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unearths some literary gems.
***
Sheep and pigs...and cows...bleated, grunted and lowed, according to their persuasion.
***
He was in the early fifties, clean-shaven, with thick greying hair brushed back from his forehead, large well-kept hands—but it will be as well if we return to our interrupted narrative.
***
"That's the trouble with you," said Charlton severely. "You haven't mastered the art of digression."
***
"We do know that all the persons who supplied the names in your copper-plate records are as innocent as a new-born babe or any other revolting simile that may occur to us."
***
Martin murmured something about angles that would have pained Euclid.
***
"Have you ever caught yourself taking an intense interest in anything written upside down?"
***
To the best of her belief, the lettering on the side of it said:
"Something about somebody's biscuits."
***
Mr. Muttigen smiled deprecatingly.
"The 'g' is hard, as in 'tiger,'" he said, as if the phonetic anomaly was entirely his fault.
***
She suggested rather testily that he came [sic] inside, instead of standing there like, to use her own phrase, that.
***
"I shall tell 'im just what I think, Mrs. Simmonds, and if you don't like it, you can do the other thing." [I guess the unmentionable "other thing" would be lumping it?]
***
"Thank you, Miss Higgins," smiled Charlton.
"Iggens is the name," repeated the cook with an impatient flounce, "and Iggens is what I said. There's no haitch."
***
"I'd 'ave given in me notice and packed me trunk before you could say--"
"But surely," threw in Charlton, who was sick of the gentleman she was about to mention.
"Jack Robinson," said Miss Iggens triumphantly.
[Unlike Charlton, I don't find I encounter Mr. Robinson all that often; but it happened that Jack R. also popped up around the same time in The Good Companions, which I was reading concurrently--and with some hat eating, for good measure.
"If we're not up, right at top o't'tree, a'most afore you can say Jack Robi'son, nay, I'll eat this cap."]
***
"There are twenty-three Geoffrey Somebodies."
***
[Falling in Love with Your Own Characters department, Editorial "We" division]
As John Rutherford was to say, she had dark shingled hair, an incontrovertibly tip-tilted nose, big brown eyes and a voice like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets. He was madly in love with the girl, of course, but then, if it comes to that, so are we.
***
"There are now anxiously waiting for me a large assortment of ailing ladies, who have been at death's door for so many years that I really don't think there's anyone at home!"
***
[Blank Maps to Nonexistent Risqué Poetry dept. The protagonists are looking over what is presumably a specimen of "dirty" verse, which is not shared with the reader.]
"That line doesn't scan," he said. "Listen to this."
He read the first few stanzas aloud, beating the rhythm with his hand.
"There, that's wrong, isn't it? If they'd put 'mournfully' instead of 'sadly' it would have made all the difference."
"Or 'disconsolately,'" suggested Charlton, falling in with the spirit of the thing.
"That's it!" said the Super enthusiastically. "'Disconsolately dumti-dumti-dum.'"
***
"You say that it didn't matter to the Sniper whether 'e shot Ransome or the Four 'Orsemen of the Apoca-how-much."
***
"I laugh only at my own jokes before lunch," said Weston severely.
***
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unearths some literary gems.
***
The chief thing about a short story is that it should be both short and that it should tell a story. Otherwise it is liable to degenerate into a full length novel or an essay upon "Forty-Seven Different Ways of Cooking Bananas." This makes the thing practically useless as a short story. If therefore you find anything like this happening to your short stories, you may be morally certain that something is wrong with them.
***
The soulful story.... is written with a pen dipped deep into the human soul; and if you can contrive to dip your pen so deep that little blobs of soul drop off it and smudge the pages of your manuscript, then lift up your heart and rejoice.
***
Slowly his great bushy eyebrows rose on end, waved for a moment in the breeze and locked hairs across the bridge of his hooked nose. How well was I to know that danger signal in future--the only sign of emotion which this impassive being ever permitted himself!
***
I wonder sometimes what would happen if the Man Who has been Silent all this Time at this sort of gathering had not really got a story to tell after all. But that is unthinkable!
***
The making of real poetry is the worst paid job in the world; so unless you are a real poet and therefore can't help it, I cannot advise you to take it up seriously.
***
For our model piece of real poetry we will take the subject of Parting. It doesn't really matter in the least what subject we take, because it all comes out the same. However, we will call it "Parting," and hope for the best.
***
I am an uncle, aged thirty-one.
I am in point of fact several uncles, each aged thirty-one. I am also three or four step-uncles, an uncle-in-law or two, all sorts of uncles various times removed, and a large number of courtesy uncles, aged, in each case, thirty-one.
Let us disguise the fact no longer. I am a born uncle (aged thirty-one).
***
"What ho! What ho!"
"What ho! What ho! What?"
"I mean, what about Freddie Devereux?" I asked, to change the conversation.
***
In this lesson we strike a severely practical note. We are now the stern man (or woman) of affairs, and our chin is sticking out like anything. We have probably donned a pair of horn spectacles as well.
***
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unearths some literary gems.
***
[Who Needs Context? dept.]
But Humpty Dumpty was never suddenly called upon to name a fox-terrier with a black spot on his head!
[AU: How do you know? --JC-E]
***
" 'im with the worn-out smile that looks as if 'e's picked it up after somebody else 'as thrown it away"
***
"You know, there's been some 'anky-panky somewhere and funny 'anky-panky, at that." [The best kind!]
***
"'It was a nasty night for a lady so frail as Mrs. Stevens to be out, wasn't it?' asks the Inspector as sweet as a cooing dove in a little pink velvet waistcoat."
***
[re. an "acid little medico"] "There were times when litmus turned hastily red at his approach."
***
When my enemy was just Mr. A, who might turn out to be the milkman, the station-master at Bumbleby Junction or the man in the moon, I felt completely at a loss.
[I'm not sure, but I think the place name* "Bumbleby Junction" was trotted out strictly for the purpose of this conceit--i.e., I don't believe there's any mention of any place called Bumbleby elsewhere in the book.]
[*Nonexistent? One never knows, when it comes to English place names!]
***
[Nonexistent Hats dept.]
Milke tried to touch the hat that he wasn't wearing.
***
Just then, the referee's whistle blew and we turned our attention to the game. I don't propose to embark on a detailed description of the play." [THANK YOU!!!!]
***
"Mrs. Flapdoodle..."
"Hendon," I suggested.
[The context here is that the protagonist's landlady, Mrs. Hendon, has suddenly and randomly and gratuitously been referred to as "Mrs. Flapdoodle" by the police inspector.]
***
[Bonus: There's a minor character whose surname is Milke, whom the inspector refers to as "that lactonomial gentleman."]
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unearths some literary gems.
***
[Oxymoron dept.]
"I'll just take down a few general particulars."
***
"Now I came in here for something what was it?"
By this time, we were both a bit breathless. In fairness to the compositors, I ought to add that her ladyship delivered that last sentence exactly as it is printed.
***
This was the most charming voice I had ever heard.... To hear it was like getting into an old and valued pair of slippers.
***
I gave a hearty laugh and discovered when I stopped that I had nothing to take its place.
[...]
The going became much easier after that and the silence took itself off, probably in high dudgeon.
***
[Overly Precise Imprecision dept.]
"What time did you get to Deeptree Corner?"
"I do not know exactly, sir, but I should say that it was about two minutes after five-and-twenty to nine."
***
[You may remember Witting as the author who, in a book I read some weeks back, repeatedly compared—or rather, whose narrator-protagonist repeatedly compared—other characters to seals. So, in this book, narrated by a different first-person protagonist, I encountered a comparison of somebody to a hen—which wouldn't be remarkable in itself, except that the narrator can't move on without making a more general, apparently discursive pronouncement about it.]
Didcott smiled at me. He seemed to be in the sunniest of tempers, like a rather mature hen, which has laid something extra special in the way of double-yolks. In many ways, he was very much like a hen. [my emphasis]
[This assertion that Didcott was "very much like a hen" in "many ways" is left entirely unsubstantiated. What a tease!]
[And meanwhile, in another book by a different author that I'm reading concurrently, an incidental hen has been compared to one of the minor characters.]
***
If a thriller is called Low Tide, The Eighth Heaven, or Salmon and Shrimp, you tend to pass it over...
[While we're on the subject: This novel offers a lot of titles of (presumably) nonexistent books, songs, and plays. Not all of them are interesting, but here are some highlights.]
The Corpse in the Copse
Muffin Murder [This is a doubly nonexistent book, because "Muffin Murder" is a title erroneously requested by a bookshop customer seeking a work whose correct title is The Crime at Crumpetts. So, for those keeping score, The Crime at Crumpetts is a nonexistent book that does exist in the world of Murder in Blue; while Muffin Murder is nonexistent even *within* the world of Murder in Blue.]
"The Week That Aunt Eliza Came to Stay" [a music-hall song]
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unearths some literary gems.
[It's all about the monocle!]
***
He responded to it almost automatically, with a slight emphasis of his stutter and sufficient monocle-play to produce the required impression of vacuity.
***
The contrast to the chromium-plated and unpolished-wood style of decoration of the rest of the house was patent, and suggested a sort of "lost plateau" of Victorianism.
***
The others had an expression suitable for Church during the course of a long sermon, except for Charles, whose face seemed absolutely devoid of any expression except for a faint sparkle of animation from his monocle.
***
He shot a glance at him which Charles parried, or at any rate palliated, as best he could, with his monocle.
***
"I have a feeling if you follow up your intuitions you will make a priceless ass of yourself. Leave that to the professional."
***
"After all, we aren't very different from Harley Street, which charges you and me five guineas and Lord This or That a hundred guineas."
***
An enormous wink reduced the length of one side of his face by about half an inch.
***
[Bonus: In this book we meet a character named Miss Geranium and her companion, Miss Hectoring.]
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