Tag: wit

The revelation of a dim mind

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

I have always believed that boredom is a symptom of the laziness of the mind, for brilliant minds are self-sufficient, as seen in the case of Richard Feynman, who remained lucid, mentally active, and undisturbed even by the absence of sensory input in John C. Lilly’s isolation tank. And although I’m far from that level of acumen myself, I’ve often quipped that I’m never bored because I share my time with a very intelligent person—myself. Besides, I tend to keep books close at hand. (And speaking of books and great minds, I’ve long found it fascinating when intellectuals claim that a particular book changed their life—only to then have a flash of insight: nothing like that has ever happened to me, so either I’m not easily impressed, or I’m simply too dim to grasp what I read.)

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Mon Dieu!

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

With every line a liability—
and Ea von Allesch out of reach—
I can’t leave my expectations
at the mercy of the em dash.

And while I can always hang a thousand words
celebrating the forlornly sought-after mortality
of Death itself
on the wall,
there’s no need to be overly dramatic—

everyone deserves a postmortem, after all,
even the slightly hysterical.
Isn’t that what a pied-à-terre is for?

Perhaps.

Unless you make it your living
room.

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Large numbers

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Will I ever be able to live
up to my autobiography?
The last time I tried, it ended
in a rather embarrassing entanglement
that continues to suck my soul
and wallet dry. But that’s to be expected.
At some point, we all have to deal
with a few surprisingly large numbers,
whether it’s a jackpot, a brief’s tab,
or a boneyard plot digit.

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The half-century mark

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It puts me in a rather peculiar position when—rather than, considering my age, courting a preposterous dowager—I yearn for the creamy scent of a perfectly ripe banana, the inconsequential beauty of unwitting lasciviousness—even if one exhibits something as mundanely inappropriate as picking one’s nose, so it is impossible not to call one a perfect scandal—a sun-drenched firmament of tiny freckles, and more. I can’t wait to see how ridiculous I will be in ten years when I’m sixty.

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Simple life

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Charles Travelyan and his wife live in the country. They rise at six.
While Charles is shaving, his wife reads Ibsen aloud to him,
and while she’s doing her hair, he reads Bernard Shaw aloud to her.
They work till twelve, when they have a light vegetarian lunch;
they then walk over ploughed fields till six, when they have a light
vegetarian dinner. After dinner Charles Travelyan reads aloud
for an hour and a half, and at eight they go to bed.
This is supposed to be the simple life, but my private view is
that Charles Travelyan’s one object in doing it is to save money,
as he’s the heir to forty thousand pounds a year.*

And, as then, so now, there is nothing like simple life
with a six million pounds sterling price tag—in today’s currency—
to while away the time in the country.

*Adapted from a letter by Lytton Strachey to Leonard Woolf, dated June 13th, 1905, as found in The Letters of Lytton Strachey, edited by Paul Levy.

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Haggis

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I have always wondered what haggis tastes like
because, despite living in Scotland for two decades,
I’ve never actually had the opportunity to try it,
and not for lack of desire, but due to dietary restrictions,
which would also apply to more foreign delicacies
like Yorkshire pudding (some Scots will appreciate the jest),
in toad in the hole in particular. Perhaps I’ll order it
for my last supper.

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