The title is there so the girls running the ditty in my head will stay put until I get back to their concerns. One of them decided Dirk was the name of Hamlet’s father. The ditty: later.
The book. The bad book that sends you ballistic. Everybody needs at least one. Mine came gift of a visitor who’d picked it up as possible reading in an airport. This may suggest a certain type of book which this one isn’t. This one is the… words fail. They fail except when I pick up the book, open it at random and – boom – it’s carnaval day at the racetrack.
Decency forbids I mention the author’s name. I’d probably slink away in shame were I introduced to this distinguished linguist. At any rate, it would take all the fun out of adding mock-ups and silly lampoons on the Chapter headings; completing his wispy were-it-were-so sentences; and providing my own answers to his endless quest for the why to the wherefore of the meanwhile in the whenever the… the… (we’ll get there; take a deep breath; no, with your head in the paper bag or you’ll hyperventilate; better? he’s better but he can’t spit out the word just yet.)
I came close to disposing of the book the humane way i.e. donating it to the médiathèque without so much as reading it. T’would have been a shame. I have boxes of crayons out just for this book. I have characters fighting one another for the privilege of savaging it. A feeding frenzy. Awful things lurk in men’s hearts; as for women’s, scenes of unspeakable horror await if you don’t knock on the door first.
Ah me. Good King Dirk. Yes, coming.