The birth of I
Sunday, September 28, 2008
'Twas a few centuries before my time that this event took place; the location was page number thirty and three hundred of a codex the name of which is lost to time now and the language used was Ye Olde English or older, thus necessitating the technique of refurbishing the story to a contemporary dialect to present the facts in a lucid manner. The means employed to translate and refurbish the story on this page which remains intact after so many centuries of decay that consumed the rest of the codex is beyond the usefulness of this article, so it shall be available to a party that requests the information but shall not be mentioned further here.
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Page 330, The Balinese Poltroon :
The pieces fit together rather nicely. Miss Eva Day was found to be in the same hotel, a guest in room 33. A rising star on the modelling circuit, Eva left behind a glamourous career to take on a life of crime. What terrible incident could have scarred her so to turn to the dark side? What cruelty of a fellow human could have caused this to happen? What unimaginable, unspeakable horror could-
"Oh, quit being so dramatic. You know I chose this because I like it. I like being a bad girl. Rowr!"
"I'm just doing my job, Miss Day. One has to resort to such theatrics to hold the attention of this deficient audience."
"Well, it's silly. And it looks like you've done the vice versa. There goes another one. Another reader lost."
"Bu-but I thought it would-"
"Well, it didn't. You're fired."
And the following part of the story will have no narrator. This is the first time in literary history a story has lost its narrator midway, mid paragraph. Known for centuries to be a faceless character, immortal through the lifespan of the book, immune to the fevers of the fictional world, invincible to the dangers lurking in the forests of the fictional world, can a narrator be gotten rid off so easily? What fate befalls the characters without the guidance of the omnipresent one? What shall this new genre of story telling be called? What horrifying outcome can-
"Are you still here?"
"Yes"
"Didn't I fire you, like five minutes ago? What are you still babbling on about to the audience?"
"I was telling them-"
"Oh, never mind what you were telling them. Pack ye bags and scoot."
And the inspector found the weapon in the laundry. The butler had done it. Mr. and Mrs. Swingbottom were reunited once again. And they lived happily ever after.
"The hell they did. This story ain't over until I say its over. Now vamoose, you clingy little narrator. Go become a footnote in history."
It feels so much better speaking like this, without having a stranger quote you all the time. I am the protagonist of this story. No longer shall I stand to have someone say my lines for me. I am perfectly capable of delivering my own lines. I don't need someone to reword my words, adding fancy verbs when my own vocabulary is deemed incapable of delivering memorable dialogue. I don't need someone euphemizing my off colour statements. I don't need someone altering my appearance to increase sales of this book. I am happy with the size of bosom, thank you. I don't want to disappear in scenes that don't involve me. This is my story. I speak first, I speak in person. I speak in the first person.
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'I speak in the first person' was the last sentence of this page and we have no means now of divining how the narrative must have progressed in the subsequent pages of the codex. However, while the decay of the codex was an irreplaceable loss to Anglo Saxon literature, we have by means of providence the page which explains, with absolute proof, the creation of a new narrative style. The first person narrative.
Was the author delirious while she was writing page number thirty and three hundred and an unknown number of pages before and after where a character seems to break the fourth wall (a rarely used plot device at that time) and furthermore disrupt narration and assume a personal voice as a first person narrator? Or was she just crazed of mind? Will we ever know? However, it cannot be denied that this lady has made the single greatest contribution to literature since the bard we call Sha-
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My grandfather spent the rest of the days of his life trying to bring recognition to the anonymous author, a lady he did not even know but felt the need to represent, but he did not succeed sadly. The Royal Society thought it laughable, and did indeed laugh at his hypothesis and as a result my grandfather died a penniless man, leaving my father only his research notes, which were passed on to me. I continued his research; you might ask what good it would do to analyze a page that has been studied for so many years already, but as a high ranking government official in an era celebrated for its technological advancements, I have access to some technology that might look like magic to your eyes. To spare the reader from a description of the techniques used in the process, I shall present to you directly pages 300 to 350 of the codex, recreated [and refurbished to the same contemporary dialect of my grandfather's time] by what can be said in a few words to a layman as the analysis and subsequent regeneration of incomplete story threads.
After a read of the recreated pages, which is engrossing, it must be told, I can say with certainty that-
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Page 343, The Balinese Poltroon. [Fragment]
I looked into his eyes and saw his wild soul. He was yearning to be free, but the system had him in fetters. I loved him with all my heart and I wish I-
Watch out Miss Day, for little do you know a vengeful narrator has returned. Peripheral characters will suffer mysterious deaths. Previously articulate characters will begin to stammer. Your leading lady will grow a beard. The faithful dog will develop a liking for cats. The-
"What are you still doing here?"
"I am here for my revenge."
"Ah, what can a lowly narrator like you do?"
"I can give away the end."
"Oh, you wouldn't dare!"
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Page 347, The Balinese Poltroon. [Fragment]
In the battle between the sexes, where we men have historically always fought to the last man and there is always a last man standing, can a young woman upset the status quo? Can she-
"You bet I can!"
The narrator has for centuries always been a man with a deep, booming voice; a voice that the reader trusts, a voice that -
"Oh, put a lid on it. I have had it to my gills with this chauvinist claptrap. The reign of the patriarchal narrator has ended. The glass ceiling has been shattered. The veil has been lifted. The -, well I have run out of metaphors but you get the general idea. Now make yourself scarce in a jiffy, please."
And the narrator left. He was a tool for the male gaze but he knew when the odds were against him. He-
"Yes, we understand what you are. Now go write yourself an obituary for tomorrow's paper. Use all the theatrics you want. I allow it. Seeya!"
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This explains with considerable proof, that I, the word denoting the personal voice narrator i.e, not myself, was birthed in the writings of an anonymous lady whose name we might never know, unless a distant descendant of mine is born in a time with truly magical technologies that might reveal the secret of her name. I shall hope Mankind and Womankind shall both wait for that day. The day when we know who gave birth to I.
posted by foogarky @ 10:56 AM,
,
The Author
foogarky
foogarky is the pseudonym of the fictional construct who battles for supremacy with other constructed personas in the mind of a crazed individual. He describes himself as a man living in a non descript house in Rio De Janiero, Brazil with two dogs and a parakeet.
About This Blog
The Loony Lampoonist serves to parody, spoof and satirize everything that needs to be parodied, spoofed and satirized. Due to the fictional nature of this electronic journal, any anecdotes appearing here ever so often that seem to be personal in nature, would suffer from the effects of conflicting personalities, the creation of fictional events and the inclusion of non existent characters who did not make it to the big league in the author's literary works. Thus, the Loony Lampoonist is also a purgatory for characters and ideas that have missed the limelight.
