Here's the first bit of an essay by one of the UK's finest humorists, Paul Jennings. It's from his excellent collection of strange tales, "The Jenguin Pennings." THE BIRDS THAT NEVER WERT When I learnt at school about the Roman augurs basing state decisions on the flight of birds I used to think this was a pretty fey idea for such a practical. bridge-building sort of people. But the more I look at birds the more I see what the Romans meant. Of all non-human creations, the birds give the most powerful impression of being up to something, of knowing something. In their quick, giggling,hopping, jerking, twitching,twittering way they seem to have a direct, intuitive contact with the secret of life. We have to get there by careful and disciplined thought, we have to wrestle with time - and even then we can't be sure of that sudden liberation, that sudden flash of truth and ecstasy; we can't make it happen. But birds live there all the time. " Quick, quick, said the bird." Birds are not single, either. They know whatever it is they know together. They are not allowed to tell us ( unless we are in the St. Francis class) , but they know about us too, they swoop mimbling and tweaking at us, turning away in a perfect swift curve, with a hint of a message for us ; but it is too quick. Of course, they don't know it all, they just know the part we don't know, and vice versa; the ones who know everything are a combination of man and bird - the angels. Birds and men live in two parallel real worlds, and they, in their skittering, indirect way, are just as interested in the point where these two worlds meet as we are. In towns they reflect our organisation; starlings form themselves into vast urban regiments, pigeon housewives go shopping. In the country they adopt a casual, rural attitude.They come into my garden for drinks in the evening; many of them live in my house, in the roof, I can hear them stamping about in the roof. Birds I have never seen before - birds made of check tweed, of silk, birds with beards, big brown birds like bookmakers, come and surprise my ignorance. I know this is not just a subjective reaction, because I have just bought The Observer's Book of Birds ( not the Observer, it's published by Frederick Warne, and jolly good too). This book is by a serious bird expert, Mr. S. Vere Benson, who knows about things like the Little Stint, the Knot, the Brambling the Siskin. And the picture of bird life that emerges is even closer to ours than I had imagined. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ That's the first half .... more will be along later. Quite how much later, I've no idea. Here's another song from Noir Désir spun out of nothing... " Bouquet de nerfs " Journée de la pleine lune
Au sommet de la dune A caresser de loin ton chien T'oublies or not t'oublies Les ombres d'opalines au rendez-vous suivant, j'attends Au fond d'une autre limousine Qui ne vaut pas plus cher Que ce bouquet de nerfs A frôler la calanche Les étendues salines A perte de vue on s'imagine en Chine Trompe la mort et tais-toi Trois petits tours et puis s'en va J'opère tes amygdales Labyrinthiques, que dalle Ne m'est plus rien égal Je sais je n'ai offert que des bouquets de nerfs Rubis de Sade et jade, déjà je dis non Diamant, c'est éternel Des fleurs, des bouts du ciel immense La liste des parfums capiteux Capitalistes c'est bien bien Mais olfacultatif Liste en boule, au panier Finalement j'ai offert quelques bouquets de nerfs Agendas donnez-moi De vos dates à damner Tous les bouddhas du monde Et la Guadalupe S'il arrive qu'un anglais Vienne me visiter Dans la métempsychose Je saurai recevoir je peux lui en faire voir de la sérénité Et même lui laisser un certain goût de fer Et ce bouquet de nerfs
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AuthorThat's the author up there ... I was young and sprightly then. Archives
October 2022
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