post regular reports on events there. Many people have links to him. Now he has stopped. Probably nobody can get to the internet under the circumstances, but it would be nice to know if he is all right.


     — posted by P | at 5:25 AM | |

Wednesday, April 02, 2003

    · I would like to have that job of coming up with suitable names for programmes, projects and operations. I'm sure lots of people in various departmenst sit around thinking up lists of names, but someone has to peruse them and cross off those that are no good and then forward the best picks to the relevant instances.

    I think I could do it.

    • Operation Endearing Freedom
    • Operation Busy Road Map for Peace
    • Operation We'll Kick Your Ass
    • Operation Guns 'n' Latrines

    And I could think of more.

    An interesting place called Wibsite features this strangely dull yet compelling weblog. Here's a sample:

    The internet has quite a lot on it       February 7
    I looked at the internet for a while. There seem to be a lot of pages one can look at these days. I carried on looking at the internet for a while longer, but there were still plenty more pages to be looked at another time.


     — posted by P | at 12:23 PM | |

    · I had to go to a meeting the other day, and apparently someone who was looking for me was baffled to not find me at my desk at that time. She broached the difficulty a bit later:

    "H'mmm, how can I find out— if you're at a meeting?"

    It is a problem, since her office is at dizzying heights above mine, way up on the fourth floor. It's just not efficient for people to ride elevators back and forth hoping to find each other. I was stumped.

    Suddenly it came to me. "Wait!" I said, "I think I've got it! What if you were to use the telephone?"

    "You mean—"

    "Yes, I think it would work. It just might work. You phone from your office, up there, down to mine. You see? That way ... "

    "Right, right," she said. "I think I do. And I would ask if you're at a meeting or not? Or ..."

    "Exactly. And it should be possible to find out. Either way."

    Working in an office is a bit like doing math. It exercises the brain.


     — posted by P | at 9:42 AM | |

    · There was a period when the music of Charles Alkan was hardly ever played, roughly from the time of his death, in 1888, until about ten minutes ago. He wrote orchestral works for piano (thus removing the need for reduction). He met and was fond of Chopin, who was about three years his senior, but in later life he became secluded. It is said that he died trying to reach a volume of the Talmud on an upper shelf of his bookcase, which then fell over and crushed him.


     — posted by P | at 8:31 AM | |

    · At Conservative Commentary you can see a British war memorial in France defaced by the locals, with comments such as "Rosbeefs go home" and "mort aux Yankees"; also a swastika. They didn't sign their work, though. Nothing but well-reasoned arguments from the anti-war crowd.

    Another thing about the antis: they always turn up at their demonstrations beating on drums and wearing ridiculous woolen hats with bobbles. Then they start picking fights with the police, who are there chiefly to stop people fighting each other.


     — posted by P | at 12:51 AM | |

Tuesday, April 01, 2003

    · According to the Grauniad for Monday, March 31, "Three British soldiers in Iraq have been ordered home after objecting to the conduct of the war. It is understood they have been sent home for protesting that the war is killing innocent civilians." The Guardian is not the most impressive of papers, but if this is not a mistake or an out-and-out lie, it's unprecedented. Is it possible that the men got into some other kind of trouble, and this is their excuse? I doubt that.


     — posted by P | at 10:06 PM | |

    · What I don't like is when people come to my desk with some message or remit or something, and they stand there with a fistful of mail or notes or some other papers, looking through it as they speak, and then putting the stuff they want to discard into my wastebasket! I sometimes feel like taking it out and saying, "Hey, don't forget your junk."


     — posted by P | at 12:25 PM | |

    · There has been a serious friendly fire incident on Friday reported at the BBC's site and discussed at Samizdata (amid claims the incident has escaped the notice of US media): A US A-10 destroyed two British Scimitars 40 km. north of Basra in broad daylight. The thing is, incidents such as this, how they are handled, and a few other things make you wonder how competent the US can be in designing elaborate war plans, and drawing up a whole new map of the Middle East. "Fog of war" is good. Just how extensive is this fog?


     — posted by P | at 7:15 AM | |

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The Subbasement


Bibliography


  Old Books
... without the dust

 

 


· Ors, Eugenio d', 1882-1954. Oceanografia del tedio; Historias de las esparragueras. Madrid: Calpe, 1921.

Eugenio d'Ors was born in Barcelona in 1881, studied law and philosophy, became an art critic and essayist, and gradually developed his own peculiar ideas, exemplified in this delightful, short work, which he wrote in Spanish (rather than Catalan) around 1919. The Spanish Civil War caught him in Paris, where he remained for the duration. Though not an activist, he would have been unwelcome at home because of his Catalan sympathies.

The author, or a character referred to throughout as "Autor", opens his story by explaining that his doctor had instructed him, for the sake of his health, to do absolutely nothing. He's not even alowed to think about anything. "Ni un movimiento, ni un pensamiento!", the doctor says. He therefore spends all his time in a lawn chair looking at clouds, wondering about scents that waft past, in short, doing nothing. And yet everything, in a way. It's a wonderful story about inaction, just the sort of thing for someone who spends a lot of time looking at weblogs.

· Tabori, Paul. The Natural Science of Stupidity. Philadelphia: Chilton Co., 1959.

The author, who was born in 1908, discusses stupidity. He explains how the Yap people of the Pilau Islands use stone disks, some of them the size of millstones, as currency. The largest stones are more like real estate: you could buy one, and your wealth would be ensured. Then he goes on about King Solomon's mines, which he connects with this passage in Kings I, 9.

He has a lot to say about popular beliefs, crazes, and things. It's a shame he wrote long before conspiracy theories really came into their own.


   
  

  Georges Duhamel
Select Bibliography

 

 


Duhamel, Georges, Le desert de Bièvres. Paris: Mercure de France, 1930.

—, Biographie de mes fantômes, 1901-1906. Paris: P. Hartmann, 1944.

—, Chroniques des Pasquier. Paris: Mercure de France, 1933-

—, Essai sur le roman. Paris: M. Lesage, 1925.

—, Fables de mon jardin, suivi de Mon royaume. Paris: Mercure de France, 1961.

—, Israël, clef de l'Orient. Paris: Mercure de France, 1957.

—, Les plaisirs et les jeux, mémoires du cuib et du tioup. Paris: Mercure de France, 1946.

—, Récits des temps de guerre. Paris: Mercure de France, 1949.

—, Souvenirs de la vie du paradis. Paris: Mercure de France, 1906.


   
  

Annals of Public Neurosis


  Peace Tricks
April 2002

 

 


"The month-long standoff at Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat's Ramallah compound looked to be nearing its conclusion as U.S. and British security experts arrived in the region to implement a U.S.-brokered plan."
—CNN, April 29, 2002.

The current talks between the U.S. and everyone else seem to be even more impenetrable than usual, probably because it's difficult to imagine what they might possibly have to talk about. Surely they have exhausted every topic, scoured every useless path many times over, checked and re-checked even the most unpromising approaches? In which case these talks most closely resemble a kind of obsessive-compulsive behaviour, enacted in the curious privacy of public life. We've no idea what they're saying, or what they really want, but we get daily, even hourly reports of this activity of theirs. We don't get the details, or even the gist, of what was discussed, but we are assured that some talking is going on, and that there will be more talking later.

Patients who show signs of obsessive-compulsive behaviour typically find themselves incapable of getting important things done—or even of confronting their most pressing problems. They therefore busy themselves with something they can do effectively, often to the exclusion of all else. Tidying up the bus shelter, making absolutely sure they take x number of steps before opening the front door, and so on. Obviously, the significance of the activities performed can vary: some things are a fairly useful by-product of otherwise misdirected energies; others are of rather doubtful value, at least to the secular world. So it is with political discussions and "U.S.-brokered" peace plans. Some do produce unusual fruit, though not always the expected one, while others have a more magical quality, as if the participants were involved in some sort of Hermetic, alchemical work designed to bring about peace by causing it to be acted out in a symbolic drama.


   
  

Almost a Complete Thought


 

 

 


· Watching a movie. Wait! Is the guy screwing up my correct view of things? Or was my view untenable to begin with? Certainly he can point to his successful career as proof of some rectitude. But maybe he's so clever, so cunning, that he succeeds in the teeth of madness. A prosaic blend of fantasy and reality!


· I was watching some crime show. The crime has already been committed. Snazzy men and women arrive at the crime scene and take swabs, wear rubber gloves, pose in their outfits. Wait, is this a fashion show? Meanwhile ... let's look at this corpse really closely. Dear me. Ugh, can we stop looking at that for a bit? It's a pretty horrible crime. And so messy!

"Look, Lt. I've been examining some filth and discovered who the 'perp' is."

"Good. Let us now set our jaws grimly."


· I read somewhere that when you are watching TV, your brain is less active than when you are asleep. I find this bizarre, because I often dream that I'm watching TV.


· Most movies are much better with the sound off, so you can make up your own, more entertaining dialogue. Also, it starts to get intriguing. You end up wondering what's going to happen next, because all sorts of inexplicable things keep happening.


   
  

Stories


  A Story
Subtitle

 

 


It's too bad. If I could think of a story offhand, I would write it in this space; that's what you would be reading. Instead, there is only this inconsequential, self-regarding excuse for not being able to come up with anything.

Of course, I think the reader is doing very well so far. Remarkably well. I thing the reader comes out of this whole thing smelling like a rose. He has done his job. No, the reader is above reproach. His record is unblemished. Some readers even go that extra step and look for coded messages in the few paragraphs made available to them. That shows resourcefulness, valour — I think.


   
  

  Reveille
A Miniature Fascist Dictator

 

 


There was a miniature Fascist dictator in the departure lounge of the airport, Ted noticed. About four feet high, eighty pounds, sallow complexion, neatly trimmed black moustache, wearing a khaki uniform of some kind.

Was he planning a small Putsch? A Measure? What pint-sized dreams of conquest did he have? "Our National party is stronger - we are in no way diminished," he may have imagined himself saying. "Now, if I say to you that our Party's goal is nothing less than to revendicate that which we have lost, that which is historically our due; to reclaim our patrimony ..." Is that what was going on in his head? Was he on his way somewhere, or coming from somewhere? Going into exile, or returning from it? Escaping? Seeking?

Ted decided to follow him until he could come up with some further course of action. But the man wasn't really doing anything. Just wandering around with a container of coffee, keeping an eye on the brown satchel and shopping bags he had left on one of the naugahyde-and-aluminium benches. He paused in front of the windows that looked onto the airfield. His nostrils flared at the sight of massed passenger aircraft. Then he sauntered over to the other side of the lounge and studied some posters. Ted pretended to inspect a model lobster trap in a display case nearby.

They toured the lounge in stages and, even before the small man glanced back at him, Ted was already lost in thought beneath an departure-and-arrivals screen. "Am I supposed to do something?" he wondered. "Is there some history going on here, somewhere?" But how would one know?

Ted then discreetly followed him back to the coffee bar. Apparently he wanted another coffee. There were several customers before them, and in the time it took for them to be served, Ted was almost able to identify the small man's scent: LancĂ´me for Men? His choice of coffee, too, was unusual, a decaffeinated Ethiopian flavour. He went back to his original bench. Ted loitered just behind him, undecided. Unprepared. Shall I say something? What's he doing?

Looking at his ticket again.

Sipping his coffee, sucking a great deal of air between pursed lips just over the steaming surface of the coffee. Too hot.

Consulting the contents of his satchel once again, just to verify that he had everything he would need for his trip. Ted, peering over his shoulder, caught sight of a volume of Pablo Neruda, Jane Eyre, and a stuffed toy rabbit.

Putting his coffee down, digging with both hands in one of the shopping bags, the one that had some sort of environmentalist logo on it. Nous recyclons!

Recovering a pair of sunglasses. Putting them on! Expensive ones!

"Excuse me - okay if I sit down?"

"Eh? Oh, please. Yes, yes - you are quite welcome."

Ted sat down wearily. "I've been travelling all day, I hope you don't mind."

The other nodded rapidly. "It is very tiresome, all this travelling," he said. "I myself have been up since very early, making connecting flights. And still my day is not over."

Ted seized the thing roundly. "What sort of business are you in, if it's no harm to ask?"

"I am a consultant. Specialising in pharmaceutical trade." The little dictator removed his sunglasses and began to polish them on his handkerchief.

Well, at least he wasn't a jack-booted thug!

"I am not used to talking to fewer than five thousand people at a time", he continued, "for fear of being misunderstood. However, I shall make a beginning.

"It is horrifying to think of the consequences of chance. One man begins a great career as an officer in the European Theatre; another, no less gifted, has his head blown off as soon as he steps out of the landing craft. Why does that happen? Who is to blame? Who will account for it?"

Here the little man swigged his coffee. Ted noted that his hair, seemingly dark brown, was really an artificial boot-brown colour. Ted formed a reply: "Well, I suppose it would depend how you look - "

But the other man was not to be denied: "It is no accident that the corporate hegemony of a small group of - "

Ted sprang into action. More on that next week.


   
  

  Fun at Home
A Pious Memory

 

 


When Chris heard God had invited Himself to the party, he thought it was all over. There was probably no getting around it, though. "What they do on tv", said Bill, "is invite a Catholic priest, a Rabbi, and a minister as well. To sort of get their collective spin on it."

"But this isn't a tv show", said Chris, "it's a party. A little get-together for a bunch of friends, some of whom are leaving in a couple weeks. And anyway, that approach always comes off as a tired, unfunny joke, predictable, you know...I don't know why everyone acts as if tv meant something."

"Yeah. I had this dream I was watching tv last night. But then I realised dreams are kind of like tv, only not as good. We'd better go to the liquor store."

"Just let me get my coat."

God phoned around 8:00 to say He would be along soon. "Want me to bring anything?" he asked.

"Just yourself, man," said Chris. People always brought too much junk. There was always a surplus of snack-food bags and dip the next day.

"Okay", said God. "After all, I am That Am, you know."

People started turning up a little later:

"Sheila!" said Chris, greeting one of his guests, "So you managed to find the address."

"Yeah - sorry I'm late, but - "

"No problem. So, are you excited about your new job?"

"Yes, it's - "

"Dirk!" said Chris, greeting another guest, "Glad you could make it, are you excited about the new job?"

"Well - it's kind of not what I'm looking for, but it's in the right area. And I didn't want to have to move to - "

"And your girlfriend? Is she ...?"

"In Norway." And he began to look as if he would like to scowl, but instead turned to the consuming business of installing some cans of beer in the fridge. Other people skulked around the kitchen. A party had erupted.

A little later Chris noticed God levelling a tequila shot and saying, "I'm gonna have a wicked case of the guilts tomorrow."

God put cucumber slices over his eyes and said, "Look at Me. I am become weird."

Around 2:00 am God hooked up His guitar and started playing "Stairway to Heaven" really loud. Most of the people who had fallen asleep woke up and staggered back to the party. He played pretty well. Then He segued into "Born to be Wild", which He played rather better. The sheer noise was an audial colossus, making the dishes tremble even in the kitchen.

"Get Him out of here, the man's an animal," said Bill.

Chris looked at God from the door into the kitchen. "Oh, I don't know. I don't think he's going to do anything too serious."

"No, I mean the noise. The neighbours'll be like - "

"Any problem?" asked God. He was coming to get some more wine. Since He was no longer playing the guitar there didn't seem to by any need to admonish Him.

A little later something happened. But was that before or after the police dropped by? And later still, God was found lying in the driveway. They carried Him into a bedroom.

Is He ok?

Did He hurt himself?

In the morning they opened the bedroom door to find He had gone.

"Now what do we do?" asked Chris.


   
  

  At the —
History of Painting

 

 


I am confronted with a roomful of wild canvases, one every three feet or so. I should like to be able to make something of them, of each one, I am eager to look and see. I so want this to be a happy occasion, matching the success of my haircut, clean shirt, and the perfectly-lit, high- ceilinged gallery in which I find myself. The first work is a smear of toothpaste on a background of tar. Okay, I'll come back to it. The next one is a painting of a doll with severe injuries. I would rather not look at that for too long. Next: a smear of something on an untreated canvas. This is interesting. What is that stuff? Has it been melted on? Next: a big smear on a big canvas. It is faintly s-shaped, like a meandering river of industrial waste through an indifferent wilderness. I suspect that polysaccharides have contributed to the very exciting texture. But once again we are confronted with the work.

A man behind me starts explaining the historical phonology of Tibetan, making it all a bit clearer by citing some examples from Proto-Tibeto-Burman, and a few moments later I am smoking a cigarette outside somewhere.


   
  

  Fifty Toyes
A Story for Children

 

 


Before B. retired to his room for the rest of his life, people kept coming up to him and complaining, "I've run out of ideas. I don't know what to think about any more," and he would reply, "How can I help? Why would you think I could help? I haven't had a thought in years. I have stared into space, chatted with people I supposedly know, watched tv, read weekly news magazines. I've watched grown men play with each other as a form of entertainment. I haven't really had to think. Moreover, I am retiring now because of a general lack of benevolence. Also, I can't find my umbrella, which makes my going out a non-starter, kind of. I may set fire to a bundle of words and pour a can of emotions over them later, so - drop in whenever. I would enjoy the company. You know." All this to forestall the observation that he was, himself, lazy and indifferent, or was merely hiding from something. Of course he had books and a tv, so what harm could there be in not going anywhere? However, reasonable people can no longer hope to get very far by argumentation that appeals to reason, since they are probably arguing with unreasonable people, as statistics can be made to show. And as he thought this, it occurred to him: compiling statistics was one of the innumerable things he could do now, in the freedom of his room.


   
  

  Anne of Green Gables
A Part of Our Heritage

 

 


Anne of Green Gables. Anne of Green Gables. Anne of Green Gables. Do people never tire of that? Anne of Green Gables. Based on the novel Anne of Green Gables. I assume there was such a person, once: Anne of Green Gables. I sort of wondered about her after I had heard the name for, oh, the ten thousandth time. I read somewhere that "Anne of Green Gables is a trademark and a Canadian official mark of the Anne of Green Gables Licensing Authority Inc." So you see? If you were thinking of calling your novel Anne of Green Gables, don't. You understand why that would be wrong, don't you? People would accuse you of trying to "cash in", so to speak, and that would tend to cast a mercenary shadow over the spirit of Anne of Green Gables. The argument of the novel Anne of Green Gables is as follows: some people want to adopt a boy who can help out on the farm; they are disappointed when they get a girl instead. This girl is Anne Shirley, later to be known as Anne of Green Gables and, later still, as a trademark and a Canadian official mark of the Anne of Green Gables Licensing Authority Inc. She has red hair and freckles, she is irrepressible, and she proves to be just as good as any boy, in fact much, much better. This bodes well for the whole community. That's the whole plot. Probably quicker to identify it by its children's literature motif number.

The book could have been called Anne of Green Gables Makes Her Bones, but that makes for rather a long title. It could have been more interesting, though: Anne would be the village drunk, stealing other women's menfolk, dealing drugs, and coming home in the morning to threaten her foster parents with the .22 and demand money. Eventually she gets an important job in the government through some people she used to party with. But this is not what happens in Anne of Green Gables. Nowhere do you hear of her being an alcoholic, or having her neglected children taken into charge, or her endless squabbles with social services, or her many appearances in court accompanied by a different leering car thief each time. None of that appears in the novel Anne of Green Gables, or in any of the other canonical Anne books. Why is that?


   
  
· Here you'll find rather more irrelevant mini essays, roughly categorized somehow. I wish I could be more clear.

· Bibliographical Notes
— Old Books
— Duhamel Bibliography
· Annals of Public Neurosis
— Peace Tricks
· Almost a Complete Thought
· Stories
— Reveille
— Fun at Home
— A Story
— At the —
— A Story for Children
— Anne of Green Gables
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