another thing about cats: they can solve murders

From the Autobiography of Miss Cornelia Knight, Lady Companion to the Princess Charlotte of Wales, I take the following scrap :—

“An old woman, who died a few years ago, in Ireland, had a nephew, to whom she left by will all she possessed. She happened to have a favourite Cat, which never left her, and even remained by the corpse after her death. After the will was read, in the adjoining room, on opening the door the Cat sprang at the lawyer, seized him by the throat, and was with difficulty prevented from strangling him. This man died about eighteen months after this scene, and, on his death-bed, confessed that he had murdered his aunt to get possession of her money.”

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from: the book of cats, a chit-chat chronicle of feline facts and fancies, legendary, lyrical, medical, mirthful, and miscellaneous (1867) by charles henry ross.

the continuing adventures of t. s. eliot

many people know that t.s. eliot was a highly successful banker. but did you also know that he wrote poetry?

one day, i. a. richards had a run-in with one of eliot’s bosses at lloyd’s bank and learned the following about his banking prospects:

Bank Official: Tell me, if you will—you won’t mind my asking, will you? Tell me, is he, in your judgement, would you say, would you call him a good poet?

Richards: Well, in my judgment—not everyone would agree, of course, far from it—he is a good poet.

Bank Official: : You know, I myself am really very glad indeed to hear you say that. Many of my colleagues wouldn’t agree at all. They think a Banker has no business whatever to be a poet. They don’t think the two things can combine. But I believe that anything a man does, whatever his hobby may be, it’s all the better if he is really keen on it and does it well. I think it helps him with his work. If you see our young friend, you might tell him that we think he’s doing quite well at the Bank. In fact, if he goes on as he has been doing, I don’t see why—in time, of course, in time—he mightn’t even become a Branch Manager.

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source: t. s. eliot: the man and his work edited by allen tate, (1967).

the continuing adventures of george bernard shaw

[George Bernard] Shaw once came across one of his books in a secondhand shop, inscribed To ——— with esteem, George Bernard Shaw. He bought the book and returned it to ———, adding the line, With renewed esteem, George Bernard Shaw.

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source: ex libris by anne fadiman (1999)

dinner parties for poets

in 1946, edith sitwell hosted a dinner party at the sesame club. and then dylan thomas and his wife showed up…

Dylan Thomas and his wife both arrived wildly drunk, fought and hit each other, and altogether presented a painful problem to Edith and all the distinguished guests, as they could neither be disposed of nor tamed. I shall never forget Mrs Thomas shoving a drunken elbow into her ice cream, then offering the elbow to T. S, Eliot & telling him to “lick it off.”

were i eliot, i would have gotten out the hershey’s® syrup and gone to town.

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source: rosamond lehmann by selena hastings (2002)

a telegraphic tight-rope

A very novel use has been made of the electric telegraph in the United States. A celebrated dancer turned it into a tight-rope and danced upon it over one of the rivers to the delight of a dense multitude.

from the london anecdotes (1848). 

my onetime favourite author reviews my onetime favourite book

“This book is a torrent of trash, dialogical diarrhea, the automatic produce of a prolix typewriter.”

said vladimir nabokov of catch-22

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from vladimir nabokov: the american years by brian boyd (1991)

wherein lewis carroll gets all emo over the sight of a flying buttress

[Carroll] was overcome by the beauty of Cologne Cathedral. I found him leaning against the rails of the Choir, and sobbing like a child. When the verger came to show us over the chapels, he got out of the way. He said that he could not bear the harsh voice of the man in the presence of so much beauty.

from: life and letters of henry parry liddon (1904).

if you are as fascinated with the pacific northwest (ca. 1982) logging culture as i am:

then this actual article that was actually written should be right up your alley. here is an excerpt from “loggers can’t cry: and other taboos of the northwest woods” by jack estes:

A logger who fails the various tests is also taboo: Can he drink beer all night and still get up in time to catch the crew bus? Does he have the proper attire (stagged pants, cork boots, hickory shirt, long woolies, Logger World suspenders, and metal—not plastic-hard hat)? If he’s been to college, does he keep his education to himself? If he’s a Christian (and, yes, there are some in the woods, often a whole crew of them, in fact), does he avoid trying to convert others or to criticize others for any un-Christian habits? Does he know the language—the jargon, the slang, the rhythms—which are compatible with the profession? Can he chew tobacco (and does he call it “snoose”)? Is his tobacco Copenhagen, or is it some “pussy brand”? Does he go for hours in the field without needing a drink, or is he known for “loving the water bottle?” Does he seem to have too high an opinion of himself, or does he keep his accomplishments quiet? Any of these areas is significant enough to create an ostracism of even a veteran logger.

and then there is this factoid:

Loggers are so tough that they don’t take toilet paper into the woods with them. They’d rather tear offs chunk of their shirts or grab a handful of leaves than be caught with such a sissy convenience.

in addition to having similar names, maybe loggers and bloggers have more in common than one may at first suppose. 

concerning oatmeal

When rolling through the glens of the Highlands in your touring car, you may be overcome by the desire to ‘go antiquing’. Aside from the whole stake-through-the-groin noun-as-verb pitfall, and the logistics of tying wooden furniture to your Mazda Miata, there is another booby trap lurking for the unwary. Never buy a sweet granny’s Scots pine dresser without checking first for the oatmeal tidemark to guarantee its provenance. Back before Stouffers frozen meals, porridge used to be made in large batches, poured into a top dresser drawer, and left to set overnight. Nothing like a freshly cut slab of cold solid porridge for a lovely picnic on the heather.

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the content and capital letters of this post have been brought to you by the ever plucky ramona ranchera.

the chairman’s bowels have moved!

each time that i go to the gym, my personal trainer (non-abs) begs me to do some  freelance bodyguard work for some of his other a-list clients and i’m like, “look alexei, the only body that i am interested in guarding belongs to whitney houston and after that maybe, maybe rene russo. now hand me a ten kilo medicine ball, i’m about to get my bakhtin on.”

secretly, i had been flirting with the idea of freelance bodyguarding BUT THEN i came across this chairman mao anecdote:

For years, Mao Zedong preferred going into fields to defecate over using an indoor toilet, explaining that the toilet’s odor got in the way of his thinking. He viewed dung as a symbol of purity and peasant virtue, and branded those who didn’t want to handle it as intellectuals and parasites.

He frequently suffered constipation which made him irritable and affected his decisions. When a long bout of constipation ended for him, word would spread through the relieved government, “The chairman’s bowels have moved! He had a good shit!”  He routinely had his bodyguards pry feces from his anus with their fingers.

it’s a good thing that i keep refusing this freelance bodyguard work because i can only imagine how i would react if i were defending mao zedong from sniper fire and sluttish profligates and he turns to me and is like, “r-dawg, i’m a bit backed up downstairs, i need your famous hook finger and i need it now.”

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from the research guide to bodily fluids by paul spinrad (1994).

said the chicago banking house to the boston investment firm

Some time ago a Chicago banking house asked a Boston investment firm for a letter of recommendation about a young Bostonian they were thinking of employing. The Boston firm replied by outlining in enthusiastic detail the young man’s excellent First Family background. Several days later came a curt acknowledgment from Chicago. Unfortunately the material supplied was not exactly what they were seeking. “We were not,” they declared, “contemplating using Mr.—— for breeding purposes.”

from the proper bostonians, an hilariously acerbic anthropological report on boston high society by cleveland amory (1947).

life ain’t easy for a boy named…

from time to time, my old pal—who is a resident in an undisclosable hospital in the great state of california—sends word of his latest escapades and i excerpt them here in lieu of actually writing anecdotes of my own.

Yesterday, I assisted in the delivery of a baby boy to a super hippie couple who probably haven’t seen the business end of a bic razor since they hit puberty.

I’m used to a fair amount of ridiculous hippie baby names (Sage, Sky, Rainbow, Chakra, etc.) but what they came up with was so far-fetched that if I hadn’t signed all the papers I would have thought it a farce.

“We really want to name this baby after the raw essence of who he is,” said the father.

Said the mother, “We are going to call him Mammal.”