A related novel: Gilbert Sorrentino's Mulligan Stew
Here is a series from O'Brien's column in the Irish Times:
BUCHHANDLUNG
A visit that I paid to the house of a newly-married friend the
other day set me thinking. My friend is a man of great wealth
and vulgarity. When he had set about buying bedsteads, tables,
chairs and what-not, it occurred to him to buy also a library.
Whether he can read or not, I do not know, but some savage faculty
for observation told him that most respectable and estimable people
usually had a lot of books in their houses. So he bought several
book-cases and paid some rascally middleman to stuff them with
all manner of new books, some of them very costly volumes on the
subject of French landscape painting. I noticed on my visit that
not one of them had ever been opened or touched, and remarked
the fact.
'When I get settled down properly,' said the fool, 'I'll have
to catch up on my reading.'
This is what set me thinking. Why should a wealthy person like
this be put to the trouble of pretending to read at all? Why not
a professional book-handler to go in and suitably maul his library
for so-much per shelf? Such a person, if properly qualified, could
make a fortune.
DOG EARS FOUR-A-PENNY
Let me explain exactly what I mean. The wares in a bookshop look
completely unread. On the other hand, a school-boy's Latin dictionary
looks read to the point of tatters. You know that the dictionary
has been opened and scanned perhaps a million times, and if you
did not know that there was such a thing as a box on the ear,
you would conclude that the boy is crazy about Latin and cannot
bear to be away from his dictionary. Similarly with our non-brow
who wants his friends to infer from a glancing around his house
that he is a high-brow. He buys an enormous book on the Russian
ballet, written possibly in the language of that distant but beautiful
land. Our problem is to alter the book in a reasonably short time
so that anybody looking at it will conclude that its owner has
practically lived, supped and slept with it for many months. You
can, if you like, talk about designing a machine driven by a small
but efficient petrol motor that would 'read' any book in five
minutes, the equivalent of five years or ten years' 'reading'
being obtained by merely turning a knob. This, how-ever, is the
cheap soulless approach of the times we live in. No machine can
do the same work as the soft human fingers. The trained and ex-perienced
book-handler is the only real solution of this contemporary social
problem. What does he do? How does he work? What would he charge?
How many types of handling would there be?
These questions and many - I will answer the day after tomorrow.
* * *
THE WORLD OF BOOKS
Yes, this question of book-handling. The other day I had a word
to say about the necessity for the professional book-handler,
a person who will maul the books of illiterate, but wealthy, upstarts
so that the books will look as if they have been read and re-read
by their owners. How many uses of mauling would there be? Without
giving the matter much thought, I should say four. Supposing an
experienced handler is asked to quote for the handling of one
shelf of books four feet in length. He would quote thus under
four heads:--
'Popular Handling--Each volume to be well and truly handled, four
leaves in each to be dog-eared, and a tram ticket, cloak-room
docket or other comparable article inserted in each as a forgotten
book-mark. Say, £1 7s 6d. Five per cent discount for civil
servants.'
'Premier Handling-Each volume to be thoroughly handled, eight
leaves in each to be dog-eared, a suitable passage in not less
than 25 volumes to be underlined in red pencil, and a leaflet
in French on the works of Victor Hugo to be inserted as a forgotten
book-mark in each. Say, £2 17s 6d. Five per cent discount
for literary university students, civil servants and lady social
workers.'
A RATE TO SUIT ALL PURSES
The great thing about this graduated scale is that no person need
appear ignorant or unlettered merely because he or she is poor.
Not every vulgar person, remember, is wealthy, although I could
name...
But no matter. Let us get on to the more expensive grades of handling.
The next is well worth the extra money.
'De Luxe Handling--Each volume to be mauled savagely, the spines
of the smaller volumes to be damaged in a manner that will give
the impres-sion that they have been carried around in pockets,
a passage in every volume to be underlined in red pencil with
an exclamation or interrogation mark inserted in the margin opposite,
an old Gate Theatre programme to be inserted in each volume as
a forgotten book-mark (3 per cent dis-count if old Abbey
programmes are accepted), not less than 30 volumes to be treated
with old coffee, tea, porter or whiskey stains, and not less than
five volumes to be inscribed with forged signatures of the authors.
Five per cent discount for bank managers, county surveyors and
the heads of business houses employing not less than 35 hands.
Dog-ears extra and inserted according to instructions, twopence
per half dozen per volume. Quotations for alternative old Paris
theatre programmes on demand. This service available for a limited
time only, nett, £7 18s 3d.'
ORDER YOUR COPY NOW
The fourth class is the Handling Superb, although it is not called
that--Le Traitement Superbe being the more usual title.
It is so superb that I have no space for it today. It will appear
here on Monday next, and, in honour of the occasion, the Irish
Times on that day will be printed on hand-scutched antique
interwoven demidevilled superfine Dutch paper, each copy to be
signed by myself and to be accompanied by an exquisite picture
in tri-colour lithograph of the Old House in College Green. The
least you can do is to order your copy in advance.
And one more word. It is not sufficient just to order your copy.
Order it in advance.
* * *
IT WILL BE remembered (how, in Heaven's
name, could it be forgotten) that I was discoursing on Friday
last on the subject of book-handling, my new service, which enables
ignorant people who want to be suspected of reading books to have
their books handled and mauled in a manner that will give the
impression that their owner is very devoted to them. I des-cribed
three grades of handling and promised to explain what you get
under am Four--the Superb Handling, or the Traitement Superbe,
as we lads who spent our honeymoon in Paris prefer to call it.
It is the dearest of them all, of course, but far cheaper than
dirt when you consider the amount of prestige you will gain in
the eyes of your ridiculous friends. Here are the details.
'Le Traitement Superbe'. Every volume to be well and truly
handled, first by a qualified handler and subsequently by a master-handler
who shall have to his credit not less than 550 handling hours;
suitable passages in not less than fifty per cent of the books
to be underlined in good-quality red ink and an appropriate phrase
from the following list inserted in the margin, viz:
Rubbish!
Yes, indeedl
How true, how true!
I don't agree at all.
Why?
Yes, but cf. Homer, Od., iii, 151.
Well, well, well.
Quite, but Boussuet in his Discours sur l'histoire Universelle
has already established the same point and given much more forceful
explanations.
Nonsense, nonsense!
A point well taken!
But why in heaven's name?
I remember poor Joyce saying the very same thing to me.
Need I say that a special quotation may be obtained at any time for the supply of Special and Exclusive Phrases? The extra charge is not very much, really.
FURTHERMORE
That, of course, is not all. Listen to this:
Not less than six volumes to be inscribed with forged messages
of affection and gratitude from the author of each work, e.g.,
'To my old friend and fellow-writer, A.B., in affectionate remembrance,
from George Moore.'
'In grateful recognition of your great kindness to me, dear A.B.,
I send you this copy of The Crock of Gold. Your old friend,
James Stephens.'
'Well, A.B., both of us are getting on. I am supposed to be a
good writer now, but I am not old enough to forget the infinite
patience you displayed in the old days when guiding my young feet
on the path of literature. Accept this further book, poor as it
may be, and please believe that I remain, as ever, your friend
and admirer, G. Bernard Shaw.'
'From your devoted friend and follower, K. Marx.'
'Dear A.B.,-Your invaluable suggestions and assistance, not to
mention your kindness, in entirely re-writing chapter 3, entitles
you, surely, to this first copy of "Tess". From your
old friend T. Hardy.'
'Short of the great pleasure of seeing you personally, I can only
send you, dear A.B., this copy of "The Nigger". I miss
your company more than I can say... (signature undecipherable).'
Under the last inscription, the moron who owns the book will be
asked to write (and shown how if necessary) the phrase 'Poor old
Conrad was not the worst.'
All this has taken me longer to say than I thought. There is far
more than this to be had for the paltry £32 7s 6d that the
Superb Handling will cast you. In a day or two I hope to explain
about the old letters which are inserted in some of the books
by way of forgotten book-marks, every one of them an exquisite
piece of forgery. Order your copy now!
* * *
I PROMISED to say a little more about
the fourth, or Superb, grade of book handling.
The price I quoted includes the insertion in not less than ten
volumes of certain old letters, apparently used at one time as
bookmarks, and forgotten. Each letter will bear the purported
signature of some well-known humbug who is associated with ballet,
verse-mouthing, folk-dancing, wood-cutting, or some other such
activity that is sufficiently free from rules to attract the non-brows
in their swarms. Each of the letters will be a flawless forgery
and will thank A.B., the owner of the book, for his 'very kind
interest in our work', refer to his 'invaluable advice and guidance',
his 'unrivalled knowledge' of the lep-as-lep-can game, his 'patient
and skilful direction of the corps on Monday night', thank him
for his very generous--too generous--subscription of two hundred
guineas, 'which is appreciated more than I can say'. As an up-to-the-minute
inducement, an extra letter will be included free of charge. It
will be signed (or purport to be signed) by one or other of the
noisier young non-nationals who are honouring our beautiful land
with their presence. This will satisfy the half- ambition of the
majority of respectable vulgarians to maintain a second establishment
in that somewhat congested thoroughfare, Queer Street.
The gentleman who are associated with me in the Dublin WAAMA League
have realised that this is the off-season for harvesting the cash
of simple people through the medium of the art-infected begging
letter, and have turned their attention to fresh fields and impostures
new. The latest racket we have on hands is the Myles na gCopaleen
Book Club. You join this and are spared the nerve-racking bother
of choosing your own books. We do the choosing for you, and, when
you get the book, it is ready--rubbed, ie, subjected free
of charge to our expert handlers. You are spared the trouble of
soiling and mauling it to give your friends the impression that
you can read. An odd banned book will be slipped in for those
who like conversation such as:--
'I say, did you read this, old man?'
'I'm not terribly certain that I did, really.'
'It's banned, you know, old boy.'
'Ow.'
There is no nonsense about completing a form, asking for a brochure,
or any other such irritation. You just send in your guinea and
you imme-diately participate in this great cultural uprising of
the Irish people.
CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM
Occasionally we print and circulate works written specially for
the Club by members of the WAAMA League. Copies are sent out in
advance to well-known critics, accompanied by whatever fee that
is usually required to buy them. We sent one man ten bob with
a new book and asked him to say that once one takes the book up
one cannot leave it down. The self-opinionated gobdaw returned
the parcel with an impudent note saying that his price was twelve
and sixpence. Our reply was immediate. Back went the parcel with
twelve and sixpence and a curt note saying that we were accepting
the gentleman's terms. In due course we printed the favourable
comment I have quoted.
But for once we took steps to see that our critic spoke the truth.
The cover of the volume was treated with a special brand of invisible
glue that acts only when subjected to the heat of the hands. When
our friend had concluded his cursory glance through the work and
was about to throw it away, it had become practically part of
his physical personality. Not only did the covers stick to his
fingers, but the whole volume began to dis-integrate into a viscous
mess of treacly slime. Short of having his two arms amputated,
putting the book down was an impossibility. He had to go round
with the book for a week and submit to being fed like a baby by
his maid. He got rid of the masterpiece only by taking a course
of scalding hot baths that left him as weak as a kitten.
That's the sort of customers we of the WAAMA League are.
Letters have been pouring in in shoals (please notice that when
it is a question of shoals of letters they always pour) regarding
the book-handling service inaugurated by my Dublin WAAMA League.
It has been a great success. Our trained handlers have been despatched
to the homes of some of the wealthiest and most ignorant in the
land to maul, bend, bash, and gnaw whole casefuls of virgin books.
Our printing presses have been turning out fake Gate Theatre and
Abbey programmes by the hundred thousand, not to mention pamphlets
in French, holograph letters signed by George Moore, medieval
playing cards, and the whole paraphernalia of humbug and pretence.
There will be black sheep in every fold, of course. Some of our
handlers have been caught using their boots, and others have been
found thrashing inoffensive volumes of poetry with horsewhips,
flails, and wooden clubs. Books have been savagely attacked with
knives, daggers, knuckle-dusters, hatchets, rubber-piping, razor-blade-potatoes,
and every device of assault ever heard of in the underworld. Novice
handlers, not realising that tooth-marks on the cover of a book
are not accepted as evidence that its owner has read it, have
been known to train terriers to worry a book as they would a rat.
One man (he is no longer with us) was sent to a house in Kilmainham,
and was later discovered in the Zoo handing in his employer's
valuable books to Charlie the chimpanzee. A country-born handler
'read' his books beyond all recognition by spreading them out
on his employer's lawn and using a horse and harrow on them, subsequently
ploughing them in when he realised that he had gone a little bit
too far. Moderation, we find, is an extremely difficult thing
to get in this country.
OUR NEW SERVICE
That, however, is by the way. A lot of the letters we receive
are from well-off people who have no books. Nevertheless,
they want to be thought educated. Can we help them, they ask?
Of course. Let nobody think that only book-owners can be smart.
The Myles na gCopaleen Escort Service is the answer.
Why be a dumb dud? Do your friends shun you? Do people cross the
street when they see you approaching? Do they run up the steps
of strange houses, pretend they live there and force their way
into the hall while you are passing by? If this is the sort of
a person you are, you must avail yourself today of this new service.
Otherwise, you might as well be dead.
OUR SERVICE EXPLAINED
Here is how it happened. The WAAMA League has had on its hands
for some time past a horde of unemployed ventriloquists who have
been beseeching us to get them work. These gentlemen have now
been carefully trained and formed in a corps to operate this new
escort service.
Supposing you are a lady and so completely dumb that the dogs
in the street do not think you are worth growling at. You ring
up the WAAMA League and explain your trouble. You are pleased
by the patient and sympathetic hearing you get. You are instructed
to be in attendance at the foyer of the Gate Theatre that evening,
and to look out for a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman of
military bearing attired in immaculate evening dress. You go.
You meet him. He advances towards you smiling, ignoring all the
other handsome baggages that litter the place. In an instant his
moustaches are brushing your lips.
'I trust I have not kept you waiting, Lady Charlotte,' he says
pleasantly. What a delightfully low, manly voice!
'Not at all, Count,' you answer, your voice being the tinkle of
silver bells. 'And what a night it is for Ibsen. One is in the
mood, somehow. Yet a translation can never be quite the same.
Do you remember that night. . .inStockholm. . . long ago?'
THE SECRET
The fact of the matter is, of course, that you have taken good
care to say nothing. Your only worry throughout the evening is
to shut up and keep shut up completely. The trained escort answers
his own manly ques-tions in a voice far pleasanter than your own
unfeminine quack, and gives answers that will astonish the people
behind for their brilliance and sparkle.
There are escorts and escorts according to the number of potatoes
you are prepared to pay. Would you like to score off your escort
in a literary argument during an interlude? Look out for further
information on this absorbing new service.
'Well, well, Godfrey, how awfully wizard being at the theatre
with you!'
'Yes, it is fun.'
'What have you been doing with yourself?'
'Been trying to catch up with my reading, actually.'
'Ow, good show, keep in touch and all that.'
'Yes, I've been studying a lot of books on Bali. You know?'
'Ballet is terribly bewitching, isn't it? D'you like Petipa?'
'I'm not terribly sure that I do, but they seem to have developed
a complete art of their own, you know. Their sense of décor
and their general feeling for the plastic is quite marvellous.'
'Yes, old Dérain did some frightfully good work for them;
for the Spectre, I think it was, actually. Sort of grisaille,
you know.'
'But their feeling for matiére is so profound and... almost
brooding. One thinks of Courbet.'
'Yes, or Ingres.'
'Or Delacroix, don't you think?'
'Definitely. Have you read Karsavina?'
'Of course.'
'Of course, how stupid of me. I saw her, you know.'
'Ow, I hadn't realised that she herself was a Balinese.'
'Balinese? What are you driving at?'
'But--'
'But--'
EXPLANATION
This ridiculous conversation took place recently in an Irish theatre.
The stuff was spoken in loud voices so that everybody could hear.
It was only one of the many fine things that have been done by
the Dublin WAAMA League's Escort Service. The League's horde of
trained ventrilo-quists can now be heard carrying out their single-handed
conversations all over the city and in the drawing-rooms of people
who are very import-ant and equally ignorant. You know the system?
If you are very dumb, you hire one of our ventriloquists to accompany
you in public places, and he does absolutely all the talking.
The smart replies which you appear to make will astonish yourself
as much as the people around you.
The conversation I have quoted is one of the most expensive on
the menu. You will note that it contains a serious misunderstanding.
This makes the thing appear extraordinarily genuine. Imagine my
shrewdness in making the ventriloquist misunderstand what he is
saying himself! Conceive my guile, my duplicate duplicity, my
play on ignorance and gullibility! Is it any wonder that I have
gone into the banking business?