Another guttural Sláinte, Sir

Same procedure as last year and the year(s) before?

Same procedure as every year!

Well, almost. This time you've to read 69 and 98.


Enough written.

I am off now with my only man to meet the birthday child in 'The Dalkey Archive', wishing him - accompanied by a very guttural Sláinte - the best of Omnium, if you know what I mean.

Just in case you don't know ...

... what day we have.

Ah, a Joycean you might think. Well, there's also one book to be seen that's not written by or about Joyce.
It is said had he not been ding-dong Joyce would have written like this very gentleman. :)

Click to enlarge.

Related posts:

• Mrs Blooms 105th 33rd
  

For those few who still wouldn't know

The ominous bicycle has been found, and
Flann fooled you all.

The Ode is not yet composed

He's still 20 years younger than John Major, I am still 28 years younger than Maggie Thatcher, only the proportional relation between our ages has changed a bit.

Happy birthday, Jams!

Wishing the best of Omnium which is - as everbody knows - everything!

As Tetrapilotomos hasn't finished his novel In-climbing-two-cats, yet, and McSeanagall is still composing his Ode to the Poor Mouth, and as no Third Policeman was available on you tube, here's to you, with kind regards from Flann himself.







And now, dear readers, head over to Mr. Jams O'Donnell Esq., as herewith I declare the bazaar for congratulations opened.

James Joyce - Walking into Eternity

It's been said he would have written like Flann O'Brien had he not been crackbrained; and who am I to disagree.
On the other side, what James Augustine Aloysius Joyce put on paper is not the worst one could find in the realm of letters, would you agree?
And: It's Jim's 127th birthday today.

So, what about a(n informative and entertaining) 'walk into eternity' and - who knows? - on the very tower in Sandycove we might get served some pints of plain so that we can raise our glasses on Mr. Joyce and his protagonists.


Part one



Part two





For those who did not have the pleasure yet, and those who couldn't get enough of it - voilà:

Pitch'n'Putt with Joyce'n'Beckett:

Molly Bloom's Soliloquy


Enjoy(ce)! :)

A very guttural Sláinte, Sir

Same procedure as last year?

Same procedure as every year!

Well, almost. This time you've to read 68 and 97.


Enough written.
I am off now with my only man to meet the birthday child in 'The Third Policeman'.
Wishing you the best of Omnium, if you know what I mean.

Is 'Finnegans Wake' a Novel?

- Which was said by whem to whom?

- It wham. But whim I can't whumember.

- Fantasy! funtasy on fantasy, amnaes fintasies! And there is nihil nuder under the clothing moon. When Ota, weewahrwificle of Torquells, bumpsed her dumpsydiddle down in her woolsark she mode our heuteyleutey girlery of peerlesses to set up in all bombossities of feudal fiertey, fanned, flounced and frangipenned, while the massstab whereby Ephialtes has exceeded is the measure, simplex mendaciis, by which our Outis cuts his truth. Arkaway now!

- Yerds and nudes say ayes and noes. Vide! Vide!

- Let Eivin bemember for Gates of Gold for their fadeless suns berayed her. Irise, Osirises! By thy mouth given unto thee! For why do you lack a link ...

More according the link later. :)

The passage above you'd find on page 493 when - as I did - randomly opening the Faber edition from 1975, which I typed to give those amongst you who would not read Finnegans Wake once a week a glimpse of what it's about.

Now being a Joyce expert, what's your answer to the question which is heading this post?

Careful, though.
Of course, for those contemporaries delectating themselves with mocking that poor Joyce would have written like Flann O'Brien had he not been completely ding-dong, the answer is easy.
However, is it? What will be the likely criteria to say or even enthusiastically shout 'Yes, it is!' or after a demonstrative yawn to groan in agony: 'No!' ?

Whatever the answer will be, it is a matter of taste. An excellent taste, of course. :)

And either one says 'Yes' or 'No', (s)he will claim to be in possession of the most exquisite taste.

Now, this could create one of those brainteasing and riddling conundrums, the more as ... what did Oscar say? About taste you can't argue; either you have it, or you have it not.

Who is right, then?

End of the beforegoing.

Let me rather create the above mentioned link.

Chris, philosopher and poet at Godfree-Morals has posted a - to my taste :) - remarkable essay. Indeed, it's an essay that I could not have written, not even if I did not happen to be ding-dong.

In the hope to create a vivid exchange of ideas, both a suggestion and a request: The discussion should take place at Chris' site, so that one can read it in one piece.


PS: For those finding this subject as interesting as the breaking news that there has been a cucumber glass detonation in Caracas: Do as if you had never read this post.
After all, it's a matter of taste, isn't it. :)

All others: Enjoy.

A coffee for The Poor Mouth

Hard times. :) Only five days after his birthday, Jams O'Donnell, master of The Poor Mouth, celebrates his blog's second anniversary.

Congratulations, Jams, and voilà, as promised, here's your anti-hangover-coffee.

By turning the mug you'd, of course, read:

When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say that you need a change,
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

Flann fooled you, folks

I'll not tell which pseudonym he does currently prefer, but I may again say those few people still taking for granted Flann O'Brien died April 1st 1966, can look back on a remarkable long career as April fools.

Fact is, furthermore, that only last midnight Flanny, Tetrapilotomos and I as well as a certain chap who asked to remain incognito met in, at and around Seanhenge, having some pints of plain and, of course, at one stage of our vivid conversation Flann would raise his voice and not only enjoy our ears, hearts and grey cells but animate the rami zygomatici and rami buccales of nervus facialis to massively innervate our musculi risorii by declaiming following legendary dialogue:

The Plain People of Ireland: Isn't the German very like the Irish? Very guttural and so on?

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: People say that the German language and the Irish language is very guttural tongues.

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: The sounds is all guttural do you understand.

Myself. Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: Very guttural languages the pair of them the Gaelic and the German.

* * *

And now - although it is most unlikely they exist - to all those who happen to not being in possession of the master's complete œvre: Saddle your ponies, folks, and hurry up. The friendly, most well-educated and -sorted bookseller just round the corner will be happy to fill the gaps of your education and in your bookshelf.

Happy Birthday, Jams

As regularly readers do know, The Poor Mouth and Omnium have quite a few in common. And so have Jams O'Donnell (photo) and I.

There is but one tiny difference: Jams is exactly 20 years younger than John Major, and this will always remain, which is remarkable, but ... I shall always remain 28 years younger than Maggie Thatcher. :)

Hm, or is it rather another kind of coincidence?

To cut a long story short: Today Jams has become as young as I became nine years ago, which means he is now exactly one sixth younger than I am, which will - and herein I do find a great comfort - not remain. :)

In this spirit: Happy birthday, Jams!

My present for you: The legendary bicycle,

and my favourite Irish blessing:

May the devil not catch you before I shoot you!

I am looking forward us together celebrating your 104th! :)

Sláinte!

Sláinte, Flannie Boy

Yesterday, October 4th, was the 67th anniversary of his first 'An crúiscín lán' column in The Irish Times.

Today Mr Nolan will celebrate his 96th birthday. I should not tell which pseudonym he does currently prefer, but I may say those few people still taking it for granted he died April 1st 1966, can look back on a remarkable long career as April fools.


In five words: Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag, alter Knabe!

The Plain People of Ireland: Isn't the German very like the Irish? Very guttural and so on?

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: People say that the German language and the Irish language is very guttural tongues.

Myself: Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: The sounds is all guttural do you understand.

Myself. Yes.

The Plain People of Ireland: Very guttural languages the pair of them the Gaelic and the German.

* * *

And now - although it is most unlikely they exist - to all those who happen to not being in possession of the birthday boy's complete work: Saddle your ponies, folks, and hurry up. The friendly, most well-educated and -sorted bookseller just round the corner will be happy to fill the gaps of your education and in your bookshelf.

Mr. Akyol 0 - Mr Bekdil 2

The inevitable happened.
As announced rather than prognosticated three days ago today the first Flann O'Brien Prize Winner, TDN's master equilibrist Burak Bekdil put his pen to paper (ah, what a picture in these times!) , in order to reply to Mr. Akyol's reply on his, Mr Bekdil's, innocent article.

Easy to cut it short, especially as my closest friend Tetrapilotomos is just reflecting about singularity: Again, Mr Bekdil won what TDN's chief editor David Judson would call a "sparring-match".

Game, set and match to Mr. Bekdil.

Reading his reply you will know - all right: at least be able to imagine, why.


Mr Akyol 0 - Mr Bekdil 2.


Postscriptum for all supporters of Mr Akyol: A first Huysman-Wilde-Prize-Winner would not throw in the turban (turban, no headscarf!) ... eh ... hm ... towel, of course.

It's as simple as that

Another nice little gem has been flowing into the feather of the champion first ever winning the Flann O'Brien Price.
It's somehow a pars pro toto for the daily secrets being published.

Ah, and - perhaps - it is about the time you are to be introduced to one of my closest friend's "ceterum censeos":

Banquo knew before

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s
In deepest consequence.

In German it sounds even more impressive (and not only because "Death is a master from Germany")

Oft, uns in Elend zu verlocken
Erzählen Wahrheit uns des Dunkels Schergen,
Gewinnen uns durch ehrlich Spiel im Kleinen,
Um uns in größten Dingen zu verraten.

Shakespeare, McBeth 1.,3

In dubio pro Bekdil AND Akyol

As promised in the (hopefully not) last post, here is the jury's result:

The Flann O'Brien Prize Winner is ...

- Sean!?!
- Yes, Tetrapilotomos?
- Who do you think deserves the prize?
- Actually, I could not decide. Both, Mr. Akyol and Mr. Bekdil deserve it.
- I fear, Mr. Akyol would not appreciate to share the prize.
- Why shouldn't he?
- He is missionary, while deep in Mr. Bekdil's heart the serpent "Sarcasm" is darting. Mr. Akyol seriously believes in what he is writing, while Mr. Bekdil does not take himself too serious.
- Hm, Flann O'Brien is not missionary at all. Would you say, Mr. Akyol is not as amusing as Mr. Bekdil?
- I said Mr. Akyol would not be amused to share any prize.
- So, let's wait with the decision, until Mr. Bekdil offers his reply to Mr. Akyol's reply to his, Mr. Bekdil's, reply.
- There won't be a reply to Mr. Akyol's reply to Mr. Bekdil's reply.
- ?
- Mr. Bekdil knows very well that Mr. Akyol would let nobody have the last say, the more when this "Nobody" is an agnostic.
- But there were none of his 2.185 words indecent. And, missionary?! He seemed even glad and proud being able to tell that "the Diyanet, the offical religious body, announced last year that it would cleanse the hadith tradition (the reported sayings and deeds of the prophet) from remarks that humiliate women".
- In other words, Mr. Akyol accepts without protest that the reported sayings and deeds of the prophet would be censored. This is either blasphemy or ...
- Hold on, Tetrapilotomos! The prophet reportedly said this and did that. And you know as well as God and his wife would know that some reporters' skills are ... are ... let's call it suboptimal.
- Well, anyway, I should never write this, but I do hope there would no peaceloving colleague of the late Ayatollah Lankarani come to know of this passage in Mr. Akyol's masterpiece. I mean, it would be blasphemy to think that the prophet did not instruct all good men to beat up their wives whenever they feel like, wouldn't it?
- Hm, what did the friendly looking old man say the other year when there was a two weeks or so campaign for not beating up one's wife in Turkish media: A man who does not beat his wife, is not a man.
- There you are, this humble man surely had studied and internalised the sura important for his character building. And now, suddenly and out of the blue should be wrong what has been right for the past 1387 years?! But we are slightly extravagating. Now, who deserves the prize?
- Be it: Burak Bekdil.
- Why? Because he wrote just one article containing 1.741 words, while Mr. Akyol cast 2.185 pearls for swine?
- No. Because Mr. Bekdil is a true humourist.
- Wrong. Mustafa Akyol is much funnier. And he is an intelligently designed primate.
- He did not explicitly say so. Besides, according to my daughter, who is presently writing her master thesis about Dandyism in the English and French literature of the late 19th century Mr. Akyol might be a fine specimen for Dandyism; by seemingly promoting the idea that there is or has been a potter who's first name is/has not been Harry who about 10.000 years ago took a clot of loam, designed a being, shortly afterwards took a rib of this being and formed him a female so that he would always have something to beat up, Mr. Akyol wins lots of plaudit and praise, while in fact by doing so he is covering his world weariness by making fun of all these poor stupid idiots in the classical sense.
- Mr. Akyol may have some dandyesk attitudes, but I do seriously think he believes what he is writing about intelligent design.
- Couldn't it be that he anticipates the change of wind and that soon there will be enforced intellgently designed biology curricula, and therefore is trimming his sails?
- Is there anything Mr. Yesbut would not anticipate? By the way, nobody, I repeat, nobody could yet thoroughly explain the difference between opportunism and pragmatism.
- Mr. Yesbut?
- Well, you would often if not mostly find Mr. Akyol initially praise any Mr. Siyahyol's opinion with oriental amplification, and after the comma there would follow a but.
-Who is Mr. Siyahyol, Tetrapilotomos?
- Everybody who is not Mr. Akyol.
- ?
- Akyol means White Path. And therefore all those not of Mr. Whitepath's opinion are walking on the black path.
- Doesn't siyah colloquially also mean the same as afyon?
- I don't like dilettantes secretly consulting dictionaries. Neither I know if Mr. Akyol ever got stoned by opium. Actually I think he’d prefer cannabis, but, of course, would probably not inhalate.
- Do you know Mr. Akyol?
- Only by his writing.
- And you think you are fair with what you are talking here?
- Unlike Mr. Akyol I know that I could err.
- Ah, Tetrapilotomos, before we are getting from Pontius to Pilade, let’s make a compromise.
- All right. So, let's award Burak Bekdil the Flann O’Brien Prize, and Mr. Akyol the Huysman & Wilde Prize.

Hurra, we got it!

The murder is out!

Those having been reading "The Third Policeman" will not only know the name of the author (no link needed, therefore); being asked to recite the very last question they would, of course, be able to do so blindfold; moreover, they even could while lying in Morpheus' and respectively or somebody else's arms.
Thus, why repeating what everybody knows?
Those few blissfully ignorant are requested to immediately enter the nearest bookshop and order the master’s piece. After reading they may return and breathe the magically charming cantrip of stand hangstill - the sublime sublimeness of being part of Omnium.

End of the beforegoing.

And now to cut a long post short:
About seventy years after being asked, one of the last most brainteasing and riddling conundrums of all mysteriously puzzling enigmas in literature has been solved:
The ominous bicycle has been found.