No one will be able to solve it, I said to Pliny the Elder.
It doesn't matter, he replied. In fact I hope they can't. That will teach those editors to tell me what to write. They'll see I can do perfectly well without pretending to be a detective.
That's fine, I said, but ..... it is solvable, isn't it?
Of course it is, said Pliny, particularly by someone like you.
Like me? I repeated.
A fellow writer, he said, generously.
Well, let me have a go, I said. I know that what was written on the back of the piece of paper was what I saw you writing earlier when I sneaked a look over your shoulder.
Yes, correct, said Pliny. And you know that then I had to rejig it a bit because of that ridiculous request.
Mmm. Am I right that both sides of the paper were written in your handwritng?
Yes.
Aha! So you wrote down a list of facts relating to your original story. and then you changed the story. That's why they don't make sense to Gaius!
Yes, that's it! said Pliny.
But why are they inside the book that Gaius is reading? I asked, still struggling to understand. And why is the story he reads not the same as the one he remembers by Kafka?
Think! said Pliny. Who is Gaius?
You, I said. Oh I get it. This is all just about the process of writing, is it? Only you reversed it. Or turned it inside out. And allowed yourself to escape from your frame. Or something like that.
Right. Something like that, said Pliny.
Showing posts with label Kafka. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kafka. Show all posts
Friday, December 11, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Metamorphosis
Right! said Pliny the Elder. I've taken your advice, and I've added a frame.
That was quick! I exclaimed. Read it out.
Alright, said Pliny. Tell me what you think of this as a beginning:
Gaius Plinius Secundus was at a loose end. His toga was at the dry cleaners and he was confined to the house. He looked around for something with which to occupy his mind.
A loose end! That's not like you like you! I interrupted.
No, but the readers are not to know that. And besides, this is fiction.
Sorry, I said. I like how you got the toga in without having to wear it, I added.
Thank you, said Pliny. Now to continue:
Gaius looked idly along a row of old books in the bookcase, and picked up the one at the end. It was a book of short stories by Kafka. He leafed through until he came to The Metamorphosis, and began to read. This is strange, he said to himself. I thought I knew this story.
The story was about someone called K. One morning K woke up to discover he had partially turned into a giant beetle. ( Hmm, mused Gaius, he turned completely into a beetle in the story I remember). He got out of bed quite easily. That was because he still had human legs. Good, thought K, at least I will still be able to ride my bicycle. He ate some scraps out of the garbage pail, partially dressed himself and went downstairs to find his bike, so that he could ride to work. I hope they recognise me when I get there, he said to himself. I look very different from yesterday. And he ran back upstairs for his hat, by which he hoped to identify himself to his colleagues.
On the way to work, he found himself riding directly behind another beetle on a bicycle. This beetle, he was sorry to see, was almost all beetle, with long thin beetle legs, and was consequently having great trouble controlling his bike. Indeed this would have been all but impossible had he not possessed two human feet, clad in sturdy brown leather boots.
The beetle in the boots wobbled up to an intersection and stopped at the lights. Unfortunately K, who was thinking ahead to the office and wondering how he was going to access his files, rode straight into the stationary beetle, knocking him off his bicycle, upending him, and riding straight over his soft underbelly, squashing his guts out all over the road. In a panic, K rode away, never once looking behind him.
Pliny paused to take a breath. Well, he said. What do you think of it so far?
Fantastic! I said. Better than Kafka! The frame is working a treat. And the story's brilliant, so far. I can't wait to hear the rest.
And you will, said Pliny the Elder, just as soon as I've finished it off.
That was quick! I exclaimed. Read it out.
Alright, said Pliny. Tell me what you think of this as a beginning:
Gaius Plinius Secundus was at a loose end. His toga was at the dry cleaners and he was confined to the house. He looked around for something with which to occupy his mind.
A loose end! That's not like you like you! I interrupted.
No, but the readers are not to know that. And besides, this is fiction.
Sorry, I said. I like how you got the toga in without having to wear it, I added.
Thank you, said Pliny. Now to continue:
Gaius looked idly along a row of old books in the bookcase, and picked up the one at the end. It was a book of short stories by Kafka. He leafed through until he came to The Metamorphosis, and began to read. This is strange, he said to himself. I thought I knew this story.
The story was about someone called K. One morning K woke up to discover he had partially turned into a giant beetle. ( Hmm, mused Gaius, he turned completely into a beetle in the story I remember). He got out of bed quite easily. That was because he still had human legs. Good, thought K, at least I will still be able to ride my bicycle. He ate some scraps out of the garbage pail, partially dressed himself and went downstairs to find his bike, so that he could ride to work. I hope they recognise me when I get there, he said to himself. I look very different from yesterday. And he ran back upstairs for his hat, by which he hoped to identify himself to his colleagues.
On the way to work, he found himself riding directly behind another beetle on a bicycle. This beetle, he was sorry to see, was almost all beetle, with long thin beetle legs, and was consequently having great trouble controlling his bike. Indeed this would have been all but impossible had he not possessed two human feet, clad in sturdy brown leather boots.
The beetle in the boots wobbled up to an intersection and stopped at the lights. Unfortunately K, who was thinking ahead to the office and wondering how he was going to access his files, rode straight into the stationary beetle, knocking him off his bicycle, upending him, and riding straight over his soft underbelly, squashing his guts out all over the road. In a panic, K rode away, never once looking behind him.
Pliny paused to take a breath. Well, he said. What do you think of it so far?
Fantastic! I said. Better than Kafka! The frame is working a treat. And the story's brilliant, so far. I can't wait to hear the rest.
And you will, said Pliny the Elder, just as soon as I've finished it off.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Framed
And was there a shark? asked Pliny the Elder, or was it a false alarm?
Oh, you've been reading my blog, I said, pleased. Tell me, what did you think of my style?
Nothing but lists, said Pliny dismissively. Lists are no substitute for good writing.
But......oh, never mind. And no, there wasn't a shark. At least no one on shore could see one. Everyone was staring out to sea, the helicopter was hovering, and turning in circles, a couple of people came out of the water, the surfboarders paddled on regardless, a passerby asked me if there was a shark and I said that I didn't know. A little while later the helicopter flew off towards the south, and everyone carried on as before.
Perhaps the helicopter spotter was deceived by the shark blue sea, said Pliny, with a smile. Assuming that prescient colour was not the result of hindsight.
You're far too sharp for me Pliny, I said. By the way, how are you getting on with your Kafka story? Is it finished?
Don't ask, said Pliny, looking distressed. It was finished, but then I received a call from the editors asking for a followup to my last story.
That was good wasn't it? You had one all ready to go.
Yes, said Pliny, but they want it to be another detective story, and the protagonist has to be me.
What's wrong with that?
Not just me. Me in a toga!
Yes, but what's wrong with that?
I think you know. My story is about Kafka, a bicycle and a beetle.
Pliny, I said, in literature a tale can be altered, simply by adding a frame.
Oh, you've been reading my blog, I said, pleased. Tell me, what did you think of my style?
Nothing but lists, said Pliny dismissively. Lists are no substitute for good writing.
But......oh, never mind. And no, there wasn't a shark. At least no one on shore could see one. Everyone was staring out to sea, the helicopter was hovering, and turning in circles, a couple of people came out of the water, the surfboarders paddled on regardless, a passerby asked me if there was a shark and I said that I didn't know. A little while later the helicopter flew off towards the south, and everyone carried on as before.
Perhaps the helicopter spotter was deceived by the shark blue sea, said Pliny, with a smile. Assuming that prescient colour was not the result of hindsight.
You're far too sharp for me Pliny, I said. By the way, how are you getting on with your Kafka story? Is it finished?
Don't ask, said Pliny, looking distressed. It was finished, but then I received a call from the editors asking for a followup to my last story.
That was good wasn't it? You had one all ready to go.
Yes, said Pliny, but they want it to be another detective story, and the protagonist has to be me.
What's wrong with that?
Not just me. Me in a toga!
Yes, but what's wrong with that?
I think you know. My story is about Kafka, a bicycle and a beetle.
Pliny, I said, in literature a tale can be altered, simply by adding a frame.
Friday, December 4, 2009
One Kafka Too Many
It looks like there's a race to be the next writer published in Velosophy.
And catastrophically, the main contenders are both Kafka.
To clarify, one is the real Kafka; the other Kafka is Pliny the Elder. Who will be the first to get his story to the office of the editors?
Let's look over the shoulders of the two would-be Kafkas, and see how they're getting on.
Here is the real Kafka hunched over his exercise book writing feverishly. He is continually being interrupted by members of his family walking back and forth between the bedroom and the dining room, for his bedroom is just a passage, with a bed in it. So what is he writing?
........K carried the tiny bicycle under his arm all the way to the Post Office, one pedal jammed uncomfortably against his ribs. He entered, to be confronted by a scowling woman behind the counter. It's forbidden to bring a bicycle into the Post Office, she said, waving a sheet..........
Mmm. Hard to tell where he's up to, but it seems to be somewhere in the middle. Let's go and spy on Pliny the Elder.
Here is Pliny the Elder hunched over his Notebook, typing away like the clappers, stopping occasionally to refer to a library book, " Franz Kafka: A Biographical Essay". It's not the type of library book, he usually reads. Perhaps it was borrowed from the library by somebody else. Let's see what he's writing.
.......a giant beetle, or cockroach or, as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary-sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded........
Concluded! Pliny's going well! He could turn out to be the faster Kafka.
And catastrophically, the main contenders are both Kafka.
To clarify, one is the real Kafka; the other Kafka is Pliny the Elder. Who will be the first to get his story to the office of the editors?
Let's look over the shoulders of the two would-be Kafkas, and see how they're getting on.
Here is the real Kafka hunched over his exercise book writing feverishly. He is continually being interrupted by members of his family walking back and forth between the bedroom and the dining room, for his bedroom is just a passage, with a bed in it. So what is he writing?
........K carried the tiny bicycle under his arm all the way to the Post Office, one pedal jammed uncomfortably against his ribs. He entered, to be confronted by a scowling woman behind the counter. It's forbidden to bring a bicycle into the Post Office, she said, waving a sheet..........
Mmm. Hard to tell where he's up to, but it seems to be somewhere in the middle. Let's go and spy on Pliny the Elder.
Here is Pliny the Elder hunched over his Notebook, typing away like the clappers, stopping occasionally to refer to a library book, " Franz Kafka: A Biographical Essay". It's not the type of library book, he usually reads. Perhaps it was borrowed from the library by somebody else. Let's see what he's writing.
.......a giant beetle, or cockroach or, as K originally referred to it, Ungeziefer. The actual measurements of the creature were not given, therefore it was not possible to ascertain whether it was likely to have been squashed when ridden over by an ordinary-sized bicycle, or whether it had to be something larger. However, K concluded........
Concluded! Pliny's going well! He could turn out to be the faster Kafka.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Inaction
Inaction! I echoed, slightly annoyed. I was thinking more along the lines of letting things take their own course, while keeping an eye out for culpability due to inaction on my part.
It's the same thing, remarked Pliny, if you don't do anything.
It isn't, I said. It's my way of living an examined life. You live an examined life don't you?
I am too busy, said Pliny.
Oh yes, I said. Have you sent off your bicycle story yet?
I have, said Pliny. It will be published tomorrow. I hope it will be well received.
Bound to be, I said. It's got everything. Mystery, music, comedy, an approaching storm, two bicycles, religious controversy, even an apotheosis of sorts.
Thanks, said Pliny, looking pleased. I wonder if they'll ask me for a follow-up.
Do you have another bicycle story in you? I asked.
Oh yes indeed I do, said Pliny. I've been reading Kafka. I have an idea for a story which I shall call Kafka's Bicycle. A man wakes up one morning to discover he's turned into a giant beetle.
How is that any different from Kafka's story?
There will be a bicycle in it.
But surely a beetle couldn't ride a bicycle.
I must say you have very little imagination.
True. I like to just sit back and let things take their course.
Do that. And I shall commence work on my story.
It's the same thing, remarked Pliny, if you don't do anything.
It isn't, I said. It's my way of living an examined life. You live an examined life don't you?
I am too busy, said Pliny.
Oh yes, I said. Have you sent off your bicycle story yet?
I have, said Pliny. It will be published tomorrow. I hope it will be well received.
Bound to be, I said. It's got everything. Mystery, music, comedy, an approaching storm, two bicycles, religious controversy, even an apotheosis of sorts.
Thanks, said Pliny, looking pleased. I wonder if they'll ask me for a follow-up.
Do you have another bicycle story in you? I asked.
Oh yes indeed I do, said Pliny. I've been reading Kafka. I have an idea for a story which I shall call Kafka's Bicycle. A man wakes up one morning to discover he's turned into a giant beetle.
How is that any different from Kafka's story?
There will be a bicycle in it.
But surely a beetle couldn't ride a bicycle.
I must say you have very little imagination.
True. I like to just sit back and let things take their course.
Do that. And I shall commence work on my story.
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