Chapter 43 Confessions of a Humorist

After a painless incubation period of twenty-five years, my malady broke out.Everyone said it was the disease. But they call it humor, not measles. The guys in the store chipped in and bought a silver inkwell for the chairman to congratulate him on his fiftieth birthday.We flocked into his office to give gifts. Everyone presumed that I would deliver a speech, but my short speech was carefully prepared for a week. My speech was well received.It was full of puns, epigrams, and gags, and it was such an instant applause that it nearly knocked the house down, and in the whole hardware business our shop is strong enough.

Old Marlow himself was grinning from ear to ear, and his employees roared with laughter. From nine-thirty that morning on, I had acquired a reputation as a humorist. In the weeks that followed, my co-workers slapped my ego on the back.One by one, they came to me and said, man, your speech was great, and they analyzed all the jokes I told and told them to me. I began to feel that they wanted me to keep the humor going.Others only need to talk about business matters and daily topics in a reasonable and reasonable way, but for me, I also want to talk about it lightly and interestingly.They wanted me to tell jokes about pottery too, and lighthearted sarcasm about enamelled pots and such.I am the assistant accountant in the store.The other clerks would be very disappointed if I produced a balance sheet without a funny comment on the total, or couldn't find anything funny on the plow invoice.

Gradually my reputation spread and I became a local "person".Our city is quite small, so this is not surprising.I was often quoted in the local papers, and in social circles I was the licorice of medicine. I believe my mind is quite sharp and capable of responding fluently.I cultivate and promote this talent in practice, but its essence is to be kind to others, never to be sarcastic and to offend others.People smile when they see me coming up, and when we meet I'm ready to turn a smile into a laugh with one word. I married earlier and already have a lovely three year old boy and five year old girl.Needless to say, we lived a happy life in a vine-covered thatched hut.My modest salary as an accountant in the hardware trade made me indifferent to the evils of excess wealth.

I wrote successively a few jokes and witty texts, which I thought were so amusing that I sent them to the magazines that published them.These things were accepted immediately, and several editors wrote to ask me to continue to contribute. I received a letter one day from the editor of a well-known weekly who suggested that I send a humorous column, and implied that, if it pleased them, he would include a column in each issue.I did so, and a fortnight later he offered to sign me a contract for the column for a year, at a rate that was, of course, much higher than my salary at the hardware store.

I like it wholeheartedly.My wife has crowned me in my heart with the never-fading laurels of my literary success.We had lobster croquettes and blackberry wine for dinner that night.This is a chance for me to get out of a hard and monotonous job.I discussed the matter very seriously with Louisa, and it was agreed that I should resign from the store and devote myself to humor. I quit my job.My colleagues gave me a farewell dinner, at which I gave a brilliant speech which was published in full in the local paper.The next morning I woke up and looked at the clock. "Ouch, it's late!" I cried, dressing in a hurry.Louisa reminded me that I was no longer a hardware slave or a wage earner.I am now a full-time humorist.

After breakfast, she triumphantly led me into a small room off the kitchen.Obediently!The room was furnished with my desk and chair, manuscript paper, ink, ashtray, and a writer's set of decorations - a flower arrangement full of fresh roses and honeysuckle, last year's calendar on the wall, a dictionary, and a small bag of chocolates, okay Chewing and waiting for the next inspiration.Be good! I sit down and work.The pattern on the wallpaper was arabesque or Islamic—just trapezoids, perhaps.My eyes fixate on a figure.I thought about humor. A voice startled me—it was Louisa's. "If you're not too busy, dear," she said, "come over for lunch."

I looked at my watch, no, five hours have already been taken by the ruthless Old Man Time.I went to eat. "Don't write so bitterly at first," said Louisa. "Goethe—or was it Napoleon?—says that five hours a day is enough for mental work. Can you take me and the children for a walk in the woods this afternoon?" ?" "I do feel a little tired," I admit.So we went for a walk in the woods. It didn't take long for me to find the way, and I wrote very smoothly. In less than a month, I wrote one after another, like a steady stream of hardware. I did it.My weekly column made a splash, and the critics buzzed that I was a newcomer to the humorists' ranks.I also submitted manuscripts to other publishing houses, which greatly increased my income.

I found the trick with this line.I can turn a ridiculous opinion into a two-line joke for a buck.With a makeover and a fake mustache, it becomes a quatrain again, thereby doubling the production value.You turn the stuff over again, border it with a rhyme, and it becomes a witty party poem again, with a neat rhyme, and with a picture of a fashionable woman, you won't recognize it for what it really is. I gradually had savings, a new carpet, and an organ in the living room.From then on the city people saw me as a citizen of some status, not just a fun-loving guy who worked as a clerk in a hardware store.

After five or six months, the natural sense of humor seemed to bid farewell to me.Sarcasm and jokes can no longer be blurted out casually, and sometimes I have to look for material everywhere.I often find myself listening to the conversations of my friends for ideas I can use.Sometimes I sit for hours looking at the wallpaper and biting a pencil, trying to create little bubbles of fresh jokes. Thus, to my acquaintances, I became a ruthless and greedy being, a bane, a vampire.I stood among them distracted and greedy, and it was a real disappointment.If a clever word, a witty simile, a witty remark fell from their mouths, I would spring upon them like a hound to catch a bone.My memory was unreliable, so I turned away secretly and wrote it down in the notebook I carried with me, or wrote it on my cuff for future needs.

Friends look at me with trepidation because I've changed.Once I provided them with joy and amusement, now I rob them.I don't want to make them laugh anymore by speaking out now, because the jokes are too rare.I cannot give them the generosity of my food and clothing. I am like the melancholy Reynard fox, praising my friends, the voices of the crows, hoping to drop from their mouths the clever bits of meat I crave. Almost all my friends started avoiding me.I even forgot how to smile, not even to make up for the words I took from my friends. In order to collect materials, no matter who, where, when, or what, it is inevitable that I will be robbed.Even in church, my unruly fancy roamed the stately aisles and colonnades, hunting for something.

When the pastor hummed the long-rhythm hymn "Ode to Glory", I immediately hummed along: "Ode to Glory—Great Success—Rhythm—Happy Meeting." The sound of the sermon passed through my mind like a sieve, and the truth was filtered out unconsciously.I just want to pick up one pun or one-liner from it.The majestic hymn of the choir was but the accompaniment to my thoughts of an old joke about soprano, tenor, and bass being jealous of each other, and trying to figure out how to remake it to my advantage. My own family has also become a hunting ground.The wife was a perfect woman, frank, self-willed, compassionate.It has always been a pleasure to talk to her, and her thoughts have always been a source of pleasure.Now I use my brains on her as a gold mine of funny and endearing contradictions unique to women. I began to sell the earthy and humorous jewelry that was originally intended only to enrich the life of the sacred family.I encouraged her to speak with devilish cunning, and she opened her heart to me without defense.I let it be published on the cold, most ordinary printed page. I was a Judas writing for a living, kissing her and betraying her.For a few silver dollars I took advantage of her trust in me, and she foolishly put on shorts and danced in the market place. Dear Louisa!I don’t know how many nights I have crouched beside her, cruel as a wolf crouching beside a lamb, and even listened intently to the whispers she uttered in her sleep, trying to catch a few words so that I could study hard the next day.Worse things are yet to come. God save my soul!Then I bit my fangs hard on the words my two children blurted out. The childish and strange thoughts and words of Guy and Viola were like two bright fountains.I found a ready outlet for this humor by contributing to a regular column in a magazine, Children's Fun.I stalked them as the Indian stalks the antelope.When they played, I would hide behind the couch or behind a door, or climb among the bushes in the yard and eavesdrop on their conversations.I have all the bad qualities of a predatory man, except the sting of conscience. One day when my mind was empty and my manuscript had to be sent with the next mail, I hid under a pile of fallen leaves in the yard because I knew they were coming to play.I would never believe Guy knew where I was hiding.But even if he knew, I don't want to blame him for setting a fire on dead leaves that ruined a new suit of mine and nearly cremated his old man. Later my children avoided me like the plague.Sometimes, when I'm spying on them like a lone ghoul, I'll hear them muttering to each other, "Daddy's here," before packing up their toys and slinking to safety.What a hopeless wretch I am! But my income is not bad.I've saved a thousand dollars in less than a year, and we're living pretty comfortably. But what a price I paid!I don't know exactly what it's like to be a bum, but I look like one in every way.No friends, no entertainment, no enjoyment of life.The happiness of the family is also sacrificed.I become a bee that sucks unclean honey from the most beautiful flower of life, and people fear me and avoid me because I have stingers. One day, for the first time in months, I was greeted by someone with a pleasant and friendly smile.I passed the funeral home owned by Peter Heffelbauer, and Peter greeted me at the door.I stopped, feeling baffled.He invited me to sit inside. It was cold and rainy that day.We went into the back room where a small stove was lit.A customer came and Peter left me alone for a while.Immediately I felt a new feeling - a sense of calm and contentment.I looked around the room, which was lined with rows of rosewood urns, black coffin covers, coffin biers, hearse feathers, funeral banners, and all the paraphernalia of this solemn trade.It is a place of peace, tranquility and order, a place of solemn contemplation.On the verge of life, here is the alcove of the spirit that permeates eternal rest. When I entered inside, all the stupid things in the world left me at the door.I do not seek humor at all from the somber and solemn funeral objects.I feel open-minded, as if I were resting happily on a couch surrounded by tender curtains. A quarter of an hour ago, I was a renegade humorist, and now I am a comfortable philosopher, I have found a refuge from humor, where I don't have to rack my brains for sarcasm, don't have to be polite to catch a joke, don't have to rack my brains Go for the punchline. I don't know much about Heffelbauer yet.When he came back, I asked him to speak first, for fear that his speech would spoil the atmosphere and become a discordant note in the sweet elegy-like chorus. But no.His tune is very harmonious.I let out a long sigh of relief.I never heard a man speak so flatly as Peter.In contrast, the Dead Sea looks like a restless old man.Not an iota of spark or gleam of wit marred his words.What comes out of his mouth is full of clichés, like last week's stock quotes are uninspiring.I couldn't help being shocked, so I tried him with the most beautiful joke, but there was no response, because he didn't understand it.I have liked this man ever since. Two or three nights a week I come to Hovelbauer's and hang around in his back room.This is my only entertainment.I got up early and rushed to finish my work, trying to spend more time in the shelter.Only with him can I escape the habit of drawing humor from the things around me.Peter's talk left no gaps for me, although I surrounded it tightly. Under this influence, I gradually regained my spirit.Anyone needs a little distraction after labor.Now I meet an old friend or two on the street, and they are surprised to either smile or say a pleasant word.Several times I have entertained my wife and children with funny things, which have left them stunned. I've been tortured by humorous nightmares for too long, and now I seize the holidays with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. My work started to suffer.Writing is no longer a burden and a pain to me like it used to be.I used to sit at my desk and whistle, and I could write much more quickly than I used to.I was impatient to finish my work, eager to leave the house and go to my sanctuary, like an alcoholic rushing to a saloon. My wife was anxious for hours wondering where I was spending the afternoon.I think it best not to tell her; women don't understand such things, poor girl!She will be taken aback by it. One day I brought home a silver coffin handle for a paperweight, and a shaggy hearse feather to dust the paper. I like to see these two things on the table, because seeing them reminds me of Heffelbauer's back room.But Louisa saw them, and screamed in terror.I had no choice but to comfort her, making flimsy excuses about their origins.But I could see in her eyes that her doubts had not been dispelled, and I had to quickly remove these things. One day Peter Heffelbauer made me a tempting proposal that left me bewildered.In his usual reasonable and commonplace manner he showed me his books and said that his business and profits were booming.He wanted to find a rich man to partner with as a shareholder. He would rather find me as a shareholder than anyone he knew.When I left his place that afternoon, he had a thousand-dollar check that I deposited in the bank, and I became a partner in his funeral business. I went home ecstatically, mixed with a little misgiving of course.I dare not tell my wife about it, but I feel smug.What a boon to stop writing those humorous things, to enjoy the apples of life again, instead of mashing them and squeezing out a few drops of juice for the public's amusement! At the supper table Louisa handed me some letters which I had received in my absence.A few were rejected.From the first time I went to Heffelbauer's, the frequency of my rejections was astonishing.Lately I've been writing jokes and articles in one go, with incredible fluency.Once upon a time I was like a plasterer, slowly and agonizingly laying bricks and tiles. I immediately opened the letter from the editor of the weekly with whom I had a formal contract.The weekly article's check for my weekly articles remains the mainstay of my family's life.The content of the letter is as follows: I handed the letter to my wife, who read it with a long face and tears in her eyes. "The mean old fellow!" she cried angrily. "I'm sure your articles are as good as they ever were. You'd only have to spend half the time writing them for them." Then I guess Louisa lamented that no more checks were coming in, "Oh, John, What are you going to do now?" I got up and answered with a polka dance around the dinner table.I'm sure Louisa thought this trouble was driving me crazy.The kids hoped so, because they ran after me, imitating my steps and yelling with joy.I'm kind of like their old playmate again now. "We're at the theater to-night!" I cried. "That's right; and then we'll go to the palace dining-room and eat. Lumpy-diddle-d-d-d-d-den!" So I explained my joy by announcing that I was now a partner in a thriving funeral home and that the jokes I used to write could be thrown in a sack and burned. My wife, clutching a letter from my editor attesting to the rightness of my move, could raise no objection, save for a few mild observations.This is due to women's inability to appreciate good things, such as Peter Hevelbauer's tiny back room - oh no, it's Heuvelbauer & Co. now. All in all, I'd say you don't find anyone in our town these days who is as agreeable, jovial, and full of jokes as I am.Once again my jokes are famous and quoted; once again I can take pleasure in my wife's confidantes without a tinge of business; when Guy and Viola play at my lap, spreading precious boyish humor At that time, I no longer worried that I would follow them like a ghost, still holding a notebook in my hand. Our business is booming.I kept the books and looked after the store, and Peter looked after the field.He said my buoyant lightheartedness would have turned any funeral into a proper Irish memorial feast.

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