scotpgot
04-20-2007, 10:58 AM
I posted this in another forum awhile back (they didn't like it). Let me know what you guys think . . .
I had an experience the other day which was so strong, so powerful, so life-changing that I simply must relate it to you exactly is it happened, without syntax or ommission. I should say however, that it was really an experience of empathy, and did not directly affect me in any manner.
I was sitting in my study around eight in the morning on a Sunday, contentedly frustrated with the weekly crossword. I could see a slight drizzle through the window over the sink, but it was nothing to make me fear the second-coming of Noah or his remarkable boat. A boat, I imagine, that helped to hurry the process of inventing room de-odorizers. But I digress.
I was working out the clue to number nine down, "Author who disspelled rumor quite convincingly" (five letters, ends with "N"), when a knock came at my front door. I folded the paper, took one sip of my Columbian roast instant coffee, and went to see who could be molesting me at such a time.
Opening the door, I was filled momentarily with a rush of terror. Standing there was the largest, darkest man I had ever seen. Fortunately, before I succumbed to a heart attack and died right there at the poor man's feet, I realized it was my neighbor Mr. Paul. Everyone called him Mr. Paul due to the fact he stood at six foot six, weighed nigh three hundred pounds, and could lift a semi-truck clear over his head. His neighbors called him Mr. Paul, the police chief, the mayor, the union chief, the Italian waste disposal manager that lived in the mansion down the street; EVERYONE called him Mr. Paul, owing as much to his size as to the fact that nobody had the courage to ask Mr. Paul his first name.
We had become friends due to the fact that Mr. Paul learned that I was a writer, and having aspirations himself, asked for my advice on a number of occasions. I obliged, not wanting to become a pre-dinner snack for this mass of a man. Today Mr. Paul was standing on my doorstep in the rain, almost in tears.
I tried to ascertain in the gentlest of manners what was the matter. At which point he held up the newspaper (the same edition which I had just been crosswording) and pointed to a certain article. He then invited himself into my front sitting-area and flopped down onto the couch.
Curiosity overwhelmed me, and I took a good look at the periodical which had just been thrust three inches deep into my chest. I immediately saw what had brought this big man to pieces. Below the fold, on page F-28, was the following article:
Short Story Review: "The Madame and The Madman" by Mister Paul
by Chris Harper
Apparently, without my knowledge or warning, Mr. Paul had submitted his first finished prose to the local paper for review, which now follows word for word . . .
Many times in my career I have read fiction that has struck me. Short stories that have moved me to tears as well as joy. Novels that have lifted my mood and enlightened my life. Narratives that have not only made me appreciate the author and theme, but also helped to place value on the importance of what I do. Yes, very many times in my career I have read fiction that has struck me. This is the first story that has ever made me want to strike it back.
To put it bluntly, this reviewer has never in his life read, heard of, heard about, theorized, or dreamed of a fiction so badly composed, written or thought-through. It was only with excuciating pain that I toiled to the conclusion of this laborious tale. I am now aged sixty-and-five years and not one day in my life needed glasses for reading, driving, or any other activity. But reading this story caused my poor eyes such trauma that the next day I was forced to go out and buy a pair of reading glasses just so that I could read the prescription bottles in the cabinet and avoid taking my wife's post-menopausal estrogen pills.
"The Madame and The Madman" is so poorly constructed, a story so unskillfully told that pains must be taken not only to criticize the excruciating language which is used, but also to propose the author of this story is such a fool that he thought submitting his work to this paper might in some way cause anything but depression and suicidal tendencies. I am filled with fear that anyone who could write so badly would have the intelligence to lick a stamp and an envelope, much less write the correct address on the front and stick it in the post.
Put in a favorable context, Mister Paul might be the literary equivalent of Pauly Shore. A crass example of the worst in the field in order to entertain the lowest common denominator of a public that craves mediocrity. But Mister Paul lacks the creativity or originality of even Pauly. Mister Paul is a child trapped in a man's body, and rumor has it certain proportions of his anatomy even at a mature age have remained child-like.
His story is similarly immature. Quite impossible to read, his point-of-view jumps back and forth from third to first person, his time-line is not linear, but jumps back and forth, he uses two phrases back and forth over and over again, his characters are not well-developed nor his setting well-described. The language is simple, plain, and profane. And finally, his mystery killer confesses in the first paragraph (it was the Madman as it turns out).
I beg the public NOT to read this story. Mister Paul may very well have released a plague on the American public. If people were to start to think that this is what writers write, such an avalanche of unreadable dribble might be released among the masses that literature would be set back for generations, and might never recover.
When I finished reading I closed my eyes and took a moment to prepare myself. Very, very slowly I lifted my head and made eye contact with the imposing Mr. Paul. My gaze moved from his legs to his torso to his chin. Finally with one last triumph of bravery over cowardess, I expressed my sympathy with one longing look. At this point Mr. Paul curled into a ball on my couch, put his head in my lap, and began to sob.
I had an experience the other day which was so strong, so powerful, so life-changing that I simply must relate it to you exactly is it happened, without syntax or ommission. I should say however, that it was really an experience of empathy, and did not directly affect me in any manner.
I was sitting in my study around eight in the morning on a Sunday, contentedly frustrated with the weekly crossword. I could see a slight drizzle through the window over the sink, but it was nothing to make me fear the second-coming of Noah or his remarkable boat. A boat, I imagine, that helped to hurry the process of inventing room de-odorizers. But I digress.
I was working out the clue to number nine down, "Author who disspelled rumor quite convincingly" (five letters, ends with "N"), when a knock came at my front door. I folded the paper, took one sip of my Columbian roast instant coffee, and went to see who could be molesting me at such a time.
Opening the door, I was filled momentarily with a rush of terror. Standing there was the largest, darkest man I had ever seen. Fortunately, before I succumbed to a heart attack and died right there at the poor man's feet, I realized it was my neighbor Mr. Paul. Everyone called him Mr. Paul due to the fact he stood at six foot six, weighed nigh three hundred pounds, and could lift a semi-truck clear over his head. His neighbors called him Mr. Paul, the police chief, the mayor, the union chief, the Italian waste disposal manager that lived in the mansion down the street; EVERYONE called him Mr. Paul, owing as much to his size as to the fact that nobody had the courage to ask Mr. Paul his first name.
We had become friends due to the fact that Mr. Paul learned that I was a writer, and having aspirations himself, asked for my advice on a number of occasions. I obliged, not wanting to become a pre-dinner snack for this mass of a man. Today Mr. Paul was standing on my doorstep in the rain, almost in tears.
I tried to ascertain in the gentlest of manners what was the matter. At which point he held up the newspaper (the same edition which I had just been crosswording) and pointed to a certain article. He then invited himself into my front sitting-area and flopped down onto the couch.
Curiosity overwhelmed me, and I took a good look at the periodical which had just been thrust three inches deep into my chest. I immediately saw what had brought this big man to pieces. Below the fold, on page F-28, was the following article:
Short Story Review: "The Madame and The Madman" by Mister Paul
by Chris Harper
Apparently, without my knowledge or warning, Mr. Paul had submitted his first finished prose to the local paper for review, which now follows word for word . . .
Many times in my career I have read fiction that has struck me. Short stories that have moved me to tears as well as joy. Novels that have lifted my mood and enlightened my life. Narratives that have not only made me appreciate the author and theme, but also helped to place value on the importance of what I do. Yes, very many times in my career I have read fiction that has struck me. This is the first story that has ever made me want to strike it back.
To put it bluntly, this reviewer has never in his life read, heard of, heard about, theorized, or dreamed of a fiction so badly composed, written or thought-through. It was only with excuciating pain that I toiled to the conclusion of this laborious tale. I am now aged sixty-and-five years and not one day in my life needed glasses for reading, driving, or any other activity. But reading this story caused my poor eyes such trauma that the next day I was forced to go out and buy a pair of reading glasses just so that I could read the prescription bottles in the cabinet and avoid taking my wife's post-menopausal estrogen pills.
"The Madame and The Madman" is so poorly constructed, a story so unskillfully told that pains must be taken not only to criticize the excruciating language which is used, but also to propose the author of this story is such a fool that he thought submitting his work to this paper might in some way cause anything but depression and suicidal tendencies. I am filled with fear that anyone who could write so badly would have the intelligence to lick a stamp and an envelope, much less write the correct address on the front and stick it in the post.
Put in a favorable context, Mister Paul might be the literary equivalent of Pauly Shore. A crass example of the worst in the field in order to entertain the lowest common denominator of a public that craves mediocrity. But Mister Paul lacks the creativity or originality of even Pauly. Mister Paul is a child trapped in a man's body, and rumor has it certain proportions of his anatomy even at a mature age have remained child-like.
His story is similarly immature. Quite impossible to read, his point-of-view jumps back and forth from third to first person, his time-line is not linear, but jumps back and forth, he uses two phrases back and forth over and over again, his characters are not well-developed nor his setting well-described. The language is simple, plain, and profane. And finally, his mystery killer confesses in the first paragraph (it was the Madman as it turns out).
I beg the public NOT to read this story. Mister Paul may very well have released a plague on the American public. If people were to start to think that this is what writers write, such an avalanche of unreadable dribble might be released among the masses that literature would be set back for generations, and might never recover.
When I finished reading I closed my eyes and took a moment to prepare myself. Very, very slowly I lifted my head and made eye contact with the imposing Mr. Paul. My gaze moved from his legs to his torso to his chin. Finally with one last triumph of bravery over cowardess, I expressed my sympathy with one longing look. At this point Mr. Paul curled into a ball on my couch, put his head in my lap, and began to sob.