The first French Onion Soup

Serving a tale

It was strange, how the encyclopedia entry for this individual, while seemingly exhaustive for such a minor figure, and appearing to begin at his birth, appearing to end in the chord rung by his demise, within that space of acts & potencies, nevertheless completely missed the event which, one would think, was more memorable than any other. The entry passed, glided over, his brief middle-life imprisonment for a space of two years, by the Swede counts, mentioned as an interruption in the general arc of his rise, which is was, but passed over, forgot, blotted over, the incidents of that imprisonment, especially its crowning contestation, when the Swede counts gave him the choice of (a) death or (b) eating his most offensive publication from the Kingdom of Albrecht, a subtle satire that took on the cause of the Swedes and disposed of it in a symbolic, mythic account which effectively mounted to the Swede counts’ cheeks great red brands of fury and despite, since this kingdom was advanced in its literary thought, and they could not help but read to the end of such an artful production, and had little trouble understanding the myriad machine of insult, as only the daedal neo-Euclidean set understand the math which, written out, causes the page and mathematician to explode in a flux of green flame ― there were similar dynamos trapping the abandoned workshops of Mssrs. Fludd & Dee, and some suggested also that the language provided by the ungentlemanly E. K. to the latter mssr., was not but a form of this.

Pike-axes and pike-staves crowding close in a growing intensity of polish brought him to his decision, and he did not find it difficult to choose life or the attempt thereof through a difficult consumption of a very thickly bound novel in four volumes with a fifth uncomplete at that time. He considered that, at the very least, he was the one who had brought forth the publication, so it ought also be in his power to take this specific binding of the publication he’d brought forth, out of the world, into the stomach. And this would have some symbolic effect on the Swede counts, whom he could not trust them as far as he could vomit his projections of Spume and Spurn upon them, and whom thus he knew not whether would indeed give him his life, after he consumed his book, but such questions ― the analysis flashed forth in his unusual rapidity more rapid under the tension of his position― a predecessor to the artist mit Repräsentationsfunktion und Aufgaben bei Hofe that would be emblematised later by Herr Goethe, he was important to the Court of Albrecht — he could swim with the Sharks, play patience with the minotaur, dance with the orbs that glowed above the marshes of Elbe, or be a Spy — he realized quickly that this question, whether one shall live, whether one shall die, whether he shall marry, whether he shall never marry, whether one should either do it, or not do it — was not useful to consider. His tensile fervor was already sufficient. In the case of this moment, therefore, he would turn instead to the other part of who he was, his love of Artistry. To eat his book, now this was solidly symmetrical, both gothic and roughhewn and Euclidean and classical. The rough-hewn blocks that surrounded him, the shining pikes that crowded him, the dried blood on the blades, the soot in his hair and in the spaces of his toes, gothic. Also he had studied anatomy sufficiently to form a consideration of the digestive system as also a gothic mannerist production, a hungryrian fort of combing corridor. But his book was a classical, orderly, entire piece: whether it could receive one single page additional to its balance sheet, whether it ought lose or gain one word, may be argued, particularly with ages having passed, but to him, it was as perfect as could be made, and he had made it in accordance with a conception of antique values distributed across a development of narrative which he considered to be the Bequest from the Forefeathers of Record. It was a modern conception mind you. It was also a highly idiosyncratic conception as such. But the volumes glowed for him, the pink canvas bindings of each glowed in the spears of heaven that plunged into his cell through the grille of the barred window, bringing the redolence of cherry flowers from the Swedesbay. Only the slight difference in their thickness distinguished at a glance between the first, second, & third volumes. Now also he appreciated, loved, delighted in artistic process. He enjoyed the solving of problems new and foundational, minute and critical. And his problem was how to consume his book. He decided that the best way to do this would be to ask for several bowls of Bread-sauce with additional access to the Swede Onion, the Garlic Bulb, and Wines, which the Swede counts did gamely provide in the former two cases. Instead of wine he was given rotgut, pure rubbish, but this he had predicted, and this he had planned. Of his book he made a sauce, cooking down the paper until it became of the consistency of a melted Dutch cheese, and this was the only way it could have been done, and the only way he could have lived on. I cannot think of another fashion in which it could have been effected. It was something that would be thought miraculous in myriad time, an achievement of genius in certain other moments, to live on after this event, which was to return to the encyclopedic lacuna, missing from this account at least, perhaps others. But that he lived, this is a proposition which, according to the entry in the encyclopedia, fulfilled itself. (So the result should be clear.) It accords to some design, some etiquette, which we cannot see, how this leaf dropped out of his laurelled life, wherein after two year he was released, perhaps bargained for, and rejoining the service of Albrecht, was distracted too much from what should have been proper use for his life, the production of the fifth volume against the Swede, but won himself a title, and did never marry, but may have produced bastards, and did influence the new workshops in Prague, and eventually disappears into Prague and the record, dying in an unknown year, probably a year that ended with or began with the number five, five for a factotum’s facility, five for frangible records, five for the fifth volume that may exist in someone’s attic I suppose, since there are hours that it could have been.

The inkstone drying, quill spun on the intablature’s clean surface can dowse.