There were no flies on Frank that morning-after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn’t he?.It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the barthroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn’t beleive it and his blood raised to his head causing a mighty red colouring.

‘I carn’t not beleive this incredible fact of truth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of the shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.’

Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. ‘Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but I am not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whose father Alec came from Kenneth - through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April - keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2 - 1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?’

He journeyed downstairs crestfalled and defective - a great wait on his boulders - not even his wife’s battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank’s head - who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look.

‘What ails thee, Frank?’, she asked stretching her prune. ‘You look dejected if not informal,’ she addled.

‘Tis nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time - am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone.’

Frank looked sadly at his wife - forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows had clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead.

‘She shouldn’t see me like this,’ he mubbled, ‘not all fat and on her thirtysecond birthday.’

Frank had to get his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings.

Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find that there were still no flies on him.

‘No flies on this Frank boy,’ he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife - who was still lying about the kitchen floor.

‘I carn’t not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place,’ he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. ‘I must deliver her to her home where she will be made welcome.’

He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and headed for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife’s mother’s house. She opened the door.

‘I’ve brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill’ (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and placed Marian on the doorstep.

‘I’m not having all those flies in my home,’ shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door. ‘She could have at least offered me a cup of tea,’ thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders.

Courtesy of the late, great John Lennon.

The beauty of it, I think, is that you know what its baout, but at the same time it makes no sense.  The English language has rules, but this kind of thing proves at least that breaking those rules sometimes works.

I once had a 1954 Ford Anglia. All oily smoke, no brakes, slick tires and (sometimes) ran on three cylinders. Almost nothing about it was legal. It certainly wasn’t convenient. At any time, it could simply come to a halt.

For a while, it got me where I needed to go. But I much prefer the lovely Lincoln I have now.

- PW

PW responded very poetically, with basically the same sentiment I was going to express.  It may be an interesting exercise to see if you can get from beginning to end and get the gist of the story… but I was so disinterested from the outset that I didn’t tag along to find out.

And if the language doesn’t keep its audience ‘captive’, or persuasively prove its point, then what is the point?

-Tim

I think the gist of the story is easy to grasp, and that was my point.  Regardless of whether the language has been used correctly, it is no great task to read through and find a simple (yet, i do admit quite pointless) story.

More to point, I happened to find it entertaining, and thus, in my case the piece of writing did what was intended of it.

you know what its about, but at the same time it makes no sense

Still not sure what your point is, said the old fud, dud AND carmudgeon.

Are you saying that meaning is unnecessary, or that the meaning is somehow subliminal? Are you saying the rules are irrelevant or simply bothersome?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking anything about your original post. I’m simply trying to get my head around your point.

And, yes, welcome to the Agora.

- PW

This reminds me somewhat of Jabberwocky... much of the passage is nonsensical, but overall one gets the impression of understanding roughly what’s going on.

~Silver
(Though Jabberwocky is much more grammatically sound…)

reminds me somewhat of Jabberwocky

AW, and I was so hoping the Jabberwocky wouldn’t rear it’s ugly head. Darn.

The Jabberwocky is a pome based not on ignorance of the rules of grammar, but of a complete mastery of them. To me it’s like showing a Miro or a Picasso to someone who’s never seen one, and they say, "well, geez, my four-year-old could’ve painted that."

What does one say? "NO THEY COULDN’T?"

They couldn’t.

- PW

Well, I didn’t intend to suggest that the two works are equal in quality. Merely similar in that the reader, despite not understanding much of the passage, understands it as a whole.

~Silver

Matt—sometimes breaking the rules does not hinder communication, entirely.  It certainly can hinder effective communication, especially to groups of people (where the ‘effectiveness’ would be judged by how many people received the same message).  When an author ‘breaks the rules’ in his or her grammar, then the reader sometimes (out of necessity, or out of unfamiliarity) makes up the rule in an effort to glean the pattern or meaning out of the message.

So I stand by my previous statement:

It may be an interesting exercise to see if you can get from beginning to end and get the gist of the story… but I was so disinterested from the outset that I didn’t tag along to find out.
And if the language doesn’t keep its audience ‘captive’, or persuasively prove its point, then what is the point?

Well, I didn’t intend to suggest that the two works are equal in quality.

Forgive me, Silver, if I gave that impression. I hope I respect your fastidiousness when it comes to language and to culture in general.

I suppose my point was that some yahoos think that a paragraph of bad grammar is the same as a nonsense pome. It’s a bit like someone claiming that their loopy cousin’s disjointed, rambling diary was just like Finnagan’s Wake. Or that abstract art is so simple, anyone with a spraygun and some paint could do it. Heathens.

- PW

[quote author=KatyBr link=board=omni;num=1068901080;start=15#15 date=11/19/03 at 18:24:53]
lol, PW I picture you sitting back in a big comfy Morris chair, sucking on a pipe of aromatic tobacco, and saying humph! to yourself as you type that….

Katy

Nope. I don’t have a Morris chair. I have a big, comfy, custom-built recliner. I don’t smoke a pipe; I smoke as many cigarettes as I can stuff in my mouth at one time. And I NEVER say "humph", either to myself or to anyone else. I say "pshaw" or something ruder.

Otherwise, you’re right on target.

- PW

PS. Is it true that Coemgenus has left us? I’ve been a little distracted by work the past day or two. What’s that about?

as to Coem,

Well, I for 1 am sorry if he decided to leave.

- PW

I’ll third that.

Coem, hope you’re lurking and that eventually a topic will intrigue you enough to make you think, "Aah, what the hell…" and start posting again.

Ed

[quote author=Palewriter link=board=omni;num=1068901080;start=0#14 date=11/19/03 at 01:19:56]Or that abstract art is so simple, anyone with a spraygun and some paint could do it. Heathens.

Indeed. In fact, I dare say it’s far easier to create almost photo-realistic images from real life than it is to do good abstract work - all you have to do is stumble across a good image, and then transfer it to the canvas, which is a technical skill that anyone can learn with practice. What requires true insight is knowing how to cut out much of the image and leave only the part that is most meaningful and beautiful, or to create beauty from something that doesn’t even form a recognizable image.

Looking at many abstract works is much like reading unedited poetry - often people decide to call their work "poetry" because, in reality, they haven’t the skill to put their thoughts into coherent prose, much as some people don’t like to admit they lack artistic talent. But every now and then, someone will produce a truly beautiful work…

~Silver

often people decide to call their work "poetry" because, in reality, they haven’t the skill to put their thoughts into coherent prose

This is a very interesting comment, Silver. Despite the fact that I’ve been up to my elbows in the viscera of language these 40-odd years, I’ve never considered that. Thank you for the insight. Really. We should remember that the novel as we know it is a fairly recent artistic enhancement, a mere teenager compared to poetry.

Of course, a well-crafted sonnet or a great limerick can be a great work of art in its own right. I think, too, that poetry can have a brevity not shared by most other written art forms. Imagine a short story of just eight  lines. That’s SHORT.

- PW