Exercises in Style (17 page)

UNPUBLISHED EXERCISES

“On the bus …”

On the bus. On the platform. We were tightly
packed in. Roughly half past noon. A young man with glasses. A hat with a cord
instead of a ribbon. A skinny chicken neck. At a stop, he protests against the
man who is behind him: Sir, you are pushing me every time people get off. Then
he throws himself onto a vacant seat.

Two hours later, I meet him in the Place S[aint] Lazare (Cour de
Rome). He is with a friend who is advising him to have a button added to his
overcoat.

“I get on …”

I get on.

It must be about one o’clock. I’m taking the S to go have lunch at
M…’s; quite a crowd; I’ve ended up on the platform with some other people, and
we’re packed in. Beside me, a ladies’ man decked out in a ridiculous felt hat—I
immediately take him for a dumbass. At the next stop some people get off. The
fellow protests: “You’re pushing me on purpose every time people go by.” Whiny
yet arrogant! He is addressing a dignified man that doesn’t deign (to reply). As
he sees a vacant seat inside, he grabs it.

I get off and think nothing more of it. I have lunch.

Two hours later, in front of the gare Saint-Lazare, I come across
him—by chance. He is with a friend who is giving him sartorial advice. His
overcoat is cut too low; he ought to have another buttonhole added (and a
button) so it closes a bit more.

I leave them.

“On a beautiful …”

On a beautiful, warm and glorious spring morning a large, heavy and
noisy T.C.R.P. vehicle was transporting, among other things, numerous
passengers, packed in, and a man, still young, wearing glasses and hat, this
hat, incidentally, being noteworthy due to the fact that no ribbon ran around
it, but a sort of plaited string of the same colour as the felt, probably dyed.
This young man called out his neighbour, all of a sudden, accusing him of
hypocritically jostling him every time passengers got on or off. His voice was
full of fury, snivelling, whining.

’accuse

Gentlemen, what will I not accuse? I will accuse
the S bus, swollen up like a balloon and crowded like a rabbit warren. I accuse
the noon hour and the form of the platform. I accuse the youth of that young man
and the length of his neck, and further still the nature of the ribbon that is
not a ribbon that he wore around his hat. I accuse the jostling and the
remonstrance, the whining, and the vacant seat to which that young man scurried,
his protestation complete.

“On a warm …”

On a warm spring morning—morning, that’s a figure of speech, my man!
Because it was surely noon. Tic toc, tic toc… What’s that I hear? That’s right,
noon. What a crowd, God in Heaven! The bus, that modern monster not so unlike
the Titans of mythology, hugged the kerb and came to a stop. We got on. We were
tightly packed in.

pistolary

Dearest Totor,

Today my hand goes to the quill instead of to the plough, a way of
telling you that I am writing you a letter that will share with you my most
recent and joyous news. Can you imagine it, I went to see Aunt Hortense, and
seeing as she lives over that way, I took the S bus that goes over that way. I
remained on the platform so I could see the rather beautiful scenery parade past
my eyes, round with wonder. But I’m not finished my story. And so I beg you not
to throw my letter straight into the wastepaper basket and to listen to the
rest. Well, actually, listen is just a figure of speech, or a figure of writing,
seeing as it is a matter of reading.

Now where was I with my journey? Ah yes. I take up the thread of my
tale in telling you (writing to you) that the bus came to a stop at a stop
(that’s the rule) and a bizarre character hurriedly got on, one whom the word on
the street had told me (orally) was a cool cat, that’s to say that he had a hat
on his head with a plaited string around it, and what’s more, a long neck, and a
look about him, oh my what a look! So as to not drag things out too long, I’ll
tell you right now that this cool cat (because this was definitely a cool cat),
treading upon the feet of one of my fellow standing passengers, went rushing off
to sit down on a seat that had opened up.

That sickened me.

Now, on my way back from seeing Aunt Hortense (who is as fit as a
fiddle, by the way), the bus that I rode passed before the gare Saint-Lazare,
allowing me to see with my own dumbfounded eyes the very same cool cat in the
company of another lad of his sort, who was giving him advice on the placement
of one of the buttons of his overcoat. That is all I have to tell you for the
moment. I hope you have enjoyed hearing from me, and, as you can see, there are
certainly things to see in such a big city as Paris. In hopes of seeing you in
the not-too-distant future, I remain faithfully yours, my dearest Totor.

Metaphors & binocular vision

At the center of and in the heart of the day and
light, thrown and [blank] into the heap and [blank] of wandering and traveling
fish and sardines of a beetle and insect with a large and round back and a white
shell and a [blank] shiny and [blank] and [blank] a chicken and cockerel with a
great and long neck, featherless and skinny, chewed out and spewed forth
suddenly and all of a sudden [blank] and his language and speech was unleeched
[sic] and let loose into the air and space, humid and wet from the remonstrance
and rebuff. Then, drawn and attracted to a spot and a seat that was empty and
free, the chicken and cockerel rushed and ran over to it.

In a dreary and drab Parisian and urban desert and Sahara I saw
again and came across the same day and afternoon, being made to blow his nose
clear of and expectorate the arrogance and pretentious vanity by an
ordinary-looking and specified button [end of ms.]

“Towards noon …”

Towards noon I took the S bus, at that crowded time of day. I
remained on the rear platform and noticed a young man afflicted by a long neck
and a hat with a braid around it instead of a ribbon. Suddenly a passenger began
complaining that this lad was intentionally jostling him each time that
passengers got on or off. The young man replied bitterly and promptly threw
himself onto a vacant seat.

Two hours later I noticed him in the Rue de Rome, he was walking up
and down with a friend who was giving him sartorial advice. “That button ought
to be moved,” this friend was telling him, showing him the button on his
overcoat.

“There were oodles …”

There were oodles of people waiting for the bus. It was horrid!
Dreadful! Odious! And I, who would so like to have my own little Cadillac with
my own little chauffeur… At last… There’s the 84 pulling up… I want to get on…
They squeeze against me… All of these men… I hesitate, I’m sure you must
understand… But all the same… So there I am on the platform, and what do I see?
A dashing young man, with the neck of a swan and a cute little hat with a
plaited cord around it… The poor dear… Some big meanies are stepping on his
feet. He got angry, he was a sensitive lad. A big brute said some nasty things
to him. So he went and sat down. No point fighting when you’re beautiful.

Two hours later, I’m going past the gare Saint-Lazare, and who do I
see? My dashing young man, showing his waisted raglan to another dashing young
man in order to ask him his opinion on the lapels. A little too revealing. To
console him, the other dashing young man was patting him on the back.

“A shoal of sardines …”

A shoal of sardines was making its way across the Atlantic. One of
these creatures was attempting—through a mechanism well known in psychology—to
compensate for a deficiency caused by a disfiguration of the fins by means of an
arrogance that was almost frightening—grumbling all the while about his
companions who were pressing up too close to him. Finally, catching sight of a
gap in the shoal, he threaded his way through and found himself in open
waters.

A little while later a young sardine had taken up swimming in his
company; he was giving him advice on how to take care of his scales.

“It was hotter …”

It was hotter than an over in there. On the rear platform of a bus
(similar to a terrace), where we were packed in like sardines, a young man wore
a hat that suited him like suspenders would a chicken; of a certain breed of
chicken himself, although he had a long neck and was featherless. He thought
himself intentionally jostled by a neighbour like a sack of dirty laundry and
caterwauled like a cat whose fur has been stroked the wrong way. Seeing a vacant
seat, he threw himself onto it like misery onto the world.

As ill-luck would have it, I came across him once again two hours
later, completely by chance, in the Cour de Rome. He was with a friend who was
lecturing him.

ear

This young man had a mug that was vile, and
disquieting. With his plait around his hat. With his glasses. On a bus platform,
one day at noon, that’s where he was. Everything about his appearance called for
ridicule, inciting mockery. And yet, in examining him closely, I perceived in
him that sort of inhumanity that gives the smallest fleck of dust a terrifying
quality. We were tightly packed onto that bus platform, and, each time anyone
got off or on, this character jostled his neighbour.

“The overcoat …”

The overcoat certainly didn’t come from a good tailor and I
completely understand why one of his friends had made some comments to this
effect. When one wears such a ridiculous hat, there is no chance that the
overcoat will be impeccable. The ridiculous fool, let it be said in passing, had
gone with a plait instead of a ribbon. This sartorial imperfection had led,
furthermore, to a certain disequilibrium as far as social behaviour, an
irritability that manifested itself, right in front of me, in the form of an
altercation, though on a minor level, with an innocuous fellow. This incident
was then resolved by an overcompensation of the rudest sort, that’s to say by
the violent commandeering of a place to sit that had recently been vacated.
Afterwards came, but some time later, and elsewhere, the question of style.

he
stro

The stro is a biped with a particularly long
neck (which distinguishes it from the bi-stro with two heads but with a neck
drawn into the shoulders). It covers its head with pieces of felt skin that it
makes by chewing the hair of the animals that it kills and devours after having
shorn them with his teeth (this headgear is always what distinguishes it from
the stro-son who holds his in his hand) surrounded by a stretch of crudely
twisted entrails (some might say plait).

The stro is aggressive by nature, but a firm bearing will make it
beat a hasty retreat.