Edgar Allan Poe's short story 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue', hailed as the prototype of the detective story genre, tells of murders of a mother and daughter in one ghastly evening. The tenants and neighbours testify that they heard howlings and wailings of a beastly male voice as they were rushing to the fateful flat to offer help. The German says he is sure of what he has heard: it was French; the Spanish says it was English; the Turk says it was Italian; the French says it was Chinese. Naturally the conclusion is none of the above: it wasn't human language at all. Through an extraordinary feat of ingenuity our hero in the story finds out at the end that the howlings and wailings were those of a chimp. There weren't any murders but a chimp went loose and slashed the two poor ladies's throat. A twist of horror; a twist of irony; a twist of Poe's wit.
Our thread doesn't snap here in the maze but leads us to 1975, Germany. Our poor German heroine, Anneliese Michel, who claimed to be possessed by Judas, Lucifer, Adolf Hitler, and numerous other luminaries from the infernal party. Our very noble and learned priests of impeccable curriculum vitae and clinically acclaimed intelligence and analytical faculty deemed this poor girl genuinely possessed. She was said to be growling and moaning and yelping in German, Latin, and Chinese. In the dark of the maze underground where I usually relish in a very slim form of Satanic incarnation, which the heathen calls a cigarette, I hide from the world above ground of eternal bliss and holy righteousness. While I am savouring every puff of eternal damnation I invariably meet a friend from the feline clan, crouching at a safe distance, staring at me with its gleaming amber eyes with unfarthomable dark slits for iris, waving at me with its charming tail, obviously coveting the Satanic incarnation between my fingers. She speaks to me in Dutch from time to time and when I feel like it I answer in Latin on a gloomy day and Arabic at a chilly night. Communication has proved to be even more effective than in class when I give sermons on TS Eliot, in kindergarten English, to a joyous crowd of dumbfounded kids who aren't worth the dirt on my sole. But well, the world is still an enchanted forest in which fairies like Kylie Minoque dwell. Overnight these adorable kids are transformed from highschool brats to university students, with a swing of their parents' wands, which are usually kept in their majestically deep pockets. As far as generous parents are concerned, our heroine, Anneliese Michel, died after a year of exorcism. The parents and priests were convicted of negligent homicide. A twist of horror; a twist of irony; a twist of Poe's wit.
Religious beliefs are signs of schizophrenia... but wait, my beloved audience of the class of number RCS 0096 (compulsory course), keep your baseball bats and cleavers and pipes and crucifixes and other assault weapons down for a while... let me explain before you burn me on a stake. I assure you I won't hesitate to dive straight into hell after my blasphemous confession:
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
Psychiatrists concluded in a lenthy psyhological report that Father Alt and Father Renz, the exorcists of Anneliese Michel, were extraordinarily intelligent, had fully functional analytical faculity, were extremely well read and well informed and well educated, but schizophrenic, when a certain circumstrance arose. Their brains, according to laboratory tests, were found to be different from normal: their analytical faculty and steadfast religious faith were so distinctly divided that they had absolutely nothing to do with each other. the riff between the two isn't obvious in a common vulgar mind, but in theirs, being so well educated and so intense in their religious faith, the riff is unbridgable, which amounts to schizophrenia.
TS Eliot was right. Marlon Brando was right (only when he was Mr Kurtz). We are the hollow men. Between the desire/ and the spasm/ falls the shadow/ between the existence/ and the essence/ falls the shadow. Mr. Eliot, your suffering is genuine, and profound. Mr. Kierkegaard, How the fuck am I supposed to take the fucking 'leap' of the fucking 'faith' without being fucking schizophrenic?
Thread snapped. Lost in the maze. My feline friend stops speaking Latin now but resumes her charming purr. A twist of horror; a twist of irony; a twist of Poe's wit. Time to go back above ground, a world of eternal bliss and holy righteousness. But yes, put out the cigarette first.
