Rarefied Repartee

James Gould Cozzens is an author whose prose you can chew for grist and pith.  He is of a conservative, Protestant disposition;  he has an especial affinity for Law, and not a little for Latin.   Witness this, from his semi-autobiographical first novel, depicting himself as “Francis”, a rather callow young American, moving somewhat aimlessly around the watering-holes of Europe, as tutor to the adolescent child of a wealthy mother:

[One Mr McKellar speaking, of a headstrong young woman] :
“It will be like trying to get Lorna home from the Casino when she knows that next time it just has to be pair et rouge.  You don’t arise from the table gracefully.  No one does.  Lucretius was an ass.  What does he say?  Well, now I have forgotten.”

“Cur non ut plenus vitae conviva recedis,” Francis said distinctly -- almost viciously, for he felt entitled to one triumph, and what a wretched one this was! “Aequo animoque capis securam, stulte, quietem.”

“Bravo!” Mr McKella said, startled.  He swept a bow to Francis.  “… Plenus, indeed!  You can always use a little more.”

-- James Gould Cozzens,  Ask Me Tomorrow (1940), ch. 5

What is really arch about that exchange  is not so much the having of an apposite quotation from De rerum natura  at one’s fingertips, but rather that “Lucretius is an ass”.  All McKellar has done is to mention Lorna’s likely reluctance to leave the gaming-table, yet in the very next instant he presumes that such a situation, drawn from life, will instantly put the hearer -- or anyone of competence -- in mind of one particular a-propos zinger from a a Roman poet of the first century B.C., and that we -- you and I -- are so familiar, and overfamiliar, with the various bons mots of that man, that we can (using schoolboy phraseology) dismiss the old scribbler as “an ass”.

The Lost Notebooks of Dashiell Hammett

The author Dashiell Hammett  paid his dues before he published his classic noir stories and novels:  first, as a detective with the Pinkerton Agency, based in the rough-and-tumble West, and secondly, as an observer of underclass American speech, which he scouted out in the dives of the era immediately after the first World War, recording what he heard  in unlined, now-yellowed notebooks.   It has been our good fortune to have located and purchased one of these, from a shady bibliophile in Istanbul;   and here present previously-unpublished excerpts.

~

Overheard at the Sangsue-ci Lounge, in Cicero, Illinois:

So he shows me his .32.

I sez, Dat all ya got??

A nod of the head indicates a customer loudly holding forth at a table across the room.

“So who’s t’ wise-guy?”
“Some cit  thinks he’s the cat’s own jockstrap,
but   fact is,  he’s from hunger.”

Job interview:

“I hear you paint houses.”

“Oh yeh?  Who toleja dat?”

The Darwinian origins of Altruism:

“So why would I help you out, a rat like you?”
“You’ll do it for my bright blue eyes.”

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For an additional glimpse of the hard-luck life,

back in the railroad days, try this:

http://murphybros.blogspot.com/2011/05/scully-saga-part-i.html

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Baby-Face Nelson repartee

“Why… Jimmy Burnell!” Negri exclaimed, using Nelson’s old alias.  “Where’d you pop from?”
Nelson grinned.  “Oh, I just blew in from the east.”

-- Bryan Burrough, Public Enemies (2004), p. 175

(The noir aesthetic  meets a Mary Poppins meme.

 For a Carl-Sandburgian take on such lingo, try this:   Rootabaga.)

Field-notes

I went out into the wee wide world, with my listening-ears on, to hear what our fellow-folk were saying, in the fields and feedlots, dimestores and dram-shops,  hayrides and waysides  and over cakes and tea.   So here you have it:  Statements overheard  on the broad clean streets  of our everyday own town,  right here in Rootabaga country.

“I hear tell Bozo the Button Buster is sweet on Flossie the Feather Duster.”

“I’m hearing much the same thing.”

“Mrs. Portly is proud  of her prize plump pumpkin.”

“As well she might be!  The prize pumpkin’s pleased as Punch with her.”

“… just like the Blind Man said.”

“Now, … which Blind Man might you be referring to?  Old Potato Face, or the other one?”

“…and old man Weatherrumper, with a sly eye, just like he was a-knowing something.”

“Oh yes, he knows, but he ain’t lettin’ on!”

“… sittin’ on a fence post, just as pleased as he could be!”

“Cushionhead – you’re a man of sense!  So let me ask you:

whether quick Sally Klippspringer,

or sly Solly Rippledinger,

will win the prize this year.”

(chucking her under the chin) “So say, Mother Wamperknuckle, tell me what have you fixed  for my own fine dinner.”

“Aw, g’wan with you!” (pleased, though). “Just spuds ‘n’ goobers, with a little salt.”

“’Scuse please, me I’m just going to the moon, get me a piece of cheese.”

“Miss Millikins, you’ll do  no  such  thing!”

“…when who should I see  but Wee Missie Middlethumbkin,  fiddling with her bonnet string.”

“Now Tommy, you put that bickerjingle   back into the bickerjingle jar.”

“No no, not that one.   The big brass bong with the buttons on ‘er.”

So, all is as well as well might be, right here in  Rootabaga Country.

Ask Dr. Science !

  (1)  The Dawood Illusion

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Admit it -- the line at the top looks longer to you.  Yet scientists assure us they are exactly the same length!   (The illusion is produced by the relative happiness of the adjoining hamsters.)

(2)  Turing Test

Q:  Is there a God?

A:  No.

Q:  Is there any basis for morality?

A:  No.

Q:  Is consciousness real?

A:  No.

Q:  Do we have Free Will?

A:  No.

Q:  Am I, mm, speaking to a robot?

A:  …. No.

[Note:  All the responses were false except the last.  The responder was in fact not a robot, but a neuroscientist.  They can be hard to tell apart.]


(3)   Questions that stumped the experts, knocked over the left-field fence by Dr.  J.

Q:  What time is it on the sun?

A:  Five o’clock.

Q:  What color is God?

A:  Blue.

Q:  Why don’t atoms have individual names?

A:  Some do, some don’t.

“Science You Can Trust”  ®