 SetuVolume 9; Issue 12; May 2025Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetry
Collaborative PoetrySilk Painting/TankaSpecial: AI and Art: A Critical EssayAuthor of the MonthPhoto Essay: Trees of BengaluruAn Excerpt from the Novel: Keller JacksonTranslation: FictionYoung Talent: FictionLong FictionDribbleCreative NonfictionVerse Novel: Chapter ThreeBook Review
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Showing posts with label 202505E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 202505E. Show all posts
Setu, May 2025
Different Modes of Seeing...and Recording
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| Sunil Sharma |
---"Art is not what you see but what you make others see"
--- Edgar Degas
---“No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.”
---Oscar Wilde
Lifting the veil!
Taking it off the face of reality and showing the face, warts and all.
Great art does that---exposing the ugliness and fault lines of a given historical era in a dynamic manner.
It, simultaneously, opens up new vistas of perception of old things.
Fresh ways of cognition of everyday facts, the sensory data, the given, the mundane and transform the given into something else, a new reality, a new artifact about life and world, suffused with its own energies, breathing life into existing order, and, breathing life of its own, becoming autonomous, a transcendental reality unto itself.
Creativity.
A sacred act!
Creating newer realities, sensibilities, dimensions.
Done with the aid of imagination. Once done and in the public domain as a product, art stimulates the imagination of the viewer/reader/end-user, thereby completing the circle of communication, the aesthetic transaction between creator and user of the work in question; a product, in mass society, but with a difference.
Photography is that branch of art that documents the elusive instant and also creates works that become iconic in the hands of great photographers. The likes of Henri Cartier-Bresson can produce stunning works relevant today for their poignancy and electric effect.
He becomes an auteur in the process.
"Candid moments", timely captured by alert photographers, can never fade, rightly pointed out by the famous French humanist Henri who continues to inspire a whole lot of succeeding generations to follow the rules of the art as set down by him.
This month's prompt does that.
Inspire.
It might not be shot by a world-class photographer but it captures a moment candidly and serves as the framework of reference.
It does not fail!
The select responses in the special section themed around the picture and the title "Contemplation" respond to the stimulus given by the picture.
How do you view the picture prompt?
That is important---seeing.
And make us see the world around you via your work/s.
The ekphrastic challenge makes the involved viewer see things in their own locality in your individual way.
You will enjoy the ways of "seeing" the world inspired by this photograph. It acts as a trigger. A stimulant.
The brain starts thinking in terms of images and sounds---a work is born.
Writing to picture prompts is indeed a difficult assignment.
The way it resonates with you and the audience/reader.
It must capture a particular element and expand upon it in a relatable manner.
That is the beauty of this kind of writing. It also becomes a collaboration with the photographer, matching of visions, pictorial and verbal.
The works featured are a testimony to a wonderful collaboration.
Rest of the edition is equally rich with inspiring writings.
Please enjoy!
Sunil
Sharma,
Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya
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| Santosh Bakaya |
The trees looked joyous, flaunting their naked splendor.
The sun was having some fun, playing peekaboo,
behind the branches, with leaves none.
That is unbecoming levity, did you say?
Do you believe that sun is making fun
of their impoverished state? Is playing peekaboo wrong?
Playing all sorts of vile, vicious games is wrong.
But definitely not playing peekaboo.
I disagree with your topsy-turvy view.
A little girl peeped from her glass window.
Lo! Her hair like a dash of gold on a lily.
The trees flailed their sinewy arms, heartily cheering,
proud of their brittle charms.
The girl waved to them, and the branches rustled a greeting,
happy at this serendipitous meeting.
Then, like a mirage, she was gone. Had they been conned?
***
2. Songs before the Fall
We will sing songs before the fall.
Before our limbs crumble, tumbling to the ground.
Humbled.
Let the sun play games with us.
Till we manage to create notes of our swan song.
Will you be enchanted by our song?
The song that we sing before the final call?
Till then, we stand tall, pure and pristine.
With no semblance of a leaf, yellow or green.
Or even adorning ourselves with a fig leaf.
But why come to grief? We are proud of what we are.
Proud of what we will become.
Stoically, we stand, waiting for the next stage,
thrumming a leafless song.
Come what may, we stay erect and strong,
not carping or complaining, but just humming along.
***
3. Reset Button
"Can someone click my reset button?
I want a makeover". A petite tree pleaded.
"With grace and lanky elegance, let me be bejeweled
Ah, how I miss my lithe superiority.
Let me once again bask in my leafy luminosity.
Can someone not lift me to a greater aesthetic shape?"
It beseeched, raising its skeletal arms. Higher. Higher.
”See, how the ground is bestrewn with fresh corpses
of leaves, sprigs, and twigs. Soon the sun will scud past
jagged clouds-big and small, making way for the moon,
which will cruise the night in her silver sheen."
Said a mellow-looking tree.
“There are different stages, different ages.
Every age has its own charm, don’t you see? Why be enraged?
Soon, a boisterous breeze removed the crease from the tree’s face.
It was now a picture of choreographic grace.
Review of Gossips of Our Surrogate Story by Rajorshi Patranabis
Author:
Rajorshi Patranabis
Genre: Poetry
Publisher: Hawakal Publishers
Place
and Date of Publication: New Delhi, 2025
ISBN: 978-81-19858-80-4 (HB) and 978-81-19858-85-9 (PB)
Pages: 139
Price: ₹ 500 INR
Reviewer: Radha Chakravarty
Review:
Gossips of our Surrogate Story (Hawakal, 2025), Rajorshi Patranabis’s latest book, resurrects the myth
of the ancient Egyptian god Osiris and his undying love for goddess Isis, from
whom he has been forever separated. Through a series of brief but power-packed
prose poems, we hear the voice of Osiris affirming his passionate conviction
that their love will triumph over adversity.
Rajorshi has already carved
a niche for himself in short-form creative writing. With eleven volumes of
poetry in print, he has established his reputation as a poet committed to
experiments with genre, especially ghazals, sonnets, haiku, haibun and gogyoka.
The Last Drop of Your Tears, published in 2023, is the first volume of
gogyoka in English by an Indian. Checklist Anomaly (2023), likewise, is
the first collection of gogyoshi published by an Indian poet. Rajosrshi is also
a practising translator, with a multilingual sensibility. His own poetry has
been translated into Assamese and Hindi translations are also in the pipeline.
Interestingly, Rajorshi is a food consultant by profession. Perhaps that has
something to do with the bold textures, intense nuances and colourful flavours
that characterize his writing.
In the
Preface to Gossips of our Surrogate Story, Rajorshi asserts his faith in
Wicca, an occult philosophy dating back thousands of years, and based on worship
of the Mother Goddess. The word “witch”, he tells us, derives from “Wik”,
meaning ‘wise”. He uses the myth of
Isis, ancient Egyptian goddess of the moon and wife of Osiris, god of the realm
of the dead. Isis, goddess of magic, is also associated with emotions and the
soul. She is the sacred mother of all mothers. Osiris inhabits the multidimensional
domain of life after death. In the traditional story, Osiris, destroyed by Nut
and Set, is resurrected by Isis with the consent of the sun god Ra, on
condition that he will preside over the world of darkness. The prose poems in
this collection bring to life the voice of Osiris, declaring his eternal love
for Isis, despite the distance that separates them.
Paradox
becomes the defining feature of this fateful relationship. It is the cycle of
death and life that sustains the passion of Osiris for Isis. “I live to be
slaughtered again”, he declares (9). Distance, rather than proximity, fuels his
love. “I desire an irreversible life in a garb of death” (38); “I fail to hold
you close, and you, to stay away” (82); “We unite in estrangements” (121). Ra,
the sun god in Egyptian myth, stands as a figure of opposition to be defied in
this journey of impossible love. “Ra is old and tired and needs rest. … There
is a deep embrace before the old man wakes up from his forgotten eclipse” (13).
The path of passion is full of agony. Both lovers are permanently wounded. “She
bleeds secretly. … She carries every broken piece with her through broken
portals. Pain never deserts” (21).
In
his approach to Wicca, Rajorshi declares himself a seeker rather than a
believer. Perhaps it is the underlying quest motif that lends such profound
urgency to Osiris’ words. For his utterances explore what it can mean for a
lover to eternally walk the thin line between desire and despair. “I fast to
attain your prayers of a dream, smelling like this drizzle –drops that ignite
hope,” Osiris declares (138). Absence and distance are pivotal to Osiris’
passion for Isis. The story belongs to a distinctive mythology that differs
from similar narratives in Indian myth “Behula is not my Isis” Osiris asserts.
“She stays with him forever. I remain away from my Isis. We live, we love”
(11). The ancient narrative of Isis and Osiris is resurrected as an evocation
of long-distance love and unrequited desire that is at once timeless and
contemporary, remote and exotic, yet infused with powerful immediacy. This
timeless, death-defying love is projected in cosmic dimensions: “From my dark
world, I wait for a sunrise inside your eyes. I was yours, when love was first
painted in ether” (95).
The expression
of this extraordinary love seems to demand a vocabulary of its own. For the
language in which Osiris articulates his desire is individual, stylized, as
mysterious as it is mystical, with its own unique resonance and imagery. “My
love is yellow,” he declares, “burning in your blue mustard clouds, bleeding in
red through your lunar lips, thwarting the feeble ignitions of our immortal
spring. “My love is a rainbow, painted in translucence” (93). In places, the
effect of this style is mesmerizing, almost hallucinatory.
Rajorshi’s fascination for formal experiment is evident in his willingness to cross generic boundaries and adopt the mode of the prose-poem. This enables him to break free of formal constraints, combining the lyrical, emotive elements of poetry with the potentially more fluid freedom of prose. The individual pieces are brief, intense and condensed, but each has its own place in the long, continuous narrative of Osiris’ deathless, lonely love for his absent beloved. Trapped in the realm of darkness, Osiris asserts his conviction that love will prove victorious in the end. His dream of reunion culminates in an affirmation of faith in his beloved’s steadfastness, and in the power of love, articulated in the haunting, incantatory prayer: “Tua Anset”—“you’re the Isis I know”.
The Naked Man by Mike Maggio
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| Mike Maggio |
One day – and it was an extraordinary day in a very
ordinary place in our great nation – a naked man came to town. He arrived in a
taxi, driven by a local hack who was more interested in making a fare than in living
up to any code of moral conduct. And though he at first feigned resistance to
hauling such improper cargo, the naked man paid him a large enough sum with his
smallish, well-manicured hands that the driver delivered him, as requested, to
a famous hotel located in the town’s main square (a town which shall remain
anonymous), on the main street (which was not christened Main) and, afterwards,
made sure to sanitize his vehicle after dropping off this most unseemly of clients.
It
was a clear, pleasant day – as pleasant as it could possibly get in a typical
American town in which almost everyone was feeling off kilter – yet there was an
aura of uncertainty hanging thick in the atmosphere, an uneasy feeling that had
been growing for some time among the citizenry, a feeling that things were not
quite right, a feeling that things had gotten out of hand and needed to be rectified.
The streets, though regularly maintained, were in a state of disrepair, and
prices for most services and commodities continued to rise. Moreover, certain
segments of the population were in a state of unrest. And it was all blamed on
the mayor, a Mr. Dennis Doolittle, who had tried his very best to govern, who
insisted that his administration was the finest the town had ever had, who was incapable
of addressing whatever situation he was faced with, and who was up, as it were,
that very month, for reelection.
Now
in this anonymous little town there resided many decent individuals – those who
paid their taxes and went about their business, going to church and working as
hard as anyone could expect. There was Mrs. Beezewater, who volunteered at the
local Women’s Society and who was considered by all a pillar of uprighteousness
with her hive of puffed-up hair and her distinctively turned up nose. And Mr. Barclay-Filtch,
the local banker, who was quite generous when it came to lending, especially to
friends and family and other persons of obvious means. And then there were the Crumpacker’s,
the Breezeways’s, the Goodenough’s and even Mr. Falsetto, the undertaker who,
though his services were to be avoided at all cost, was considered a respectable,
if not glum, individual whose expertise was eventually sought after by all,
regardless of social status.
And,
of course, as in all towns, there were many less respectable individuals as
well – undesirables, some might say. Those who lollygagged about and whose
purpose in life it was simply to make trouble. Those for whom God and the Law
were simply not concepts to be concerned about. Like the . . .
But
it would not be considered in good taste to publicize the names of such folk, though
many are already quite well known. It would be best to direct yourself to the courts
or the local news organizations to learn about their history. Let us just say that,
despite what one might think, they too were all good people, in their own egregious
ways, some with values that might be considered dubious and others who were,
shall we say, outright shady for, as we all know, there are always good and bad
in every rung of society no matter how you look at it.
Regardless
of their place in society, the good citizens of this nondescript town who had,
for some time, been subject to the vagaries of Mayor Doolittle’s rule, were
ready for a change – for someone to shake them out of their complacency, even
if it meant crossing lines that they had never before considered crossing.
Into
this atmosphere entered the naked man like a whirling dervish ready to mesmerize
each and every one of them. With a contrived air of self-respect, he exited the
taxi, held his head up high and, despite his bare buttocks swaying from side to
side like those of an angry cow trying unsuccessfully to find its way home,
strode into the lobby of the famous hotel as if he were a well-known celebrity.
Now
the naked man was not a bad looking chap. He had wispy blond hair which refused
to stay in place, even when there was no breeze, an eternal tan that some thought was not quite
real and, though we won’t describe his private parts, which were in plain view
for all to see, we will note that they did dangle from time to time as he moved
about – those times, at least, when things were not frozen in place – and did, occasionally,
cause him discomfort whenever he sat and crossed his hairy legs, though then he
would squinch and squirm until everything was settled as it should be.
As the naked man walked into the lobby of the famous
hotel, he was observed, as could be expected, by a gaggle of onlookers whose
voices buzzed like a flock of curious flies. Ignoring the stunned look on their
faces, he stepped up to the check-in counter and said to the clerk, who stared
in astonishment:
“I’d like a room.”
Now
let it be said that the hotel clerk, a young man who had just recently started
work at the famous hotel, had not yet become accustomed to dealing with the
wide range of clientele that one might encounter when working in a public
setting, let alone the questionable type we are dealing with here – which is to
say that, while one may get used to the oddities that life often presents,
there is always something even more absurd to be had.
And so the poor hotel clerk, who had stared incredulously
at the naked man as he paraded through the lobby, his mouth gaping and his eyes
opened wide, not knowing where he should look and where he shouldn’t or whether
he should even deal with such an outrageous individual, lowered his eyes in
embarrassment as the naked man spoke and, for a second, considered whether to
turn around and walk into the back office to hand in his resignation. For this,
of course, was beyond what one would consider acceptable human behavior. But
before he could fully formulate his thoughts, the naked man looked him straight
in the eye and continued:
“A room for one night.”
So the poor hotel clerk simply turned to his computer with
a look of uncertainty, searched for a single for one night and, after the usual
formalities which accompany such transactions, handed the naked man his key and
directed him to the hotel elevators.
Word quickly spread through town, like an uncontrolled
disease, about the shocking individual who had suddenly arrived on their
doorsteps, and it soon became apparent that no one knew who he was. He had
materialized out of nowhere and had no recognizable name – what his name was,
in fact, no one knew, even those at the famous hotel, for he had simply registered
as John Doe. And though some claimed to have heard of a John Doe before, none
could actually confirm to have known anyone by that name. Yet, while his claim to
fame seemed to be the accoutrements he lacked, this deficiency was more than
made up by other assets, for there was something about him that seemed to
attract everyone’s attention. It was the
way he carried himself, wardrobe notwithstanding. It was the way he spoke and
the way he interacted, so that there were those who wondered whether in fact
they had ever encountered him before. The women found him charming, the men,
many of whom seemed envious, found him charismatic, and those who manipulated
the levers of power felt he had some wit about him that they needed to tap
into. As for those at the lower rungs of society, strange as it might seem,
they saw in him someone they could relate to, someone they could admire,
someone, even, they might emulate, for this was certainly no run-of-the-mill personality.
And anyone who flaunted his goods the way he did was, in their eyes – well,
enough said.
Soon,
the naked man became the subject of intense speculation. Some said he had come
on business – a very special kind of business that required the utmost discretion,
for what better way to hide one’s intentions than to openly attract attention
to distract from the very thing he was trying to conceal. Others thought he was
some sort of crackpot whose only purpose was to make a name for himself, no
matter how outrageous the means. There
were even those who felt that the naked man simply lacked what it took to
survive in today’s world, including a good set of clothes, though there were
others who disputed this – how, they insisted, could he afford to stay at the
famous hotel if he did not have the means?
The one thing they could all agree on – at least those with some modicum
of sense – was that this was someone that one should not get too closely mixed
up with.
Regardless
of opinion – for no matter how high or low, people will always have one to
express – the naked man became quite a figure in town. The newspapers were
quick to interview him. The local television station set up their cameras,
though they were careful as to where to focus, and even the mayor, who was not
averse to following the wind down every backstreet and alley, contemplated an
opportunity for political gain, depending, of course, on the general opinion of
the public.
Soon the presence of the naked man in this otherwise unremarkable
town became accepted, even, after some time had passed, celebrated, for what
other municipality in our beloved country can lay claim to such tolerance, such
openness, such unabiding amenability. It was, as the local minister, the
Reverend John Crallwell, put it, “the only Christian thing to do” – to accept
all, even as Jesus had accepted “the rabble” He daily encountered. And, as this
highly respected preacher put it, the arrival of the naked man was, in his
eyes, a sign from God – he was, quite possibly, a prophet in disguise, a messenger
sent to carry out God’s plan in mysterious ways. Besides, as many claimed, the
fact that the naked man was becoming a celebrity and had chosen their humble
town over any other possible municipality in the whole of this great land was
something to be proud of.
And so, the naked man, who had managed, with very little
effort, to become the talk of the town, soon became highly sought after.
This became apparent several weeks after the naked man first
checked into the famous hotel (for upon noticing the attention his presence was
generating, he decided to extend his stay). Shortly thereafter, and after much
deliberation, the mayor, a man who had been up and down the block more than
most and who rarely made unannounced visits, except when he was in full
electioneering mode, decided, upon studying the reaction of his constituents
through news reports and opinion polls, that the time had come to find out who
this naked man really was and to either forge a relationship with him if it
could somehow be beneficial to his campaign – for the poor mayor’s numbers were
dropping precipitously and the election was quickly approaching – or, for
decency’s sake, to send him off packing though, as the mayor noted to himself,
there really wasn’t much for him to pack.
And so on a day when the weather seemed most auspicious,
the mayor marched into the lobby of the famous hotel, announced himself at the
front desk and, after waiting for quite some time, was told that he had been
granted an audience. Feeling self-satisfied though somewhat annoyed at having
been kept waiting, the mayor boarded the elevator, made his way up to the top
floor and knocked briskly on the naked man’s door. After some time had passed
(ten to fifteen minutes at least, for the naked man, it seemed, was one for
dramatics), our naked hero opened up, greeted the mayor with an air of general pomposity
and led him into his sumptuous suite.
There’s no need to describe the lavish d├йcor of the naked
man’s rooms for it was the best the famous hotel had to offer. And while some
might label the furnishings ostentatious, even, one might say, garish, others
would simply consider them opulent. There is, after all, no accounting for
taste for, as they say, one man’s idea of trash is another man’s dream of
treasure.
Likewise,
there’s no need to reveal what was discussed between these two esteemed individuals,
for such meetings are always kept in strict confidence such that even the
participants are often unaware of what has been said or what has been agreed
upon. And even if some innocent individual – a bellhop or a housekeeper, for
example – had somehow been present and had eavesdropped enough so the
information could be leaked, the leaks would be so muddled as to render what
had been said not only useless but easily deniable as well. So we will leave
such speculation, leaked or otherwise, for political scientists to scrutinize.
Let
us just say that the mayor left the naked man’s apartment with a smug look on
his otherwise drab face, and the naked man took his seat by the window, rubbed
his hands with sanitizer and watched with a contented look on his cleanly
shaven face as the mayor stepped into his car and was driven off to the town
hall by his trusty chauffeur where it was announced that the naked man had,
after much discussion and negotiation, endorsed the mayor’s reelection
campaign.
Now
who, exactly, you might ask, was Mayor Doolittle and how had he come to preside
over this nameless little town? Well, truth be told, he had very little
experience in politics – had, in fact, very little experience in anything at
all. A total failure, some might say, though there were those who simply
thought of him as a dimwitted genius. As a young man, he had barely made the
grade, though his father, a rather wealthy gentleman who had made his name in shady
real estate deals, managed to fenagle an acceptance for his rockheaded son into
a rather prestigious university. And while the soon-to-become-mayor accomplished
very little during his tenure there, refusing to attend class and passing with
a less than minimum score, he was finally awarded, in a secret ceremony, a
degree of dubious worth which served as his entrance into the professional
world. There he floundered for several years, borrowing large sums of money
from his well-heeled father and squandering it all on investments that never
panned out. Throughout these unremarkable years, he managed to make a name for
himself – a name which, though dubious in nature, gained him entrance into some
of the highest echelons of society.
Now
it just so happened that the former mayor of — had a sudden need to fly south, so
to speak, after absconding with large sums of public funds which he had invested
into lucrative offshore accounts. “For the public’s benefit,” he insisted just
before his abrupt disappearance. A special election was called and Doolittle, sensing
his chance for greatness, tossed his tainted horseshoe into the ring. With his infamous name and enough funds to
pull the wool over everyone’s eyes through his unorthodox campaign strategy (“I
will win regardless,” became his campaign slogan which he would proclaim to
raucous applause), he managed to eke out a win. It was all done fair and
square, he would constantly insist throughout his tenure, though there were
those who doubted it. And while the numbers did not quite add up (for as anyone
with the least intelligence will tell you, two plus two can, under certain
circumstances, equal twenty-two), there was nothing that anyone could do except
to succumb to the results. For as we all know, democracy, like religion, works
in enigmatic ways, and while it seems at times to only benefit some, we cherish
it nonetheless.
Mayor
Doolittle, as could be expected, was not very effective at governing. In fact,
he was an utter failure. He could not speak in public without twisting his body
as well as his words. With his
unconventional style, he was unable to gain the confidence of the local town
council or any other public official for that matter. He was of the type to insist
that up was down even though he might be pointing in the right direction. And when he did speak, he was apt to do so in
short, mangled phrases – some of which resembled sound bites he had attempted
to memorize throughout the years. These often bore no relationship to the topic
at hand and would leave everyone in
utter confusion – everyone, that is, except those who were simply left in awe.
So thick was the fog he created that even he would often wonder where it would
all lead.
In
short, after a very brief time which seemed to some like an eternity, the good
mayor of — was in desperate need of assistance. And the naked man seemed just
like the right man to help.
The
mayor’s announcement created quite a stir, even among the most taciturn of
citizens. The newspapers decried his decision as erratic while the local television
station branded it “an assault on the values of the good citizens of —.” Even
the local radio commentator – a Mr. Brusk Limbo – an individual who was known
for his bellicose, poorly informed pronouncements and his sycophantic support
for the mayor – expressed his disapproval in such terms that even his most
loyal listeners could not help but blush.
Meanwhile,
some of the most prominent citizens of —, as could be expected, had much to say
about Mayor Doolittle’s shocking decision. Mrs. Beezewater, for example, had found
the news so utterly contemptible that she could not refrain from exclaiming,
while pruning her eyebrows in the mirror, “Well, I never!” – though, in fact,
she had, as anyone who knew her could attest – and she promptly made her way to
the kitchen, put on a pot of tea and called an emergency meeting of the Women’s
Society.
“I’m
simply flabbergasted,” she exclaimed as everyone gathered. “Shocked to the
gills!” she insisted, as the muscles on her neck pulsated. “And to think that
Mayor Doolittle wanted our assistance with his campaign!”
“But
Patience,” Harriet Goodenough said. ‘Weren’t we ourselves considering inviting
Mr. Doe to address our members?”
“Really!”
Muriel Crumpacker interjected. “I wasn’t
here for that decision. How could we? I mean it’s unspeakable.”
“It
was my idea,” Florence Barclay-Filtch said, blushing as she spoke. “I mean how
many times do we have such a – a stimulating personality visit our town? And my
husband thought—."
But
before Mrs. Barclay-Filtch could complete her sentence, the room erupted into such
a commotion that Patience Beezewater found it quite impossible to call them to
order and simply stared at them in indignation until they all got up and left before
allowing her the courtesy of calling for adjournment.
But
it wasn’t just Patience Beezewater and the good ladies of the Women’s Society who
were up in hives. Soon, the whole town exploded into an uproar as citizens of
all persuasions tried to come to terms with the new political reality. Committees
were formed, some supporting the mayor’s reelection, others opposing it unequivocally.
There were those who questioned the morality of the mayor’s decision; others,
meanwhile, including the Reverend Crallwell, justified their support by combing
through the scriptures and offering up carefully selected verses to support
their claim. Soon, in every nook and cranny and on every wall and signpost, fliers
appeared, some with catchy slogans such as “Too Little Doolittle,” others
baring the phrase “Vote for The Naked Truth.”
Meanwhile,
the mayor’s phone lines buzzed constantly as citizen after citizen exercised
their digital rights, some expressing support, others declaring that, while
they had endorsed him in the last election, they simply could no longer do so
under the current circumstances. Even the daily newspaper, after much
hand-wringing and consternation, managed to muster up a hearty thumbs up, but
not for Mayor Doolittle. Instead, they championed a highly qualified candidate,
whose name has since been relegated to the dustbins of history and who had
vowed to clean up the town and make things right. Mayor Doolittle, the
newspaper concluded, had failed to restore the town to its former greatness and
had simply managed to make matters worse. Besides, accepting the endorsement of
the naked man had, in their opinion, crossed a red line.
Meanwhile,
on the other side of town, where the disgruntled made their beds and the
deplorables sought any excuse to express their discontent, support for the
mayor was on the rise, despite the fact that none of his policies were even
vaguely meant to benefit them. But, as is often the case, they were blinded by
reality and saw in the Mayor a commitment to – well, what it was they couldn’t
say and, when pressed, they pointed to the support of the naked man whose unadorned
appearance, they reasoned, made him more transparent than anyone had ever been.
And though he himself was not running, the fact that he was backing the mayor
was enough to win their support. Besides, they claimed, during his short stay
in town, he had managed to turn every norm upside down so that, for once, they
felt there was someone who, at last, might represent their interests. And while
a good set of clothes might be the mark of a respectable man, the lack of such trappings
made him seem more like them. In short, this was a public figure they had been yearning
for all their lives.
While
everyone in the town of — was raising Cain over the mayor’s reelection tactics,
the naked man was busy ruminating over how he could best use his influence to
sway the election and how he, himself, might benefit, for why lend one’s good
name to someone else’s ambitions without expecting something in return? And so,
day and night, he plotted and planned, contrived and schemed, pondering how he
could best influence Doolittle’s dubious campaign and how it would, in the long
run, benefit his own unvarnished ambitions.
Then,
one morning, after a long night of tossing and turning, he awoke to a most unusual
dilemma, for he found himself unconsciously scratching an itch which had
manifested itself in a place he was quite sensitive about. Immediately, he jumped
out of bed and looked in the mirror where he discovered a dark splotch staring
back at him, a splotch that was situated conspicuously in the middle of his pale
posterior, just above the crevice where his two great mountains of flesh merged
together.
“Well
I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed.
Gazing
at the brazen blemish -- a large discolored pustule affixed to his lily-white
skin -- he exclaimed:
“It
looks like a pimple!”
The
naked man rushed over to the window and opened the drapes to let in the morning
light and set his eyes on the nasty brute, hoping it might just disappear.
“Damn!”
he shouted. “It is a pimple.”
Now
the naked man was not one to dither when it came to conjuring up explanations and,
in fact, was a most imaginative person, prone to wild fits of fancy and
delusional deliberations, for no dilemma, big or small, was beyond his ability to
reconstrue. And since he had to make a public
appearance that day in support of Mayor Doolittle’s campaign, he got to
thinking about just how this sudden arrival of an unwelcome blemish could be refabricated
into something more acceptable, for no matter what one might think, there is
always a positive spin to be had regardless of the circumstances. And so after
much thought and consideration, he decided that it could not possibly be a
pimple at all for the simple reason that pimples did not run in his family.
“It’s
a beauty mark!” he declared out loud, with a bumptious smile on his face. And
he reached down and touched the spot with reverence until a sharp pain suddenly
erupted and he was forced to remove his hand with a grimace.
“Dammit!”
he cried. “It’s a pimple all right.”
He
glanced once more in the mirror, squinted his eyes to get a better look, but
the horrid looking thing remained in its place as if it had nothing better to
do than to taunt him.
“Damn!
How could I possibly have a pimple!”
And
then, as if an epiphany suddenly descended upon him from the heavens, he
exclaimed:
“The
hotel will pay for this!”
So
the naked man promptly called down to the front desk and demanded that someone report
immediately to his room. though why they were needed remained a mystery.
“Urgent!”
he simply repeated. “I need an urgent manager! Urgently!”
Now
the manager that morning just so happened to be a Ms. Faithful Bhut, a cantankerous
woman who was known for her grating voice and her uncompromising approach to
resolving conflicts. Her employees avoided her whenever they could and those
who frequented the hotel were known to keep their grievances to themselves, for
even the slightest complaint could lead to an unnecessary confrontation and
unspecified surcharges on the final bill.
Within
minutes, Bhut arrived, scrutinized the naked man from head to toe, and exclaimed:
“My,
my, my! Aren’t we looking dapper today!”
Then,
glancing at the mirror, she spotted the inflamed blister on the naked man’s
blubbery rump and said:
“What’s
that you got there?”
Now
the naked man was not one to admit to anything, let alone something the least
bit compromising so, without so much as a wink, he said:
“A
freckle. It’s a very tiny freckle.”
“A
freckle?” Bhut responded. “You call that a freckle? That a pimple. A big ol’
pimple.”
“It’s
a freckle,” the naked man repeated. “Runs in the family.”
“You can call it what you want,
mister, A pimple. A boil. A zit. But it sure as hell ain’t no freckle.”
“It’s
a freckle,” the naked man insisted. “And you are a very nasty person.”
“Well
look who’s the picture of perfection! It’s a pimple, plain and simple, sure as
the nose that sits here on my face.”
“It’s
a freckle. A big beautiful freckle.”
“It’s
a pimple or my name ain’t Bhut.”
There’s
no need to go further into this dispute, which continued for quite some time for,
like so many of its kind, it ended up with no meaningful resolution. Let us
just say that the naked man insisted on his way of seeing things and threatened
to sue the hotel for unspecified damages for a freckle he suddenly seemed quite
proud of, while the manager maintained that the hotel could not possibly be
responsible for the naked man’s genetic disposition.
“Zit
or freckle,” she concluded. “You have contaminated the sheets and there’ll be a
charge for that.”
And
she promptly vacated the naked man’s room, ignoring the invectives he hurled at
her, and returned to her office where she made sure to append a hefty surcharge
to his account.
Election
Day in every suburb, town and city in our great country is always a cause for wonderment.
Citizens interrupt their daily routine for a chance to stand in long lines to register
their support for their chosen candidate, individuals they often know very
little about but whom they are convinced will best represent their interests though
they don’t always know what those interests might be. Schools and other public
buildings cancel their regularly scheduled activities and open their doors for
this annual pilgrimage, while poll workers eagerly await the chance to volunteer
their time to earn a paltry sum for their troubles. Chads fly, pencil points
snap and polling machines swallow up everyone’s carefully concealed intentions.
All this to choose someone who promises the world but never delivers, if
elected, even a smidgen of what was pledged. Such is the exercise of our
democratic rights, enshrined in a document most have never read, expounding rights
we treasure almost as much as we treasure getting our blood drawn or going to
the dentist for some painful procedure we’re not sure we actually need.
And
it was no different in the town of — when election day finally arrived. In
fact, the town was in a such a tizzy that both candidates put on their best
fa├зade and rushed from polling place to polling place, shamelessly begging for
everyone’s vote.
Mayor
Doolittle shook hands, which he sanitized without being seen whenever he could,
patted babies on the head and made promises in such a way that would make any
boy scout proud. And he was accompanied by the naked man who was now covered in
a loin cloth that looked very much like a diaper, for the poor man’s pimple had
quickly turned into a giant carbuncle which needed to be hidden so as not to
raise everyone’s disgust.
“Freckles,”
he would say when asked. “Need to protect them from the sun.”
This
new yarn, however, caused quite a stir, even more so than when he had first made
his appearance in town, for people began to feel as if they had been had.
And
so it was with Patience Beezewater who, upon hearing the news, declared:
“Well
I never! First, he shows up naked. Now he covers everything up as if he has
something to hide!”
But
then she mulled it over as she blasted her beehive with hairspray, and decided
that it was, when all was said and done, a matter of good taste.
“After
all,” she admitted to herself. “Some things should just not be exposed to
daylight.” And she quickly phoned the ladies from the women’s society declaring
her now unwavering support for the mayor who, she declared, had demonstrated,
through his surrogates, the need for discretion.
“Such
a relief,” she said as she patted her hair in place. “And to think that everything was so—so out
in the open! No, we simply can’t have that.”
As
is so often the case with an electorate that can be, shall we say, somewhat
fickle, individuals abruptly change their minds and vote for the candidate they
had previously sworn they’d never support. And so it was with Mrs. Beezewater as
she promptly ticked off the mayor’s name on the ballot and left the polling
place with a look of contempt as she passed the information booth of
Doolittle’s challenger.
But
not everyone was as easily swayed as Patience Beezewater. Mr. Barclay-Filch,
for example, felt betrayed by the naked man’s sartorial flip-flop and secretly
voted for the mayor’s opponent though he openly claimed, even at the last
minute, that the mayor had his full support. The Reverend Crallwell, once again
citing the scriptures, found ample support from the heavens to no longer
support the mayor for, as it says in that great book “Your nakedness shall be
uncovered, and your disgrace shall be seen” – a reference to – well, we’re not quite
sure what the good reverend had in mind but it certainly did make an impression
on his followers. As for Mr. Falsetto, who was more interested in tending to the
dead than in caring for the living, he decided, after grave consideration, to
support the mayor’s opponent, for someone, he reasoned, had to champion a moribund
campaign.
Not
everything, however, went as smoothly as one should expect for, in some parts
of town, polling stations were ill-prepared to handle the swell of voters and,
in others, utter confusion reigned, for the mayor had closed down a number of
polling places in an effort to save taxpayer money. “For the public’s benefit,”
he insisted. It was not surprising then
that riots nearly broke out and the disgruntled remained – well, disgruntled. For
some people will never appreciate the efforts made on their behalf.
And
so the election proceeded as all elections do in this beacon of democracy. Exit
polls were conducted, pundits made predictions and the good citizens of — returned
to their lives satisfied that they had done their civic duty. Life went on as usual.
The roads remained in disrepair and prices continued to go up. For, as is
always the case, one candidate loses while another wins, and life goes on no
differently than it had prior to all the hubbub. Such are the blessings of
democracy.
So
it is really not important to declare who the winner was though, after
assessing the facts, it would be easy enough to guess. Let us just say that, afterwards,
life was no different than it had been beforehand. Those who had the means maintained their
esteemed roles while the rest continued to struggle in their everyday lives. Patience
Beezewater remained chair of the Women’s Society though her tenure was fast coming
to a close. Mr. Barclay-Filch continued to lend money and pocket fees, and Mr.
Falsetto went on burying the dead and the Reverend Crallwell comforting the
living, each earning large sums of money for their troubles. And no one, living
or dead, was in anyway the worse for it.
As
for the naked man, who is, after all, the focus of our story – well, his
carbuncle continued to spread, forcing him, little by little, to cover up
until, eventually, he was no longer naked. And because it was so gradual, people
failed to take notice – or, at least, failed to acknowledge what their eyes
were telling them. Eventually, he became an impeccable dresser and a pillar of the
town’s society. And while no one ever really forgot his former appearance, it
seemed such a faraway occurrence, that, as is often the case, it simply became
the stuff of fable.
The End
The Schedule of V├нhaan
 |
| John Clark Smith |
A Novel in Verse by John Clark Smith
3 Poison
Wherein we learn of
hidden weapons,
the message in Devanagari
alphabet,
Carina and Hut├бn escaping
the pirates,
the shame of wounding
marble,
the seven possibilities
and five signs,
how Carina and Aaron
viewed Pitworthy,
the deadly tubes,
and the many ways to kill
Hut├бn.
He recorded each inch of the room with the belief
George
might spot with its undistracted lens what eyes might
ignore.
As Hut├бn was filming, he focused more than usual
on the subject and noticed first, in the long straight
sections
of the counter, the girth was much deeper than in the
curved
sections and under these straight sections was a
covering,
a camouflaging material that looked like marble.
When he focused on a section in front of him, he saw
—so that he could never miss it—an aesthetic blemish,
a mark like a wound on the skin of a lovely woman,
and the sight bothered him because he saw marble as skin,
and who would want to “scar that beautiful skin,
smooth as the finest
marble?”[1]
yet someone had etched marks in this obvious place
—obvious to someone sitting where he was now sitting—
on the corner of the counter, with a cutting device,
possibly a dinner knife, thick hair pin, or a nail
file,
—like the nail file he had used when pirates took
Carina and him
aboard and tied them up and she secretly transferred
it
to Hut├бn as they sat in the brig and before they took
her up on deck, removed her clothes, and quickly
demanded
she sing “Happy Birthday” nude to their captain, this
event
proving to him three things. (Here begins one of many
lists
that anyone who worked with Hut├бn had to tolerate,
for such was his mind that never only one choice
occurred
to him.) First, that Carina had a pleasant singing
voice,
Second, what an ideal escape nakedness and a song
could offer, and Third, Herodotus’ titillating tale
of how Gyges obtained the throne of Sardis could be
true,[2]
since Carina warned the quite fearsome but
superstitious
crew before she sang that, if the captain saw her
naked,
either they must murder their captain or they would
all die.
Later, after they both escaped by jumping overboard,
the ship and all crew were reported as missing at sea.
Perhaps not a nail file, but the markings were fresh,
no doubt
because someone somewhere on its way was doodling on
it.
But on George’s examination the etching was shown
to display Devanagari not Latin alphabet,
which led him to Carina, since Carina often wrote
in Spanish using that script, a habit he often found—
though an effective system, combining different
scripts—
an annoying and strange approach. In the unexpected
original invitation, which of course at the time
he assumed came from Pitworthy, Carina agreed to meet
him on the island to scheme how they would rescue
V├нhaan,
whom she assumed Hydra or Dvorak now was holding.
Next Hut├бn transcribed the letters and uncovered some
Spanish words,
“Mire para un
pescado o bama,” which would mean
“look for a fish or bama,” which was a simple code for
both Gillian of Dvorak and Selma of Hydra—
Alabama in the United States was her home state.
But the cryptic note left unexplained when and how and
why
did Carina get to scratch these letters into the long
black
marble counter unless she had already arrived here
and had taken the time to laser for him the letters
with her favorite handy pocket laser tool shaped like
a lipstick holder; a doubtful event unless she learned
or gained what she sought already from within the
castle
and had to leave suddenly; unlikely too since she
would
never desert her team without a reason; or she
arrived,
had an urgent call elsewhere—perhaps someone or
something
drew her away—alerted Mustfarris she’d join Hut├бn
later somehow, somewhere. Other options would make
less sense
unfortunately, unfortunate because it involved
for him at least seven different possibilities,
each with its own dilemma. The First, that Mustfarris
was late
already without an indication how long Hut├бn
must wait; the Second, proceed perhaps without
expecting
Carina at all, realizing she may be handling
something urgent, leaving the war to Mustfarris and
him—
he intuitively could see signs of a coming war,
or at least a struggle by how deserted the room was
and the absence of a Remnant colleague and Pitworthy—
with hope that Carina or one of his team arrives soon;
the Third, that despite Hut├бn’s tacit approval of her,
Carina’s ethereal beauty—which some compared
to Botticelli’s Venus, whom Florentines then called
the most beautiful woman, while others, like
Mustfarris, the artist
among them, compared her to any of Robin Eley’s
hyper-realistic portraits, since there was an unreal
angelic yet enigmatic aspect to Carina
wrapped in an earthy, sexual, and threatening
charisma.
Mustfarris, as lover of Asian literature, saw
three sides to Carina: acting like Daiyu in her love
for Hut├бn with waif-like appearance, yet with
Baochai’s strength
and character that fooled many an avid opponent,
plus a third side like the quick-tempered manager of
men
and “perfect beauty” Jinlian, minus Jinlian’s hearty
lust.[3]
If not for her astounding skills, intelligence, and
gifts,
her magnetism could often be ineluctably
a strong distraction, a potent allure that could
derail,
delay, if not reverse the success the team might
achieve.
The Fourth, the expected and common communication
between the members hadn’t happened and nobody else
had received an invitation. The Fifth, since his blood
was
here, Mustfarris could be here, and if signs of blood
were here,
he could be bleeding here, though Hut├бn found blood
nowhere else,
and Carina did ask Mustfarris to come directly
to the island. The Sixth, Carina had met Pitworthy,
had experienced Pitworthy’s groping—she once stabbed
him
in the arm with a hairpin at a public gathering
in Hong Kong after a drunk Pitworthy had said, I own
you, and pinned her up against a wall, reached to
unbutton
her blouse while climbing his hand up her skirt when
she shouted,
touch me and
you’ll burn.[4]
And Seventh, suppose Carina never
came to the island and somebody used or knew of her
secret way of writing and was trying to confuse him.
All of the seven possibilities were troubling him,
any could happen here but none was supposed to happen.
But regardless of these dilemmas Hut├бn felt certain
a battle was imminent or perhaps had already
been fought, since The Schedule and V├нhaan warranted a
war,
and Pitworthy seemed in no rush to see him—where was
he?—
though Pitworthy, he had to admit, would usually
ask for Aaron, one of Pitworthy’s favorite movie
stars, while Aaron explained often and firmly to Hut├бn
he had no wish ever to be important or a friend
to a man such as Pitworthy, from whom, Aaron had said,
importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly,[5]
and asked
instead that Carina, Hut├бn, Mustfarris, or someone
else deal with Pitworthy—none, especially Carina,
would have ever wanted to socialize with him—plus he
was a patron; agents never befriended a patron,
for no patron could have any knowledge of their real
work
or how any of them came to join. But even Aaron’s
disdain for Pitworthy would never hold back Aaron
if he had foreseen either the cause or the likelihood
of a battle. He waited on Hut├бn’s confirmation.
Yet besides these possibilities there were certain
signs:
the First, that nothing was proceeding according to
plan,
a serious problem for anyone, but even more
for Hut├бn whose life depended upon accurately
forecasting future patterns, recognizing catalysts
and obstacles and preparing for workable answers.
The Second, he honestly now expected a conflict,
but an encounter within his plan not despite his plan.
The Third, that completely new and unstable elements
were appearing—death by counter slime poison—as if
there
was another plan within which he now was a factor.
The Fourth, that he was alone, and when he felt truly
alone
or isolated, someone usually was planning
an attack of some sort and was at least a step ahead.
And finally, the Fifth, that too many of his comrades
were at least implicated, which led to one conclusion,
as if it was not obvious to his intuition:
a potential conflict was brewing or an already
tragic event had transpired. Neither of them would
Hut├бn
avoid or ignore but only wish he had prepared more
and not assumed first that this invitation might only
be a routine meeting. Beyond these obvious factors,
he noticed when George saw small holes underneath the
counter,
each in carefully hidden equidistant locations—
how much this intruder must have despised this black
marble
to deface the incredible stone—and when examined,
these holes had tiny devices, accessories, and tubes
attached to them, paraphernalia that, when he came
close enough and opened the tubes, an odd odor seeped
out
—Wink his ever-alert dog quickly barked a loud
warning—
which George identified as a curry that reminded
him of his mother’s stew, but this distraction about
his
mother was temporary, since the more he inhaled this
smell
and heard Wink bark, the more another image of pungent
curry aroma arose—from a small empty London
flat on Queens Gardens where the Pakistani internal
security leader met him—Wink accompanied
Hut├бn—to ask about a new leak in security
that led them to London, to Hut├бn, to a secret meeting
with an embassy employee who was a liaison
with international security for Great Britain,
to ask Hut├бn the question security officials
everywhere asked, Why do you keep turning up?,
while the smell
of curry from an open pan on the empty kitchen
counter wafted and as his mind wandered to Proust
and pondered the singularity of odor[6]
and its
many questionable sources and connections, he snapped
to the present and the long marble counter, saw Wink
rush
to the windows, closed the tubes, ran to the window,
opened
it to its fullest extent, and stuck out his head as
far
as possible to clear his nostrils, lungs, eyes, skin,
and brain
of an acrid smell that—he could never forget—masked
an undetectable drug that either would induce sleep
and then, while sleeping, the victim helpless, calmly
at peace,
slowly paralyzes the lungs until the poor victim
could no longer breathe; or slowly kills them, as it
killed
Rohan at the San Sebastian fountain. When Hut├бn’s air
was fresh, he complained to himself that he to
Pitworthy
was a poor stand-in for Aaron. (Aaron he would fete,
Aaron he would ask advice.) Yet this train of thought
was
false, he realized, since Pitworthy wouldn’t have
knowledge
of the effects of this smell and the slime on the
counter
or even the green liquid, at which point he hurried
back
to the counter—Wink was fine and had escaped the odor—
and tried to use George to vitiate all the devices
and burn off the slime, hoping that another member had
not preceded him and fallen victim to the Devil
and his ways to get others to do his scandalous work
—as Goethe cautioned about the witch’s brew: “It’s
true,” he
wrote, “the Devil taught her, but the Devil cannot
make it”—[7]
Though someone did concoct a curry poison so potent
that it wouldn’t dissipate easily by George’s
attempts,
so potent that Hut├бn again rushed to the window—Wink
had never left—to fill his lungs with fresh air, his
soul
with fresh virtue, and his mind with fresh insight,
till the smell
left and he stared intently at the full glass of green
juice
sitting on the counter, a juice he hadn’t requested
or wanted, and though he never intended to drink it,
he decided, after the odor had finally left
the room, to return to the long black counter and let
George
analyze it. George confirmed it contained, besides
lime, gin,
and apple juice, snake venom and, so as not to
blunder,
an appropriate amount of hydrochloric acid,
a drink, with different fruits for color and taste,
that was
the favorite lethal cocktail invented by Hydra,
the group that lived by its own rules, and later more
often
a poison of that other nemesis of the Remnant,
the cartel Dvorak, named for its leader Nicholas
Dvorak, who preferred the factitious royal title
Benchin II, even though there never was a Benchin I
or even a Nicholas—his birth first name was Farley—
a name he adopted from Charles Dickens’ character
Nicholas Nickleby, a puzzling choice indeed for those
who have bothered to read the novel, since this
Nicholas
Dvorak ran his affairs more like the Nicholas I
of Russia and in character like Chaucer’s Nicholas
or Dickens’ Wackford Squeers.[8]
Dvorak did use this potion
to eliminate rivals and those suspected of real
or potential betrayal, though some believed advisors
used it against him, or that’s what some people
suspected
originally when Nicholas disappeared for a
month;
either Nicholas was quite alive—most people assumed
he had simply retreated because he was very ill,
needed some surgery and then rehabilitation,
or roamed about in some disguise to mix with the hoi
polloi, like Pope John the XXIII did—or that someone
was using his modus operandi with the green juice,
all of which led to one thought, that Hut├бn had been a
fool
and target long enough, and this castle hall, always
used
as a platform of humiliation by Pitworthy,
dreaded by anyone doing business or conferring
with him, had clearly morphed into something more
portentous
and predatory, a staging for something quite deadly,
with the odor and the counter slime and the green
liquid,
perhaps to kill Hut├бn himself and if so, they must be
be observing or nearby; but in the end, regardless
who was responsible for this scheme, Hut├бn was the
bait
in this game of death, each step brought another step
toward doom.
Hut├бn’s first concern was for his team—he quickly
texted
each of them—though Carina almost certainly had been
in this room, had lasered her message, and then
decided
she had to leave, escaped, or someone had defeated
her—
a most doubtful event because Hut├бn had never seen
anyone, even the skilled warrior Mustfarris, beat
her one on one—assuming she could leave; and if
someone
did leave or escape, he’d remain as long as necessary
to know what happened, let the plan roll out, react in
time
hopefully, though he sensed The Schedule and V├нhaan
were now
at the heart and he was almost certain that Dvorak
or Hydra had arranged it, leaving only one question:
if Hydra or Dvorak did lure him to the island,
why here, why this island of Pitworthy, and, as he
asked
himself the question, he had an answer; because only
three powers on earth knew of the island’s
significance:
Dvorak, Hydra, and The Schedule. Only they would
choose
to defeat the Remnant in its most special and historic
place where they had many meetings and established
their goals
and principles. Hut├бn was betting now the ultimate
source was The Schedule, leading to the final query,
more like a tocsin: how would someone know what The
Schedule
knows unless V├нhaan had informed them, a prospect that
made
Hut├бn at first ask himself if any choice was only
the result of fortunate circumstances or bad luck.
[1]
Othello says this of Desdemona’s skin in Shakespeare, “Othello,” Act 5, Scene
2.
[2] Herodotus (ca. 484-425 BCE), Histories, Book I.
[3] Daiyu and Baochai are two female characters from the novel Hong Lou Meng (Dream of the Red Chamber) (mid-18th century). Jin Lian (Gold Lotus) is from the novel Jin Ping Mei (The Plum in the Golden Vase)(late 16th century).
[4] From “Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing” by Margaret Atwood (1939 - ).
[5] From Jane Austen (1775-1817), Pride and Prejudice, end of Chapter 26.
[6] The importance of smell is a key device in Proust’s novel, ├А la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time).
[8] See Canterbury Tales, “Miller’s Tale,” by Chaucer (ca. 1343-1400), and Nicholas Nickleby by Dickens (1812-1870), where Wackford Squeers appears.
[2] Herodotus (ca. 484-425 BCE), Histories, Book I.
[3] Daiyu and Baochai are two female characters from the novel Hong Lou Meng (Dream of the Red Chamber) (mid-18th century). Jin Lian (Gold Lotus) is from the novel Jin Ping Mei (The Plum in the Golden Vase)(late 16th century).
[4] From “Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing” by Margaret Atwood (1939 - ).
[5] From Jane Austen (1775-1817), Pride and Prejudice, end of Chapter 26.
[6] The importance of smell is a key device in Proust’s novel, ├А la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time).
[8] See Canterbury Tales, “Miller’s Tale,” by Chaucer (ca. 1343-1400), and Nicholas Nickleby by Dickens (1812-1870), where Wackford Squeers appears.
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