[Issue #5, Fall 2000]
Henry James Discovers Hypertext
By Bob Wake
Strommers arrived at the dining hall, ill of perception , yet
recalcitrant in regards to donning his spectacles, which having fallen 
from his face when he alighted from the coach, were now snugly shattered
in his coat pocket. Would he even recognize Miss Gostobble  if
she were somehow early for their appointment? He had walked the gardens
of the villa with Miss Gostobble and the twins, Chunny and Boinker ,
in the fading crimson skyward gash  that defined the sunset of
the previous evening. But now, in this moment, her face was a darkening
memory, a gnarled rebus .
. "ill of perception." Shadowed, as it were, by a reversal.
The surroundings refract a moral glimmer -- illaeso lumine solum
-- that he rebuffs.
. "fallen." An Edenic collapse, a gravitas, a downness.
. "Gostobble." Why must I always sabotage my novels
with these awkward, silly-sounding names? Gostobble is even worse than Strommers.
. "Chunny and Boinker." Okay, but see I actually once
knew a Chunny and Boinker. True, they were Labradors, but I daresay no one
-- least of all Chunny and Boinker -- thought the names silly.
. "crimson skyward gash." This would be a sexual metaphor
if I had the faintest notion what sex requires of two human beings, or even
one human being.
. "gnarled rebus." I don't remember writing this. Isn't
a rebus some kind of monkey? Gnarled means all twisty like.
Bob Wake is editor of Cambridge Book Review and author of Caffeine
& Other Stories.
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