#metafictional discourse

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

I have to assume that the memories I find in this dark cupboard have been left here by their real owners. How I am able to recall them as my own, I cannot say, but how else to explain my remembrance of being in the Brown Derby on Wilshire Boulevard, when I have never been in Hollywood in my life?

The restaurant was almost deserted at that time of day. The well-known bit-part player Irving Bacon was seated alone at a large table, on which papers were scattered untidily. He beckoned me to join him.

"You can be the first to see this," he said, as I sat at his table. The tall actor gathered together some sheets, which I could now see were covered with calculations. "I have come up with a new way of measuring the stature of Hollywood actors. I'm going to call it the Bacon Scale."

He leant back, and adopted a pedagogical tone. "Until now, our assessment of the stars has been largely subjective. There is, of course, the matter of salaries, but I would contend that that is a secondary value, that only reflects the studios' assessment of a star's value, which must ultimately be derived from the audience's subjective likes and dislikes. Is that not so?"

I nodded agreement, and he continued. "The Bacon Scale is based on objective measurable quantities. First, the number of screen appearances made by any person. I ignore the role they played, because its significance cannot be objectively determined. But I do need to estimate the impact of their appearance, and here, I believe is my special insight. The impact of any actor's appearance can be measured by their height. The taller a person is, the more impression they make, isn't that so?"

"I suppose so. Up to a point."

"Good. So there you have the basis. But it isn't a simple case of multiplying the height by the number of appearances. You see, heights fall into a fairly narrow range, spread around 6', so to take proper account of differences, I subtract 5' 11" and use this height difference as the multiplier. It's quite a simple calculation."

"Yes, I'm sure, but…"

He did not give me a chance to voice my objections, but picked up a sheet of paper. "Humphrey Bogart is 5' 8", that's 68 inches, which comes to -3" when you subtract 5' 11". He made 85 films, so he gets a value of -255 appearance-inches, whereas Lauren Bacall is 5' 8½" and appeared in 72 movies, so her value is", he consulted his paper, "-180. By a similar calculation, I find that Gary Cooper is 472, and so on."

This didn't seem right to me, but Bacon was in full flow, so I said nothing. "To make comparisons simpler, I divide all these appearance-inch numbers by a standard value." Here he adopted a demure expression. "I have appeared on screen 541 times and I'm exactly 6' tall, which means I have a value of 541. So I divide the raw values by 541 to get a standard value, in units of Bacons. When I do the division, I find that Bogart is -0.47 Bacons, Bacall is -0.33 and James Cagney -0.78. To 2 decimal places, that is. Betty Grable was quite short so her 83 appearances only give her a -1.07. And as for Mickey Rooney…"

"Yes?"

"-5.72. Sad, isn't it?"

I couldn't refrain from asking, "Is it the case, by any chance, that nobody is greater than 1 Bacon?"

"Not at all. John Wayne was a big man, at 6' 4", and he made 184 films, so he gets 1.7 Bacons."

I started to object, but no sooner had I opened my mouth than he raised a hand to stop me. "I know what you're going to say. What about Shirley Temple? I admit that child actors are a problem. The studio records give Temple's height as 5' 2", but when she made Wee Willie Winkie she can't have been much more than 3' 6". I think for the moment, I'll just leave the kiddies out. After all, if Shirley Temple, then why not Rin Tin Tin?"

It felt cruel, but I had to point out the flaw in his method. "If I understand correctly, anyone who is shorter than 5' 11" scores less the more films they have appeared in. That can't be right, can it? And what about actors who are exactly 5' 11" tall? They would end up with 0 Bacons, no matter how many films they were in."

His face fell at my words. I tried to encourage him. "I'm sure the problems aren't insurmountable, but I think what you need to do is consult a mathematician. If I run into one, I'll tell them to get in touch with you. In the meantime, keep working on it." With that, I made my escape.

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

The encounter with Albert Einstein, which I recall here in this dark cupboard (or closet) as if it were my own memory, was brief but significant.

On enquiring for the distinguished scientist, I was surprised to be directed to the bathroom, but, sure enough, I found him there. He was staring bleakly into the open toilet cistern, at the siphon and ball valve within it. "It still won't flush," he said, and demonstrated by pulling the handle. A mournful gurgle was the only result.

"The old… thing, whatever you call it… there," he pointed at the siphon mechanism, "was broken, so I got a new one. There are no instructions, of course. Still, it seemed that a simple thought experiment could reveal the underlying structure. I imagined riding a water molecule through the cistern. What effect would the forces acting on me have on my trajectory? You know, turbulent flow is very difficult to model, so I found I had to formulate some tensor equations to get a more accurate picture. Even then, some simplifications were called for. But the formalisation did reveal some unexpected properties, and it was quite evident that there was a misconception in the existing understanding of these things." He picked up a small piece of metal. "It's quite evident, when analysed correctly, that this is not only redundant, it positively impedes the operation of the system."

He looked puzzled. "It was a simple matter to remove it, but…" Again he tried to flush, and again nothing resulted. "Evidently, a more sophisticated model is required." He looked thoughtful for some time, but then sighed.

"The housekeeper has called a plumber. I'm expecting him any minute."

Sure enough, there was a knock on the bathroom door, and a burly man carrying a bag of tools entered. He took in the situation at a glance, sucked his teeth and shook his head sadly. "They didn't ought to have done that," he said, as all tradesmen must. "I'm afraid this is going to take a bit of putting right. Cost you."

Einstein looked embarrassed, and led me out of the room, saying "We'll leave you to it," to the plumber.

"You know," he said to me, "if I were a young man again, I wouldn't try to become a scientist. I would rather choose to be a plumber"

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

Inevitably, like Sweeney to Mrs Porter, comes to this dark closet a memory of TS Eliot.

He was nervous, sweating, a haunted man. He grabbed me by the arm. "You've got to help me. They're bound to find out. I'll never get away with it."

I tried to sound reassuring. "Take it easy, Tom. What won't you get away with?"

"They'll call it plagiarism. I… I suppose, in a way, it is. But I can't help it, you see. It's a sort of compulsion. I see something that's good, and I just have to have it. So I take it. It's not stealing, exactly, is it? I mean, I don't plan it, I don't mean to do it. Something just comes over me."

"I see. But why are you so anxious now?"

"It's this thing of mine, The Wasteland, I call it. It's going to be published soon, and as I was looking through the proofs, I realised that I'd just put all that stuff I'd taken right in there, where everyone could see it. I don't know what I can have been thinking of. Before, I'd just slipped in a few little things I could pass off as being inspired by somebody else's line, but this time… It's just too obvious to conceal. Oh, why did I do it? What shall I do?" he wailed.

"Pull yourself together, man. There must be a way out for someone like you."

"I could change my name. Or perhaps if I said that I never wrote The Wasteland, it's a fake. I could say Ezra Pound did it to discredit me. Then I'll just go on with some humorous ditties about cats." Then he shook his head. "It won't do though. Nobody but me could have produced such a masterpiece. Certainly not Pound."

I thought for a moment he was going to burst into tears, but he just started mumbling to himself. "I could just own up, say 'I done it but society is guilty.' I deserve another chance, don't I?"

"Just a minute. I think you've got something there."

He looked up with a sort of forlorn hope in his eyes. "Listen," I said. "Everyone keeps saying how this Great War has had such a disruptive effect on society. Some have even called it the end of Western civilisation."

He nodded, but looked puzzled. "So…?"

"So how can we go on with the old literature and art? One answer is that we can't so we have to start over, but you can give a different answer. How does this sound: 'Gathering together the broken strands for the new era'? Not stolen fragments, but rescued shards of the old, remodelled to make the new."

Eliot looked doubtful. "Does all that actually mean anything?" he asked.

"I shouldn't have to tell you, of all people, that that doesn't matter, so long as it sounds good."

"You're right, of course. It just might work, mightn't it? I could add some condescending notes; refer to some of the things I've… what was it you said? Rescued."

"That's the spirit. Just keep your nerve and act intellectually superior."

"That part won't be difficult." He began to get excited. "And… and the critics could spend years tracking down all the references. This could turn out to be something big. Thank you, thank you."

"My pleasure. Let us go now, you and I… and whatever. You know."

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

I wonder whether the memories that I find in this dark cupboard (or closet) were left here and forgotten, like old rugs and broken ironing boards. Rummaging among them, I recall that I was at a dinner in honour of Mack Sennett, when a slightly built short man slipped into the seat next to me. In his immaculately cut evening clothes he looked quite dashing. His face was vaguely exotic, with full lips, a nose that seemed a little bit too big and intense blue eyes. His unlined face looked young, but his wavy hair, which was parted neatly in the middle, was white. He gave a friendly smile as he took his seat, revealing neat white teeth.

There was something familiar in that smile, and the way he moved as he sat down. I glanced surreptitiously at the place card in front of him. Was it…? "Are you really Charlie Chaplin?" I blurted out. He smiled once more, and for the first time I heard him speak in his own voice. "People are always asking me that." He sounded like a working class boy from South London, whose elocution lessons hadn't quite taken. The affected upper-class accent sounded incongruously pompous coming from such a man. This unexpected impression was confirmed as he continued "Yes, I am Charles Chaplin." He held out his hand, which I shook timidly.

"Charles?" I could not help asking. "But surely everybody…"

He leant back in his chair, causing it to overbalance so that he tumbled gracefully backwards to the floor, then rose and doffed an imaginary hat (I could almost see it) to the nearby guests.

Resuming his seat as if nothing had happened, he leant closer to me and, in a quiet voice, said "I believe, in time it may be Sir Charles Spencer Chaplin. Even… Lord Chaplin of Walworth."

He stiffened and stared fixedly at a bread roll on a plate in the middle of the table. Suddenly, he picked up his fork, his left hand darted out and he stabbed the roll. Retrieving it with a swift motion, he began to wave his haul around in a dainty dance, while his eyebrows worked up and down in time, and his eyes gleamed with mischief.

"You understand that Charles Chaplin is first and foremost a musician, a composer," he said, as he put down the bread. "I have begun by composing scores for Charlie's feature films, but that will only be the start. Soon, I intend to show my true talent. There will be symphonies and tone poems, also a concerto for violin. I will be the soloist in the first performance, of course. I must book Carnegie Hall. Mark my words, in a few years, people will have forgotten about Charlie Chaplin the clown, but the music of Charles Chaplin will live forever…" His voice faded and he picked up an imaginary violin and settled it under his chin. Then he raised his eyes to heaven and began to ply an imaginary bow, while his face showed a rapid succession of exaggerated expressions indicating the ecstatic effect of his music.

At a signal from the podium, the little man abruptly terminated his recital. "Time for me to go and give my speech," he said, as he rose. "Glad to have met you. Do leave me your autograph," with which he deposited a small red book on the table and made his way to the end of the long table, kicked his right foot out as he turned sharply left and waddled to the front of the room.

At that point, I thought it best to slip away.

FLOSTRE [to the audience]: What you're all asking yourselves is "Can he juggle?"

SOCRATES: No it's not. What we're all asking ourselves is "When will the dancing girls come on?"

FLOSTRE [ignoring Socrates, as he is only a ventriloquist's dummy]: Does this answer your question?

[Reaching behind him, Flostre pulls out no fewer than five logical propositions and hurls them one after the other into his mind. The audience gasps in amazement as he formalises, normalises, simplifies and reduces their terms, shifts quantifiers and deftly applies syllogisms, faster than wits could follow.]

MASTER OF CEREMONIES [at side of stage]: He makes it look easy, doesn't he, folks?"

[The philosopher keeps the propositions flying in coruscating arcs of reason and argument. To enthusiastic general applause he lays each one down in a chain of reasoning, from premises to the conclusion that had been implicit all along.]

MASTER OF CEREMONIES: What a philosopher!

SOCRATES: What a bore!

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 10, Into Obscurity

Hollywood She stands waiting on the corner of tomorrow. The taste of light bulbs in her hair. Like the day he asked "Waiting for the moon to arrive on the overhead train?" Somewhere out of earshot a saxophone plays the sound of broken telephone numbers falling on old rooftops. Dressed in the fingernails of empty whisky bottles, the ghost of Bette Davis sings to blue orchids. "I will gainsay and gather you," she had murmured to empty shadows in the old canal.

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 10, Into Obscurity

Paris Revisited

The last time eyesore an eyeful for sourires, a lovers' kiss sent bicycle spokes whirling through the misty louvred doors where all the good Americans had come to die in fanfare 'paree, para, paroo!' Pastis best but still life with orangerie.

Aux armes! All hands to the Pompadour! Run to the end of the soufflé! The boys of Balloon have gone in Seine, boulevarding the cafés under the shelter of tumbrillas, chasing Fifi to the Quai d'Orsay by way of Maxim's (gowns by Schiaparelli, diamonds by j'oo-la-la). Last chance for life in a rose at the Crazy Horse Saloon.

Marchands! Marchands!

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

So many memories cluster round me in the darkness of this cupboard (or closet), freed from the chains of actuality. Just now, I recall vividly the afternoon I spent with Oscar Wilde in his little house in Chelsea.

I found him alone in a room rich with peacock feathers, lilies, blue china and objets d'art. The aesthete was poised languidly in a large winged armchair. He was dressed in purple velvet; his brown hair fell in artful waves brushing the shoulders of his outlandish jacket. He was gazing wistfully at a sunflower that he held limply in his left hand. On sensing my entrance, he placed the bloom reverently in a Chinese vase, and rose to greet me.

During the course of that afternoon, I was well entertained by talk of matters of art and sensibility. As the daylight faded, we drank jasmine tea out of tiny delicate porcelain cups without handles, and nibbled elaborately decorated pastries, which did not taste as good as they looked. "But the patissier's art is art first and foremost. Nourishment is mere afterthought," he said, arranging some crumbs in an oriental pattern on his plate.

"But should not that art cater to taste with taste?" I asked.

At this, his eyes sparkled mischievously. "My young friend," he exclaimed. "Could it be that you care to cross wits with me?" Without waiting for an answer, he leapt to his feet and cried "En garde!"

"Allez!" I responded eagerly.

For a few moments we eyed each other in silence, looking for signs of vulnerability. Then, without warning, Wilde lunged with a polished aphorism. I parried easily with an offhand quip, and riposted with an epigram. "Touché!" he cried admiringly, but then counter-attacked with a volley of bons-mots, which I deflected with difficulty by replying in kind. The battle grew heated, the air rang with wit and repartee.

As I felt myself tiring, I released a string of witty sayings, which forced my opponent on to the defensive. I felt victory within my grasp, but then he delivered an outrageous paradox with dazzling wit. I staggered, and he followed with a volley of well-turned phrases, which I could only attempt to deflect with a few feeble puns.

I could do no more, and accepting the inevitable, I yielded to his superior wit. We shook hands, and he graciously called me a worthy opponent. He seated himself, and took up his sunflower once more. It was clear that my visit was at an end, so I removed myself from his rarefied presence.

As I walked slowly down the street, I thought of an aphorism which would have cut through his defences and granted me certain victory. I have forgotten it again now.