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.

Kafka's Bicycle

The editors of Velosophy are celebrating yet another triumph.

Le Bon David: Another glass of champagne, my friend?

The VeloDrone: Don't mind if I do, David, don't mind if I do.

Le Bon David: Cheers! Drink up. You know I still can't get over how popular that story of Pliny the Elder's has been. Who would have thought a detective story would appeal to philosophers, eh?

The VeloDrone: It's all to do with who he is, don't you think? If anyone else had written it, it would have gone down like a lead balloon.

Le Bon David: True. But I don't think anyone else could have written it, do you?

The VeloDrone: No. There's just something rather delicious about him going round solving mysteries in his toga.

Le Bon David: I'm thinking of asking him to write a follow up story. Another Pliny the Elder detective mystery. It could become a cult thing.

The VeloDrone: Yes let's ask him. Meanwhile, have you got any ideas for next week?

Le Bon David: I'm still waiting on 'Galileo's Bicycle' from Professor Freud. But I had an interesting letter from that chap whatsisname.... Kafka, recently. He seems keen to send us something. Says he's never ridden a bicycle in his life. Legs are too long. And he has a nasty cough. But he's nearly finished a piece that has a bicycle in it, 'albeit small' , he says.

The VeloDrone: Albeit small? Did he mean the bicycle or the story?

Le Bon David: We shall have to wait and see.

The Bicycle Detective Part 4

That's it, said Pliny the Elder. What do you think?

I love it, I said, but I'm wondering whether I gave you some bad advice.

What was it? asked Pliny.

When I told you to ditch the toga, because it revealed who you were. I didn't realise your costume was a crucial part of the plot.

It was? said Pliny, surprised.

Well yes, it was. The New Lifers thought you were the Messiah because you were wearing it. But the readers of Velosophy won't know that you were wearing it unless you tell them.

But then everyone will know that it was me, said Pliny.

Yes, that is the dilemma that you must resolve, I said. I don't see how you can get out of it really. You can't just introduce a character who happens to be walking around the streets at night in a toga for no particular reason.

What if it were a dressing gown? asked Pliny hopefully.

A dressing gown! These are not the sort of people who would be duped by a dressing gown, I said firmly.

Well, then, said Pliny. I must reintroduce the toga. Goodbye privacy!

The Bicycle Detective Part 1

Right, said Pliny the Elder. I think I'm ready to begin my first draft. Hmm dm dm dm dm...It was a dark and stormy night....

Pliny, I said. I couldn't help overhearing. May I suggest you don't use that as a beginning.

Why not? asked Pliny, looking surprised. It WAS a dark and stormy night.

Yes but that was how Snoopy always used to start his stories in the Peanuts cartoons, I said. It sets the wrong sort of tone.

Oh, very well, said Pliny. It was a dark and windy night, with the possibility of storms. How's that?

Good, I said.

Two bicycles were chained to two posts within metres of each other on Dover Street, near to the corner of Portrush Road. A man, lurking behind a tree, on the opposite side of Dover Street, shivered and wrapped his toga more tightly around his body.

It's you! I said.

How did you know? asked Pliny.

The toga, I said.

Perhaps I should change it, said Pliny, looking uncertain.

Well yes, if you don't want anyone to know that it's you, I said kindly.

.....and wrapped his arms more tightly around his body, continued Pliny seamlessly. He was keeping an eye on the bicycles, which he thought should not have been where they were. There were two possibilities, he thought. First, that the bicycles were there for the night, to be used in the morning for riding to work or to school. This did not make much sense. The owners would surely have taken their bicycles onto their property, and not chained them up in the street. All the nearby houses had large gardens, he could see. The second possibility was that the bicycles were there for some dubious purpose, and if that was the case, he wanted to know what it was. He rather hoped it would turn out to be the latter.

Why did he hope that? I asked.

Obviously, then he wouldn't have to stay out all night, said Pliny.

And did he have to stay out all night?

No, he didn't.

So you have solved it?

Yes, said Pliny, I have. Now please be quiet while I get on with writing it down.