Mencius Moldbugman shares excerpts from a short story and a poem he submitted to last year’s Passage Prize.
Two sentences into his fiction entry, I became immoderately excited:
Maurice Bloom had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his grey hair, and an aching back and weary arms.
Were I of such character, I would perhaps even have soyjacked. Moldbugman drew directly from the opening of The Wind in the Willows—unquestionably my favorite novel. Here is the original:
The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms.
If the book were not in common domain, this would be illegal plagiarism.
I have an editor’s soul. When I read a book or see a film, I ponder how it could be improved. Modern buildings and clothing make me wonder how such things could be made without ugliness. Even plastic surgery seems not, as to so many of my colleagues, a monstrosity but rather an opportunity for a new and magnificent art—Grecian marbles of the flesh! Everything I see, I desire to refashion and make more beautiful.
I would not change a single word of The Wind in the Willows. It is perfect.
Moldbugman’s adaption is, inevitably, inferior. Only Kenneth Grahame can really be Kenneth Grahame. Compare the adapted:
The gentle breeze and a chorus of joyous birds welcomed him immediately to the sight of his life’s pride and joy standing on the brink of its annual apotheosis.
To the original:
The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout.
This is not to condemn poor Moldbugman. I could not be Kenneth Grahame either. Still, that he chose to draw from this best-loved author speaks highly of him.
Concluding his fiction excerpt, Moldbugman moves onto his poetry selection. And lo the title!
The Crime of the Merchant Yarviner
Eftsoons! Sperg Englishman, unhand me! He has drawn his composition from my favorite poem; Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner. What a fellow this Moldbugman must be.
And, yet, a darker possibility presents itself. What if this fellow is driven by loathing—by a brute, unreasoning hatred to tear down and defile all that is beautiful? What if he has chosen these same sources from a debased, communist desire to urinate upon the roses of literature? What if he should be a cynic, a sneerer, a deboonker?
Much to think about.
Thank you fren for respecting Kenneth Grahame and I am happy you saw the Wind in the Willows tribute. The beginning of the story was meant to be a respectful acknowledgement of the perfect vision of Edwardian England that Grahame created. Please believe me, I am no sneerer or deboonker, but a great lover of these works. Blessings upon you for your good taste.