Monday, February 1, 2010

An artistic story

"I promise on my honour"
He never answered questions about others, and always changed the subject when anyone questioned him about himself.
"I don't know his name: all I do know is that he's the Cardinal's agent, his private spy".
At this moment the four police appeared at the door of the sitting room.
"Very well, I believe you: you look to me like a man I can trust".
The idea that it might be Madame Bonacieux had already flashed across the young man's mind when he saw her producing the handkerchief from her pocket.
He spoke with a foreign accent and d'Artagnan at once realized that he had been mistaken in at least one half of his suppositions.
Anne of Austria now left the room, went into her apartments and returned almost immediately carrying a little rosewood box with her initials engraved in gold on it.
Then he opened his eyes and looked apathetically round the room.
"What do you suggest as the next move, Sir?"
"He'll have his knife into me from now on", thought de Tréville as he left the palace.
"These perpetual quarrels and this never-ending work's sapping my strength".
"And now let's talk," she said, "I've got something very important to say to you".
D'Artagnan's pride and joy knew no bounds.
"But I can't leave Paris just now without knowing...".
Planchet inquired about them and was told that they belonged to two gentlemen who had spent the night at the inn and were at that moment settling their account in the host's private room.

The fervent and loyal blog readers are now requested to land back on earth.
Because what kind of story have they been reading just now?
A puzzling one about obviously French people involved in rather abstract affairs, so it seems.

The truth is that what the fervent and loyal blog readers just have been reading is the 10th sentence of every 10th page as of page 100 from the book "The three musketeers" by Alexandre Dumas.
A perfect way to mystify readers and make them wonder what the story is about.

This is a technique that is used more often.
Take David Bowie.
He has lyrics to his songs no sane person is able to understand.
To make one think Bowie must be a genius who uses words far above the own intellectual level.
But the truth is that Bowie wrote words on pieces of paper.
Next, he threw them in a hat.
Rocked and shaked the hat so that the papers got really mixed.
Then one by one he took out the papers, wrote the words down in that order and voila, he had the lyrics for his song.

In art there is a lot of humbug.
Clothes of the emperor.
But they realized that they could never solve the problem by thought, so Porthos called the innkeeper and asked for dice. (page 500, sentence 10)


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