Tale II: The Annoyed Muse
I must say, as it may bear in some small degree on my accounts of Tulipville, that my editor, Mr. Thornsnickle, William Thornsnickle, has been at pains to advise me to avoid digressions.
In this matter I think he need not overly concern himself, as I have eternally prided myself on the directness of my prose, I speak not of my poetry, favoring the solemn concise veracity of a Thucydides over the wandering half-truths of a Herodotus. For I am a man of simple truths and plain language.
Nor do I live in great dread of Mr. Thornsnickle’s red pen of doom, which he carries in his breast pocket over what passes for a heart in editors, a vestigial organ in such beings, from which so many pages of vibrant text have been sent, like Homer’s dead, howling into the underworld.
I do not fear his red pen, not out of a courage unusual for my occupation as a consolidator of histories, which generally produces in its practitioners the bravery of a rabbit, but rather because I am too well aware that, the staid nature of my prose and solemnity of my topics producing a limited readership and therefore revenue, he would scarcely deign to draw it forth, and to excrete that ink which, glowing vibrantly as it does in the colors of blood, I have no doubt was procured at considerable expense.
There is, however, if not the pen itself, yet the matter of the Thornsnicklean eyebrow. And here it must be said that the Thornsnickles, forming as they do a long line of editors, have always been noted for their eyebrows. We speak not here of a mere appendage to the eye socket. A Thornsnicklean eyebrow is a creature of its own, resident upon the forehead; and when raised, it is rather like a large black cat with its back arched, fur askew in all directions, and ready to pounce.
This raising of the Thornsnicklean eyebrow raises with it a natural fear in the scribelian classes, to which I belong, as with poultry when a weasel is about. And it is, therefore, the dread of such an event, if not of the red pen itself, that leads me to reassert what was not in any case necessary, as not being truly questionable, that my prose shall be, as it always is, direct and without embellishments.
And this discussion itself has been in no way a digression, but rather a necessary exposition of my professional, and it is unfailingly professional, application of quill to parchment.
Proceeding now to history, and, again in fellowship Thucydides, taking the events of today as the history of tomorrow, and therefore the just purview of a historian of serious intent such as myself, we come to the matter of Fabian Turner.
Fabian Turner is a young poet of Tulipville, addressing himself to the epic. He had reached such point in his artistic development as it became necessary to consult his muse. And this was particularly convenient in his case as his muse had taken a loft apartment over the hardware store on Elm Street, which, while across the river, was not but a few blocks from Fabian’s garret adjacent to the Library of Tulipville, of which I have spoken previously, and shall again.
Of Fabian’s muse it must be said that while her native divinity still clings as an aura to her, it is rather like a blue bathrobe of faded color and in need of repairs. Stella Grabel, as such is her name, formed an overly strong interest in daytime teledramas, which she watches incessantly while eating pie, generally apple pie, with vanilla ice cream. And she takes these interests rather more seriously than her official duties, as a goddess of literature, to guide the poetical members of humanity. Further, there is about her, it is unfortunate to say, a certain slovenliness that one does not wish to associate with immortal beings.
Thus it was that when Fabian climbed the stairs on the back side of the Elm Street Hardware Store to reach Stella’s apartment, the sign hanging from a nail beside the door, reading “Consulting Muse”, was listing somewhat to the right. Fabian thought to straighten it, but, considering that its slant might be metaphorical for the unevenness of life, left it as it was, giving too much credit in this case to the insights of divinity.
Knocking on the door, he heard Stella, with some annoyance, respond “Whaddaya want?”
Stella was not in a mood for visitors. For her teledrama was approaching the moment of true love conquering all, and furthermore her ice cream was starting to melt, and Stella particularly disliked soggy ice cream.
“I am your poet!” Fabian half-shouted.
“O, what a nuisance,” Stella said to herself. But official duties being what they are, she pronounced as warmly as she could manage, “Do come in, sweet seeker after beauty and truth.”
Fabian, on entering, as he had practiced assiduously, stood in what he took to be an oratorical stance, with one arm raised above his head, and began Homer’s invocation of his muse.
“Sing, goddess –“
Here Stella cut him off. “I don’t sing,” she snapped crossly.
And it is just as well that she did not, for Stella’s singing was such as to be unlikely to lead Fabian to a work breaking sales records, even by the pitiful standards of poetry; and might even open the publisher to claims of malpractice.
Fabian, his carefully-planned oration thus crumbled, was at loss for a continuation.
Impatient for her show and her ice cream, now starting to form small pools, Stella repeated “Whaddaya want?”
After some hesitancy, Fabian managed “Divine guidance.”
Rising, Stella said “Divine guidance? I’ll give you divine guidance!”
And here Stella was in motion to providing a guiding foot to the hindquarters of our budding literatus, when she remembered that she had already accumulated several demerits for behavior unbecoming a muse, and one more might cost her her ice cream privileges.
With her back turned, she knew from the music that the concluding kiss was approaching. She therefore moved to wrap things up quickly. “Go to the park, fall in love, and compose of it. Now get out!”
Granted this divine mandate, Fabian bowed humbly and made his exit.
There is always uncertainty in divine guidance; and one might here refer to the Oracle of Delphi, in particular in the matter of Croesus and the destruction of empires, but dare not so refer, eyebrows being what they are; and I mention the matter only to mention that I am not mentioning it, in strict conformance with my disapproval of digressions, as heretofore stated; and this mentioning that I am not mentioning it is entirely different from mentioning it; while, as said, there is always such uncertainty, Fabian took the divinely appointed park to be the nearest one, and the most magnificent in Tulipville, the Serenade River Park. This lies across the Serenade River from the Library of Tulipville, and extends along the length of a slow bend in its flow. It was there, as directed by his muse, as so he took it, that Fabian quested in search of love.
It must be said that Fabian’s understanding of love was more literary than practical. He was familiar with all of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but conversation failed him. He felt no shame in this, as his expertise was poetry, not prose; nor, for that matter, was it people, except as they were literary inspirations. But given his divine mandate, this shortcoming in his repertoire was troubling, and he thought within his heart, as Homer says, on how best to remedy it, with no firm conclusion arising.
And I might dwell further on the state of Fabian’s confusion, were it not for the editorial guidance known to the reader.
It may well come to the reader’s mind, in view of these considerations, the question of how it is that a position of such power, that of Chief Editor, conforming literary efforts to its will, as occupied by William Thornsnickle, is arrived at?
I think it worthwhile to elaborate, certainly not digress, on this matter as informing the reading public of that to which they are likely not aware, an inner working of the publishing profession, and thus better inform them of that on which their reading pleasure so depends.
To state the truth simply, the position of Chief Editor is generally achieved, and retained, by right of mortal combat. And here I shall provide a small illustration from my own recent experience as illustration; and request, as Shakespeare in the matter of Henry V, that the reader take from this small episode the vast scope of publication.
There is, or rather was, a rising young editor by the name of Nathan Longbow. And while negligible himself as an author, a not unknown characteristic of editors, he had acquired through his diligence a vast accumulation of snide remarks, to which he might (and did) append to the efforts of those who could write, and for which he took himself to be a notable editor, as did some in high management, who also could not write.
And fancying his blooming to be rather more than the bud that it was, our young Nathan Longbow thought it not imprudent, as it was, to challenge for Chief Editor. Perhaps he took inspiration in part from his martial name. Whatever the reasoning, if there were any, he arrived one day at the far end of the long aisle at the other end of which was the office of the reigning then, and now, Chief Editor, none other than William Thornsnickle.
All knowing from the background music the general course of events to transpire, there was a general ducking of personnel beneath their wooden fortresses. At such moments, one hopes one’s desk is of sound construction. And indeed, there are those who, future tranquility being founded in today’s care, had, with salutary foresight, purchased armor plating for their desks.
There is not, for the prudent, to be any peaking of noses above this zone of relative safety, if one values the portion of self thus exposed. I had, however, in view of such a likely eventuality, previously acquired a small periscope, with which, by cranking the expanding mechanism, I could observe proceedings in relative safety. It was with this that I saw William Thornsnickle to emerge from his office to face his young challenger.
I must state, however, that the periscopial mechanism for adjusting the field-of-view was poorly constructed, and limited to some extent my following of events; and on this topic, I penned a rather strongly-worded letter to the manufacturer; but not penned at the time of these events, as I was rather preoccupied; but, nonetheless, I was able to generally follow the motion of the two contestants to the middle of the aisle, not far from my desk; until they stopped at a separation well-suited to their dread activity; and then it was, in the sudden silence of the music, that we heard young Nathan Longbow intone, “Old man, you’ve met your last deadline”; to which Mr. Thornsnickle replied, and the calm on his face was terrible to see, “Young man, you don’t know ‘who’ from ‘whom’”; and this charge is frankly true of some editors; although I cannot speak to Nathan in particular; and I don’t know which of them drew his editorial pen first, such was the flashing of hands to breast pockets; but I know that it was William Thornsnickle’s ink that struck, the red ink, reflected bloodlike by the flickering flames of the aisle torches; its path tracing a parabola, as described by Galileo; but on this topic I shall say no more, as I confess that it might well be considered a digression; although I could not follow the parabola precisely, the ground rest of the periscope also being at fault; which fact appended the missive to the manufacturer mentioned some semi-colons ago; precisely how many, I am not presently at leisure to count; and then it was that Mr. Thornsnickle’s pen slashed the crossing lines on the breast of Nathan Longbow; those lines by which so great quantities of literary endeavor, sometimes deservedly, but often not, have met their end; and what is an editor, but a literary creation?; and so it was the work of but a moment for poor Nathan to be reduced to a small pile of ungrammatical phrases; not even sufficient from which to construct his obituary; Mr. Longbow being a man of fewer letters than some may have supposed; although, the publication time approaching, and Nathan’s imminent, and eminent, arrival known to him, Mr. Thornsnickle had in any case directed that Nathan’s obituary be composed in advance; a self-confidence in which it has been known for deities to take offense, altering fortunes of the day; but this was mitigated, perhaps, in some degree, by the somewhat lower confidence of his staff, who had, as a precaution, also prepared an obituary for Mr. Thornsnickle, with again a view to publishing to a concise schedule; an occurrence to which Mr. Thornsnickle, when he later accidentally and unfortunately became aware of it, took some umbrage; but he might not have, as it may well, deities being what they are, have preserved his life.
I hope this small event in the proceedings of my profession may have provided some enlightenment, as well as edification, to the reader. For as Melville states, "For God's sake, be economical with your lamps and candles! not a gallon you burn, but at least one drop of man's blood was spilled for it." Referring here to the procurement of cetacean ooze. So too it is, dear reader, that the books you are pleased to read, were not produced without some carnage.
But I now return from this elaboration, for the benefit of the reading public, which was in no way a digression, to the matter more directly at hand.
In bringing to mind the wealth of his literary and mythological knowledge, Fabian lighted upon the myth of Narcissus, who fell in love with his own watery reflection. And it was perhaps Fabian’s legal training, which his parents wish he would pursue with more diligence than his poetry, a view widely shared outside his family as well, that brought him to consider the precise wording of his divine mandate. For while it was stated that he must fall in love in the park, it was not stated that he must fall in love with someone else.
And here Fabian reasoned from analogy, that as painters produce self-portraits to save on time and modeling costs, so too is it appropriate for poets to fall in love with themselves for these same benefits, and also to avoid the unfortunate necessity of conversation.
Taking therefore the myth of Narcissus as his theme, he required a reflective water surface, which was close at hand in the basin of the large fountain near the river. Leaning over the rim to better admire himself, he did indeed find the reflection rather comely, and gave it a heartfelt kiss, as he continued to do at intervals over time.
But his muse had required of him not only that he fall in love, as certainly he was proceeding to do, if he had not previously, but also that he compose of it. And here our literatus was initially ill at ease.
Again perhaps tracing to his legal training, but perhaps more to his lack of imagination, Fabian wished poetic precedent from which to work. And while the Narcistic principle is not lacking in the poetic community, far from it, poets had, to the best of Fabian’s knowledge, shown an odd unwillingness to compose on this topic.
As one can do worse than to start with Shakespeare, he recited in his best voice: “Shall I compare me to a summer’s day? I am more lovely and more literate.” But as he despised blank verse, and did not have the option, as Shakespeare did, of rhyming with ‘date’, he was at a loss to continue.
And while it was certainly true that in the repertoire of love poems he knew by heart, which was extensive, he could generally replace ‘you’ or ‘thou’ with ‘me’, he could not convince himself that this sufficiently met the directive of his muse. He was therefore forced to strike out on his own. And therein one is reminded of the chess annotation, to the effect: “Until here he had been making well-known moves. Now he makes a fatal mistake: he starts to think for himself.”
I will spare the reader the nature of his narcistic poetry. However, reciting in increasing volume as he warmed to the task, he did not spare his fellow citizens. And so it was that a growing crowd, curious of the spectacle of a poet bent over with his face against the waters of a fountain, reciting his love for himself, gathered on location.
It is said that there is so little mirth in the world that one who creates a little, at his own expense, should be viewed as a public benefactor. And in this sense, Fabian was benefactoring at a record clip, promising to enrich not only his own time, but that Tulipville for years to come.
This was a matter of which Fabian was entirely unaware. In part because, his head down and fully devoted to his task, a devotion of his soul, he had no knowledge that a crowd had gathered. Beyond that, his sense of humor being essentially nonexistence, comparable to his understanding of love, he could not have grasped the magnitude of mirthful wealth he was spewing forth.
Not amused, however, was Constable Oliver Powell, who prides himself on good order, and whose beat runs through the River Park.
“Young man,” Constable Powell intoned to the down-turned head, “your meter is strained, your rhyme is inexact, and your metaphors are in poor repair. To say nothing of your theme in general. I must view this as disorderly conduct.”
To which Mr. Turner, without lifting his head or changing position, or even losing place in his recitation, reached into his back pocket and pulled out his poetic license.
Which Constable Powell having examined, and found it to be unfortunately in good order, handed it back to the outstretched hand, which inserted it once more into the back pocket.
“Standards aren’t what they were,” Constable Powell muttered to himself, but loudly enough so that he was sure others would hear. He then proceeded on his beat, doing his best to stay out of earshot.
Now, by a possible conservation law of nature, as the volume of Fabian’s recitation increased, as it did, in equal measure the quality of his verses decreased. And while one might have hoped that with darkness Fabian’s reflection would disappear, breaking his self-enchantment, the fact was that the fountain was well-lit. And, as it had been perceived that he was following the myth of Narcissus, Tulipville being a town of literary achievement, it was generally known that his expression of self-infatuation could be expected to last indefinitely, or at least until death, and then likely followed by haunting. And so there was a growing sense that the town faced a poetic catastrophe.
As dusk approached, there was a concern that the birds, generally preferring their own melodies to those of Fabian, might be deprived on artistic grounds of their needful sleep. And so, as might well be expected, it was the President of the local Avian Society, none other than Helen Goldsmith herself, who most insistently demanded action.
The secular authorities rendered powerless by Fabian’s poetic license, only divine intervention could be hoped for. And so it was that Pete Elmer, the proprietor of the local hardware store and the landlord of Stella Grabel, led a small supplicatory assemblage to consult Fabian’s muse. Pete’s handlebar mustache seemed rather like the bow of a barge, clearing their way.
At the entrance to Stella’s apartment, Pete, of a more practical than philosophical nature, straightened the “Consulting Muse” sign before knocking and announcing himself.
Stella, current with her rents and desiring good relations with her landlord, opened the door, despite it being past business hours.
"You aren't writing a novel, are you?" Stella asked suspiciously.
The nature of the matter was briefly explained to Stella, who had been unfamiliar with developments, her attention being focused, as generally, not to her divine responsibilities, but rather on her teledramas.
“O, for Pete’s sake,” said Stella.
In later conversation, none could determine with certainty in what sense Pete was involved in the matter, and left it as a thing not to be understood by mortals. But Pete holds ever since a belief in his divine importance, which may not be entirely justified.
Without bothering to close the door, Stella marched to the park, and the fountain, which was the site of the poetic disturbance. At such a pace that it was difficult for her mortal entourage to keep up.
Arriving at the literary crime, without missing a step, Stella applied to her unsuspecting scholar that divine guidance which was hitherto mentioned as withheld. Having done so, without awaiting further events, she turned on her heel and marched back to her apartment, where her pie was cooling down and her ice cream was melting, a matter of double annoyance.
In this matter Stella acted, as Aristotle might tell us, as First Mover, to Fabian’s Second Mover. Impelled by this divine impulse, Fabian partook of the nature of birds, observing from above, without tangible support. But there was little time for poetic contemplation of this state, before he partook of the nature of fish. And, not notable for his swimming skills, he flailed considerably, to the attention of the multitude attendant. Fortunately, the water was not so deep as to cause further wound than to his pride.
There is, it may be said, in the combination of a wet exterior and a sore behind, that which is likely to cure obsessions; and so it was with Fabian, allowing for the peaceful slumber of the birds.
From this instructive reportage we may better learn the value of avoiding self-infatuation, lest we receive such divine guidance as may be uncomfortable.
Thus it is, dear readers, and I hope there is a plurality, that I, Arthur Eggelton, complete this account of events in Tulipville. And my name is Arthur Eggelton: it is not ‘Artie’, or ‘Archie’, or any derivative that may appear in red ink; nor is it ‘Egg’; nor yet is it ‘Egg’ with such adjectives as may appeal to editorial wit, a topic on which I shall in particular not digress.
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