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Um, hello. Yes. Hello, then.
You probably realise that
I’m not The Narrator. That is, if you’ve read the title above—which I hope you
have, since it’s a very good... yes.
Look, sorry. I’m not used to
these blog things. I’ve never started one myself, and I don’t know anyone who
has. Well, except for The Narrator, who’s apparently started two of them.
That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think? Having two blogs covering the same
time span—one (this one) much longer than the other. Of course, not being privy
to that blog, you wouldn’t know anything about it, would you? Frankly, I’m not
sure who’s reading this one. The Narrator, you see, didn’t give me any
instructions vis a vis posting this to any website, and all of my JSTOR and
LexisNexis searches have turned up nil for most of the more unique sentences in
this thing. So, point being, I’m not sure anyone is reading this.
Though, on the other hand,
someone must be reading this, for if not, then why would The Narrator be asking
me to “fill in” for a gap of time in posting? And, more importantly—once
again—to write “like myself” as opposed to the more flowery and traditionally,
shall we say, Victorian style that The Narrator has adopted elsewhere. And on
that note, one must wonder why, exactly, The Narrator, a largely unVictorian
sort of man when it comes to everything except romance (though, frankly, I have
never spoken to the man about such topic, and have only this blog, and the
other, to go on—though when considering the proposition inherent in these blogs
[that is, that they have fictional elements (such as the scenes wherein The
Narrator is drugged and taken to some absurd dungeon)], neither may very well
be an accurate portrayal of The Narrator’s feelings)—yes, apologies—one must
wonder why The Narrator has chosen to adopt said style.
I shall have to query him
about that the next time we meet, and I am not in a mad rush to the library.
The one thing The Narrator
did suggest is that I take this time to introduce myself to you—whoever “you”
may be. So: Hello again. My name is The Student and I am studying the
correlation between classical and neo-classical mentalities in the literature
of Joseph Conrad.
Well, studying that at the
moment. It may very well change. I despise Conrad, you see. I know, I know.
There are legions of academics who would lynch me for saying that, but there is
something utterly despicable about the man’s utter and overwhelming desire to
be seen as British instead of his native nationality. Why, I do not know.
Perhaps it was because of political turmoil, or some self-loathing instinct. But
when an author such as Kafka—one of the greats, and there can be no doubt of
that—willingly identifies himself with such an obscure nationality as
Hungarian, then why must Conrad divorce himself from a nation that has played a
large role in European affairs like Poland? Such a confusing mental state, if
you were to ask me.
But you didn’t. No doubt you
want to hear more about my love life or something.
It’s dead. Is that short
enough for you? Dead, blasted, and buried. Fucking paratroopers. Yes, yes, yes,
I know, he may not have had the anxiety that defines me to such a whole extent,
and may in fact have had more people skills, but that’s all nonsense.
Also, if you are of the
clever sort, you may have noticed the tense of that phrasing up there. I’m
writing this well after the fact of the year in Canterbury that the five of us
underwent. I’m under strict orders to not tell you what The Narrator—or anyone
else—is up to (though I can assure you it is nothing amazing and is quite
dull), only that I may say what I am doing. I am working on my Ph.D in Comp
Lit—focusing on what I mentioned above.
I believe that there was
some mention of my hatred for Conrad in this narrative before, so I shan’t
dwell on it. I will only say that it is sometimes easier to talk about what you
hate more than what you love.
Right, anyway.
The Narrator left off
talking about the time Tuna, The Drunkard, and he broke into the Inquire
offices. That much is true—and we know it is true because the next day, the new
issue of Inquire had the headline of “DIE INQUIRE IST TOT, DADA UBER ALLES”,
followed by bricks of text in the Wingdings font. It was, for lack of a better
word, mental.
No one got the joke, it
seemed, except Literature students—and even then, only the ones who really
cared about what they were studying. (So, that is to say, there were about ten
who got the joke. I was one, along with six other post-grads, and I think I
overheard a couple of third years in Mungo’s discuss the implications of the
return of Dadaism.) Regardless, The Drunkard saw this as a triumph against the
forces of mediocrity on the paper—and, in a way, it was. The editor was let go
soon after the issue was released, and the assistant editor, who I knew as a
third year who was more focused on buying three hundred pounds’ worth of
make-up along side a couple hundred pounds’ worth of accessories every month,
was put in his place.
The next issue—which came
out a month after the Dada issue—resembled more of a celebrity gossip tabloid
than anything else. The Drunkard foamed at the mouth and tried to encourage his
French flatmates to rise up and break out Madame Guillotine. (The veracity of
that account of events, wherein The Stalker was almost decapitated, is still in
question in my mind. If I remember correctly, it was around the time when The
Drunkard first discovered mead, and shared it with The Narrator, and both were
quite drunk when the former told the latter the story. I believe if there were
such a thing as Madame Guillotine, The Drunkard would have used it upon The
Writer by now.) As evidenced by the lack of murder, The Drunkard was not
successful in his appeal, and, the month after that, another issue of Inquire
came out—this time focusing on an all-Lady Gaga issue. The Drunkard disappeared
for a week after that.
Anyway, I think that The
Narrator intended me not to give you a full recounting of those events, but
more of what he was doing after the break-in.
For whatever reason, talking
about rehearsals makes him go twitchy. I don’t know why. He seemed fine and
happy at the time, so why he should, a year and a half after, feel the need to
overdramaticize the events—or whatever it is that he is doing by having another
peron write about what happened to him—is beyond me. Here. This is what he
wrote:
On October 4, 2011 at
1:23AM, TheNarrator@Gmail.com wrote:
Student,
I need some help from you,
buddy.
Been working on that blog,
right? (No, not the one you saw when we were in Canterbury—that one’s long over
since I’ve finally stopped reading fucking Coleridge. The other one that I may
have mentioned to you a couple times. And if not: There’s a second blog. Layers
upon layers upon layers; turtles on turtles on turles; INCEPTION.)
Anyway, I’m hitting a rut
with it, and could use someone else to write a bit for me. I’m going to start
with you, then, depending on how that goes, go to the others.
But yeah, I’m about that
point in the spring term when Fiddler rehearsals were ratcheting up, and I
don’t want to talk about them. Yes. I know it’s weird. I have my reasons. Please
stop judging me.
-
Narrator
On October 4, 2011 at
8:32AM, TheStudent@Gmail.com wrote
You wrote that at 1:30 in
the morning? Narrator, don’t you have a job? Are you okay? Dear Lord, man. Seek
help if you have insomnia and don’t worry about your bloody blog.
Yes, I will write a guest
chapter. Just, please, get some sleep.
--
