one time or another and arrested at least a half dozen.
“Hello, Marcus!”
“Madeleine, dahling! ”
“Jack, this is Marcus Sphincter. He’s one of the writers short-listed for the prize this year.”
“Congratulations,” said Jack, extending a hand.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you —most kind.”
“So what’s the title of this book you’ve written?”
“The terms ‘title,’ ‘book’ and ‘written’ are so passé and 2004,” announced Marcus airily, using his fingers in that annoying way that people do to signify quotation marks.
“It is 2004,” pointed out Jack.
“So early 2004,” said Marcus, hastily correcting himself.
“Anyone can ‘write’ a ‘book.’ To raise my chosen art form to a higher plane, I prefer to use the terms ‘designation,’ ‘codex’ and ‘composed.’"
“Okay,” said Jack, “what’s the appellative of the tome you’ve created?”
“The what?”
“Hadn’t you heard?” asked Jack, hiding a smile and using that annoying finger-quotes thing back at Marcus, “‘Codex,’ ‘composed’ and ‘designation’ are out already; they were just too, too early evening.”
“They were?” asked Marcus, genuinely concerned.
“Your book, Marcus,” interrupted Madeleine as she playfully pinched Jack on the bum. “What’s it called?”
“I call it… The Realms of the Leviathan .”
“Ah,” murmured Jack, “what’s it about, a herd of elephants?”
Marcus laughed loudly, Jack joined him, and so did Madeleine, who wasn’t going to be a bad sport.
“Elephants? Good Lord, no!” replied Marcus, adjusting his glasses. “The leviathan in my novel is the colossal and destructive force of human ambition and its ability to destroy those it loves in its futile quest for fulfillment. Seen through the eyes of a woman in London in the mid-eighties as her husband loses control of himself to own and want more, it asks the fundamental question ‘to be or to want’—something I consider to be the ‘materialistic’ Hamlet’s soliloquy. Ha-ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” said Jack, but thinking, Clot. “Is it selling?”
“Good Lord, no!” replied Marcus in a shocked tone. “Selling more than even a few copies would render it… popular. And that would be a death knell for any serious auteur, n’est-ce pas? Ha-ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” said Jack, but thinking, Even bigger clot.
“But it’s been short-listed for twenty-nine major awards,” continued Marcus. “I’ll send you a signed copy if you have a tenner on you.”
“If I gave you twenty, you could write me a sequel, too.”
Madeleine pulled Jack away and told him to behave himself, while at the same time trying to stop herself from having a fit of giggles.
“God, I love you,” she whispered in his ear, “but please stop messing around and behave yourself!”
“Spratt!” boomed Lord Spooncurdle, bored with talking to writers and agents and not recognizing anyone else.
“Hello, sir,” said Jack brightly. “You remember my wife, Madeleine?”
“Of course, of course,” he replied genially, offering his hand to Madeleine. “Your husband did a splendid job on that Humpty lark. Never did trust Spongg, y’know—eyes too close together. Reminded me of a governess who ran off with the handsome young silver and half the family’s boot boy.”
Madeleine excused herself with a whispered entreaty for Jack not to talk about his NCD work, as it usually had a confusing effect on people, and went off to mingle.
“Been here before, Spratt?” asked Spooncurdle, waving a hand at the inside of the Déjà Vu. “I’m sure I’ve seen that headwaiter, but I’m damned if I know where. I say, old stick, do us a favor and ask him if he has a lion tattooed on his left buttock.”
“He hasn’t,” replied Jack, humoring him. “I asked earlier.”
“Did you, by
“Hello, Marcus!”
“Madeleine, dahling! ”
“Jack, this is Marcus Sphincter. He’s one of the writers short-listed for the prize this year.”
“Congratulations,” said Jack, extending a hand.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you —most kind.”
“So what’s the title of this book you’ve written?”
“The terms ‘title,’ ‘book’ and ‘written’ are so passé and 2004,” announced Marcus airily, using his fingers in that annoying way that people do to signify quotation marks.
“It is 2004,” pointed out Jack.
“So early 2004,” said Marcus, hastily correcting himself.
“Anyone can ‘write’ a ‘book.’ To raise my chosen art form to a higher plane, I prefer to use the terms ‘designation,’ ‘codex’ and ‘composed.’"
“Okay,” said Jack, “what’s the appellative of the tome you’ve created?”
“The what?”
“Hadn’t you heard?” asked Jack, hiding a smile and using that annoying finger-quotes thing back at Marcus, “‘Codex,’ ‘composed’ and ‘designation’ are out already; they were just too, too early evening.”
“They were?” asked Marcus, genuinely concerned.
“Your book, Marcus,” interrupted Madeleine as she playfully pinched Jack on the bum. “What’s it called?”
“I call it… The Realms of the Leviathan .”
“Ah,” murmured Jack, “what’s it about, a herd of elephants?”
Marcus laughed loudly, Jack joined him, and so did Madeleine, who wasn’t going to be a bad sport.
“Elephants? Good Lord, no!” replied Marcus, adjusting his glasses. “The leviathan in my novel is the colossal and destructive force of human ambition and its ability to destroy those it loves in its futile quest for fulfillment. Seen through the eyes of a woman in London in the mid-eighties as her husband loses control of himself to own and want more, it asks the fundamental question ‘to be or to want’—something I consider to be the ‘materialistic’ Hamlet’s soliloquy. Ha-ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” said Jack, but thinking, Clot. “Is it selling?”
“Good Lord, no!” replied Marcus in a shocked tone. “Selling more than even a few copies would render it… popular. And that would be a death knell for any serious auteur, n’est-ce pas? Ha-ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” said Jack, but thinking, Even bigger clot.
“But it’s been short-listed for twenty-nine major awards,” continued Marcus. “I’ll send you a signed copy if you have a tenner on you.”
“If I gave you twenty, you could write me a sequel, too.”
Madeleine pulled Jack away and told him to behave himself, while at the same time trying to stop herself from having a fit of giggles.
“God, I love you,” she whispered in his ear, “but please stop messing around and behave yourself!”
“Spratt!” boomed Lord Spooncurdle, bored with talking to writers and agents and not recognizing anyone else.
“Hello, sir,” said Jack brightly. “You remember my wife, Madeleine?”
“Of course, of course,” he replied genially, offering his hand to Madeleine. “Your husband did a splendid job on that Humpty lark. Never did trust Spongg, y’know—eyes too close together. Reminded me of a governess who ran off with the handsome young silver and half the family’s boot boy.”
Madeleine excused herself with a whispered entreaty for Jack not to talk about his NCD work, as it usually had a confusing effect on people, and went off to mingle.
“Been here before, Spratt?” asked Spooncurdle, waving a hand at the inside of the Déjà Vu. “I’m sure I’ve seen that headwaiter, but I’m damned if I know where. I say, old stick, do us a favor and ask him if he has a lion tattooed on his left buttock.”
“He hasn’t,” replied Jack, humoring him. “I asked earlier.”
“Did you, by
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