Posts by Dr. Boli
UNTITLED, BY IRVING VANDERBLOCK-WHEEDLE.
I contain the kind of multitudes for which largeness is not a requirement.
Most of my multitudinous residents are bacteria, viruses, and other such microscopic denizens of the inner world of the body,
Although I think I swallowed a gnat yesterday afternoon.
I say to the multitudes within me, “Arise!
Arise and be counted! Arise and be heard!”
And they say, “Quit that shouting or we’ll call the landlord.”
I do not know why they say that.
I do not know who they think the landlord is if I am not the landlord.
I do not think I like the idea that there is a landlord in authority over me, according to my multitudes.
I own my own home in Stanton Heights.
I think I will tell my multitudes that they do not have to arise and be heard.
I think I will take an antibiotic and see how they like it.
THE SINGULAR ASPECT.
It is well known by now that Magnus Abelard deals only with singular cases, so everyone who walks through the door announces that he has a singular case. Nevertheless, the door is, by Abelard’s explicit command, never locked; and this case really did turn out to be singular. I have taken the trouble, therefore, to record it among Abelard’s most remarkable achievements, in the hope that the record will serve as an imperishable monument to Abelard’s genius.
We began with the usual formalities. I informed our visitor that he would have ten minutes to convince Abelard of the singularity of his case. I also explained the payment schedule in the unlikely event that Abelard did pronounce his case singular. Abelard did not speak during the proceedings; he never does speak until some singular aspect of the case has caught his attention.
“Mine is a singular case,” the visitor began as I took notes. “Indeed, it is so singular that I have not spoken with anyone about it until now. I have lived for ten years in fear for my life—a fear all the worse for being secret. I have not dared reveal it to anyone, and yet it eats at me, day after day, hour after hour, like a kind of parasitic creature that gnaws but cannot consume.”
“You have nine and a half minutes,” I reminded him.
“Ten years ago, my wife, to whom I had been married only a month, announced that she had a few purchases to make, and declared her intention to walk to the drug store on Murray Avenue. She would be gone for about an hour, she said. I bid her farewell; she walked out the door; and that, Mr. Abelard, was the last time I ever saw her.
“I shall not weary you with the details of my inquiries. Over the years, I have found opportunities to interrogate our neighbors and the clerks at the drug store. From their statements, I have discovered that my wife did indeed reach the drug store; that she left and turned right on Murray Avenue; that she was last seen walking on Phillips, the very street on which we lived, in the direction of our house. But she never arrived.”
Here the visitor stopped; and, as Abelard was still silent, I knew the narration had not interested him enough for him to take the case. It was therefore incumbent upon me to disappoint our visitor.
“Disappearances such as the one you describe,” I told him, “while exceedingly regrettable, are not extraordinarily uncommon. Perhaps the city police, or a less specialized private agency, might be able to render you some assistance.”
Our visitor sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have not yet revealed to you,” he said slowly and quietly, “the singular aspect of the case.”
Abelard leaned forward. This statement had at least caught his attention.
The visitor took a deep breath, appeared to think for a moment, and then continued, picking his words with care and deliberation.
“About an hour after my wife left, a woman entered my house by the front door. She entered boldly—as if she owned the place, you might say. Now here is the singular and remarkable thing: in every particular, this woman was the exact image of my missing wife. Even her clothes were the same as the ones my wife had been wearing when she left. She proceeded to make herself quite at home; she treated me as though she were actually my wife.”
Here the visitor leaned forward and lowered his voice about a fifth. “For ten years, Mr. Abelard, that woman has inhabited my house, living in every respect as though she were my wife. For ten long years, I have lived in fear, utterly convinced that this woman in my house is somehow deeply involved in the mystery, and afraid even to sleep at night—afraid I might fall prey to the same sinister forces that took my beloved wife from me. The fear is tearing at my soul, sir, and I have at last resolved that, whatever the cost to myself, I must unravel this mystery.”
A moment of silence followed; then Abelard spoke for the first time.
“And how exactly was it that you knew this woman was not really your wife, returned from her shopping trip?”
The visitor started forward; then he sank slowly back in his chair, staring straight ahead.
“Good lord,” he whispered hoarsely.
Abelard observed him closely.
“Good lord,” the visitor said again, somewhat louder this time. “I never thought of that.”
He sat upright in his chair with a new air of confidence. “Well, sir, you certainly have earned your reputation. I never would have imagined that a mystery of such devilish complexity could be unraveled in such a short time. I shall certainly be recommending your agency. You may expect a check from me in the morning, although you must be aware that no remuneration could ever express my profound gratitude. I bid you good day, and once again I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Abelard watched him walk out of the office with a jaunty confidence that had been completely foreign to him only minutes before.
For some time after, Abelard was silent, as though lost in thought. At last he turned to address me.
“Perhaps,” he said, “we ought to reconsider the idea of locking the door.”
MIDDLE ENGLISH.
In that context, he would like to point out the collection “The Eighteenth Century” in the Internet Archive, an accumulation of eighteenth-century English books digitized from microfilm copies.
It’s a huge pile of thousands of forgotten books well worth losing a few hours or years in. But what Dr. Boli found interesting was that, for every book that he glanced at in the collection, the librarian has identified the language as “Middle English.” As far as he can tell, all 6800 or so books in the collection, which are all from the 1700s, are identified as written in “Middle English.” Because the collection is so large, the great majority of books in the Internet Archive identified as in “Middle English” are from the 1700s—about 92% of them, as of yesterday.
What does this observation mean? It’s hard to say. A glance at Wikipedia’s article on Middle English, which seems to be up to date with current scholarship, reveals that linguists still use “Middle English” as a term for English from some time after the Norman Conquest to the late 1400s.
So we must consider the designation in the Eighteenth Century collection a mistake, though one that has persisted through 6,863 volumes as of yesterday, and we must search for a psychological explanation of the mistake. What does the mistake indicate? It would seem to imply that, to a reader in the early twenty-first century, the language of Addison or Johnson is as foreign as Chaucer was to a reader of the middle twentieth century. Our language is racing ahead into the uncertain future, and a curtain of unintelligibility has fallen across the literature from before 1800.
Enterprising publishers should take note. That line of unintelligibility is moving toward us rapidly. Now is the time to prepare editions of Austen and Dickens and Trollope in translation, so that they can be read by non-specialists with no training in extinct languages. Henry James will be added to the list soon, although late-period Henry James required a translation from the moment the work left his desk. This is also a good opportunity to remove anything in those books that would be offensive to modern taste, such as subtlety. It will be profitable for a publisher to spend a little on a competent translator who understands nineteenth-century English but can speak the language of the twenty-first century fluently. It will be especially profitable if you can persuade a certain number of professors of literature to declare that students will be given an automatic F if they are caught using your translations. With that recommendation, nothing in the world will prevent the students from buying them.
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
We’re only about halfway to the final choice of June 23, but you’ll have to read the rest of the article at the source.
So happy birthday to you, Grand Duke Henry/Henri/Heinrich, and Dr. Boli really has no more to say on that matter.
By the way, did you know that the national motto of Luxembourg is “We want to stay what we are”? No other state that Dr. Boli can remember has ever adopted the law of conservation of mass so enthusiastically.
NOT DEAD YET.
From the Files of Mush Marlow, Private Investigator.
Continuing the story that began here.
CHAPTER 7.
“
“Wow!” said Billy. “Two in one day!”
“Two whats?” asked Facto.
“Two big bosses! You and that Canterbury guy.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Facto. “Kosciuszko told me he took you to see the Archbishop. He’s got a big operation, they tell me. But I don’t think it’s as big as mine. I own this town, Marlow.”
“So I hear,” I said warily.
“And by ‘this town,’ he continued, “I mean Sharpsburg. Not the whole Pittsburgh metropolitan area. I mean, that would be silly. I own this block of Sharpsburg, or at least I own this bar, which is at the end of the block. I have a one-third interest in this bar, shared with a certain number of investment partners. So you see, Marlow, I’m a big man around here.”
“Really? said Billy. “I would have said you were about five-foot—”
“Ixnay,” said Kosciuszko in a gravelly half-whisper.
“Wow!” said Billy. “You speak Latin, too!”
“So I think we can come to an agreement that would be good for both of us,” Facto continued. “Mutually beneficial, that’s what I’d call it.”
“I haven’t got any Croydons.” I figured it would be good to get that out there right away.
“Of course not,” said Facto. “I know you ain’t got it. I ain’t some small-timer, Marlow. I get information, and I get the good stuff. You ain’t got the Croydon, and I ain’t got it either. But a lot of people think you have it. You know that’s worth something, right?”
“What’s it worth?” I asked warily, because I usually ask questions warily.
“It gives you influence, Marlow. And influence is always a good thing to have. As long as people think you got the Croydon, you’re valuable. They may threaten you, but they can’t actually kill you, because then you couldn’t tell them where it is. You’re practically immortal! The worst they can do is torture you to make you talk, and we both know you’re tougher than that.”
“When you say ‘we both,’ ” I asked, “do you mean—”
“Yeah,” Billy interrupted, “he’s tougher than that. He’s tougher than anything. He’s tougher than my grandma’s roast beef.”
“Exactly,” said Facto. “And I could use a tough guy like you. See, we’re gonna have a lot of pick fanciers in town for the convention, and I figure some of them guys is bound to be rich.”
“Convention?” It seemed to me I’d heard that word somewhere before.
“The big pick convention. You know, the one where the Archbishop is the keynote speaker.”
“Oh, that convention,” I said, because I always try not to look dumber than people think I am.
“So here’s what I want you to do,” said Facto. “Next time one of them guys asks if you got the Croydon, you say, ‘No, but I know how to get it.’ Then you lead him to me.”
“And then what do you do?”
“I bonk him over the head and take his money.”
“Subtle,” I said.
“Well, I’ve always been clever. That’s what my mom tells me.”
“So your mom thinks you’re clever when you bonk people over the head?”
“Well, she’s the one who does the actual bonking. Mostly I just ransack their pockets once they’re bonked.”
“It sounds like a clever plan,” I admitted, “but I don’t know whether it’s ethical.”
“Oh, I can help you out there,” said Facto. “Kosciuszko here is a trained ethicist. Kosciuszko, it’s ethical, ain’t it?”
“Ethical as all get out,” said Kosciuszko. “I looked it up.”
“See? There you go,” said Facto. “I wouldn’t want to be a crime boss if I had to do anything unethical.”
“I still don’t think I can do it,” I said. “It would damage my reputation if everybody I talked to started getting bonked.”
“Your reputation? Marlow, your reputation is about to get you killed.”
“Killed?” I didn’t like the sound of that. I usually don’t like the sound of verbs that begin with K, like “killed” or “klobbered.”
“Every important pick collector in the world thinks you’ve got the Croydon. That’s your reputation, Marlow. It ain’t a healthy reputation to have. And every important pick collector in the world is going to be in town for the convention. They ain’t all nice guys like me. Some of ’em won’t stop at anything. Not even murder. Not even copyright infringement. There’s some real desperate characters in that crowd. I’m just givin’ you a chance to bonk them before they bonk you.”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t murder me,” I reminded him.
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. But I’ve been on the level with you, Marlow. I think you’re a valuable property, and I’m offering you a way to squeeze that value out without getting squeezed. I think you should take me up on it.”
“Sorry,” I said. “No bonking when I’m around.”
Facto was silent for a moment. Then he put his hands flat on the table “Well, Marlow, all I can say is, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down at my feet, “I’ve been meaning to get new ones, but what with—”
“No, I don’t mean your literal shoes! Criminy! It’s a metaphor. A what-do-you-call-it. It’s an idiotism. I mean that I wouldn’t want to be in your position vis-à-vis the unscrupulous pick collectors out there. I’m giving you a final offer, Marlow. Fifty-fifty. You rope ’em in, Mom bonks ’em, and whatever falls out when they hit the floor, you take half and I take half, and Mom takes half ’cause she bonked ’em. I can’t be any fairer than that.”
“No bonking,” I repeated, turning around to leave.
“Fine,” I heard him saying as Billy and I walked out. “I guess you don’t want to do your bit for a neighbor. I guess you don’t care about a poor honest crook just trying to scrape by. Well, if I were you, I’d be careful, ’cause—”
But we were out in the street by this time, so I didn’t hear the rest.
“You sure showed him,” Billy said as we walked down the street toward the main business district of Sharpsburg. “Now what are we doing next? Another crime boss?”
“Actually, there’s a shoe store on Main Street that I was thinking of stopping in, and—
“You two need a ride?” came a familiar voice from the street beside us.
“Well, actually,” I said, “I was headed for Wagner’s Shoes, and it’s just around the—
The doors opened, and once again thugs poured out of the DeSoto. Once again Billy and I were bundled into the back. Once again I ended up on my head.
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing this moonlighting thing?” I asked. “Three bosses seems like two too many.”
“This one ain’t a job,” said Kosciuszko. “It’s more a personal favor.”
“Favor? Who for? Another crime boss? A Byzantine archeparch?”
“Gee, Mr. Marlow, it’s almost like you don’t trust me. Now, that ain’t fair.”
“If I’m supposed to trust you, how come you keep grabbing me and throwing me into the car?”
“’Cause I don’t trust you.”
“Well,” said Billy, ”that seems fair.”
We were heading over the bridge again, and it occurred to me to say, “You know, maybe you ought to get out a map and plot your route. Then you could take me to all the mob bosses on the north side of the Allegheny in the morning, and all the ones between the rivers in the afternoon, and then you’d still have the evening for the ones on the South Side.”
“Hey, that’s a good idea,” said Kosciuszko. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a map.
“Told you he was smart,” said Billy.
For the rest of the trip, Kosciuszko was busy making marks on his map, so I just sat there and watched out the window until the car rolled to a stop right in front of the building where I had my office.
“Now we’re gonna get out and walk in nice and casual-like,” said Kosciuszko. “Just as if we did it every day.”
“I do do it every day,” I said. “This is my building.”
“Then it oughta be a snap,” said Kosciuszko, and I suppose he was right.
We all walked up the stairs to my office, and Kosciuszko held the door open for me.
“There you are,” said Betty. “About time. Thanks, Koz. There’s a bag of oatmeal cookies on my desk over there.”
“Oh boy!” said Kosciuszko. “With raisins?”
“Just the way you like them.”
Kosciuszko snatched up the bag, pulled out an oatmeal cookie, and bit into it with an expression of pure bliss.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re my next big crime boss?”
“I owed her a favor,” Kosciuszko explained with his mouth full. “And your secretary makes the best oatmeal cookies.”
“So what’s this about?”
“I called the Backstreet Bar in Sharpsburg and told Koz I needed you back right away,” Betty said.
“How did you even know I was there?”
“Somebody in this office has to be a detective,” said Betty. “Anyway, your client is in your office. She says it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Somebody threatened her? Facto was right. They really will stop at nothing.”
“Well, actually,” Betty said, “I got the impression it was your death she was talking about.”
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LETTER TO THE EDITOR.
I don’t think you realize how cool I am. I’m worthy of your attention. I’m worthy of everybody’s attention. I’m special, and I think everyone should acknowledge that. Look at me! I don’t think you’re looking at me.
A lot of people don’t look at me. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. I drive down the street with the coolest beats rattling the foundations of the storefronts on Carson Street. My truck has a ring of colored LEDs all the way around, and they change colors in rhythm with the music. And yet you’re not looking at me. Why aren’t you looking at me? Hey! Yeah, you! Look at me! Hey! Look at me!
I got myself a T-shirt that tells the world I’m the coolest. It says “THE COOLEST” in letters so big they hardly fit on the shirt. And it has a picture of a tiger! How can you not look at me? Do I have to get a zoot suit?
I’ve been working on my walk for years. It’s something halfway between a saunter and a sashay. It just screams, “Hey, look at me!” And yet you’re not looking at me. Not even when I actually scream, “Hey, look at me!”
I got a tattoo on my arm with a picture of a skull. Don’t you want to see a picture of a skull? It’s so cool! Look at it! I’ll bet nobody else has a tattoo of a skull. Why aren’t you looking at my tattoo? I mean, the ink kind of feathered, so on my pale skin it looks more like a bruise than like a real skull, but it’s still a tattoo of a skull. Don’t tell me that’s not cool!
Don’t you want to be with me? Don’t you want to be cool, too? Don’t you want to ride in the coolest truck in the consolidated metropolitan statistical area? I mean, it’s clean. The passenger seat has never even been used!
I think you should look at me. I think you should look at me right now. Are you looking at me? You are looking at me! Oh boy!
What do you think you’re looking at?
I always wanted to say that.
—Sincerely, Ernest “Big Dawg” Stickelmeyer, Etna.
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Meanwhile, over at Ink…
An essay in response to a well-thought-out comment from a frequent commenter here: “What Is a Puritan?”