h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

“I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't.”

-- Dylan Thomas


That's true hey.

Anyway, I've got a broken PC and a faulty Netbook PSU so I'll write away for a new PSU and take the PC into the shop for diagnosis. I hope that will be back in time for the projector-man then I can go away. But I shall not say when I am away in case a burglar wants to burglarise my apartment. So I shall continue to stay in my home until Christ-mass, when I shall stay at home for the festival aestival. Then I shall stay at home after Christmas and stay at home in the New Year. For my birthday I shall be at home; and in midwinter I shall sit in the warmth of home.

Dylan Thomas is probably my favourite writer of English.

Ted Hughes is also a phenomenal writer.

Nearly time to wend a hither way, for fags.

I must write to the PSU manufacturers.

But one must never give up hope. Anchor for the soul, don't you know. It talks about the anchor but it doesn't mention the rope. My rope has shrunk so much that the anchor, stuck fast in the soil of the sea, has pulled me down all the way to the bottom of the ocean. And I walk about on the bottom of ocean wondering why there's no-one else. As if in some epic punishment echoing down the generations for a great sin said by my grandfather, or my great-grandfather, or by one of my great-great-uncles. Or by my grandmother, who is said to have been a witch, like my mother, Dieu la sauve. Or by my great-grandmother. One of my great-grandmothers was in service to Lord Harris, who did recklessly seduce, and beget; and I have the blood of England's rulers in my veins. There is a Lord Harris living and well today; I have met the man, although we were not introduced. Had we been, I should have told him, We are related, you and I, by an informal intricacy of the bed.

I am pleased to announce that I am childless, and that no poor blasted soul carries the curse with which I am accursed. I should never want a child unless I were completely cleansed of the wyrm that flies on the night and maketh mad, and sad, and bad. I have heard that the Lord knows about the terrible discomfort in my body, and the dull heaviness in my ear, and the great Shape that exists in the right side of me. In the presence of saints I have seen this dreadful thing as it slumps complacently against my right side. Oh, how I hope that Someone will send an strong Angel to pluck it out and cast it thither hence, where it belongeth. I did hear a beloved saying about the Eustachian and the Fallopian tubes, and she did say, I'm talking about your future. For I am in gross discomfort even now. I wish I could take a sharp scimitar and slice my side until it bleeds and waters, and the ill bleed out with the water and the blood, a perverted sarcasm and abortion of sin, out, out I say, take it OUT throw it out, why does God not sent a saint or an angel or a holy one to throw this sickness OUT of my body and soul? for I would cut the sickness out of my body with an holy Knife from out of the mouth of the holy One. But he knows better; how strange, that it must be so, it is better I suffer now, than in the Age to Come. For suffering now has an end on it, and that end is Death; but suffering in the Age to Come hath no end, which is the second death, a death earnestly to be forbidden from, so beseech thou God thereunto with earnest beseechings and orisons. For God has ordained that it must be so; and so it is, and so I suffering walk about on the ocean floor, wondering why there is none other. But my rope holds me to the anchor of my soul, so I am restrain'd, and can only walk a few feet before I am pulled back with a yank to topple me, and I fall face down onto the ocean floor, and strange plants and creatures observe me wryly, and the Hell inside my side yelps and squirms because of the water pressing down on my body and forcing the wyrm into my ear causing gross discomfitures. Fear the one who makes the fires burn and your wyrm to never die, oh! God, save me from the wyrm, kill it, send an Angel with a sharp sword and pluck out this Hell from inside my side, please, for your Son's sake, amen. Slice my side and ferret out this wicked snake, pull it out, for I feel it snarling in my ear and crouching in my side, speaking profanities and blaming to the confusion of my mind. Now I feel its tentacle enwrap the bulb of my eye. Oh, this is a punishment for sin. Forgive me, forgive my great-grandmother, and my grandmother, and my mother, remove this curse in this life, holy Father. For I wander on the ocean floor alone, wondering why there is none other. And I speak aloud, and say, Why? And the voice answers, and says, She's a witch.

O Blood of Jesus, shed out of the side of the Son, spill into my flesh and mingle with my bad blood, and save me from the Hell that would devour my life and mind; and pluck out this dreadful Wyrm and cast it into the fires that never die; and let me see the smoke arise from its burning, and be satisfied with my seeing, and be whole.

For I suffering walk around on the ocean floor, and can only walk a few feet before a yank pulleth me to my hope, the anchor of my soul; and I fall with a slow falling face down onto the ocean floor, where I lie, with the waters pressing down upon my body, and strange plants and creatures observe me wryly, because there is a Hell inside my side, that enwraps the bulb of my eye and fills my middle ear with dull heavyness; and I cry aloud, and ask, Why? how long? And the voice whispers yearning from the streets, I don't know. For I would take a two-edged Knife coming out of the mouth of the holy One, and slice my side until the letting of the blood and water, and would squeeze the ill out with the blood and water, until comfort come; but it never comes, to the mocking of my soul and mind and the unceasing mocking of my body, which does wander alone on the ocean floor, wondering why there is none other. Stretch out thy Hand, O Lord, and prise my side until it open and the Ill fall out on to the ocean floor, let it sink down into the fires of the Earth and be burned in the lake of fire, which Thou hast prepared unto the Deuil and his angels. Cast out this Wyrm-Thing out of my side, out of the hole in my side where the Roman stretched his spear, to the letting out of the blood and water. Let it fall onto the ocean floor and soak into the earth without a City wall, where my dear Lord was crucified, and died to save us withal, on a green hill, far away. Forgive me by thy Word, Father, and cleanse me, and remove with a sharp two-bladed Knife coming from out of the mouth of the Holy One, this evil Wyrm that festers inside my side, and speaketh profane things into my mind, and enwraps the bulb of my eye, and filleth with dullness the curl of my middle ear, and blocketh my Eustachian tube, to the stench and the fire. O I would take a knife and slice my side open to the letting out of the blood and water, and to the removing of this wicked Thing, that lies inside my side and curleth insolently against the rib I had thou wouldst take from me, in a deep sleep, with joy in the morning.

B***** all this. I have a terrible discomfiture in my right side, which I cannot remember ever not having, and which causes the most appalling ill, and makes me to wander alone on the ocean floor, wondering why there is none other. Why did she put it there? Why? To blast me, her own child, that I must wander alone on the ocean floor, and wonder why I must wander alone, and why there is none other.

Went out for ciggies. Got drink as well. Stay in the pink with Ciggies and Drink, as the sage old saw saith. I'm shattered now. I must be terribly unfit. God help me if I ever marry. I should be pretty crap in the sack. I'd have to stop every five minutes for a rest and a ciggie. My brother once said I'd help her out once a week, because I had to. Oh dear.

In other news, there isn't any other news. Nothing's happening. It's all going on elsewhere. I hope they're having fun.

I tell a lie; there were some curious scraping sounds, either from below or from above, a few minutes ago.

What an exciting life I live. To be sure. Hope for the future is a sharp two-edged blade, and you have to be careful or you'll cut yourself, quite badly. In fact you can slice yourself open on it and watch as your guts spill out all over the floor, and the blood rushes out in a gush. You can stab yourself with it in the heart and die a thousand times. You can use it to skewer samoosas. Hope is a useful tool but it has to be handled with extreme caution or you can come a cropper very easily, and where there is a corpse, there the vultures gather.

On the way home I was thinking of that part in Paul where he says "always carrying about the dying of Jesus" and I thought of translating it "always carring about Jesus' rotting corpse" and imagining somebody objecting and my having to explain that yes, I do know what nekrosis means and yes, I do know it doesn't mean rotting corpse. In fact rotting corpse isn't what is meant at all. It would be quite wrong to translate nekrosis as rotting corpse. But nekros does mean corpse I think. Yes it does. Perhaps not "quite wrong", perhaps just a bit poetic.

Ah, but no, it can't translate like that, because the Psalmist says my Son will not see decay. So it means dying; but it means more than dying, because you see the ordinary word for death is thanatos, and nekros definitely means corpse. But Paul is referring not to the dead Jesus, but to the dying Jesus; he's referring to the processes of dying. (This is why Dr Bain [quem vide] thinks the Biblical faith is a death-cult. It is quite wrong to characterise the Resurrection faith as a death-cult, but one can easily see where the mistake might arise.) So how shall we translate the phrase? Always schlepping the ... no, I can't think of anything. Gosh that's unlike me. The heaving throes of Jesus. The rattling struggles of Jesus. The rattling throes of Jesus might seem to sound good. Yes, I think the rattling throes will do nicely for ten nekrwsin tou Iesou en twi swmati periferontes - always dragging around Jesus' rattle-throes, to expand a bit on periferontes. (Drag is helkw but anyway.)

We missed out en twi swmati and failed to capture the force of pantote, which is vivider than aei (always), so: bodily schlepping round Jesus' rattle-throes the whole time. This, I think, is a decent translation of pantote ten nekrwsin tou Iesou en twi swmati periferontes. The only slight quibble is with 'dragging' but I think Paul might have liked the vividness.

Got a nice email from Anton so I've sent him the URL of my Theme and Variations for Piano, which I hope he enjoys as much as I enjoyed his The Last Dance of Harry Foot.

hai gynaikes boulontai hegeisthai pantote

Someone's being awfully nice to me o'er the ether. She... oops what a giveaway. She says they want power, or was it control. I think it was control. All kinds of magic. Oh dear,

Now I've got someone else giving me a commentary on what's going on. And what has been going on except I haven't been aware of it. I appear to missed out on a very great deal.

Gosh. Elle en veut plus - is that right? I've forgotten such a lot. But I expect it will all come back in Paris, and they speak English there anyway. Bien qu'elle fasse comme desinteressee, je suis a elle, car elle est belle, et pleine de grace et de l'hauteur diabolique qui nous enivre de desir et des puissances naturelles; elle chante parce qu'elle est amoureuse de moi, quoique je ne le merite point; je lui ai donne tout ce qui je suis, tout ce que je possede, tout ce que je deviendrai. Tout pour elle, absoluement, surement, abandonne sans aucune doute ni aucune question. Elle est la Maitresse, la Divinite mondiale, la Reine de mon ame. Sa peau est ma terre et ses yeux sont mes cieux. M'engoufler dans sa chevelure est mon seul desir. J'appartiens a elle seulement sur la terre. Bien que toutes les plus majestueuses reines des pays Orientals avec tous leurs chaines enchantes de l'esclavement des plaisirs me desirassent, j'appartiendrai a elle uniquement. Meme si elle m'oubliat de ce moment jusqu'au fin du monde, je resterai a son cote, son serviteur, son eleve, son frere du meme peau.

There are some schoolboy howlers in that lot but it's been quite an afternoon. Goodness. Je suis fini. La journee finale de ma vie est finalement arrivee avec son frere le commencement de l'eternite. OK, that's enough French. dynesomai logizesthai tous tes filias logous egw autei tei agapetei en tautei tei fwnei meta to binein, kalliston estai.

Oh btw post #12 dedicated to a certain young lady whose name I am not yet at liberty publicly to reveal.

So I went to the shop and there were 3 blondes. Obv blondes come out half an hour before sunset. You know what woofti, these were 3 of the theoretically most desirable White women in the world. Rich, white, blonde, beautiful Capetonians. You really are a prize cabbage, just ignoring them like that. Why didn't you at least say hello? Granted, one of them said you were mad. She wouldn't have wanted to say hello. But really woofti, you get out of life what you put into it, no more, no less. And at the moment, and really for the whole of your life, you've made precisely zero effort haven't you. Just no effort at all. I tell you something for nothing my man, when you're very old and you're on your deathbed and trying to light a ciggie and you can't quite get the lighter working and the nurse isn't there to help, you're going to regret your wasted life. You are going to be one sad old bastard, woofti. Very very sad and pathetic and lonely and a very sad old man.

But of course, you've got Jesus to look forward to after you pop off.

And you've done a lot of work for him.

So I dunno. Bit odd really. By human standards you're a complete waste of space. But by God's measure, you - well let's wait and see what he says.

You've got a sign saying "ONGEMAGTIGDE TOEGANG VERBODE" where your heart should be, and your guts are full of worms. No kids. No women. Nothing.

But you've got God.

What's that all about then.