Challenge #37: Why James Joyce Would Cry On the Internet
It's my first attempt at a challenge, yet I feel as if this will garner more sickness than praise.
Dear Santa Claus,
I have but one simple wish, and it’s explained incomprehensibly, so I do hope that you’ve obtained several degrees in ancient Irish mythology, the English language, and several hundred dead languages. This is, after all, a tough task to discern my syntax, if you don’t have that feeling that perhaps when it comes to the whole world of literature, I am the übermensch. I’m sorry, did I say übermensch? That’s Neitchze’s schtique. I’m sure you don’t like Neitchze very much; if he could claim that God was dead, after all, would he not say that you too are dead? But no, for some indiscernible reason, I am compelled to say that I would agree with him. After all, the seagull I just saw outside my window reminded me of something…
I was writing my sort-of-yet-eerily-not-exactly autobiographical novel, Stephen Hero, err, I mean, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, when I saw I seagull during a little stroll on the beaches near Dublin. Ah yes. It was a seagull that soared! And so high did it soar that I felt that I was soaring! And then my foot cramped up and felt sore, and so too did I feel sore. And then I saw Ernest Hemmingway on the beach, wielding his elephant gun like he had something to do with it.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said. He dropped his elephant gun. I swore he probably dropped his pants too.
“What are you doing here?” I replied. The American oaf rolled a goofy grin past his bushy beard and laughed.
“Irish liquor is the best liquor! But I’m also here to tell you something too.” He sat down next to me, not even noticing how a crab was biting at his biggest knapsack. This was not his wallet, nor any of his flasks, mind you.
Notice the penis jokes there, Santa? Mhmm. Aren’t I so clever? Anyway,
“Have you also noticed that all the girls here are beautiful? It’s like I stumbled somewhere where every dame has a pair of crane’s legs…god I wish I actually wrote like that in my stories!” The drunk-of-his-arse-author took another swig of swill that perhaps was made of rat poison and some hallucinogenic liquids. “And you know what? I, Ernest Hemmingway, am the best hunter ever!” He raised his elephant gun and shot a pelican. What a dick, that Hemmingway. He proceeded to laugh and walk away, pantsless. No one bothered him.
Then it dawned on me: the seagull! It was just like the hypothetical bird-legged women that Hemmingway described were in fact beautiful! I had my inspiration then and there to write the forth chapter of Portrait! I would go on about how Stephen Daedelus flew off his feet, saw some crane-legged woman, and felt the inspiration to follow his path by being one perverted, yet ingenious man who embraces the beauty of, proverbially, everything. Yes, that includes Hemmingway’s massive elephant gun.
My point is, Santa, that all I want for Christmas is a pair of wings! I want to soar into the heavens! And write more incomprehensible books. Beyond my death. Yes. Beyond my very Epicurean death.
Yours the More Confusing,
PS: I suppose that you don’t have the power to grant another wish either. Could you also make me a zombie when I die? I won’t be able to write books more incomprehensible than Finnegan’s Wake while I’m dead, certainly. Furthermore, if you want anything in exchange, I perhaps can pull a few tricks. I am a dirty man that way…for I could very well tell you how to flatter Mrs. Claus with a few choice ecclesiastical and arousing descriptions.