Oolississ

Not only has Hooting Yard been in security lockdown for a week or so, but Mr Key has neglected to keep abreast of the goings-on in those corners of Het Internet to which his fuming brain is usually attuned. I am thus a few days late in drawing your attention to Brit’s excellent piece in The Dabbler on Joyce’s Ulysses.

No mention of that book can ever be allowed to pass without my chucking in the following addenda:

1. Here are extracts from two contemporary reviews of Ulysses, written when it was strange and new:

“An immense mass of clotted nonsense” — Teachers’ World

“The maddest, muddiest, most loathsome book issued in our own or any other time… inartistic, incoherent, unquotably nasty … a book that one would have thought could only emanate from a criminal lunatic asylum” — The Sphere

2. James Joyce always pronounced the title as Oo-liss-iss.

3. My late mother made a famous pronouncement on Joyce. Born in Belgium, she came to Britain in her early twenties after her marriage to my father. One of the ways she chose to improve her English was by reading through the canon – Jane Austen, the Brontës, George Eliot, Dickens, et cetera. She eventually decided to tackle Ulysses. Casting it aside after a few pages, she declared – after a guttural Flemish expostulation which defies accurate transcription, but sounds more or less like the correct pronunciation in Flemish of the final part of the name Vincent Van Gogh – “James Joyce – dat man is a fool!”

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Dabbling De Foe

Dabbler-3logo (1)Hooting Yard remains in what I like to think of, melodramatically, as a security lockdown, but my cupboard over at The Dabbler has not been neglected. Yesterday it contained some useful tips on dealing with your foes, if you have any. Meanwhile, I may be approaching the end of my unplanned yet necessary diversion away from the important business of tippy-tapping majestic prose, and should be back soon.

Homuncudabbling

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Over at the super soaraway Dabbler this week I provide readers with some tips on how to make a homunculus. These miniature persons can be very helpful, if a bit eerie. Hooting Yard certainly couldn’t cope unless we had a little band of homunculi scurrying about taking care of business and protecting us from harm.

homunculus

Job Application

With Osama Bin Laden dead, the position of figurehead for the global Al Qaeda franchise is vacant. I would like to put myself forward to fill this important role. It is true that I do not believe in Allah, have never handled a Kalashnikov, and, indeed, have in the past scribbled a blasphemous cartoon of the Prophet Mohammed (see here and below). No doubt these things will count against me in the initial round of interviews, which I understand will be taking place in some remote mountain fastness in the coming days. But I have every confidence that I will be able to win over the wild-eyed nutters and gun-toting beardy persons with my unique vision of the role. What Al Qaeda desperately needs, I will argue, is an injection of woolly Church of England-style cardigan-wearing niceness. Instead of all that chanting and suicide bombing and beheading, I see the waging of jihad as a matter of cups of tea and arrowroot biscuits and seed cake, with a spot of choral evensong and a sermon. And instead of all that shouty sermonising packed with threats against Jews and infidels, the sermons under my dispensation will be abstruse and windy, full of qualifying phrases and equivocation. This is the way forward, or backwards, or even sideways, for all these directions are of course equally valid in the eyes of Allah, who we should think of as a sort of benign uncle with an unruly beard and fantastic hairy eyebrows, not unlike the Archbishop of Canterbury.

prophetBlasphemous portrayal of the “Prophet” Mohammed

Cornelius Cardew On The Bus

On the bus : I have to write to distract me from the woman, the warm pressure of the femme de trente ans, her softest arm. Boulez – rescue – your programme note must curb my corpuscular eruptions.

Cornelius Cardew, aged twenty-two, in his journal, quoted in Cornelius Cardew : A Life Unfinished by John Tilbury (2008). I have just begun reading this book, which – at over a thousand pages – is clearly both a Herculean labour of love (thirty years in the writing) and mildly bonkers. In other words, the best kind of biography. Expect further reports as I wade through it.

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Git On A Bough

I am a grandee

I have a long beard

And I wear a big hat made of fur

I sit in a tree

And things become weird

When the cogs in my brain start to whirr

Birds fall from the sky

Lakes boil to steam

Hens and chickens come home to roost

Oh do not ask why

It is not a dream

But the tethers of sense are unloos’d

The tree is a pine

I perch on a bough

My grandeur will dazzle your sight

“O give us a sign!

And give it us now!”

You caterwaul with all your might

But I just sit

And gesticulate

And summon up thunder and storm

‘Cos I am a git

Deciding your fate

You’ll wish you had never been born

Farmers In The Coalition

According to J Edgar Hoover in his 1958 book Masters Of Deceit, “Farmers In The Coalition” is a “typical” title of the kind of Mimeographed pamphlet issued to Communist study groups in the United States during the 1950s. “Written in a simple style and slanted to the average reader”, these publications were used in the “slow and gradual” process of indoctrination that turned previously patriotic Americans into slavish devotees of a Godless ideology.

“Farmers In The Coalition” is also the title of a pamphlet issued by Old Farmer Frack last year, shortly after Cameron ‘n’ Clegg’s sun-splattered appearance in the Downing Street garden to announce the formation of the coalition government. Though it is Gestetnered rather than Mimeographed – a small yet important distinction – the mad old farmer’s tract is as doctrinaire and as sinister as any screed aimed at the malleable brains of American fellow-travellers half a century ago.

Written in an incoherent style and slanted to the deranged reader, the 2010 edition of “Farmers In The Coalition” ought more accurately be called “Cows In The Coalition”, for Old Farmer Frack presents the case for a number of his bellowing herd to be granted senior positions in the new regime.

“At this critical juncture in our national story,” he writes, in one of his few coherent passages, “Nothing can be more important than that my cows are installed in the great offices of state, from Home Secretary to Foreign Secretary, from Postmaster General to Keeper of the Privy Purse.”

Cynics and conspiracy theorists will suspect that the cows thus empowered would be mere puppets, put in place to further the nefarious, if befuddled, aims of Old Farmer Frack himself. Not so, he argues.

Those who claim that the cows thus empowered would be mere puppets, put in place to further the nefarious, if befuddled, aims I myself harbour within my curdled black worm-riddled heart could not be more wrong! Caligula, who made his horse a consul, is a much-misunderstood Roman Emperor, and one for whom I have a soft spot in my curdled black worm-riddled heart. I will be proud to follow in his wake. I will do all in my power to make sure that when my cow Binky is made Postmaster General, she will lick all the stamps in the land herself, with her rough tongue and copious cow-spittle. Then you shall see real change, of the kind these politicians are always prattling on about.

Old Farmer Frack is less forthcoming about the changes to be ushered in by his other cows, in other ministries. But it hardly matters. In time-honoured fashion, the evil Tories and the hapless Liberal Democrats have crushed beneath their boots the inspiring revolutionary vanguard represented by the mad old farmer and his bellowing cows. Undaunted, he is thought to be working on a new pamphlet, entitled “Other Farmers With Other Cows In Other Coalitions, A Sweeping Historical Perspective”.

Suburbia, USA, 1958

The house is frame, painted gray with green shutters. A wire fence runs round the trim yard. The owner works as a draftsman in a downtown company, his wife keeps house. They have lived in the neighbourhood for many years.

It is now dark, a little after eight o’ clock on a winter evening. The downstairs light is on, the blinds are drawn. A man comes to the front door, raps lightly, and is admitted. Soon another man, walking at a leisurely pace, rounds the corner and enters. He has parked his car on another street.

Ten minutes pass. A third man knocks. He has come by bus from downtown. To make certain nobody was following him, he had ridden two stops past his correct destination, then walked back. Five minutes later a fourth person, a woman in a dark coat, arrives. Everything is quiet : no loud voices, no cars parked in front, no reasons for the neighbours to suspect that a Communist party meeting is in progress.

Communist Party groups like this are small, containing three, four, or five people – a security precaution. In that way fewer members know each other and detection is less likely. Meeting places are frequently changed : this evening a private home, next time a public library or an automobile. Members have been known to sit on park benches, in bus terminals, even in hospital waiting rooms, hatching their plots in casual, conversational tones…

Night after night, week after week, these men and women are plotting against America, working out smears, seeking to discredit free government, and planning for revolution. They form the base of a gigantic pyramid of treason, stretching from the little gray house with green shutters to the towers of the Kremlin.

J Edgar Hoover, Masters Of Deceit : The Story Of Communism In America (1958)