The Moral of the Story
Jul. 22nd, 2011 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolOnce upon a time there were two savants and a simpleton. They all lived together in a tiny garret in Paris.
Henri was a technical genius. He could build any sort of machine, diagnose any disorder and solve all sorts of problems. He was a recognized expert in all of the sciences, and he was frequently asked to lecture at the best universities. Small wonder it was that Henri considered himself to be the smartest man alive. Yet, for all his gifts, Henri was poor and was forced to live in the crowded flat with the other two.
Guy was also a genius, but where Henri's gifts ran to the numerical and practical, Guy's were more philosophical. His powers of perception were unmatched, and his sense of aesthetics was the envy of artists and architects the world over. He could hold forth for hours on matters related to literary criticism, all while cooking a gourmet seven-course meal, beating four opponents at blindfolded chess, and painting a seascape that put the great masters to shame. Guy, quite understandably, believed himself to be the most intelligent person in the world, not Henri. But for some reason, Guy had no better fortune than Henri in matters financial, and he too was destitute.
Laurent made no claims to be a genius. He was really quite a simple fellow. When he worked, which was infrequently, he carried bricks in a wheelbarrow for his meager pay. The rest of the time, Laurent liked to sit by the banks of the River Seine and watch the world go by. The talk of intelligent and educated men was not for him; he preferred to sit, and not think, and smile, because despite his want of intellectual fortitude, Laurent was a happy man. He did not care that his poverty forced him to live in the undersized garret along with the two geniuses.
Henri and Guy did not get along with each other, and neither of them cared for Laurent. They were constantly feuding and arguing, except for Laurent who was too simple and too happy.
"How you can possibly think of yourself as a sensible man is beyond me, Guy," sneered Henri. "You have absolutely no head for numbers, and I suspect even knob-head over here could fix a flat tire before you could." Guy puffed up at this, of course, although simple Laurent merely smiled and nodded.
"It takes some nerve for a nincompoop such as you to dare challenge my intelligence," snorted Guy. "I doubt you'd know Manet from Monet, and I believe even cheese-for-brains Laurent has more insights into the human condition than do you!" Henri bridled, but poor dim Laurent only grinned. "I'd like some cheese to eat!" he declared.
Henri and Guy both viewed their moronic roommate with disgust. "Here, now," said Henri. "Surely we can agree that Laurent is the dimmest. Look at him, sitting there and drooling to himself."
"Yes, yes," replied Guy. "Why, even this story's narrator thinks he's moronic."
Henri frowned. "What?" he said.
"Our narrator," repeated Guy, "thinks Laurent is a moron." A light dawned in Guy's eyes.
"Aha!" he said triumphantly. "You didn't realize we're in a story! Yes, well, it requires a man of considerable wit and perspicacity to pierce the fourth wall, don't you know. How sad it is that these qualities do not describe you!"
"Of course I knew we were in a story!" retorted Henri hotly. "And it's perfectly obvious, once one knows what to look for." He peered suspiciously at the narrator of the story. "He looks like some sort of libertine."
"Oh, I know the sort," said Guy breezily. "You have only to look at the language of the story thus far. He's a moralist, preaching to his audience about this thing or that. We are barely cartoons of characters; we exist solely to present some wrong-headed view of the world so that he can hit us over the head with the right one. See there, how we've been set up as unsympathetic, while our oaf of a roommate is the sweet lovable one? Of course you just know how this is going to turn out. It's all so predictable!"
The narrator took exception to Guy's opinions in this matter. Henri waggled a warning finger.
"Quiet, you!" he said. "You don't know anything; you're just a narrator!"
The narrator, being also the author, begged to differ. Henri arched an eyebrow.
"So!" he said. "You want so desperately to be a character in your own story, do you? Well, I think that can be arranged!" Henri began digging through his old sea-chest and pulled out bits and pieces of old machinery that he had salvaged from the rubbish heaps around town – the innards of a wireless; most of a mechanical counting machine…
"There, did you see that?" hooted Guy. "The impossibly anachronistic language eloquently says: Hello, world; I am a poseur!" He pointed at the narrator. "Sir, you are a hack!" he accused.
Henri, who was quickly wiring bits together, nodded his head in agreement. "But never you worry about that, Guy," he said soothingly. "The hack is about to get a taste of his own medicine."
The narrator found himself wondering what would happen next.
"Ah, well; I'll just let you know right now," said Henri wickedly. He pulled a lever on his hastily assembled contraption, and a typewriter carriage sprang back. Henri began to type:
"The narrator," Henri said, orating as he pecked at the keys, "lived below the two immensely clever savants, and also the idiot. One day he climbed the stairs to the garret and knocked at the door."
To the narrator's surprise, there came a rapping at the door. "I hope it's Santa Claus!" exclaimed Laurent, and he jumped up to open the door. "Oh, hello!" he said to the narrator. "My name is Laurent! What's your name?"
The narrator, thoroughly uncomfortable with a situation he had lost control over, introduced himself simply as The Narrator.
"Did you hear the Capital Letters?" sneered Guy. "Oh, you dreadful little hack of a man; being drawn into pea-brained morality play is too good for you."
"Unfortunately," dictated Henri, "The Narrator was the bearer of some bad news for Guy."
"Oh, was he?" asked Guy, glaring archly at Henri.
The Narrator admitted that, indeed, he was, although he wasn't quite certain what that bad news was quite yet.
"The bad news," typed Henri, "was that a contest had been held by all the world's Narrators to determine who was the smartest human being in the entire fictional universe."
Oh yes, that was it, amended the Narrator.
"You're not done yet," said Henri stubbornly. "The Narrator stated that clearly Henri, who had built a machine to bridge the gap between realities in under thirty seconds, was the brightest fellow ever to draw breath."
And, indeed, that was exactly what the Narrator told them, out of necessity.
"Now now; don't go looking to the audience for sympathy," scolded Henri.
Guy hip-checked Henri out of the lone stool and cracked his knuckles. "On the other hand," he typed, "the various Narrators were also forced to concede that it was Guy who perceived the existence of the fourth wall in the first place, and they amended their previous statement to present certain caveats…"
The Narrator averred that, indeed, the story had taken that particular twist.
Henri tried to pull Guy out of the stool but only fell down, his elbow landing on the keyboard.
"ZXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX," said Laurent, smiling beatifically.
As Guy and Henri began to struggle for control over Henri's diabolical machine, the Narrator quietly crept around behind the table and found the power cord. He unplugged it, and suddenly felt a tremendous sense of relief. The story was his again to craft as he pleased, without fear of being coerced by hostile genius characters.
Guy and Henri noticed what was going on and immediately stopped wrestling. "What do you really think you've accomplished?" snarled Guy.
"That's right!" exclaimed Henri. "I can whip up another one of those machines any time I like, you know!"
"I think you had better draw this particular story to a close," said Guy dangerously.
And so the two savants remained in their garret with their idiot housemate. They are still bickering today, or so I am told.
"Hack!" barked Guy.
And as for Laurent, while he never grew rich or smart, he remained happy to the end of his days. And there's a moral in that, dear reader. The moral is…
"Do you want to know," grinned Henri, "what *I* think the moral is?"
The narrator found, in fact, that he did not.
FINIS
Henri was a technical genius. He could build any sort of machine, diagnose any disorder and solve all sorts of problems. He was a recognized expert in all of the sciences, and he was frequently asked to lecture at the best universities. Small wonder it was that Henri considered himself to be the smartest man alive. Yet, for all his gifts, Henri was poor and was forced to live in the crowded flat with the other two.
Guy was also a genius, but where Henri's gifts ran to the numerical and practical, Guy's were more philosophical. His powers of perception were unmatched, and his sense of aesthetics was the envy of artists and architects the world over. He could hold forth for hours on matters related to literary criticism, all while cooking a gourmet seven-course meal, beating four opponents at blindfolded chess, and painting a seascape that put the great masters to shame. Guy, quite understandably, believed himself to be the most intelligent person in the world, not Henri. But for some reason, Guy had no better fortune than Henri in matters financial, and he too was destitute.
Laurent made no claims to be a genius. He was really quite a simple fellow. When he worked, which was infrequently, he carried bricks in a wheelbarrow for his meager pay. The rest of the time, Laurent liked to sit by the banks of the River Seine and watch the world go by. The talk of intelligent and educated men was not for him; he preferred to sit, and not think, and smile, because despite his want of intellectual fortitude, Laurent was a happy man. He did not care that his poverty forced him to live in the undersized garret along with the two geniuses.
Henri and Guy did not get along with each other, and neither of them cared for Laurent. They were constantly feuding and arguing, except for Laurent who was too simple and too happy.
"How you can possibly think of yourself as a sensible man is beyond me, Guy," sneered Henri. "You have absolutely no head for numbers, and I suspect even knob-head over here could fix a flat tire before you could." Guy puffed up at this, of course, although simple Laurent merely smiled and nodded.
"It takes some nerve for a nincompoop such as you to dare challenge my intelligence," snorted Guy. "I doubt you'd know Manet from Monet, and I believe even cheese-for-brains Laurent has more insights into the human condition than do you!" Henri bridled, but poor dim Laurent only grinned. "I'd like some cheese to eat!" he declared.
Henri and Guy both viewed their moronic roommate with disgust. "Here, now," said Henri. "Surely we can agree that Laurent is the dimmest. Look at him, sitting there and drooling to himself."
"Yes, yes," replied Guy. "Why, even this story's narrator thinks he's moronic."
Henri frowned. "What?" he said.
"Our narrator," repeated Guy, "thinks Laurent is a moron." A light dawned in Guy's eyes.
"Aha!" he said triumphantly. "You didn't realize we're in a story! Yes, well, it requires a man of considerable wit and perspicacity to pierce the fourth wall, don't you know. How sad it is that these qualities do not describe you!"
"Of course I knew we were in a story!" retorted Henri hotly. "And it's perfectly obvious, once one knows what to look for." He peered suspiciously at the narrator of the story. "He looks like some sort of libertine."
"Oh, I know the sort," said Guy breezily. "You have only to look at the language of the story thus far. He's a moralist, preaching to his audience about this thing or that. We are barely cartoons of characters; we exist solely to present some wrong-headed view of the world so that he can hit us over the head with the right one. See there, how we've been set up as unsympathetic, while our oaf of a roommate is the sweet lovable one? Of course you just know how this is going to turn out. It's all so predictable!"
The narrator took exception to Guy's opinions in this matter. Henri waggled a warning finger.
"Quiet, you!" he said. "You don't know anything; you're just a narrator!"
The narrator, being also the author, begged to differ. Henri arched an eyebrow.
"So!" he said. "You want so desperately to be a character in your own story, do you? Well, I think that can be arranged!" Henri began digging through his old sea-chest and pulled out bits and pieces of old machinery that he had salvaged from the rubbish heaps around town – the innards of a wireless; most of a mechanical counting machine…
"There, did you see that?" hooted Guy. "The impossibly anachronistic language eloquently says: Hello, world; I am a poseur!" He pointed at the narrator. "Sir, you are a hack!" he accused.
Henri, who was quickly wiring bits together, nodded his head in agreement. "But never you worry about that, Guy," he said soothingly. "The hack is about to get a taste of his own medicine."
The narrator found himself wondering what would happen next.
"Ah, well; I'll just let you know right now," said Henri wickedly. He pulled a lever on his hastily assembled contraption, and a typewriter carriage sprang back. Henri began to type:
"The narrator," Henri said, orating as he pecked at the keys, "lived below the two immensely clever savants, and also the idiot. One day he climbed the stairs to the garret and knocked at the door."
To the narrator's surprise, there came a rapping at the door. "I hope it's Santa Claus!" exclaimed Laurent, and he jumped up to open the door. "Oh, hello!" he said to the narrator. "My name is Laurent! What's your name?"
The narrator, thoroughly uncomfortable with a situation he had lost control over, introduced himself simply as The Narrator.
"Did you hear the Capital Letters?" sneered Guy. "Oh, you dreadful little hack of a man; being drawn into pea-brained morality play is too good for you."
"Unfortunately," dictated Henri, "The Narrator was the bearer of some bad news for Guy."
"Oh, was he?" asked Guy, glaring archly at Henri.
The Narrator admitted that, indeed, he was, although he wasn't quite certain what that bad news was quite yet.
"The bad news," typed Henri, "was that a contest had been held by all the world's Narrators to determine who was the smartest human being in the entire fictional universe."
Oh yes, that was it, amended the Narrator.
"You're not done yet," said Henri stubbornly. "The Narrator stated that clearly Henri, who had built a machine to bridge the gap between realities in under thirty seconds, was the brightest fellow ever to draw breath."
And, indeed, that was exactly what the Narrator told them, out of necessity.
"Now now; don't go looking to the audience for sympathy," scolded Henri.
Guy hip-checked Henri out of the lone stool and cracked his knuckles. "On the other hand," he typed, "the various Narrators were also forced to concede that it was Guy who perceived the existence of the fourth wall in the first place, and they amended their previous statement to present certain caveats…"
The Narrator averred that, indeed, the story had taken that particular twist.
Henri tried to pull Guy out of the stool but only fell down, his elbow landing on the keyboard.
"ZXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX," said Laurent, smiling beatifically.
As Guy and Henri began to struggle for control over Henri's diabolical machine, the Narrator quietly crept around behind the table and found the power cord. He unplugged it, and suddenly felt a tremendous sense of relief. The story was his again to craft as he pleased, without fear of being coerced by hostile genius characters.
Guy and Henri noticed what was going on and immediately stopped wrestling. "What do you really think you've accomplished?" snarled Guy.
"That's right!" exclaimed Henri. "I can whip up another one of those machines any time I like, you know!"
"I think you had better draw this particular story to a close," said Guy dangerously.
And so the two savants remained in their garret with their idiot housemate. They are still bickering today, or so I am told.
"Hack!" barked Guy.
And as for Laurent, while he never grew rich or smart, he remained happy to the end of his days. And there's a moral in that, dear reader. The moral is…
"Do you want to know," grinned Henri, "what *I* think the moral is?"
The narrator found, in fact, that he did not.
FINIS
