With all the talk at present about Quirke by Banville/Black I decided to feature a story from my web site.
It tries to deal with the Banville comment that he writes Black with a "diminished vocabulary".
I wondered who got to use a particular word that might come up in conversation....
A Banvillian Burlesque: A
Word in your shell-like. Like.
Litman sat and looked at
the word: it was a nice word, looked well, was easy to spell, so
versatile. A word he knew well: yet he had no idea, yet, how best to
use it. It was too good, too great a word, to waste in a badly
constructed sentence. Or even an excellent sentence, but in the
wrong context. It was so frustrating - he almost, just almost, wished
he had never decided to use the word. Perhaps if he had not written
it into his notebook, then he would not have this conundrum. But now
he could never mis-remember that this word had popped into his
consciousness: at this critical time of day, in the fading
brightness.
Scowling he leaned back,
then bending forward and down, he looked at the word on his notebook
page, first from the side: squinting. He then closed one eye, then
the other, scratched his forehead with the ring-finger of his left
hand then opened his eyes again, but the word had not moved or
suggested itself, in any way, shape, or form, as an operative word
to his brain: his literary brain.
Now hould on dere!
A voice in his head intruded. Don't I get a say in the use of
this wurd?
“Get lost” Litman
muttered through gritted teeth. Scowling as only Litman could. A
world-class scowl. A milk curdling, ferocious, frozen faced, staring
eyed, scowl.
No me boyo, you F-Off
and leave this wurd for my Buke. After all I didn't ask you to write
MY Bukes, 'twas you 'vented me with my - as you called it:
“Diminished Vocabulary” to satisfy some kind of a need ya had to
reach the masses. That was w'en ya got tired trying to ed-u-cate
them.
“I never wrote for the
masses.”
Aye! Rite, and dat was
the problem! Wasn't it?
Litman scowled again. “You
can't have it! Find a word of your own.”
Armodeis considered this
for a while. I have lots of wurds, but not one like dat wan,
dere. I seen ya writ' it. It's a good wurd. It would work-in better
in my story.
“OK. If you are patient.
I may, I said MAY, give it to you.”
Yea! After ya strangled
it, to death. I want it now. De ya hear......
Concentrating on being
Litman! Litman closed his thoughts: tried to shut Armodeis out and
looked at the word again.
I have a sentence,
Armodeis teased. A good one, too. Will I tell it to you?
“No! No! I don't want
to hear!” Litman screamed: covering his ears with his hands.
It's......it's......No!
Give it to me and I'll show you. Armodeis teased again.
“F-off.” Litman
shouted then closing the notebook, he rose and left his dark-oak,
Quercus born, writing desk.
That won't do any good.
I will go with you: and now dat I know what dat wurd is, I can think
of another use for dat wurd. Not another sentence, another use,
another con-text. I could go on 'n' on 'n on abou' it. I could shell
shock ya wit' wurds, dat in a nutshell would bring ye outa yer
shell, so bad dat ye would be walkin' on eggshells around me, a shell
of a man, living a shell of a life, in a shell of a personality, in
yer aul' shell of a flat. Put dat in yer aul' existential isolation
of the individual and smoke it. Dat's what ya would be withou' me
Litman. And ya don't hafta even shellout for dat advice.
Pausing with the Anchor
Hocking Wexford Claret wine glass in his left, pocket hand, and a
tall vintage Anchor Hocking Wexford wine decanter, containing Claret,
tilted delicately, in his dexterous writing hand: he halted the pour
in mid-air, while he watched the evening sunlight, rainbow colours
along the cubbyholed pantry doors, spilling in spirals from the
ornate fanlight of the stained glass window, above the leaded
mullion.
Then Litman , scowled
again, and thought: to himself - this time. Jaysus. That was some
shellacking.
