Rhinocrisy

We humans have a nearly unparalleled lust for dramatic tension. Without it we are listless and deflated; with it, colors are more vivid, and the flavor of anticipation makes all tastes and smells more appealing. So we find it in all corners, and every squabble is magnified into a magnificent conflict - epic struggles against such redoubtable villains as the municipal recycling department, your roommate’s girlfriend, or that perennial favorite, the IRS.

Sometimes, though, this tension may be stretched thin, almost to breaking, and our pleasure becomes so acute it verges on agony. Thus the whole nation suffered for nearly three years before discovering the truth of Luke Skywalker’s parentage, and dies minor deaths every summer between television seasons. But the apotheosis of this sort of dramatic hyperextension I will illustrate by example:

Hiding my theft behind a convenient cloud of exhaled smoke, I recently availed myself of my roommate’s copy of “The Complete Prose Tales of Alexandr Sergeyevitch Pushkin”. The first tale, written in 1827, is “The Moor of Peter the Great”, which tells the story of the Tsar’s adopted godson, Ibrahim. He, though well-bred, genteel and charming, nevertheless must endure as an oddity in the courtly society of Europe due to his misplaced ancestry. Peter, blind to anything but his godson’s talents and fine qualities, arranges a match between Ibrahim and the (rather unwilling) young daughter of a Russian nobleman. By chapter seven, matters are coming to a head, when we are suddenly informed by parenthetical:

(Pushkin never completed this story.)

That makes 181 years and counting.

Posted on Monday, April 21st, 2008 at 2:03 pm | Angst, Writing | feed | reply | trackback