A LITTLE POTENTIAL LITERATURE

May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. 

November in Weissenfels is a cold, brooding month. The days are short and stormy.

One eggman, 

two eggmen, 

fat walrus, 

coo coo cachoo.

In this corner...

in this corner...

AMANAP LANAC A NALP A NAM A

(Try to read it backwards and/or change the spaces)

Wallenstein's Monster

Young Wallenstein

Wallenstein's Bride

A word which rhymes with duck and begins with an F?

Firetruck.

Foretruck.

The drain of brains takes place mainly in Spain.

BRAINSTORM EXERCISE

ere

quaff

rout (or, put to rout)

cahoots

writhe (like a trampled snake)

peruse

fens

partisan

roquelaure

asunder

dithyramb

enthrall

raconteur (raconteuse)

outré

maelstrom

trifle

platitude

ruse (ruse de guerre)

in sooth

ennui

usurp

pique

dirge

fête

accoutrements

Ere I finish this style exercise, you readers will find out that I am a person of those who quaff life in long draughts, putting to rout all those thoughts unpleasant that are in cahoots with my darkest subconscious, where they writhe like trampled snakes. Hence, I have sought to peruse more than one interesting literary oeuvre, steering clear of the swampy fens of the mainstream, partisan of high culture and forgotten poetry as I am. Readers may picture me, thus, in a tricorn and roquelaure, torn asunder from the 'verse which is my home and birthplace, now chanting a dithyramb to enthrall potential fellow readers, a raconteuse of unpredictable events, which may now seem pedestrian made exceedingly outré, now a maelstrom that absorbs every single lapalissade and platitude in existence, now rather a trifle, and now a ruse, in sooth, crafted with such skill that you, dear readers, have surely fallen for it. Such is the extent of my war on ennui, which relentlessly attempts to usurp my consciousness, and thus, this is one of the events that pique me the most, even more than mezzo women singing dirges. Therefore, I invite you to a fête of composing style exercises, taking for guidelines all the accoutrements of littérature potentielle.

Ere the request for that long-expected reinstatement came, Albrecht von Wallenstein had foreseen that there was no other outcome. The Elector of Saxony could quaff his tankards of dark ale in peace once more, ever since the Catholic League had been put to rout. Slightly against their will, both the Northern Electors were now in cahoots with the King of Sweden. In more recent times, half a year later, a racked Count of Tilly had writhed feverishly on his bed for two weeks, and now he was still. The upstart was perusing those so expected tidings, relishing them as if he were sinking into some miry fens, thinking of the fact that Pappenheim and all his other former partisans would return to his side after his rival's demise. Checking his scarlet roquelaure for imperfections of any kind, quietly chanting an ironic dithyramb to himself (like any raconteur of eerie events), still dressed in the usual outré fashion which made anyone recognize the Duke of Friedland from vast distances, Wallenstein was completely absorbed as if by a maelstrom. The Kaiser's request was by no means a trifle, and Albrecht's own convoluted ruse to bring Jean t'Serclaes to the ground had, in sooth, succeeded to such a degree that its own author had not even expected. The ages of ennui had finally come to an expected end, for the seventy-something Walloon who had usurped Wallenstein's position had left the stage in one of the most painful ways... which would never pique the Duke of Friedland. "Let them sing their Dies irae and De profundis and their other tiresome Catholic dirges!" This was a day for the shire of Friedland, the foremost reach in the Kingdom of Bohemia, to revel at least with a fête, before the host that was to be under his command would lead Albrecht to discard his research and charts and, once more, get accustomed to all the cold and hard, lethal accoutrements of warfare.