Yesterday I got an
impassioned complaint from an individual who said to be representing the so-called
George Borrow Society. The George Borrow Society, if I understand
it well, is a club of slightly befuddled eccentrics who aim to keep alive the
memory of one even more befuddled and eccentric than themselves, so that - in contrast
and comparison - members appear a little more… regular, let’s say. Britain seems to have a monopoly on the thing. Their
assemblies often consume a lot of sherry, wear bowties and sensible shoes, and
engage in tremendous, often vicious disputes over the fine points of their idol’s
life, which not rarely end in schism. And then there were two…
When you observe
such goings-on in adolescents, you tell yourself it is only a phase. When you
see it in children, you comfort yourself with the notion that it keeps them off
the streets. When it concerns grown-ups of means and education, you wonder if
you should really hold on to your British passport…?
The fellow in
question, who wrote with a rather distinct and unpleasant northern accent, played
it along martyr lines. In so many words (and there were rather many….) he pointed
out that George Borrow, although an author of limitless genius who has much to
offer mankind, is being dreadfully neglected by this insensitive and senseless
century. ‘Nobody ever talks of our hero’, he would have written had he not been
so verbose. Then he went on to whine that I had caused him, and many of his
fellow GBS members, a most cruel disappointment by citing George Borrow in a
mutilated text (see last Sunday’s Triumph
of Brevity). How could I be so callous? Why rub such salt in open wounds?
For once their obscur objet du désir
got cited on the internet, and now – and here I quote – ‘internauts can no
longer see the forest for lack of trees…!’ As I said: befuddled. And eccentric.
Yet Alfred B.
Mittington is not a heartless man, dear reader. He himself has often been pestered
and persecuted for his uncommon ideas, his nonconformist ways! So Mea Culpa, Ye Small But Fierce Tribe of
Borrovians, all three of you! I will make amends. I will, for once, be
merciful, be merciful, tanding to the
mad, I will for once of a nutcase must
themselves also have something of a screw lose, and since weand do your
humble bidding by publishing the full text of last Sunday’s post. Not that that
spiteful Natasha from down the hill
deserves to have her trivial jabber immortalised. But those are family affairs,
dirty Luso-Russo linen which I should not hang out for all to see.
A Triumph of Brevity! (Full text)
My beloved
goddaughter Ivana came to see me yesterday afternoon when boredom in the family
mansion reached absolute zenith and Vera, her mama, threatened to pressgang the
poor girl for making the Sunday borscht.
Which is all work, no play, and stains your hands beetroot red in the process.
She wore a battle-ready mien. I knew I was in trouble and I smiled.
‘Dedushka,’ she growled, ‘I thought you were a socialist?’
‘I was, dear. And I still am. It’s just the boys and girls in
Brussels who forced me to join the ranks of reaction and throw in my lot with
my natural enemies.’
‘So… How come you quote that Thatcher person with such approval? I understand he's a right-wing bastard! So wouldn’t you say that’s a little inconsistent?’
‘What? Just because I’m a Working Class Hero I can’t appreciate a
good phrase by a die-hard conservative? There goes half my Golden Quotebook! No more Cato the Elder for me! Or Winston! Not to
mention young Dalrymple!’
‘That’s another one I was wondering about. Do you know the kind of
things he writes about poor folk?’
‘Beautiful articles, woven together of gorgeous phrases, by a man
who has unique, privileged knowledge… What more can a man of taste and
sophistication ask? But I understand I am not to sing his praises in my very
own house, on my very own blog. Ah, you are young, my dear Ivana! You still do
not know what life is really all about!’
‘What is it really all about then, Dedushka?’
‘Chachipé!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Truth, dear. In the Gypsy
lingo. I’ll lend you my Borrow. Perhaps then you’ll understand.’
‘¿Como? You speak in
bloody oracles. What’s loans have to do with this?’
‘¡Ay! I pity the poor
Pythia! George Borrow, love.
Victorian fellow. A nutcase if ever I saw one, but he had pluck. Came over to
Spain in the 1830s to sell Bibles to the unwashed and count fleas in Spanish
jails.’
‘There you go again: Bibles! Fascist propaganda to keep the masses
up to their eyeballs in opium! Like that Pope piece you posted the other day!’
‘What was wrong with my VatiLeaks? I thought it was rather
charming…’
‘It makes the freaking Pope out to be a suffering old scoutmaster
with an open mind for scientific achievements!’
‘It is only fiction dear. Parody with a jest and a smile. I was not
trying to paint an exact portrait of the present Pope, bless him. Nor do I
think that there is such a thing as the Turbo
Teachers for Instantaneous Creationism. So don’t fret… I was only doing a
little Voltaire.’
‘A little Voltaire? You need 1,400 words for a little Voltaire?’
‘Only 1,369 if the truth be told. Not counting the title.’
‘In spite of what I said last Thursday?’
‘What did you say to me, love? Refresh an old man’s faltering memory…’
‘About VERBOSE! Wordy!
Prolix! Rambling! Loquacious!’
‘I do not rightly know what you’re getting at…’
‘I mean you are a long-winded windbag who forever chatters on about
stuff nobody is interested in and gives my family a bad name in the valley!’
‘Ah…! That! I remember now. Yes. Well… As a matter of fact, I did
contemplate what you said that day. And I decided you had a valid point.’
‘You did?’
‘I did indeed. When did Alfred B. Mittington ever fear to look Truth
in the face, I ask you? So just to please you, oh bright spark of my dark old
age, I will make you a promise. I promise that your godfather will be a
long-winded windbag no longer! Starting tomorrow, I will cut EVERYTHING which
is redundant from the blog. Tomorrow’s post will be the leanest, meanest, most
concise text that I ever produced! Only the truly vital will remain. All the
brushwood will be relentlessly axed.’
‘You can do that? You?’
‘Of course I can. No problem at all. I will simply write my text the
way I am used to. Then I go back to it, I erase everything superfluous, and
replace the bowdlerized bits with dots between brackets. The old scholarly way
of shortening quotes with which I suppose you are familiar.’
‘Like “(…)”?’
‘Precisely! Now: will that satisfy your craving for brevity? Will it
make you a happy young lass?’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it. But I swear: if you do, I will never
complain again!’
‘Good. That’s a deal then. I’m so glad we finally see eye to eye on
these little matters of style and substance...’
[POSTSCRIPT on February
28: After I posted the above text in shortened form last Sunday 26th,
an anonymous person, at whose identity I cannot possibly guess, added a comment
which ran something like: “Dedushka! I hate you! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOOUUU!!!!”.
To this unknown individual, who obviously has some trouble expressing herself
without ugly endless repetition, I merely say: people only ‘hate’ what they
deeply fear and respect. Nobody hates what she is indifferent to. Q.E.D., you
little Jezebel!]
