Research v. Intuition

Pliny's research has been inconclusive. No one on Google or Wikipedia knows how the humbug got its name. Even the old fashioned boiled sweet manufacturers do not know. Humbugs simply are and have always been known as humbugs.

Therefore, I said to Pliny firmly, we should do away with research and think it out for ourselves.

You didn't get very far with that method yesterday, he said, frowning.

Yes, but now we haven't any alternative, I said. I suggest we put ourselves in the place of an 18th century sweetmaker who wants to make a brilliant new sweet to take the sweet-eating world by storm.

I see, said Pliny. Does he think of the name of the sweet first, or the sweet itself?

He thinks of the sweet first, and comes up with the name after he's seen what it looks like, I said.

Yes, that sounds right, said Pliny. That's what I would do.

Would you? So would I. And while we're on the subject, why is the sweetmaker a he?

Let us not get bogged down in gender issues, said Pliny. Let us think beyond that to the sweet-creating process.

Alright, and let us think beyond the sweet-creating process too, because we know the sweet turns out to be a humbug.

Point taken, said Pliny. Now what?

Now, the sweetmaker looks at the sweet she has created. It is short and tubular, twisted off at each end and features smart black and white stripes.

And is peppermint flavoured, adds Pliny. Or aniseed, as the case may be.

Yes, yes. But now she thinks. What shall I call this sweet? What does it most look like?

And she thinks it most looks like a humbug!

No, Pliny. Because a humbug doesn't at that time look like anything. It is merely a hoax, or jest, or a deception.

Wait, said Pliny. I have just remembered a story I read when I was doing my research. It was about Charles Darwin. Two young boys made up a beetle out of the parts of 3 different beetles and asked him to identify the new beetle. Darwin laughed and told them that it was a humbug.

Oh well done Pliny! I said. Perhaps the sweet maker could see into the future. They were making humbugs well before Charles Darwin's time.

But, said Pliny, Darwin was no humourist. It may have been quite commonplace, to identify strange beetles as humbugs.

I believe you may be on to something there, I said. Perhaps that was what she was thinking.

He, said Pliny.

Scene of the Crime

Are you ready for more of my story? asked Pliny the Elder.

You bet I am, I said. I'm listening.

Pliny cleared his throat and began to read:

K arrived at the office in a state of panic. Not only had he partially turned into a giant beetle, but he had failed to remain at the scene of an accident for which he had been ( only partially, he thought) responsible. He parked his bicycle and bolted up the stairs.

No one in the office bothered to greet him. They all had their heads down over various piles of papers. K slid into his seat, and looked at the single paper on his own desk. Urgent! it read. Accident at City Junction. Hit and run. Giant creature squashed. Police uncertain as to owner of boot-clad feet also found at the scene. Attend at once, file report.

K was in a quandary. He must return to the scene of the crime! But there were sure to be witnesses who would recognise him there. He wondered if Otto might be prevailed upon to go. He stood up and walked over to Otto. Otto! he said, trying not to sound too much like a beetle. Otto looked up. Sorry, far too busy, he said, and continued to shuffle his papers. Well, thought K, if he didn't notice....

K went back to the scene of the crime, on foot, and without his identifying hat. People were standing around the squashed beetle and the brown leather boots, but no one paid K much attention. What happened here? he asked a woman with a shopping basket. Ugh! she said. Someone's run over a huge insect. Look at the mess! Did you see it happen? asked K. Partially, said the woman. Well, no, I was looking in the opposite direction , but I heard everything. What did it sound like? asked K. Like a birth, the woman replied.

Well, that's the story, said Pliny. What do you think?

I'm speechless. Is that really the end?

No, said Pliny, just the end of that story. Of course I still have to close off the frame.

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.

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.

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.