Posts by Dr. Boli
EDGAR ALLAN POE AND THE SYSTEM OF TESTACEOUS MALACOLOGY.
You may pose the question and watch the visions of ravens and purloined letters and maelstroms dance through your friends’ heads as they try to guess which of Poe’s acknowledged works of genius had the most effect on his contemporaries, and as the clever ones among your friends try to remember in what form and under what titles those works were published. Then, after you have collected a number of wrong answers, you may reveal the truth:
The Conchologist’s First Book: or, A System of Testaceous Malacology, arranged expressly for the use of schools, in which the animals, according to Cuvier, are given with the shells, a great number of new species are added, and the whole brought up, as accurately as possible, to the present condition of the science. By Edgar A. Poe. Philadelphia: Published for the author, by Haswell, Barrington, and Haswell, 1839.
Pulling a stunt like this is probably a good way of losing some of your literary friends, so go ahead and try it if you have too many. But it is absolutely true that, of all Poe’s books, this was the best seller in his lifetime, and the only one that saw a second edition before he died.
How did Edgar Allan Poe become an authority on mollusks? He didn’t. In fact, he wrote only the preface and introduction; the rest of the book was an abridgment of a textbook by Thomas Wyatt. Rufus Wilmot Griswold, a man of prodigious critical acumen who is most famous today for unaccountably devoting his life to destroying Poe’s posthumous reputation, wrote that Poe had plagiarized the book; but it appears that Wyatt himself asked Poe to put his own name on the title page so that Wyatt could slip out from under his obligations to his previous publisher. In other words, Poe was just doing what many a successful hack has done since his time: he was lending his name, writing a few hundred words, and taking home a few desperately needed dollars.
Well, now you know more about Edgar Allan Poe than the average assistant professor of literature, who probably spends the entire semester trying to prove that Poe was or was not a racist and succeeds only in proving that he lived in the first half of the nineteenth century. But have you learned anything about Poe as an artist? Yes: you have learned that a hack may be an artist of the first rank, and that it would be unwise to judge a writer by that writer’s most popular book.
THE SINGULAR ASPECT.
Once again the anniversary of Dr. Boli‘s migration to the World-Wide Web in 2007 has come around, and on this day the site is old enough to vote in the United States. And so once again, for one day, we spare ourselves the trouble of writing something new by repeating the first story we ever published on the Internet.
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.”
FROM THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION.
UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD.
An issue of the Australian magazine Dawn from September 1, 1922, caught his eye yesterday—mostly because of the graphics on the front cover. It bills itself as “A Magazine Devoted to the Promotion of Universal Brotherhood.”
So, as you may imagine, the entire issue is devoted to exposing the wickedness going on in the Theosophical Society, an organization devoted to the promotion of universal brotherhood.
It is necessary for Dawn to expose a great deal of cant and humbug, which unhappily is at the moment rampant in the Theosophical Society. The trouble is, that a small coterie, consisting of Mrs. Besant, Mr. Leadbeater, and Mr. Jinarajadasa (with power to add to their number), usurp the sole right to interpret the will of “Masters” who, they claim, wish to direct the activities of the Society through them.
This coterie has broken entirely away from the original aims of the Society, and is deliberately introducing all sorts of fads into it, with the result that a state of ferment is now chronic.
And so on. We shall quote a few paragraphs more or less at random from the magazine, just to give our readers an idea of what universal brotherhood looks like.
Some of the Canadian Lodges have been greatly disturbed by the astounding claims made by, and on behalf of, theosophical “leaders.” They evidently wonder what is to happen next, and, by way of self-assertion and protest, several Lodges are issuing pamphlets on topical subjects.
In 1894, Mrs. Besant and Mr. Judge openly quarrelled, and as the Canadian circular points out, Mr. Judge asserted his authority, and expelled Mrs. Besant from the E.S. News reaches us as we go to press that no less an authority than Mr. B. P. Wadia (one who has always been predisposed to support Mrs. Besant’s interests, and was for years her business manager) has, while in America, carefully reviewed the old causus belli between Mr. Judge and Mrs. Besant, with the result that he now declares Mr. Judge to have been a valiant servant of the Masters, who has been wronged in the Theosophical Society, and whose teachings remain unknown to this day to its members.
Judging from the evidence immediately available, one is tempted to suppose that the definition of Brotherhood which would find widest acceptance in the T.S. at the present time is that “Brotherhood is the ability of other people to agree with ME.”
This, then, is evidently the secret cause of our President’s—shall we say eccentric?—policy. H.P.B. looked for the establishment of a nucleus of Universal Brotherhood without distinction of Race, Caste, Creed, Colour, etc., and a careful elimination of all tendency to sectarianism, so that when the next great Torch Bearer came at the end of this century, there would be something solid for him to work with and through. Mrs. Besant has other ideas—she is the Moses who is to gather together a little band of followers who will subserve everything to the capacity to follow her into the wilderness, or anywhere else, and become the nucleus of a new race.
From an open letter to Mrs. Besant: You have yourself placed the rock which is dividing the Theosophical stream, upon which the Theosophical ship may split in pieces. You have placed loyalty to personality above loyalty to principle, and in supporting Leadbeater you are ruining the T.S.…
In bidding you farewell, and leaving the E.S., I choose to serve no personality, but turn with eyes of faith to the unchanging, eternal Spirit of Truth.
The Sectional Offices in Sydney seem to have been most upset by the recent readjustment, and the General Secretary evidently considers that “loyalty to our leaders” consists of disloyalty to everybody else. Aided by the Vice-President, a systematic course of mis-representation of Sydney Lodge now seems to be the order of the day, and some very remarkable efforts in this direction have been made.…
The General Secretary admitted recently that he was working against the Sydney Lodge, and that he was spreading what amounts to malicious gossip against certain of its members, all of which, of course, we hear. Doubtless he is qualifying for an early “initiation” by these tactics, but the Sydney Lodge (which contributes the lion’s share towards his maintenance) has a right to an impartial service from him, and should consider its attitude towards the section if it does not get it.
So the next time someone offers you the promise of universal brotherhood, you may wish to refuse it—with thanks for the offer, of course. “It’s very kind of you,” you might explain, “but I don’t think I have what it takes for universal brotherhood. I haven’t made enough enemies yet.”
SITUATIONS WANTED.
Wanted by a competent young lady, position on team of con artists with colorful personalities who spend one hour a week righting wrongs and causing justice to prevail in the universe. Have watched multiple television programs demonstrating techniques, so consider self expert. Reply no. 338693 with particulars and list of personal quirks.
Wanted by strong young man, position opening jars for respectable family. Have mastered techniques for opening the most stubborn jars. Pickles a specialty. Will accept position for room and board plus ten per cent of contents of jars. Reply no. 338694.
Wanted by middle-aged Protestant woman, position as governess in Byzantine Catholic family. Tired of the same old grind. Want to walk on the wild side for a while. Reply no. 338695.
Wanted by educated young man, situation sitting on couch playing video games twelve hours a day. Can provide proof of high scores. Reply with salary and description of couch, no. 338696.
Wanted by costumed superhero, position as clerk in dry-goods establishment. My superpower is ability to retrieve items from stock with more than usual alacrity. Tried fighting crime, but criminals eluded my superpower, and my therapist suggests a career more suited to my abilities. Reply no. 338697.
YARD SIGN.
Also available in PDF form for printing at any arbitrary size.
SONG OF THE DEVIL YORKIE.
As sung by the dogs on the other side of the fence.
He’s just so unbelievably evil.
He’s just so inconceivably bad.
In every cotton boll, he’s the weevil.
His machinations drive us quite mad.
The things he says cannot be forgotten,
And to forgive them would be a crime.
He’s just so unbelievably,
Inconceivably
Rotten
All of the time!
FROM THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION.
Advertisement.
