The word go.
From what sort of time does a custom date?
Time immemorial.
To what serious things does an epidemic sometimes attain?
Proportions.
De gustibus quid est non faciendum?
This pew, Tandem (if you don’t mind old boy).
Wo jetzt ist meine Geduld?
Zu Ende.
What may you talk yourself in the face before I give in to you?
Black.
What completely non-existent thing is frequently stated to be still there?
The nothing more that often remains to be said.
Till what great dairy-farm re-union may you sit and talk there?
Till the cows come home.
With what two cognate effects do I invite you to clear out of my house?
Bag and baggage.
Quis quoque?
Tu.
Quis est faber fortunae suae?
—que.
THERE IS NO END TO THIS
What does it behove us to proclaim?
Our faith.
In what does it behove us to proclaim our faith?
Democracy.
From what vertiginous eyrie does it behove us to proclaim our faith in democracy?
From the house-tops.
At what time should we proclaim our faith in democracy from the house-tops?
Now, more than ever.
What action must be taken in relation to our energies?
They must be directed.
In what unique manner?
Wholeheartedly.
In what direction?
Towards the solution of the pressing post-war problems which the armistice will bring.
How will the armistice bring these problems?
In its train.
By what is the train hauled?
A 2–4–2 compound job with poppet valves and Pacific-style steam chest.
YES, MORE OF IT
What happens to blows at a council meeting?
It looks as if they might be exchanged.
What does pandemonium do?
It breaks loose.
Describe its subsequent dominion.
It reigns.
How are allegations dealt with?
They are denied.
Yes, but then you are weakening, Sir. Come now, how are they denied?
Hotly.
What is the mean temperature of an altercation, therefore?
Heated.
What is the behaviour of a heated altercation?
It follows.
What happens to order?
It is restored.
Alternatively, in what does the meeting break up?
Disorder.
What does the meeting do in disorder?
Breaks up.
In what direction does the meeting break in disorder?
Up.
In what direction should I shut?
Up.
WHAT WOULD do him but to march me into the nearest public house and stand me a glass of malt?
Nothing.
Under what did I think I might as well have it?
The circumstances.
Nevertheless, assuming there were relations between us, in what state inevitably must such relations have been?
Strained.
And owing to what being beyond my control did I accept the drink?
Circumstances.
Under what archaic conditions of military (and indeed piecemeal) sale did this same party sell out my mother’s property years before?
Lock stock and barrel.
But in all what plural and surrounding abstractions did I pretend to have forgotten that episode?
The circumstances.
What bound literary work did my pretended forgetfulness suit?
My book.
What pathetic articles belonging to my mother’s furniture did he formerly put out on the side-walk?
The sticks.
And under what tragic things did this eviction take place?
Circumstances.
What did this eviction take under tragic circumstances?
It took place.
Whose fool was I when I decided to accept hospitality from this person?
Nobody’s.
What transparent recreation could I see through?
His game.
From what person to what other person did he think he could send me?
From Billy to Jack.
With what three commonplace gentlemen did this attempt of his suggest he was confusing me?
Tom, Dick and Harry.
Where did he think he could send the fool?
Farther.
But what act did I perform in relation to him with long lengths of narrow fabric?
I had him taped.
What thing belonging to him did I have?
His measure.
Where precisely did I have him?
Precisely where I wanted him.
What abundant essential, firm and durable thing did I take from under his feet?
The ground.
What useful articles of furniture did I invert?
The tables.
What abstract thing did I inform him he was beneath?
Contempt.
In what peregrination of at least twelve hours’ duration would you not meet a more despicable specimen?
A day’s walk.
What visceral mess did I inform him he was not fit to bring to what Arctic mammal?
Guts to a bear.
What furthermore did I inform him he was not worth?
Hitting.
What temporal interval did I inform him he was not worth hitting?
My while.
What sort of respect for me did this veiled threat of violence induce in him?
A healthy.
When departing, what obscure thing belonging to him was fallen?
His crest.
MORE DEAD WORDS
Here’s a quare one. What will we not feel now till Christmas?
It.
What is the nature of a certain sort of shame?
It cries.
What rich nourishing liquid is associated with a joke?
Cream.
What thing of eschatological aspect will you acquire if you don’t come offa that wet grass?
Your end.
What metal container is associated with the acting of certain people?
The cannister.
What is your misfortune the price of?
You.
What monetary evaluation of you is your misfortune?
The price.
In what dexterous and thorough manner does it serve you?
Right.
DEAD ENGLISH
Life can be bitter. Did you ever notice how easily the amateur can eclipse the industrious professional like myself in the (sphere) (of cliché)? I take this wonderful thing from the current issue of the Journal of the Irish Medical Association.
‘The returns show that the outbreak was by no means confined to the Dublin area as rumour had suggested and prove, if proof were needed, that Dame Rumour continues to justify her reputation as a lying jade.’
Now let me follow up with a few poor efforts of my own. When things are few, what also are they?
Far between.
What are stocks of fuel doing when they are low?
Running.
How low are they running?
Dangerously.
What does one do with a suggestion?
One throws it out.
For what does one throw a suggestion out?
For what it may be worth.
What else can be thrown out?
A hint.
In addition to hurling a hint on such lateral trajectory, what other not unviolent action can be taken with it?
It can be dropped.
What else is sometimes dropped?
The subject.
Quid humani a te alienum putes?
Nihil. (Et quid obstat? Nihil.)
TURNING ASIDE (stick your hand out there Joe) from this cliché stuff of which you are not half so heartily sick as I—it occurs to me that I should record (for the benefit) (of posterity) those appalling attempts at adult chat which (invariably) follows certain set introductory formulae. I mean, a phrase such as ‘In my humble opinion …’ Clearly, no decent person could (bring himself) to start talking with such a despicable preamble. But consider the sort of thing that always follows these further phrases I have listed below. If you do so conscientiously I will have you excused from jury service for the next seven years.
‘Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking …’
‘I rise …’
‘We are all g. t. h. to-n.…’
‘You all know why we are all g. t. h. to-n.…’
‘It needs no words of mine to introduce the next speaker …’
‘Needless to say …’
‘I may be old-fashioned, but …’
‘Your headmaster has asked me to speak to you this evening …’
‘I don’t know much about art, but …’
‘The donor of this banquet is a very shy man; he has asked me to come among you to-night and let you know how much he …’
‘I have to speak to you boys this morning about a very painful matter …’
‘I yield to none in my admiration for …’
‘I crave the courtesy of your columns …’
‘At the risk of boring my listeners …’
‘In this connexion I recall an anecdote …’
‘After all …’
‘Double You Bee Yeats once said to me …’
‘I remember your poor father saying …’
‘I must say it always has been a mystery to me …’
And lashed but not lost, that great trumpet of epileptic perfidy:
‘WHEREAS…’
I regret all this. Bitterly.
IN view of the vogue of this drug (which takes care of everything from pneumonia to what your uncle Joe had), why not revise the primary medical degrees to read M. & B., B.Ch., B.A.O.
You don’t think that’s funny? Well let’s hear one of your own. Tell a funny story. Kill us, strangle the life out of us with lethal gurgles. Sad affair at Sidney Parade. Strange man collapses after hearing joke from Irish Times reader. An unknown man, respectably dressed and of middle age, collapsed and died yesterday after listening to a humorous anecdote related by a reader of a Dublin newspaper. With the deceased man passes the last link with Parnell. A man who spoke the Irish language at a time when it was neither profitable nor popular, he had a large circle of friends. (And tell me, pray, why do friends always adopt this irrectangular information?) A popular figure in Irish dancing circles, he was a firm believer in the immutable principles laid down by the Manchester school.
THIS LICENSING BILL
I read a newspaper article on this subject recently. To what congregation of beasts and humans did it bring me? The fair. It was stated that the bill would give rise (‘give rise’, mind you) to what? (Controversy.) Private controversy, that eminent member of the defence forces? No, public. What about the inevitable fate of the sponsor’s purpose? Efforts would be made to thwart it. Efforts? I beg your pardon—‘determined efforts’. By what engrossing imponderables would these efforts be made? By interests. Come, now, what sort of interests? Powerful, of course.
Later on in the article we see young men and women (in hostelries) drinking their heads off without what two inseparable abstractions? (Let or hindrance.) We are shown (the whole business) as a (nefarious traffic).
Did you ever hear of ‘farious traffic’? Faith then I did, plenty of it goes on of an Easter Monday night after Fairyhouse, I once seen an Oxford B.Litt. on the broad of his back in Little Liffey street, trying (for all he was worth) to claw the bedclothes over his much-plastered chest with the Tote double and a small Scotch the cabman gave him inside in his stomach.
Later on in this (self-same) article we get a picture of whole parties which were (turned out) of a city publichouse at ten o’clock at night (‘at night’, mark you) going to some ‘way-side lounge bar’ to ens—
Come now, to what themselves?
To ensc—?
Do make an effort, darling. PLEASE.
To ENSCONCE themselves, of course.
This much I will say myself and in that total state of gravity known as ‘all seriousness’. When the minor recourses of civilisation become a matter of minute legalistic regulation, when one has to drive the traditional coach-and-four not through an act of parliament, but five miles along the border of it to get a bottle of stout (and a small sherry for her nibs), the civilisation that can produce such an absurdity would merit the word decadent were it not for the fact that it never reached any eminence from which it could be said to recede.
WHEN AND AGAIN have I asked you not to do that?
Time.
Time out of what enumeration have I asked you not to do it?
Number.
What is our civilisation much?
Vaunted.
What is the public?
Gullible.
What are interests?
Vested.
Haud non loquor?
Expertus.
Quis post equitem sedet?
Atra cura.
To what medieval engine does your property go on the way to ruin?
Rack.
BEARLA MARBH
To what solitary personality are all the family Gaelic-speakers?
To a man.
Like what diverse superior personalities was I when I gave my services to Ireland (when the call came) (without thought of fee) (or reward)?
Like many a better man.
With what cardiac phenomenon, increased by fifty per cent, will I lend you ten pounds?
A heart and a 1/2.
To what obscure cardiac shellfish is heat imparted by the sight of the national flag flying over the Old House in College Green?
It warrums the cockles of me heart.
What negative ossification does a dacent man make about doing a pal a good turn?
No bones.
What bisected cerebral phenomenon have I to shut up? Come on, that’s an easy one.
You don’t know?
1/2 a mind.
In what non-downward condition of being tapped am I sometimes to be found?
I am knocked up.
What mysterious cipher am I not up to on such occasions?
The mark (God save it).
A CLICHÉ is a phrase that has become fossilised, its component words deprived of their intrinsic light and meaning by incessant usage. Thus it appears that clichés reflect somewhat the frequency of the incidence of the same situations in life. If this be so, a sociological commentary could be compiled from these items of mortified language.
Is not the gun-history of modern Ireland to be verified by the inflexible terminology attaching to it? A man may be shot dead but if he survives a shot, he is not shot but sustains gun-shot wounds. The man who fires the shot is always his assailant, never his attacker or merely the gun-man. The injured party is never taken to hospital but is removed there (in a critical condition). The gun-man does not escape, even if he is not caught; he makes good his escape.
Oddly enough—unnecessary phrase—a plurality of lawbreakers behave differently; they are never assailants but armed men. When they are not caught, they do not make good their escape; they decamp. If there be defenders on the scene, shots are exchanged. And the whole affair is, of course, a shooting affray. You see, there is no other kind of affray. If it is not a shooting affray, it is not an affray at all. But it might be a fracas.
* * *
*Meaning, no doubt, that life without the guidance of books is a riddle, a closed book, a mors code.
†Which shows that his grammar wasn’t (everything that it might be) (everything you would expect) (everything it’s cracked up to be).
Subp
opulus Hiberniae: Hoc dixit Horatius Flaccus!
Ego: Favete linguis, canes!
Criticism, Art, Letters
YOU KNOW the limited edition ramp. If you write very obscure verse (and why shouldn’t you, pray?) for which there is little or no market, you pretend that there is an enormous demand, and that the stuff has to be rationed. Only 300 copies will be printed, you say, and then the type will be broken up for ever. Let the connoisseurs and bibliophiles savage each other for the honour and glory of snatching a copy. Positively no reprint. Reproduction in whole or in part forbidden. Three hundred copies of which this is Number 4,312. Hand-monkeyed oklamon paper, indigo boards in interpulped squirrel-toe, not to mention twelve point Campile Perpetua cast specially for the occasion. Complete, unabridged, and positively unexpurgated. Thirty-five bob a knock and a gory livid bleeding bargain at the price.
Well, I have decided to carry this thing a bit farther. I beg to announce respectfully my coming volume of verse entitled ‘Scorn for Taurus’. We have decided to do it in eight point Caslon on turkey-shutter paper with covers in purple corduroy. But look out for the catch. When the type has been set up, it will be instantly destroyed and NO COPY WHATEVER WILL BE PRINTED. In no circumstances will the company’s servants be permitted to carry away even a rough printer’s proof. The edition will be so utterly limited that a thousand pounds will not buy even one copy. This is my idea of being exclusive.
The charge will be five shillings. Please do not make an exhibition of yourself by asking me what you get for your money. You get nothing you can see or feel, not even a receipt. But you do yourself the honour of participating in one of the most far-reaching experiments ever carried out in my literary work-shop.
MY REGRETS
Owing to circumstances outside my control, the same picture appeared in this column a short time ago two days running. Of course, the pictures should have been different. I understand, however, that this mistake provoked domestic rows all over Ireland. Thus:
Where’s the paper, Maggie?
There.
Where?
There.
That’s yesterday’s.
It’s not. That’s to-day’s.
I tell you it’s yesterday’s, woman.
Best of Myles Page 24
