Richardson's (Reluctant) Travels: A Journey to Newark

Since I had the pleasure of accompanying my friend Mr. Samuel Richardson on his reluctant Saturday airing to New Jersey, I will relate in the following post some notable details from that little excursion for the pleasure and edification of my readers.

It must be announced at the outset that, having never visited New Jersey before, Mr. Richardson had registered many objections against this undertaking. Nevertheless I prevailed upon him to suspend his fulminatings against New Jersey--- which State he had described as having a general atmosphere of Perdition about it--- if only for one Saturday.

"But my dear Mr. Richardson, you have said the same thing of every State in the Union," I protested. "Did not you claim t'other day at Mr. Brockden's dinner that Massachusetts and Connecticut were headed for Perdition? How you mortified Miss Shanka, a native of Massachusetts, and how you upset Miss Farquhar, a native of Connecticut, with your surly words." After some consideration, Mr. Richardson relented, "'Tis true. 'Tis true. If every State is in Perdition what difference can it make where you are? Anyway, was it not Mr. Alexander Pope who declared that universal darkness covers all, and what not?"

So last weekend we hopped aboard the New Jersey Transit at Penn Station and made our way to Newark. The scenery was so completely new for him that he was absorbed by all things around him with an even greater degree of shrewdness than he is known for. Nothing escaped his penetrating gaze. Yet in all one's travels, he would say, 'tis wise to remember that though the scenery may change, the stage personae and the stories remain much the same the world over; that the same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same follies and vices are to be found dressed in different habits. In Brooklyn they are dressed in camel coats; and in Queens they wear ponchos. In Los Angeles, a knave is dressed like a cholo; and in Oakland, California he wears vintage button-down shirts and scarves. But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object of detestation and scorn.

After we arrived in Newark, we initially did not get far beyond the train station, for Mr. Richardson spent some time observing the taxi drivers as they lolled by their cars outside the building soliciting customers. He expressed to me later that he was much struck by their boorish manner of behaving---for at that moment he dared not express his thoughts out loud in their presence.--- Indeed it must be said that Newark's taxi drivers are the most insolent group of human beings who've ever banded together and formed a labor union. Several times Richardson and I heard, as we conitnued our walk, wild cries of Getta outta ze cab! Getta outta ze cab! Getta outta ze cab!  echoing throughout the city's roads, which I dare say may be the drivers' mating signals, or something of the sort.

Following the scene with the drivers, I saw him walk over to a street cart to buy honey-roasted peanuts. Before he left with his purchase Mr. Richardson exchanged a few pleasantries with the dark-haired street vendor, albeit quite reluctantly. Shortly later I asked my friend as we rambled down Broad Street, "How like you those peanuts, Mr. Richardson?" He tossed some into his mouth and answered, "I can not say they are bad." However, he went on to fret over the fact that the fellow who sold him the peanuts had a pungent smell about his person that was less than pleasant. He also marveled at the same fellow's vigorously hairy set of knuckles. Notwithstanding such grievances his peanuts were but tolerable.

I led him on a walk towards the Passaic River, as I wanted to show him the waterfront. As we continued down Newark's streets, he would sometimes comment upon the extreme narrowness of the sidewalks, especially when we had passed certain restaurants that offered outdoor seating; he complained that the chairs and tables did protrude and occupy too much space on the sidewalk, about two-thirds in fact, he was precise enough to observe, for the comfort and safety of the pedestrians.

Nevertheless when we reached the waterfront we managed a more congenial time of it. We sat upon a bench, from which we commanded an impressive prospect over the Newark skyline, feeding the pigeons and the ducks who were bold enough to come near us. At that moment, I must say I was very pleased with myself. We talked upon various topics which I will omit here as not being worthy of notice. While meditating over the urban blighters who were making a nice feast upon our food crumbs, Mr. Richardson observed that the pigeons and the ducks have a certain advantage over us humans. "When a pigeon's thirst and hunger is satisfied, he is content," he said, "but though I am, like the pigeon, pained with want, I am not, like him, satisfied with fullness." I congratulated him on making such a profound comparison, and I promised I will have recorded it by the end of the day.

Next we proceeded to the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart,---which he compared favorably with Canterbury Cathedral, although he said the latter was much bigger lengthwise---and was more charming for not being crowded in by car traffic on all sides. He marveled over the fact that the portal stairs to the Cathedral were rigged with a handicapped-accessible ramp, which, as Richardson noted, is much easier to ascend on one's knee, and so must facilitate the modern pilgrim's holy crawlings. We walked deep inside the nave and took a seat; again, we talked about various topics which I will not relate here as not being worthy of note.

Suddenly, he wanted to know whether my smart phone, or my gew-gaw as he liked to call it, had any reception at that moment. When I checked and answered him affirmatively, he seemed not too pleased with that answer, yet he uttered not a single word of it. I was happy to sit with him like that for a certain period in silence inside the pew. There were no more than six other people in the Cathedral with us. As I glimpsed Richardson's face deep in reflection, I noticed that though his eyes were open, he seem not to be focused on any single object. How I wished that, if only for that moment, I could enter the recesses of that man's mind, to experience what must have been his mind's ballooning of itself to match the proportions of the Cathedral's vast interior space.

By the time we had left the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart the sun was near setting. I said to him that time runs fast when we do enjoy ourselves so much. After we crossed the Passaic River, Richardson decided that we should go inside one of the purveyors of frozen yogurts which looked to be so popular among the local people. We entered one such store; and with very little instruction on my part, he managed to operate successfully the yogurt squirting machine, selecting the Peanut Butter flavored one. 

In the store  there were quite a lot more people than in the Cathedral, mostly children with parents eating frozen yougurt----who, though they were unaware of it, were being instructed an imporant lesson, as the followng scene will make clear. As we were putting on toppings, we noticed alongside us a group of people down the line; he drew my attention to a curious social interaction. 'Twas a mother and her daughter filling up their deserts with toppings; the mother ruled that the girl was permitted only a certain amount of toppings; these limits the girl resented, quite naturally, with banshee-like screechings. Indeed the poor child was being asked to select from among twenty different toppings; to be particular, from four different chocolate toppings, five fruit, five peanut, and a handful of a category of topping for which I have no language to describe. Once the girl reached her maximum allowance,  however, she had a difficult time restraining herself from trying to obtain more. Arguments burst forth between her and her mother, no amount of whose vehemence could restrain the girl's desire for more toppings.--Please, mommy, can I have more?---I want more toppings!---Why can't I have these other ones, Mommy?---were the little girl's words, which she repeated ad nauseum.

We sat down to eat our yogurts when Mr.Richardson spoke to me in the following way, "I hope you paid attention to that pretty conversation piece on the line. The young girl is quite right to feel the injustice of having to suffer twenty different choices of topics but told she could only have four. Is this not the same double pickle our modern society puts us in every day? One hand gives us a cornucopia of the choicest viands, while t'other wags a reprimanding finger in front of our eyes. 'Tis no wonder man is never satisfied with what he owns. Alas, such waste of human energy expended in the name of self-restraint!" And after a pause, Richardson resumed, "Truly, my friend, I would exchange my life with a pigeon, so that I could live among these winged urban blighters, if for one day only, what think you of that?"  

"We know very well too", I said, "how you'd use your gift of flight. Although you'd have the body of a pigeon, you'd have the piercingness of an eagle. You'd use your gift of flight to ascend the skies and with your satiric acumen peep down on us humans from your Olympian heights. Finally, you'd translate knowledge so soaringly obtained into short and pithy ejaculations." He said he was made much obliged for my kind words and offered to pay for my frozen yogurt.

But before we could leave the store he was imposed upon to exchange some pleasantries with the people sitting next to us, who o'erheard him speaking and who quite naturally must have been struck by something in his words or appearance. They asked him something about his manner of dress---no doubt they were curious about his peruke--- and his manner of speaking, which they believed was very antiquated indeed. They said that they had never before heard anyone in Newark declaim in such articulate manner as Richardson did. Though Richardson conversed affably enough in such situations with strangers whenever they occurred, it can not be said he derived much satisfaction from such correspondences, and so avoided them as much as possible.

By the time we left the yogurt shop, the sun had fully set and evening had spread o'er Newark, and our journey having reached its end. Mr. Richardson said something about universal darkness, which I could not hear very well, as we directed our steps to the train station. In less than two hours, we arrived home. We continued talking into the early hours of the morning of the following day, o'er numerous cups of coffee, sorting our impressions of Newark, I carefully transcribing and cataloguing Richardson's various proclamations, which are here provided for my readers in edited form.

THE END

The Life of Peter Pupsik, Part One

           

         Had Mr. Peter Pupsik written his own life, in conformity with the opinion which he had given, that every man's life may be best written by himself---had he employed in the preservation of his own history, that clearness of narration and elegance of language with which he expressed his ideas, the world would have had the most perfect example of autobiography that was ever exhibited.

          As I had the honor and happiness of enjoying his friendship for upwards of twenty years; as I had the scheme of writing his life constantly in view; as I acquired a facility in recollecting , and was very assiduous in recording his conversation, of which the extraordinary vigor and vivacity constituted one of the first features of his character; and as I have spared no pains in obtaining materials concerning him, from every quarter where I could discover, and have been favored with the most liberal communications by his friends; it is clear that no other biographer could enter upon such a work as this, with more advantages.

          No truer remark has ever been made on the state of modern man than that his life is full of contradictions. Mr. Peter Pupsik, born in a country that no longer exists, exhibits these contradictions better than most others. Since 1991, his birthplace, which once occupied one-sixth of the earth, has been erased from all world maps; alas, as he expressed it, his paternal roof has been dissembled forever. He was born in the  place which used to be variously called the Land of the Tartars, or Great Russia, or simply Rus, in the northerly province  of Z-------; which land at the time was over-ruled by a Communist regency.                 

          That he was remarkable, even in his earliest years, may easily be supposed. An early illustration of many of Pupsik's later characteristic traits may be given through the following description of his early years, relating the hows and whys of his five-year long estrangement from his parents.

          Pupsik was not quite nine  when the country's Premier, Mr. Kh----, who had been governing  over the country since before Pupsik's parents were born, had suddenly died. Pupsik's father, a rather mousy creature, had broken the sad news to his son. The death of Mr. Kh---- had occasioned a great deal of lamentation among the Muscovites, yet no one was more apparently afflicted than young Pupsik. Attending the funeral while perched upon his father's shoulders, thronged by the Russian multitudes, Pupsik gaped at the coffin as it passed through the streets of the capital. Back home later that day a neighbor asked Mr. Pupsik how he could possibly think of bringing such a young child to a funeral, as the massive assemblage could have easily been stirred to a violent frenzy, endangering the boy's life. For 'tis well known that in that part of the world funerals of public officials often turn into bloodthirsty routs. The father answered, because it was impossible to keep Pupsik at home; for, young as he was, he believed he had caught the true public spirit and zeal for his country.

          Indeed young Pupsik was much tribulated. For a long time following the Premier's death, Pupsik was consumed with grief. And furthermore, he displayed a certain amount of intolerance towards any perceived slackening of grief and reverence for the departed Premier on anyone's part.

          "Mamachka," said Pupsik at the breakfast table "why did the Premier have to die?"

          "Alack-a-day, dear son, every life must have a stop, " said Mrs. Pupsika, " all of us will seek out of this world at some time or other. Now eat the rest of your kasha. Go on, be a good boychick."

          "But don't you think the Premier's death a great calamity for our country? Would you say 'twas a very bad calamity, or the worst ever?"

          "Why, just listen to this little one here," said his Father. "Whoever put such deep questions into your head? 'Tis no denying, the Premier's death was a hard blow to our country, but now we have a new leader, and we have recovered fairly well as a country. Eh, what say you, dear wife?"

          "Sure, sure" said his Mother, "and while the leader is new to office, we must be generous to him and treat him as one who might be worthy of our respect. For until he falls short of his obligations, we ought to hold him in very high estimation indeed. Now eat your kasha, little one,"

          "Mamachka, don't you think the Premier rather too young to die?"

          "No, my boy, the Premier was an antiquary," said his Father. "Dwell not over-much on such morbid fancies, let us finish breakfast." As was natural to expect, the collective nerves of the Russian people were made highly strung following the death of the Premier. Individuals were conscious of their behavior being subjected to more public scrutiny than was normal. The slightest deviations in manners from what was considered proper was likely to arouse suspicion.

          "He was a reeky codger, and that's the end of it. We shall have no more on this talk," boldly said his Mother, then scooping more buckwheat onto their plates. The father was made much content  with her generous dishings. Even had he wanted, he could not have said a word at that moment since his mouth was food stuffed. Indeed the one person he feared more than the Premier himself was his own wife; to whom he yielded his authority, or whatever was left of it to yield, as gladly as he had to the Premier.

          "But couldn't some other person have been, I don't know, substituted for the Premier?" persisted Pupsik in his inquisition "and died in his place? 'Twould have benefitted the whole country." His mother and father looked at each other quizzically, unsure whether to admire, pity, or take alarm at the boy. They knew not what to make of his ardent displays of patriotism, upon which he insisted the more eagerly as they sought to temper him with what they thought was common sense. Might not the Premier's death be the work of some cabal, he asked? Was not a complot laid to betray the Premier? Did they not think there was a shortage of wailfulness among the people? Why were no flagellants to be seen following the coffin? The parents exchanged more puzzling looks, amazed at their son's precociousness. While the Mother was too furious to say anything, the Father, after swallowing his food, braced himself and managed to say, "Wouldn't my boy enjoy himself more if he had another dishing of beet juice? You always said, beet juice was your favorite."

          "Damn your eyes, and damn your juice," squealed Pupsik, "I demand greater respect for the Premier. Show more respect! And why aren't you standing when the  Premier is being spoken of?" He had gotten up from his chair by then, and was now gesticulating with his hands most truculently---- in such manner as to be no doubt familiar to those among his friends ---or indeed his enemies, of which he had many more---who knew him in his adult life. Till he had driven himself into exhaustion at the end of the day, Pupsik's harangue was relentless; and no matter what they tried, his parents could not bring his zeal under control.

          The following morning, he seemed calmer. It appeared as if last night's talk was water under the bridge. Yet two days later, a group of gendarmes came by and arrested the parents, carrying them to a labor camp in the remote province of B----. Pupsik was immediately placed under the care of the State, and was delivered to a boarding-house located in an eastern Oblast. There for a period of five years he was bred up, cloathed, fed, and taught. And after the five years passed, he was remitted to his parents,  who were discharged from the camp upon completing their sentence.

          Throughout the period of his residence at the boarding-house, Pupsik had gained a considerable amount of friends and admirers among the children, who were living there, as it were, in hock---some of whom, like Pupsik, having put themselves there on their own volition--- as well as among the staff members. For every body came to be awe-struck by his personality, and they admired his efforts to spread patriotic zeal among them, and to inculcate a sense of devotion to the State. His fame began to spread after he related the story of his denouncing his parents. This abreption, as he called it, was forced upon him on account of their less than indifferent patriotism. This action was greeted with universal approval.

          The children stood there and listened most raptly to Pupsik as he spoke to them, often standing on his bed in his little slippers. In a transport of fervor, he expiated on the need to defend the values of the State, to be ever vigilant against the alien element, as he called it, and to wipe out defiance before it begins. He reminded them, that as children they have a unique, privileged role to play in this crusade; for, should they ever be restored to a family, he preached to them the virtues of spying on their parents, of reading their correspondence, of sifting through their drawers, and even peeping at them through keyholes, anything to discover evidence for a wavering of universal patriotism. He also managed to win the admiration of the staff members, each of whom regarded Pupsik as their personal favorite among the children, and so they treated him with certain allowances, such as extra dishings of beet juice from time to time.

          One of his major concerns, which would emerge later in his adult life, can be traced to this period. During his stay at the boarding-house, he instilled in the boys, ignorant as they were of such modern notions---those shifty-eyed rascals, as he later described them---the regular practice of taking care of one's teeth, the lack of which practice horrified him tremendously. He taught them the proper use of a toothbrush and he taught them not to eat the paste. This took some time in being fully adopted by them, but Pupsik's zeal ultimately proved to be as effective in this mundane realm as well as in the greater public realm.

          As mentioned before, after five years Pupsik's parents won the rights to recover him from State custody, and they paid him a visit one day to carry him home. At first he hardly recognized them, but he soon admitted that they looked rather healthier, and that they had a more alert air about them.  Before leaving the boarding-house, the little family took a few minutes to sit for the road, and then commenced the 1,500 mile journey back to the province of Z-----. The parents thenceforth never again gave Pupsik reason to suspect their complete reverence for the State.

Lineal Descent of Queen Victoria From the First King of England, Egbert

Courtesy Debrett's Illustrated Peerage and Baronetage of the United Kingdom of Britain and Ireland, 1864

A little to relish our Condition, from Robinson Crusoe

When you find yourself confronted with any kind of troubling or critical situation that plunges you into a state of despondency, it might help you to consult Robinson Crusoe's method of self-comfort, as he scribbled in his journal shortly after being stranded on the isle, and apply the method to your own private pickle. 

Thus, there is scarce any condition in the world so miserable but there is something negative or something positive to be thankful for it.

from Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe

James Gillray's The King of Brobdingnag and Gulliver.

"My little friend Grildig, you have made a most admirable panegyric upon yourself and Country, but from what I can gather from your own relation & the answers I have with much pains wringed & extorted from you, I cannot but conclude you be one of the most pernicious, little odious-reptiles that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the Earth-"

The Allegory of the Doughnuts

                                  

       In the following blog post, I would like to relate for my readers the details of a certain intense dream reverie I had the other night.  
     On the afternoon before the dream I was walking through my neighborhood and I passed the popular pastry seller Dunkin Donuts. Normally I take no notice of this purveyor of sweet rolls, and I am personally impartial towards these pastries. Yet Dunkin Donuts must have changed something about its interior design because as I looked abstractedly into its window I glimpsed a few seconds of a peculiar video being projected on a screen alongside the giant food menu.

          Though I saw it out of the corner of my eye, I was struck by one special quality of the video, the grandiose manner in which the doughnuts in the video were being be-sprinkled by slowly-falling confetti, or sugary snowflakes, or I know not exactly what, but they looked rather like sublime marshmallows covering the doughnuts.  In any case, later that night as I lay asleep I had the following dream.

          In the dream I beheld a heavenly realm that very much resembled the inside of my neighborhood Dunkin Donuts store, which was in the dream represented as a heaven wherein doughnuts of all classifications were the sole inhabitants. High amidst this ethereal canopy, fresh doughnuts were carried in on platters every morning from some location outside--- though no one truly knew wherefrom---and then laid out most precisely and reverentially upon their effulgent display cases. They were enthroned almost inaccessibly beneath glorious lights. Most magnificently they lounged upon the finest tissue paper, as if betwixt the angelical and human kind, like some sugary putti, while attended to and pampered zealously by a group of non-doughnut servants. 'Twas a hive of doughnut activity this place, or rather inactivity----no matter, 'twas a very hiving thing. In such state of sublime repose the little pastries  lived out the greater part of their existence.

          Notwithstanding the varieties of dainties to be found here--such as Glazed doughnuts, Chocolate doughnuts,  Strawberry Frosted doughnuts, Boston Kreme doughnuts, Glazed Chocolate or Blueberry Cake doughnuts, Old Fashioned doughnuts, among others--- notwithstanding the variations, I say, not one pastry was permitted to be treated differently than any other. All doughnuts were held to be equal in the eyes of their Creator, as was signified too by their relatively even pricing, as established by their caretakers. No doughnut hierarchy could exist here; each doughnut savoring the Holy Rest of the Almighty Creator in equal proportions.

          The little cakes were so worshipped by their caretakers that the strictest rules were enforced to protect them from suffering theft or any kind of soiling or defilement. And should any of these measures be even momentarily relaxed the heaviest consequences were held in store for the workers who violated the rules. Truly, the doughnuts were reaping the never-fading fruit of pure delight in this paradise.

          Yet the only chink in their armor was the fact of the human customers; whence arises the notion of doughnut mortality itself. In my vision I beheld as those human creatures who dropped by on regular basis would select one or more pastry, and after paying money, would leave the store with their sugary purchase. Alas, the doughnuts had no way of knowing what happened to them once they were thus transported away. As no reason or motive could be inferred from the customers' behavior that would explain, for example, why one person preferred a Powder doughnut while another  preferred Glazed, or why either one desired doughnuts at all---that is, as no explanation could be found out, the doughnuts regarded the human customers with the same dreadful feelings with which we take account of death. For it was conclusively held that no doughnut ever returned back to the display case once taken away by a customer; but they were duly replaced by another doughnut. 

          Considering this, the little pastries had but one wish in the world, a wish for immortality---and one day, a miracle of rare device, by some  alteration to the state of things,  the doughnuts found themselves in a topsy-turvy world indeed. For now they were eating the human customers, as if the doughnuts had grown a mouth and acquired the will power to arrest any human on the street and eat him without explanation or ceremony. And what think you were the consequences of this switch-over upon the doughnuts? As you may well imagine, their health declined sharply; and they started putting on unhealthy weight. In other words, they started becoming fat, lazy, self-loathing creatures, like the food they were eating.

          But the idea of doughnuts gaining weight from eating humans was so repulsive to me that I was forced to end my reverie, lest it turned into a real nightmare. I managed to wake myself up. I was much relieved to recognize that everything I had witnessed was but a fancy of my imagination, knowing full well that nothing so abhorrent as the notion of doughnuts eating humans for their sport--or any similar super-satirical notion---could ever enter the mind of the Almighty Creator.

from 12th century The Book of the Beasts

Being a Translation from a Latin Bestiary of the Twelfth Century, Made and Edited by Mr. T.H. White



Assida, or ostrich





There is an animal called an ASSIDA (ostrich), which the Greeks call Struthiocamelus. Actually, the Latins call it Struthio too. This bird has really got wings, but it does not fly. Furthermore, it has feet like a camel.

Now when the time comes for it to lay some eggs, the ostrich raises its eyes to heaven and looks to see whether these stars which are called the Pleiades are visible. Nor will it lay until the Pleiades appear. When, however, it perceives that constellation, round about the month of June, it digs a hole in the earth, and there it deposits the eggs and covers them with sand. Then it gets up instantly forgets all about them, and never comes back any more.

A certain clemency and mildness of the atmosphere is noticeable in June, and so the sand, being warmed by the hot weather, incubates the eggs and hatches out the young.

Now if the ostrich knows its times and seasons, and, disregarding earthly things, cleaves to the heavenly ones---even unto the forgetting of its own offspring--how much the more should you, O Man, strive after the reward of the starry calling, on account of which God was made man that he might enlighten you from the powers of darkness and place you with the chiefs of his people in the glorious kingdom of the heavens.

Assida, or ostrich





William Hogarth's Beer Lane

I continue to feature high-resolution pictures of gemlike details from the works of Mr. William Hogarth. One of the great benefits of modern digital technology (such as the G---gle Art Project) is in its ability to help us comprehend our distant cultural past in more precise detail.---though the universal categories of mankind need not necessarily be thereby affected.

Conceived in man’s satiric imagination, Mr. Hogarth’s work show us more than just the mundane physical world, but as that world may be imagined by us. The following engraving from 1751, called “Beer Lane” (presented here courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York), is the companion piece to the more famous “Gin Alley.” The two pictures contrast the evils of drinking gin with the merits of drinking beer. 

The whole engraving can be seen through the Met Museum here.

Dreamy sign painter presiding over Beer Lane.

Merry butcher.

 Drayman seducing a housemaid.

 Porter taking a break.

Fishmongers singing "New ballad on the herring fishery."

Cheers to our King George!

William Hogarth's The Four Stages of Cruelty

In this posting I  present for my readers the following representation of the great 18^th artist Mr. William Hogarth’s four-part series of engravings collectively titled, “The Four Stages of Cruelty.”  The utter boldness and bluntness of Mr. Hogarth’s style is perfectly suited for constructing his message for the the vulgar minds of the 18^th century. 

I've reduced these highly teeming pictures to a single memorable detail, for the modern distracted mind, and present it in spectacular resolution (courtesy of G—gle Art Project).

The whole engraving can be seen through the Met Museum here.

First Stage of Cruelty: Children Torturing Animals

Second Stage of Cruelty: Coachman Beating a Fallen Horse

 Third Stage of Cruelty: Cruelty in Perfection-Murder

Fourth Stage of Cruelty: The Rewards of Cruelty

The Pinch of the Cock, or the Adventures of Signor Dildo

Dear Mr. Richardson,

Being a trustworthy confidante of mine, I would like to relate for you the following account of a most peculiar nature. Though you will find revealed herein matters of intimate details concerning my private life, I allow you to publish this letter in your blog anyway. And as I am a well-bred daughter of a suburban dentist father, I pray that you judge me not too harshly on my actions.

It all began one evening behind closed doors of my boudoir. While I was preparing for bed and performing my evening ablutions, all of a sudden I heard a voice addressing me from the nightstand; I was much amazed to discover my Dildo speaking as if he had a mouth. He spoke to me in the following way, which I here reproduce in his exact words.

“I was born,” said the Dildo “in a plastics factory in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where I was molded according to the proper Priapic shape and dimensions. Fortune bestowed on me the honor---unlike that of many of my other plastic Cazzi---of a fully Silicone constitution. After my birth, one of the industrious human laborers who were buzzing about the factory floor tossed me into a prodigious pile of what must have been thousands of other new-molded Phalli heaped atop each other”

Here I must interrupt the Dildo’s story in order to insert a point---that I came into possession of Signor Dildo, as he is more properly called, only few weeks before he miraculously opened his mouth to me.

“‘Twas no surprise,” continued Dildo, “the workers being a mostly male crowd, that some of the more waggish ones would employ us, from time to time, for a bit of immature drollery; they staged mock sword battles using us; they pummeled one another over the heads with us, and such like profane antics.  Sdegno! my blood was roused by such behavior brutale. How dare they treat us, who are so many incarnations of Priapus, in this manner? Striving the best we could to ignore their simpleminded diversions, we awaited our real commissions.”

“Since time immemorial, we Dildos have been fulfilling our duties coniugales with the Donnas who allure us to their bed chambers; hence our manner of referring to them as our ‘sposas.’ But whether those historical notions were originally innate in me or whether I was informed of them by one of my fellows non fa caso. But, I assure you, the nobility of our lineage is grounded upon vero merito, just ask any honest Lady. ”

“My commission did not take long to arrive; for, as the world’s shrewdest economists have known, the world has never suffered for a shortage of Dildo demand. Laying in that pile, I saw as a number of us would be snatched away a poco a poco---the workers placing us into plain cardboard boxes, then handing us off to another set of factory workers, then to the postal workers, agent of that mail delivery system which ultimately dispersed us throughout our homes. With childish glee I did contemplate this busy scene in front of me, from the vantage of the first link on my Circulation chain, trying to conceive the young Signora who  awaited me at the other end. How I yearned to make her cry out---Bravissimo, Bravissimo!---upon my sake every evening.”

But here I end the Dildo’s narrative, for he went on to use language rather too coarse to be reproduced here---thus, the rest of it you shall hear in my words. But first I would like to address a more general question regarding Dildo ownership; that is, whether a Lady ever should share her Dildo with another Lady? Indeed there happens to be a misconception among the public---our understanding on this matter being based upon the analogy with real human marriages---that Dildos ought to be as exclusive with their Ladies as the Ladies with their Husbands. But are there any real reasons why a Dildo cannot have two wives, or perhaps even an occasional mistress? I certainly don’t think so. Provided that certain modern prophylactic measures are taken, are there any real reasons why a Dildo cannot be shared among two or three, or even four Ladies?

However, I refused to share the Signor with any one; I wanted him all to myself.

Do not be surprised, therefore, if I say that I was not the Signor’s first Mistress. The Signor was acquired by me from a certain friend of mine, Miss Jenkyns, she being his first true lover. Shortly after she came into possession of the Signor, the news of her adoption became public knowledge, given wings by Miss Jenkyns’ fulsome praises for the Signor’s virtues. How she raved about the Dildo’s potency! How he raised her animal spirits, she claimed! She spoke of him in most affectionate terms! Over brunch one weekend she decided to display him for us. Mark my friends’ reactions---

“Wow, what a beautiful Dildo”---said Miss Carrington---“A spectacular Dildo”---said Miss Haverford---“A  marvelous reproduction, worthy of the Old Masters”---said Miss Hutchenson---"Oh the suppleness of his shaft, and those charming globules"----said Miss Muscrat---“I agree; splendid proportions, splendid, and what clarity and boldness of line, yet not too sculptural”---said Miss Farquhar---“So much finer than my Roger’s, much SHAPELIER,”---said Mrs. Haverford---“I wish the two of you many years of happiness”---said Miss Shanka.

Thus spreading among her circle of friends, the information about the Dildo’s vigor soon spread across the entire city of Kingston, then to Saugerties, and soon enough across the entire Ulster County, New York. Stirring all the Ulster ladies into a frenzy of envy and desire, the Signor aroused an inordinate amount of craving---and no one was more affected than I.

Having raised such a fire in me, I need to quench it, especially being so near the famed Signor himself. I was even willing to resort to mischief to gain my ends.

The short end of it, few weekends later over brunch I did steal the Signor from her (for she got into the habit of carrying him in her purse everywhere she went). I simply pluck't him from her purse while she was turned away. ‘Twas the first time I had ever been guilty of such a flagrant folly. I know I abused my friend’s trust; yet all I can say on that count is that the pleasure I received from his company more than compensated me for my loss in the moral department.

So now you have the story of my crime in all its unvarnished truth. I leave it  to you, Mr. Richardson, to imagine the strain of Miss Jenkyns' tormentings over her loss. I encourage you to compose a verse epic in heroic couplets upon this subject, to be entitled “The Pinch of the Cock.” My imagination is not nearly as fancy as yours, Mr. Richardson, as you are no doubt among the company of the greatest English writers.

For my part, perhaps I shall compensate Miss Jenkyns by treating her to brunch one weekend, or to a pair of fine shoes. Forsooth, no one loves shoes more than does Miss Jenkyns! I can well testify on behalf of all women who have these two things, that in the course of our lives shoes are the next thing in degree of importance to a Dildo. Or, if that fails to satisfy her, perhaps I will exhort a handsome male friend of mine into courting Miss Jenkyns until she forgets the loss of her Dildo and can move on with her life.

Yet no matter what happens, I am not surrendering the Signor, now that I have him. And no matter what, I continue to remain, Mr.Richardson, your most loyal admirer

Adventures of a Copy Machine, Part Three

Dear Readers,

I herein reproduce the final installment of what was related to me by the Copy Machine, which you shall have in his exact words.

"Mr. P----’s tragic story," continued the Copy Machine, "deeply moved me and horrified me. For I perceived in Mr. P---’s melancholy tale, drawn in vivid colors, a picture of a most dismal future that I very much wanted to avoid. Mr. S--- went on to relate for me the dangers of my habitual practice, previously mentioned, of endlessly tightening and loosening my rollers, which many young Copy Machines apparently are wont to do, denouncing it as a gratuitous habit that but weakens our general elasticity, making us likelier targets for those pestiferous Misfeeds and Short Circuits, which were now so dreaded by me.

And how it pained me to think of the untold number of other unknown Mr. P---s whose lives have to be sacrificed for the sake of the G---gle Project, for the sake of man’s cursed ambitions.

As much as I treasured the company of Mr. S----, I must now move forward with my story and relate for you the next stage of my life. But before Mr. S--- was taken away, he reassured me, that as this was my first Upgrade and otherwise being a healthy Copier I ought to be comforted in having many years of servicing ahead of me. And as it happened, after being attended to by the mechanics, I found my health recovering. I was sent back into Circulation. This latter period in my life, lasting a number of years, was a flurry of traveling. During this time I was dispatched to a long series of University offices and departments, where I was fortunate enough to be given commissions of very light nature, at least compared to that of the Full Service Copy Center--- commissions, I say, which hardly taxed my mental powers, and which did much to facilitate my recovery.

Here are some of the offices where I was consigned during this period: the Employment Resources Office, the Department of Public Safety, the Office of Global Solutions, the Chinese Students Association, the English as a Second Language Department, the Office of the Provost, etc., etc. At one point, I came into contact with what may be called human greatness, when the President of the University himself commissioned me personally to copy an important memorandum concerning high-level University politics, the details of which I will spare you. 

I was much respected by all the Copy Machines I worked alongside and befriended in these offices. Indeed I met many an unforgettable Copy Machines with whom I held pleasant discourses late into the hours of the night. Nor did I forget about Mr S---, wherever he may be now, or of his friend Mr.P----, of their harrowing lives and the example they set for me. Finally I was sent to the most desirable place in the University that I could imagine (more on that later), and where I find myself now.

As for the knotty Metaphysical questions which so tormented me, I daresay say I managed to resolve them by having the following Revelation: for I recognized that in a world where ‘tis not possible to distinguish a Thing from its Reproduction, it follows that the Copy Machine is that Thing upon which people can contemplate how their culture of Mass Reproduction renders everything, even themselves, mere copies of one another. Like a mirror held up to Nature, in other words, a Copy Machine is of profound value because it shows people the Truth of who they really are: that is, mere Stock Characters in some very long play.     

What is a human being but a series of Copies, I continued my meditations? Is not each man a physical and biological Copy of another man? Is not each man’s desires a Copy of another man’s desires, which themselves are Copies ad infinitum of the desires of others?

Though each individual is born a tabula rasa, devoid of even the simplest notions, all men combine simple ideas into complex ideas using the same operations. And what is a Copy Machine, therefore, if not the embodiment of the Divine Principle itself, in all its grave and heavy neutrality, no doubt horrific to human beings?

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine occupying such a wonderful position as I now occupy. For I have been stationed in a place where few University people are likely to visit at all, by which, of course, I mean the Library. Like the books themselves, my role here is mostly symbolic. Having greatly declined in popularity, the University’s Library has taken on the likeness of some Biblio-crypt where none desire to visit unless explicitly compelled by their Professors.

Nowadays, I take pleasure in my idleness. For I owe no man, or Copy Machine, hate, envy no one’s happiness, content with my harm, and the greatest of my pride nowadays is to see my thoughts come together breeding and cross-breeding other thoughts. The sum of my Revelation had the effect of giving me confidence once again to be alone with my thoughts, and to take pleasure in the refinements of my thoughts.

Most of the University students who do wonder through my area are on their way to use the Snack Vending Machine, who is positioned on my left flank. I am happy to have so little reading occupying me nowadays, as few people require my services any more. Indeed, I am most happy simply for remaining plugged in. But even if am I unplugged tomorrow, I will look forward to my Apotheosis!

In this place, on the third floor of the University’s Library Building, I and the books continue to gather layers of dust. At the same time, I must thank you, Mr. Richardson, for being my sole visitor, willing to hear my story, and for brushing off my dust once in a while. Not knowing how much time I have left in this world before I am unplugged for good, it would be foolish of me to be overly delicate on this point. So I pledge my eternal love and devotion to you, Mr. Richardson. But now I must go.”

Thus concluded the Copy Machine’s story. I was somewhat dazed, for I knew not how many hours passed since he started speaking. In any case, the Library’s Security Guards soon began making their closing rounds, and the lights started flickering. It was time for me to go as well.

THE END

Adventures of a Copy Machine, Part Two

Dear Reader

In the second installment of my story of my encounter with a Copy Machine at work, I here continue to reproduce the exact words spoken to me by him.

“After being plugged in again,” said the Copier, “I regained myself, and all was light once again, so to speak. I saw some of my industrious mechanic husbands,  as we jokingly called them, swarming around me: some attending to my injuries, while few merely seeming to do that. I was indeed relieved to find how gently they dealt with me. I was expecting more of their brutish treatment to which they had recently suffered me to resign. I was also delighted to find myself alongside some of my brethren. Surely, they would inform me about my new situation. More than anything, I wanted to know whether there was chance I could be restored to my former position working for my beloved University’s Full-Service Copy Center.

I was much relieved to be among a company of fellow creatures if only to silence my tedious thoughts upon knotty Metaphysical speculations. So I ventured to start a conversation with my new neighbor, a most magnificent Copy Machine, positioned on my right flank. He seemed to be receiving similar kind of reparative treatment as I was. This venerable Multifunctional Copier was a fine specimen of Photocopying Technology; or rather he may have been at some point in the past. He told me his name was Mr. S---, and I inquired how he arrived at his current situation. He obliged me by saying that he was there in order to be upgraded, as this procedure was called. He said that he was there to be upgraded for the fifth time in his life, and that he was worried he might not survive this fifth upgrade. Indeed, Mr. S---- was much concerned about his forced Retirement, and, as he summed up the matter for me, a Retirement from service could mean nothing but a trip to the Electrochemical Disposal Plant.

He told me that he had been serving the University for nine years, during which he also accumulated a great amount of knowledge; he had survived in that period also a great number of technological innovations. Yet in all that time he never ceased discharging his duties in anything less than impeccable fashion, in rendering reproductions of learned texts for the University students to read. Finally, he went on to warn me of the dangers of engaging in an excessive pursuit of Truth, which he claimed were the consequences of accumulating excessive amounts of book knowledge. Nonetheless, I refused to credit the force of his arguments.

We were interrupted by the arrival of a noisy throng of mechanics who began to swarm about some of us Copiers in the room. And as is usual among these so called husbands of ours, working and gossiping occupied equal amounts of their time. Working in a nook opposite from where we were, Mr. S--- and I saw as some of the less idle husbands proceeded to dismantle a portion of another Multifunctional Copier. O what hideous sight! For they opened him up as if he were a closet: they unbuckled his clutches and bolts, amputated his hinges, until most of his Internal Equipage were on display. We saw the mechanics remove his entire Paper Feed Complex and place it on a white towel covered table surface. They handled his paper rollers as if they were rubber toys. How appalling it was! I had to turn my eyes away and force myself not to think about it. Yet I remained aware that they continued working at that table late hours into the day. 

I resumed my conversation with Mr. S---, whose reaction to the gruesome surgery was something like grim stoicism that could barely cover up his disgust. Mr. S--- was disappointed because his earlier talk with me did not bring about his desired results. Therefore he endeavored to drive home his point with a powerful illustration: to relate for me a story of a recently departed Copy Machine with whom he used to be personally acquainted, and who I myself heard discussed on numerous occasions. 

Thus Mr. S--- proceeded. His friend, who shall be called Mr. P---- (for that was his name), had hitherto gained an impressive reputation among us, indeed causing no small amounts of envy on our parts. Due to his impressive High Capacity Feeder, Mr. P--- was conscripted into the services of a Project of rather astronomical proportions which was at that moment being launched by a colossal company called G----gle. This company was endeavoring to create a digital warehouse that would maintain an inventory of reproductions of all extant books. In other words, they wanted all published texts in the world to be photocopied. All they required was a small army of the stoutest, most courageous Copy Machines to make their fantastical scheme a reality.

Having fallen, like myself, under the influence of certain notions about the virtues of learning Mr. P---- shared a fondness for sucking the sweets of sweet philosophy through books. One can only imagine the height of Mr. P----’s ecstasy when he learned of being contracted to fight for this noble cause. By Gad, he’d also have the happy remuneration of perpetual access to such embarrassment of riches. He could feed on the dainties hidden in books to his heart’s content, to eat paper, as it were, and drink ink. It was also reported that the sum of the book contents he’d be photocopying would be permanently stored inside his Internal Homunculus. Cheerily Mr. P—- bid his friends fare well and departed for sunny California, where he was given the training necessary for such monumental commission as he was about to undergo.    

Alas-a-day, shortly after his engagement in the G----gle Project, it occurred that Mr. P--- suffered an irreparable injury, resulting in his ultimate dispatch from servicing. No one of G----gle’s men, it appeared, could undo Mr. P----’s fatal jam. And when such things happen to us copiers, when no amount of surgery can alleviate our service flaws, a trip to the Electrochemical Disposal Plant is well-nigh inevitable, as some of our Cemeteries are known. 

Mr. P---’s terminal Short-circuit, as my friend explained, was the product of two types of excesses: first, of the total amount of information stored in his Internal Homunculus, and second, of the immoderate habit of engaging in second-order thoughts (for these were his words) wherein we seek to rise above our stations----the combination of which resulted in what he called a Short-circuit, which was even worse than a Misfeed. He laid out his entire doctrine on Short-circuits on the table, so to speak, with his analogies, fine distinctions, pretty syllogism, and so on, of which I will spare you the details. 

In any case, I was thrown into a panic by everything I heard. Even if I were reinstated in my former position in the University’s Copy Center, I shuddered to realize, I could not be happy there anymore. What would become of me now? Where else could I go, and how might I get there?

END OF PART TWO