Lupercale

Sa manière de parler :

Elle avait une capacité singulière, surtout son aptitude à elle, de parler à une vitesse sans pareille. Quand l’on écoutait, on n’arrivait pas à identifier l’enveloppe des mots – c’était tout simplement impossible. En fait, on entendait un ruisseau de sens, taillé sous les contours palatins, emballé dans une bulle complète, qui dans son intégralité communiquait avec précision l’essence du contrepoint quelconque qu’elle avait choisi.

Ses réponses (et elle n’a jamais parlé que pour répondre) étaient féroces, franches, légèrement parfumées de mépris sans jamais frôler l’orgueil. Elle était parfaitement en dehors d’elle, et ce n’était que sa passion ardente et aveugle pour la vérité qui en excusait les ingérences impétueuses.

C’était tout un processus, son parler.  Elle restait en attente; comme un ressort qui se love sur lui-même, doucement, avec une patience qui s’assouvit, jusqu'au point où les fils de métal se touchent, s’étreignent dans un enlacement composite serré, serrant… Qui jaillit ! et en un instant, un coup de foudre, un clair de lune, le ruisseau débordait de son lit. C’était comme cela, son silence s’enroulerait doucement, avant d’être brusquement poignardé. 

Le poids et l’élan du contenu arrivaient toujours à la fin de l’exclamation. La vitesse crue suffisait à attirer l’attention universelle sur elle pour commencer – vers la fin, il était question de se divorcer des simples gadgets, et de se disculper avec la clarté, l’articulation nette.

Elle ne parlait que quand elle était complètement sûre d’elle.

Elle n’aimait pas les débats.

Son mode de vie :

Elle n’habitait pas les futaies.

Elle ne se levait pas chaque matin pour lancer un museau maculé de boue dans l’air, elle n’éprouvait aucun désir d’écouter un silence immense, rompue seulement par son souffle guttural, poussant une chaude haleine qui figurait dans des bouffées grisâtres dans l’air.  Sa seule expérience des grottes était une excursion scolaire, dans la Loire, quand elle avait huit ans. Elle n’y avait trouvé rien de spécial.

En fait, si elle songeait jamais à adopter la vie d’un loup, une considération de quelques secondes suffisait pour la convaincre carrément du manque prodigieux des agréments là-dedans.

En fin de compte, c’était l’incapacité de s’exprimer d’une façon claire qu’elle ne pouvait jamais supporter. Avec désinvolture elle pouvait tolérer la saleté de ses pattes, la chute de l’eau froide contre son pelage, les soirs nauséabonds de faim. Mais le hurlement n’avait pas suffisamment de variation dans le ton. Il y avait l’émotion, oui, même l’angoisse peut-être. Cependant c’était une angoisse bête et élémentaire, elle n’avait ni art ni sophistication. Il n’y a pas de hiérarchie dans les rugissements, et la tête remplie des idéologies qui mettaient toujours la beauté à l’échelle, elle ne pouvait pas de son gré les transformer en gémissement rude.

La vie du loup n’était pas pour elle. Elle savait au fond que la solitude la plus profonde, c’était la mutité animale. À son insu, elle avait choisi sa propre solitude, dans une autonomie qui l’a rendue heureuse.

Chiswick & Co.

Congratulations on purchasing a pouch of Chiswick & Co. tea leaves, the world's finest tea. In enacting this procurement, you continue a tradition of excellence that has stood the test of time, with century upon century of experience poured into each and every cup. There is nothing quite like a cup of tea, and there is no tea quite like Chiswick & Co. - Chiswick & Co. the envy of our competitors, our competition the bane of their existence, and their existence meagre and meaningless under the self-evident predominance of our great and noble establishment. Read on.

Our Story

The Chiswick & Co. story begins in the late 17th Century with Bartholomew Chiswick, a young, roguish vair salesman from Durham. In 1671, while engaged in a rodent hunting expedition in Southern Siberia, the swashbuckling knave was beaten back into a river by a singularly aggressive onslaught of squirrels. When he came to, Bartholomew found himself in an altogether foreign land - a wild tea grove, not far from the island of Bombay.

Immediately, the dashing reprobate could see the global socio-political and financial potential of these bitter-tasting dwarf shrubs. Using the emptied intestines of his captured squirrels as pouches for the leaves (things have come a long way since then!), the resourceful picaroon boarded a ship bound for the motherland.

Through his numerous and well-documented sexual liaisons with several members of the English aristocracy, he was perfectly positioned to advance the popularity of his new wonder-plant. Soon, he was undertaking large sales of tea to England's most discerning clientele – and so the story has remained for over 300 years, with a Chiswick & Co. commemorative teapot adorning the trestle tables of all the finest tea salons in the land, and the world over.

Our Quality

There is no single secret to our creation of this, the superlative of all teas. It is a confluence of exceptional produce, superb workmanship, and a passion for excellence. Additionally, we possess a sacred Fijian talisman that brings us prosperity.

Our Exceptional Produce

Our plants grow in sombre isolation, on the terraced sides of a mist-enshrouded hill rising from the fertile earth of Darjeeling. Each is styled and pruned with the utmost attention to detail, with intravenous drips used during periods of low rainfall.

Our Superb Workmanship

Our leaves are handpicked by a unit of elite pickers. They are hand-shredded by experts, hand-selected for the task. Our handmade pouches are the handiwork of the finest handful of Bremen artisans.

We estimate that over seventy hands have made contact with your tea before you ingest it, each massaging manifold centuries of mastery into an unforgettable experience.

Our Passion For Excellence

Much has changed since the days of our impish founder, but our pursuit of excellence has remained a constant, and is an integral part of our respected tradition. We pride ourselves as purveyors of fine teas, and as London's premier teaery.

Our Sacred Fijian Prosperity Talisman

Placed on our "intangible assets" list due to its excessive distortion when summoned in a three-dimensional space, naturally the value of this asset is anything but intangible. The Talisman brings significant (but as yet unquantified) advantage to the bottom line of this firm.

Our Flavours

Below is a list of our most well known teas, each more exquisite than the last (they are ranked by exquisiteness):

Violet Moonglow

Bombay Wildflower

Portuguese Nightshade (discontinued)

Jaipur Petrichor

Twilight Mellifluence

Bengaluru Synaesthesia

Jasmine Bildungsroman

Full Harmonious Nectar Sunrise (sold in China only)

Ephemeral Siamese Eventide Mist

Our Diversity

Connoisseurs admire our rare and exquisite flavours. Laymen embrace our full-bodied and honest pots. Tasseographers praise our auspicious, symbolism-infused residues. There is much to love about our teas, and with custom ranging from the Far East to the Horn of Africa, from Greenwich to Greenland, there are millions around the world who do.

Our Ethos:

We maintain an uncompromising insistence on the quality and excellence of what we produce, and an absolute confidence in the unequalled distinction of Chiswick & Co. teas. In the words of Bartholomew himself: "The tee drynk is a most consummate elixyr for fine fettle; softe as sarcenet, robust as a vair's pate". Surely, truer words never were spoken.

You may now drink our tea.

1a

My dearest Ekaterina,

                                         What pleasure there may be in the writing of a name! As my pen traces the delicate contours, every letter sings, and when amalgamated in the appropriate fashion, the chorus makes incarnate the very essence of the one whom I most fervently love - Ekaterina…

The glacial winter draws on apace here in Puerto Natales, and an almost imperceptibly thin sheet of snow has iced our fields, apparent by the light crunch beneath my boots in early morning promenades (and, thereafter, by fields' icy appearance). Vast and desolate, I could almost pretend that I was with you, in the plains of far-off Ulan Ude; but I am a world away from there. Literally.

Here, 12,750km from you (as the chinchilla digs), the guano trade has slowed, and the factory of my parents and grandparents has all but fallen into the most unseemly disrepair. I can scarce afford to eat, let alone purchase fuel for the hearth by which to warm myself. But I endure: for I have a flame within, and may be made alight at the very thought of you. You are my warmth, Ekaterina - and if your heat may be felt here, at the extremity of your absence, what feverish temperatures must afflict the rest of this world, enflamed, and furnace-like by your fiery presence!

I jest, of course, but still I feel the thoroughness of your not being here, like tall flames piercing my soul (though these flames are not to be confused with the flame of warmth you give me, which is comfort). O, heartless distance! That I should wake every morning to plant my feet on this good Chilean ground, and know that these same feet diametrically oppose your own, on the far side of this great spheroid - why, it is enough to drive a man mad. I mean, long distance relationships are difficult at the best of times, but when I reflect that the most direct route to one another entails passing through the centre of a 5,430°C core of molten iron-nickel alloy (more heat, though now literal) - those are the times that really get me down. 

Ah, what a bitter irony it is, that I should live further from my love than any other soul on this earth! There's a poetry in it, I'm sure - but I am too coarse, too blunt and doltish to write it. I feel only the dull, stupid pain of a simple village farmer, O woe is me… Alack!

And so my blind indignation rises within me - like the Bulgan forests from the steppes, like the Andes from the sea. But passion in the forgotten is so much dukkah, thrown to the wind. My feeble glow will fade long before the Siberian night, as I fall short of all that I have dreamed; but as long as there remains distance left to run, still shall I breathe your name, and trace its silent echoes.

Devotedly,

J

Green

I

A green tree, and a sunny earth! The grass was tall, thick and clean, and invited the sharp-edged sickle to fibrous snaps, to the whining exhale of verdured perfume. A hairline slick of shimmering oil lined each blade, thin coatings expressed against the sun’s familiar stare. Pieces of dirt, dust and detritus, lifted from the ground in the morning breath, flecked the sheeted ranks of organic grease – but the illusory shimmering remained.

Any passer-by would have been struck by a dumb, primordial urge to wrench and tear from the sweet-smelling pasture a fistful – not born of any raw appetite for destruction, but to feel the stringy roots beneath the earth’s surface firmly lodged, then broken, then rudely displaced in a jarring succession of sensations. As it is pulled from the ground, the soil tumbles back down – warm and dark, and soft underfoot.

II

The lost ivy lies coiled in the recesses of the forest, wherein it proves a dusty, languid progress. Too sprawling for grace, too rotten for decay, it lives after a fashion and in blindness. Ungainly it spreads its web across the forest floor, tendrils sleeping, waking, waxing, snaking, lacing every inch with an insomniac embrace. In the gloom and in the gleam, and in the folds of her half-dream, the empress ivy seeks to reap the fetid darkness of this place.

So her slumber is bathed in black. Spots of sun only, haphazardly wending their chaotic path through the undergrowth, reveal the coarse biotic leather bespattered with keratosis. The blight of obscurity goes unseen, the hum of neglect goes unheard, and beyond reach and breathless hang the quiet places of the earth.

III

The vivid, virid lily pad lives impeccably, and breathes forth a sigh of incandescent solace. Vibrant in the nocturne’s foreground, daylight in its wings, the green spills far and freely along a cast granite slab. A veneer of contiguous faces, looking warily outwards, past themselves and beyond the water; therein lies fluency, vigour, a clean spirit and a particular irreproachability, issued in equal measures in a lightly fluorescing glow. The lilies stay all tenebrous advances, and float silently watchful – the serene vigils of the night.

And yet there is a nervous faith that imbues the lily in its aquatic domicile. With a passing touch, the water’s indolent seal may be cleft in an impulsive affliction, and the water lily is reminded that for all the absolution of hydration, yet the garbled chords of dissolution attend hungrily upon its submergence. Thus the waxen pads congregate in the wells of stillness, in the delicate pools where they are most needed – but the lilies refuse turbulent waters their watch.

IV

A noble, stately canopy sings triumph to the skies! The tall, panoptic panoply of birds and leaves and trees! The foliage presses – with cacophonous caresses – and professes with a clarion the burst of morning light. Lapping around the mountain shoals the blanket is irregular and grizzled, and lies prostrate like a jaguar, pawing at the contours. Ribbons of mist streak the matted colloquy, before sinking into the understorey beneath dawn’s resumptive heat.

The defiant rooves of the forest do not look at their toes. They climb to serve, but stand far from their forgotten feet; their shadows are cast – but in black, and not in green. They turn upwards and outwards, and all memory of their sleeping bodies disintegrates in a valiant abstraction, a vacant rot. The exalted stratum divides dark and light, unites earth and air, matches, mixes and makes. But of time’s compound it stands ignorant. Built from below, drawn from above, the patchwork lenses of the world know neither decadence nor death, and chant their courageous youth into the face of the eternal. 

A Call To Arms

Let us not think;
We have been thinking long hours.
The confines of our consciousness yellowed with retention,
Creased with labour -
It has been arduous, it has been painful.
let us not think;
Our minds have been narrowed with the day's dark reckoning.
We must open again, and in a gasp of warm stupor
Engulf ourselves.


Let us not act;
Let us not act as we "ought", for in that "ought",
There lies a hateful spirit.
As in the pale ignorance of a salient church bell's clamour
We chasten our unripe mastery.
Let us not act;
Blunt and ungainly, let us stammer and stumble
And bathe ourselves in kaleidoscope static,
And paratactic - Action, to us,
Will come.


Let us not feel;
May the air thicken with narcotic numbness.
In the wake of regimented daylight hours,
Guided by sense,
Let our senses hang mute beneath the whirling folds of our motley vestiments.
Let us not feel;
Emotion is as a caustic on the spirit.
Abstain - and may the perspiring closeness of anaesthesia
Inhale us.


Our self dissolution imports interaction,
So we melt and we mould
To uphold our abstraction.
Thus passive, and pursed, and glowing with pleasure,
Let the dumb and the dull and the drunk take their measure -
And let us not think.
Nor act, nor feel.
For when we are beyond thought, command and feeling, what pleasures await us
In the warrens of our misshapen madness. To drink!

The opening to my brilliant post-modern thriller

Autumn wind. It struck me, a loose, dusty slab of it, as I emerged from my small hilltop residence. The manipulation of the bronzed leaves in the air, like puppetry, made for a remarkable tableau: brown, against grey, against my brown study. I’ve been thinking about brown a lot lately. The brown of churches. The brown of tea leaves. The brown of my mahogany table, weary with the weight of unread papers, aged with the stains of red wine, of solitude, of vegetable oil, of banana smoothie, of consciousness and of meaning.

Ah, meaning. Hmm. I let out a long sigh, and brood a little longer. How the sands of time have gathered about my feet. Do all things pass? Yes, I suppose so. Geez.

With these powerful reflexions completed, I began my brave march into the dying embers of the morning.

Praise for the opening to my brilliant post-modern thriller.

-          “Uncompromising and lethally understated, Walter’s prose skims gracefully across the face of a profound lake of meaning. The opening to his brilliant post-modern thriller is superb.” –  The Times

-        “There is no combination of 142 words that could possibly deliver more intensity[…] This post-modern thriller’s brilliant opening delivers a visceral blow to any who dare read it. The age of writing is over[…] Walter has clocked it.” – The Daily Telegraph

-        “The opening to this post-modern thriller[…] is brilliant. Walter’s bravery in tackling the heavyweight intellectual dilemmas of our age – implicitly, mind, in riddles and in paradoxes lying just beneath the surface – is a war cry to a generation of intellectuals.” – The Washington Post

    “It gets a little[…] brilliant[…] towards the end.” – The New York Times