Craakckckcakck.
Snapbjapdbljapfsfda.
Crucnncchcchchncncncncnc.
And Mark stepped out from behind the tree into the dawn's cold, smoky light. Detective McKay stood 10 yards from him, jerking his single-barreled shotgun to his shaking shoulder, his beak of a nose resting under the gun's sight.
"I expected you," said McKay.
"No, you didn't, you stupid fuck."
"How's that?"
"You wouldn't be by yourself. And I wouldn't have startled you. And you wouldn't be shaking like-"
"Put your hands in the air."
"No."
"I'll shoot you right here-"
"No, you won't. I haven't done anything." Mark shrugged. "Plus, you're a pussy-"
"Put your fucking hands in the air!" shouted McKay. "And turn around. You're under arrest for the murder of Phil Wii."
Mark sighed and turned around, pushing his hands into the air, his elbows snapping. Then behind him: one, two, three, four steps, and the sound of handcuffs knocking against each other. Then one, two, three, four steps...and a shot fired over his head, at which he didn't flinch the slightest, and a simultaneous crash and whimper. He turned around and giggled as his eyes fell upon McKay, sitting stiff in the hole, his upper body frozen but for his arms, which reached for the gun that lay too far in front of him, and his eyes, which bled tears. He picked up McKay's gun.
"You dumb fuck. I thought Bette said you were in the Marines."
A muted howl.
"Though really, I think she'd much prefer a college boy."
Eyes tightened into slits, a bloody grimace, and a groan.
"Like when she gets over you, which'll be quick, and I'm fucking the shit out of her, I'll pretend like I'm a Marine or something. Is that cool?"
Rasping breaths, fists pounding the ground around him against the searing pain in his guts, and a gurgling fountain of blood running down his neck from his mouth.
"Okay, look, I'm an honest guy. Anybody else on to me?" McKay didn't respond. So Mark grabbed the handcuffs off the forest floor and rapped him in the head. "Answer me. Your truthfulness will save Bette's life."
McKay shook his head, at which he heaved forth a trail of vomit that ran down his stomach. "I wasn't even on to you until you said that the other day at that meeting," he blurted between soaked breaths.
"Did you say anything to anyone else?"
"No."
Mark rapped him on the head again.
"No!" shouted McKay as he fell into a fit of warbling coughing. "Don't hurt Bette, whatever you do."
"Oh, I will. But I'll take my time."
McKay's wet eyes grew wide and he reached one last time for Mark's foot, which met the bridge of his over-sized nose first, the resultant crack echoing through the forest. The detective's head wobbled for a second, then fell backwards, where it rested against his upper back, as his throat gesticulated with short, reckless breaths. At this, Mark squatted, slid his arms under McKay's and heaved him up onto his shoulder in one motion. He flopped the detective against the tree and removed the stake from his ass, replacing it firmly with McKay's shotgun up to the trigger, the man's body accommodating it without the slightest resistance.
Quickly, Mark threw the shovel, the stake, his book bag, the mosquito netting, and the handcuffs into the hole and filled and covered it by hand with the excised dirt and leaves. As he walked past McKay one last time, he bent over, and using the detective's own thumb, pushed down on the shotgun's trigger. Then skipped away from the most horrible hunting accident Cedarville had ever seen.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Blue Book
Why James Joyce's Ulysses Sucks
by
Mark Dennison
Because I said so. Okay, no, not really, not because I said so. Let me first say that James Joyce was probably one of the smartest men who ever lived, with a genius and vocabulary that rivaled William Shakespeare's. And he wrote what was probably the greatest novel of the twentieth century, if not of all time, Ulysses. His influence is felt palpably in all of English literature, especially in regards to prose, since it appeared in the early part of the twentieth century, and I doubt very much that it will ever abate.
However, Ulysses is an unoriginal, pretentious, boring novel. Yes, the merits I list in the above paragraph are true - if you are a writer or an academic. It is perfect masturbatory material for serious writers and academicians who write for each other and only read those things written for them. But for the average layperson, who is looking to put his hands around, and his eyes in front of, a good story to enrich his life and pass some quality time, Ulysses is nothing but a waste of a few good twigs.
Ulysses is structured on the template of Homer's Odyssey. Well, that's very original. I suppose that its taking place over a 24 hour period rather than 24 sections of an epic poem is somewhat original. If you are 5 years old. The Odyssey was written over 2,000 years ago and is still enjoyed today by millions of readers. Note to Joyce: we do not need a re-hashed Odyssey. We need a story that originates from your imagination, from that great brain that rests inside your myopic skull! Hey, I have an idea: I will write a novel based on Hamlet and sell that to people. Oh, wait a minute, nobody wants to read Hamlet again, even if it is one of the best tragedies of the Western World. We already have it, no need for anybody to steal it and make it worse.
But Ulysses is great because of its word-play, its use of stream-of-consciousness, its inventive dialogue, its allusions to past great works of literature, its use of symbols as based on The Odyssey, Mark. Not really. All of this is unnecessary window-dressing on an otherwise boring - no, wait, BORING! - story. A writer doesn't need word-play, stream-of-consciousness, inventive dialogue, allusions, and symbols to write a great story. No, what he needs is an enthralling beginning, middle, and ending; complex characters; conflicts and crises; and the ability to choose words that tell his story and no one else's. Anything else is overcompensation for a story so thin that skeletons call it anorexic.
Ulysses is boring. I alluded - ha, look, I'm James Joyce, I made an allusion! - earlier to this aspect of Ulysses' total failure as a novel, which is probably the hardest point to show and justify. But then again, it's Ulysses - no, it's not hard. It takes place over the course of one day in Dublin. A guy goes to a funeral, jerks off on a beach, gets drunk, goes to a brothel, meets up with a young guy he doesn't even hit on, pisses in the yard with said guy, then goes to bed, only to have his story taken over by his shrill, sorry, cuckolded wife. And it takes over 700 pages for all this to happen. Wow. Great stuff, huh? Maybe if you are a corpse. But like Judge Woolsey famously said of Ulysses in the obscenity trial regarding it, "...it must always be remembered that his locale was Celtic and his season Spring." Well, thank God (who doesn't exist, by the way; I have looked for Him and found only his Husk, which I kicked to ashes and blew into the wind), that I'm not Irish - I would have died from boredom upon being born (or hatched, as my dear mother would say).
In conclusion, Ulysses is the greatest novel ever written. I sincerely believe that. But I would suggest that no one worth his salt read it so that it remains so.
by
Mark Dennison
Because I said so. Okay, no, not really, not because I said so. Let me first say that James Joyce was probably one of the smartest men who ever lived, with a genius and vocabulary that rivaled William Shakespeare's. And he wrote what was probably the greatest novel of the twentieth century, if not of all time, Ulysses. His influence is felt palpably in all of English literature, especially in regards to prose, since it appeared in the early part of the twentieth century, and I doubt very much that it will ever abate.
However, Ulysses is an unoriginal, pretentious, boring novel. Yes, the merits I list in the above paragraph are true - if you are a writer or an academic. It is perfect masturbatory material for serious writers and academicians who write for each other and only read those things written for them. But for the average layperson, who is looking to put his hands around, and his eyes in front of, a good story to enrich his life and pass some quality time, Ulysses is nothing but a waste of a few good twigs.
Ulysses is structured on the template of Homer's Odyssey. Well, that's very original. I suppose that its taking place over a 24 hour period rather than 24 sections of an epic poem is somewhat original. If you are 5 years old. The Odyssey was written over 2,000 years ago and is still enjoyed today by millions of readers. Note to Joyce: we do not need a re-hashed Odyssey. We need a story that originates from your imagination, from that great brain that rests inside your myopic skull! Hey, I have an idea: I will write a novel based on Hamlet and sell that to people. Oh, wait a minute, nobody wants to read Hamlet again, even if it is one of the best tragedies of the Western World. We already have it, no need for anybody to steal it and make it worse.
But Ulysses is great because of its word-play, its use of stream-of-consciousness, its inventive dialogue, its allusions to past great works of literature, its use of symbols as based on The Odyssey, Mark. Not really. All of this is unnecessary window-dressing on an otherwise boring - no, wait, BORING! - story. A writer doesn't need word-play, stream-of-consciousness, inventive dialogue, allusions, and symbols to write a great story. No, what he needs is an enthralling beginning, middle, and ending; complex characters; conflicts and crises; and the ability to choose words that tell his story and no one else's. Anything else is overcompensation for a story so thin that skeletons call it anorexic.
Ulysses is boring. I alluded - ha, look, I'm James Joyce, I made an allusion! - earlier to this aspect of Ulysses' total failure as a novel, which is probably the hardest point to show and justify. But then again, it's Ulysses - no, it's not hard. It takes place over the course of one day in Dublin. A guy goes to a funeral, jerks off on a beach, gets drunk, goes to a brothel, meets up with a young guy he doesn't even hit on, pisses in the yard with said guy, then goes to bed, only to have his story taken over by his shrill, sorry, cuckolded wife. And it takes over 700 pages for all this to happen. Wow. Great stuff, huh? Maybe if you are a corpse. But like Judge Woolsey famously said of Ulysses in the obscenity trial regarding it, "...it must always be remembered that his locale was Celtic and his season Spring." Well, thank God (who doesn't exist, by the way; I have looked for Him and found only his Husk, which I kicked to ashes and blew into the wind), that I'm not Irish - I would have died from boredom upon being born (or hatched, as my dear mother would say).
In conclusion, Ulysses is the greatest novel ever written. I sincerely believe that. But I would suggest that no one worth his salt read it so that it remains so.
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