Careful as I was not to associate too freely with the
gentlemen of the road it must also be said that I did
not shirk at donating some small contribution towards
the need of the hour or indeed to occasionally engage
in some irreverent conversation and [usually] good
humoured banter. So I became uneasy and surprised when
a strange and curious phenomenon descended on the city
with the anonymity and eeriness of a dead vampire�s
cloak - all the street tramps had somehow acquired the
uncanny ability to recite poems and furthermore to
deliver them not only verbatim but occasionally
enhancing their performance through the medium of
dramatic mime.
Of course at first I thought I was mistaken. I had
just deposited a pound into the upturned hat of a down
and out, who, by the wording of his begging sign
obviously favoured the more direct approach � �CAN YE
SPARE A QUID - AH�M NEEDIN A BOATTLE O CIDER.�
I had chuckled to myself over the audacity, or was it
the honesty, of the man? Whatever the case I tossed
the coin in and waited for the customary, �God bless�
or �ta pal,� but it never came so I made a mental note
to miss the cheeky old rogue out next time. In fact it
was fast becoming more and more obvious that these
bouts of spontaneous generosity were nothing more than
misguided attempts to massage my own ego, pseudo
charitable acts designed to boost my self image of
benevolence, superior social standing and importance.
So having scolded myself over this egocentric
foolishness and curiously hurt by the tramp�s refusal
to adhere to the unwritten laws of beggar�s etiquette,
it is with a pang of regret that I admit to reacting
childishly; scowling at the bulky figure lurking in
the shadows, haughtily clicking my heels indicating
disapproval and warning of my immanent departure. But
I was halted in my tracks with the softly but clearly
spoken words of a poem I�d not heard read since
school, although stunned and shocked I began listening
more intently and had to grudgingly acknowledge the
merits and professionalism of the mysterious rendition
that gushed forth from the darkened doorway.
...And ice mast high came floating by...
Surely this could be the dulcet tones of no tramp! I
stuck my hand into the darkness, groping at the
shadowy silhouette in a desperate attempt to uncover
its elusive identity, so when I came into contact with
substantial flesh, rather than ghostly gases, a
certain degree of confidence returned to my
apprehensive heart. Short lived! I feared attack,
robbery or even murder as my wrist was snapped back
and the poet leaned menacingly forward from his chilly
cove - all too solidly real....and vocal.
...Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest...
His reassurance was somewhat negated by his rum
ravaged face, contorted as it was into a grotesque
mask of diabolical threat. He loosened his grip and I
at once skipped back and made my escape, stumbling
through the narrow, rain-soaked cobbled street, never
daring once to stop for breath or [heaven forbid] to
look back.
So it was with not inconsiderable relief that I
entered the Black Bull Tavern shaking from cold and
traumatic ordeal. The taverner, noticing the
uncontrollable trembling, elicited a sarcastic knowing
look as he handed me my large whisky but I was too
ruffled to even try defend myself against such an
outrageous, silent accusation of alcoholism. I sat
alone in the corner next to the roaring log fire
watching the steam rise from my damp clothing and
going over in my head what had just happened. I must
of dozed off because next thing I knew the taverner
was booming �HURRY UP PLEASE IT�S TIME�.
I shuddered.
There was something oddly familiar about that call but
I dismissed it as over-active imagining due to nervous
agitation on my part or mere coincidence. However, the
dismissal panned out to be wishful thinking because on
my way home I passed two vagabonds warming themselves
round a burning oil drum; one able-bodied and bearded,
the other a crippled dwarf huddled inside a makeshift
wheelchair. Able-bodied turned to me, his face lit up
by the crackling flames and gestured towards his
companion with out-stretched arm:-
...Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as
you ! ...
The blood drained from my head as I reeled backwards
into an unconscious faint.
Feeling weak and somewhat vulnerable the next day, I
foolishly decided to remain in bed. It would have been
better to keep busy, the idleness merely acted as a
catalyst for wild conjectures and irrational fear. I
tossed and turned, came out in a lather of sweat and
every lapse into slumber resulted in the onslaught of
horrific nightmares, some of which pervaded into
wakefulness as spiders crawled all over. But it was
when the baboon with a lizard�s head requested my
order for lunch that I decided enough was enough and
ran out, naked and screaming, into the street.
I found myself down the Grassmarket where I joined an
odd band of tramps who had gathered at the site of the
old gallows, intently watching a street show. I was
grateful when a kindly Samaritan slipped his overcoat
round my shoulders. It stank of cheap wine and stale
tobacco smoke but shielded me from the icy wind and
curious stares of strangers.
...For England�s shame, O Sister Realm! From wood
Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, where lie
The headless martyrs of the Covenant...
The orator�s powerful voice roared out to us from his
elevated position, stuck up as he was on top of a
soapbox like a communist shop steward agitator. The
mime artists were only distinguishable from the
audience by the fact that they had made a half-hearted
attempt to white-up their faces with chalk. They were
enacting the seventeenth century executions of the
Covenanters - an unjust persecution of ordinary men
and woman whose ghosts were to be often heard wailing
and groaning throughout the derelict dungeons and
gaols of the old town. I had to bow my head and raise
my hand in apology in an attempt to quell the furious
reaction as I sniggered at the redundancy of the
wardrobe department in supplying the victim�s ripped
and filthy clothing. But the pieces of flayed flesh
and deep red flowing blood had done make-up proud,
indeed it seemed unfathomable how such an amateur
production had managed to simulate bloated, lolling
tongues and the stench of excrement. The lifeless
corpses were thrown into the back of a hay cart and
sensing the end of the show I left them to it and took
my leave in search of food and liquid sustenance.
Lack of funds and suitable attire forced me to darken
the door of the Sailor�s Ark Soup Kitchen where I was
given a bowl of porridge and a mug of steaming hot
tea. I sat opposite a sparse-toothed, straw-haired,
mumbling hag who seemed shocked that anyone could bear
to be in such close vicinity. Hardly surprising
because when she attempted to enter into conversation
bits of food and spittle splattered into my face. I
moved out of range and examined the piece of paper I
had discovered in the pocket of the Samaritan�s
overcoat. It contained a crudely drawn map, in crayon,
that I was at a loss to decipher. I was about to crush
up and discard it when I noticed my new found
acquaintance had her hand stretched out. She seemed
grateful when I dropped the map into her palm. She
examined it and stood up on a chair.
...The walls of Jericho were stout and strong
like the forbidding of a giant�s calloused hand ...
She spat out in an astonishing moment of near clarity
and apparently seized by the need to attend a
forgotten appointment she jumped down and marched
through the exit door. Intrigued I followed on behind
trying hard to keep a sensible distance and not to
appear as if I were her companion or being able to
understand a mumbled word that she said. This amateur
act of espionage, in hindsight, proved disastrous as
it culminated in my being drawn into the clutches of
the tyrant of Jericho. It was when examining the door
into which my dining companion had disappeared that I
first encountered the overwhelming, charismatic
presence of a man resembling a youthful, born again
biblical prophet who had developed an unhealthy,
obsessive fixation for black eyeliner make-up and
samurai swords. Showing no surprise at the intrusion
of an inquisitive stranger he seemed pleased with
himself as he held me with his clear, light blue eyes,
out of which no kindness shone. He stood aside and
ushered me inside with much laying on of hands, from
which no reassurance could be felt. Inspecting Jericho
I could see that it consisted mainly of a large room
full to bursting with tramps, our host played the
role, with ease, of a creepy cult figure roaming
through his assembled band of dispossessed followers
excepting reverence and adoration with the smug air of
a false prophet. There was much smoking, munching of
charity sandwiches and imbibing of cheap wine and
cider but an unsettling lack of conversation of any
kind; they stood silent either staring at their
mysterious mentor or trying to touch his flowing robes
as he passed between them. When he reached the centre
of the room he was hoisted up on the shoulders of a
group who could only be described as his apostles, he
held out his open palms and the poetry began. Everyone
started to chant but the ensuing noise was
indecipherable because of the disparate nature of its
make-up - each man and woman championing a different
verse. There were modern poems, rhyming poems,
romantic poems, limericks, epics, in fact every kind
of poem you could think of; the fallen old Etonian on
my right was barking out military pieces with gusto
and relish which clashed with the wee wizened wife on
my left whose preference obviously lay with Japanese
haiku. Curiously though the effect lacked chaos and
confusion indeed it has to be said that there was a
surprising atmosphere of uplifting calmness and latent
power exuded by the unwashed actors and their bizarre
performances.
How long this went on for I could not say but just as
a wave of fatigue threatened to overwhelm me the
mumbling crone re-appeared through the throng and led
me by the hand to a back room which was bedecked with
rows of straw mattresses, many of which were already
occupied with heaving, humping masses of humanity. I
prayed that the hag had no designs of a carnal nature
but fortunately my fears were unfounded, she seemed
content to kneel on my chest forcing the air from my
lungs and to soak my face with a swinging slaver of
saliva that hung from her slobbering mouth.
Jock the security man drew me a dirty look as I
entered my workplace still wearing the coat of the
good Samaritan but I pre-empted any belligerent
complaint by greeting him with a cheery false smile
and inquiring about the health of his elderly mother -
a subject dear to his heart and of which he never
tired of boring anyone stupid enough to get caught in
the trap. So it was with a newly acquired knowledge of
the suffering involved when stricken with swollen,
itching haemorrhoids that I solemnly entered the
boss�s office.
...how could I have known
that my blood would
spurt
in time
with a deaf
cuckoo�s heart...
The bored expression on her face indicated to me that
somehow my boss was unimpressed when it came to the
imagery to be experienced through poetic expression
but when I attempted to enhance the aesthetic quality
of the poem by hammering a six inch rusty nail through
my palm into her desk I managed to captivate her full
attention. Actions, it would seem, speak louder than
words.
From the time when, at last, my jaw slackened again I
can honestly say that my stay in the institution was a
far from unpleasant experience; the bed was clean and
comfortable, the staff were amiable enough and, best
of all, they administered me with a daily dose of a
varied selection of pills in a little plastic cup that
resembled the cap of an aerosol. The exact purpose of
these medications I�m at a loss to inform you, all I
know for sure is that they [mercifully] staved off
feverish visitations from busy arachnids and mutant
primates.
I even made some new friends, a freakish collection of
oddballs maybe but friends nevertheless, after all we
were all tarred with the same brush. And perhaps
tarred blackest of all was the fellow in the next bed
who would only answer to the name Thomas Aquinas.
Thomas became my constant companion he was an
extremely animated character who would often wander
the institution�s corridors ranting on about the
abominable heretics who should be burned at the stake
for attacking his demonstrations of the five proofs of
God�s existence. However this obsession disappeared
entirely from his rhetoric when I told him about my
encounter with the tyrant of Jericho. He had stared at
me with open-eyed astonishment and declared that the
tyrant was the embodiment of the Antichrist on earth
and that he was marked with the number of the beast,
666. His raving wanderings then consisted of dire
warnings of the imminent visitation of the apocalypse
and we were all to prepare ourselves for the casting
into the fiery pit of hell.
During my last night at the institution I followed the
sliver of moonlight that shone through a gap in the
blind. It illuminated a beautiful, brightly coloured
moth that was flapping on the sleeping face of Thomas
Aquinas and I wondered if there was any way he could
witness this, as it sucked the dewy stickiness from
his eye, he would see it as another irrefutable proof
of the existence of God.
It was not without some apprehension that I approached
the lair of the ancient mariner. I noticed he had
changed the wording on his begging sign, it now read -
�I AM NOT AN ALCOHOLIC JUST A POOR OLD SAILOR MAN WHO
IS DOWN ON HIS LUCK ..PLEASE HELP ..GOD BLESS�. I threw
in some change and slowly walked away only to be
stopped in my tracks when a roar burst out from the
darkened doorway, �that�s nothin but a pile o coppers
ye tight-fisted, dandy bastard!� I grinned to myself
and let out a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge
that the world had somehow crunched back into kilter.
Then I turned the corner to be confronted with a
respected member of the legal profession who was
wearing a ripped T-shirt, bondage trousers and
sporting a mass of facial piercings and a dyed blue,
spiky mohican.
But that, as they say, is another story.
FRANZ KAFKA
THE FRENCH EXISTENTIALIST NOVELS OF SATRE AND CAMUS
PRE-REVOLUTIONARY RUSSIAN LITERATURE
THE NEW JOURNALISM edited by Tom Wolfe
CHILDREN OF ALBION ROVERS
