It is far easier
to fill my stomach with pleasant things
than my heart.
It is far easier
It is far easier
to fill my stomach with pleasant things
than my heart.
During my vacation last week, I read Hint Fiction, Robert Swartwood’s collection of ficlets. All sorts of authors contributed to it, each writing a particular sort of story: a composition of 25 words, or fewer, which does not simply tell a story but hints at a larger picture.
For example, the very first: Joe Lansdale’s “The Return.”
They buried him deep. Again.
5 words that imply a man or masculine creature, one who apparently died and certainly was buried, who was buried deep the first time but nonetheless was exhumed (or dug his own way out), and who They, once again, buried…for all the good it will do, which may not be much. A brief respite? A century of rest? We don’t know! But we’re left to imagine it.
It’s a strong entry to lead the anthology. That sort of compression, almost a prose poem, takes a lot of thought and the ability to sift the wheat from the chaff.
Unfortunately, for every hint that grabbed me, making me pause to ruminate on the larger picture implied by it, there were four that let me pass on by. Fortunately, in a book of 125 hint-fics, that’s 25 stories that left some impression. The finer specimens make the most of their title, or use allusions to other stories (Penelope, “Not Waving But Drowning,” Shark Week) as a shortcut.
In the interest of moderating my judgment, I tried writing a few; to try and focus my thoughts, these hint fics are summaries of longer books I’ve read somewhat recently, though that’s not necessarily the best method to achieve this sort of iceberg-writing.
Where dreams come true, so do nightmares.
Suffering the rough buffs away our raggedness until we shine.
Curiosity, puzzle-solving, and loving the 1980s enough could make you a billionaire. Bonus girlfriend, if the evil corporation doesn’t kill you first.
They shared what beauty they could find like war rations, to multiplicative effect. Friendship does not destroy death, but it does discourage suicide.
I wouldn’t call Hint Fiction a must-read, and I certainly wouldn’t call it a must-buy. But it’s a fun read, and beneficial to writers who don’t otherwise weigh out their words. Certainly these droplets of story prove that a lot of horror fits in a small space; it’s harder to fit a great deal of glory into that same small space.
Among other odd things the internet has told me recently, I heard of an app for casual fistfights called Rumblr. As I was sharing this supposed fact with a friend via chat – “Look, it’s for all those times when you need to punch a guy but cannot find one available for punching” – I checked it on Snopes, only to find that it’s not a real app. Rather, some blokes wanted to start a creative consulting agency, and creating buzz around this fictitious app was part of their portfolio: look! We can get the whole world talking about a Fight Club app, even though there’s no such thing; imagine what we could do for you and your real company and its real products. Even though they’re very quotidian and boring. We have the skills. Our engagement with the market convinces them to pay very real attention.
As my friend George put it: “This all feels like a disgustingly post-modern subversion of the fight club idea – an imaginary fight club app (already a subversion) that is meant to advertise for a consulting agency (more subversion). There are so many levels of insincerity piled on top of something that was originally supposed to be about stripping away the false modern facade of life and reducing men to their primal instincts…It’s kind of grand, really.”
I’m putting it in my mental file next to “an e-reader version of 1984 where the text changes as you read it.”
Georg Friedrich Handel
worked often by candle,
shall end both my eye-ah.”
Georg Friedrich Handel
cut the air about a sandal
to the tenor’s dismay, who had practiced
very much to be John the Baptist.
Georg Friedrich Handel
avoided all scandal
which is why Totus Floreo
is not in his oratorio.
“Oh, good. …good Lord.”
“Nothing, just – I’m sorry, how many bags of books do you have there? I thought you said you were going off to read, not raid a bookstore.”
“It wasn’t a bookstore. It was the library.”
“Oh. I’d thought maybe a coffee shop…?”
“No, coffee shops are full of people buying coffee and chatting over their tea and – and then there’s the pressure to earn your seat by buying more coffee, which I don’t need. Bookstores have no BYOB policy and in fact discourage bringing your own book….whereas the library has a fine parking lot, and a quiet table inside.”
“Sorry – what, exactly, does the parking lot have to do with anything?”
“Oh! Well, on a fine evening like this, you can read in your car. More airflow than indoors, and there was at least an hour of light. And then inside for another hour and change. I almost finished off that volume of Milosz, finally.”
“Seems a shame to read so fast instead of lingering over the words. You can’t get as much out of it.”
Quirk of a bemused eyebrow. “Is that how you always read? Lingeringly?”
“Well, yeah. More or less, depending on the book.”
“Tell me: do you always sip daintily at every glass of water?” A blank look in response. “Do you always, always let your beer or wine set for five whole seconds on your tongue before you swallow it?” Sheepish shifting of feet, eyes drifting to the floor. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Sure, maybe I don’t remember as much of it as you do, or as much as I’d like to recall – but good God, man, sometimes it’s sweltering out and you’re sweating too hard to do anything but gulp. Sometimes you’re too caught up in conversation to attend so studiously to your beverage. And that’s all for the best, honestly – drinks go with your food and conversation, not the other way ’round.”
“But contemplating words makes a good deal more sense than contemplating wine.”
“Not all words. And, for that matter, not all wines, either.”
The old hands are immensely practical when it comes to the brainstorm. That man sets out his barrels. Everything that falls will be caught, examined, measured, and either retained forever or thrown ruthlessly away. When he is well-prepared, the barrels fill quickly and all within it poured, neatly, tidily, no drops wasted, into a series of jars and pipes and other useful apparatus. He is practiced at plodding steadily onward in dry seasons, making the most of what he has preserved. Some of it is years, decades, threescore-and-ten years old; if time hasn’t dried it up, then the interval has probably rendered it sweet and strong: a sensible spirit, distilled by seasons.
Others wrap up tightly and keep safe beneath an umbrella. They are on a schedule and have no time for any diversion from it. The sensation of hair wet with forms and cold, clinging clothing disgusts them. Only the concepts they desire in their heads will be there, only those they select. Who knows what will happen, if one allows any old idea in one’s head? A mind full of illusions, that’s what, one that needs to be wrung out (or, perhaps, direr means still)!
But we – we like to take our chances.
Come with me!
We dash through (catching a drop here, a drop there), jumping over a puddle that will take us a bit too deep, but not troubling to cover our heads or duck against the downpour.
Clasp my hand, and we will spin about in it.
Laughing, we will look out on those who, like us, know how to enjoy this most delightful of tempests: they splash in a collection of notions. They stomp concepts into a muddy puddle that clings to their boots and hems when, eventually, they go indoors. They lift their faces up to the sky, pleased that images land on their tongue, eager for drips and drops of essence and illusion to fill their mouths like wine.
Watching, we do likewise. Before the cloudburst ends, we cup our hands to receive one shining vision, clutching it carefully to keep.
It is, for a little while yet, the 25th of March: the day the Church celebrates the Annunciation, whereby the Word was made Flesh.
It is also Friday, and we call this Friday good: for it is the day our Lord Jesus Christ climbed the shameful gallows-tree, transforming its shame to glory, trampling down death by death, bearing all sin in His sinless body to save us from our sin.
That these two great days occur together is apt, and rare; it will not occur again for 141 years. On that account, John Donne wrote a poem (both here, and in the 2 prior links). George Herbert also wrote a poem on the subject (item 67), this one in Latin, and that is the one I wanted to share:
Cum tu, Christe, cadis, nascor; mentémque ligavit
Una meam membris horula, téque cruci.
O me disparibus natum cum numine fatis!
Cur mihi das vitam, quam tibi, Christe, negas?
Quin moriar tecum: vitam, quam negligis ipse,
Accipe; ni talem des, tibi qualis erat.
Hoc mihi legatum tristi si funere præstes,
Christe, duplex fiet mors tua vita mihi:
Atque ibi per te sanctificer natalibus ipsis,
In vitam, et nervos Pascha coæva fluet.
Translated the best I can (after years without Latin practice, but with the benefit of some dictionaries):
When you, O Christ, fall, I rise;* it bound both my mind
And one of my members a little while, with you on the cross.
O how unlike, to me, that birth from the divine will now spoken!
Why do you give me life, when for yourself, Christ, you reject it?
I would even die with you: life, which itself you disregard,
Receive: unless you give such, as was given to you.
This would be a sad legacy for me if you would bestow death,
Christ, your death will doubly be made my life:
And yet, when I would be sanctified through your birth itself,
In life, and strength, your Passion coeval will flow.
*Alternately: When you, O Christ, die, I am born…
A friend has offered this (far superior) rendering:
As you die, o Christ, I am born: and my mind is bound
a little while with your limbs, to the Cross.
O what different destinies – of the man born, and the god.
Why do you give me life, which you, O Christ, renounce?
That I might die with you; take from me the life that you misprize [disregard],
unless you give to me a suffering similar to yours [??]
And if you grant to me – miserable creature – such a death,
o Christ, then your death would doubly be made my life.
And thus might my birth be sanctified to you
in life, and strength will flow from your sacrifice.
From Imagination to the Blank Page. A difficult crossing, the waters dangerous. At first sight the distance seems small, yet what a long voyage it is, and how injurious sometimes for the ships that undertake it.
The first injury derives from the highly fragile nature of the merchandise that the ships transport. In the marketplaces of Imagination most of the best things are made of fine glass and diaphanous tiles, and despite all the care in the world, many break on the way, and many break when unloaded on the shore. Moreover, any such injury is irreversible, because it is out of the question for the ship to turn back and take delivery of things equal in quality. There is no chance of finding the same shop that sold them. In the marketplaces of Imagination, the shops are large and luxurious but not long-lasting. Their transactions are short-lived, they dispose of their merchandise quickly and immediately liquidate. It is very rare for a returning ship to find the same exporters with the same goods.
Another injury derives from the capacity of the ships. They leave the harbors of the opulent continents fully loaded, and then, when they reach the open sea, they are forced to throw out a part of the load in order to save the whole. Thus, almost no ship manages to carry intact as many treasures as it took on. The discarded goods are of course those of the least value, but it happens sometimes that the sailors, in their great haste, make mistakes and throw precious things overboard.
And upon reaching the white paper port, additional sacrifices are necessary. The customs officials arrive and inspect a product and consider whether they should allow it to be unloaded; some other product is not permitted ashore; and some goods they admit only in small quantities. A country has its laws. Not all merchandise has free entry, and contraband is strictly forbidden. The importation of wine is restricted, because the continents from which the ships come produce wines and spirits from grapes that grow and mature in more generous temperatures. The customs officials do not want these alcoholic products in the least. They are highly intoxicating. They are not appropriate for all palates. Besides, there is a local company that has the monopoly in wine. It produces a beverage that has the color of wine and the taste of water, and this you can drink the day long without being affected at all. It is an old company. It is held in great esteem, and its stock is always overpriced.
Still, let us be pleased when the ships enter the harbor, even with all these sacrifices. Because, after all, with vigilance and great care, the number of broken or discarded goods can be reduced during the course of the voyage. Also, the laws of the country and the customs regulations, though oppressive in large measure, are not entirely prohibitive, and a good part of the cargo gets unloaded. Furthermore, the customs officials are not infallible: some of the merchandise gets through in mislabeled boxes that say one thing on the outside and contain something else; and, after all, some choice wines are imported for select symposia.
Something else is sad, very sad. That is when certain huge ships go by with coral decorations and ebony masts, with great white and red flags unfurled, full of treasures, ships that do not even approach the harbor either because all of their cargo is forbidden or because the harbor is not deep enough to receive them. So they continue on their way. A favorable wind fills their silk sails, the sun burnishes the glory of their golden prows, and they sail out of sight calmly, majestically, distancing themselves forever from us and our cramped harbor.
Fortunately, these ships are very scarce. During our lifetime we see two or three of them at most. And we forget them quickly. Equal to the radiance of the vision is the swiftness of its passing. And after a few years have gone by, if—as we sit passively gazing at the light or listening to the silence—if someday certain inspiring verses return by chance to our mind’s hearing, we do not recognize them at first and we torment our memory trying to recollect where we heard them before. With great effort the old remembrance is awakened, and we recall that those verses are from the song chanted by the sailors, handsome as the heroes of the Iliad, when the great, the exquisite ships would go by on their way—who knows where.