Other People’s Expenses
by Thieving Dougie Murgson
Bergson, whom Swnivel had only skimmed, others considered an authority on communication. As a philosopher, Bergson throve, Swnivel discovered in his readings in the summer of 1983. But (and this “but” interested him more than any “and”) Bergson’s thyroid lacked in essential nutrients. Likely Bergson drove himself to regular study, Swnivel concluded, as a way of outwitting the utter exhaustion that threatened him each day. A daily regimen of physical work, or even some such hourly activity as answering telephones for a company, or sweeping hallways as a maintenance person, or even filming actresses in their parts on stage or in the movies, would have driven him to his bed long before day’s end. So, Bergson’s unique medical condition determined his stamina, and that determined his occupation. He, that is Bergson, likely lacked in general intelligence, living not at all above, say, Swnivel’s own level of it (this according to Swnivel) with which he fostered relations, dealt with misbehaving children, scolded late school children, and generally kept a lid on excessive behaviour in and around the place. Lacking abilities, Bergson resorted to persistence and so, thus, became a made man.
On the surface, Bergson loved food, smacking and slurping with lusty enjoyment in the busyness of public fêtes and feasts. Beneath it, in private, however, he despised it! How frequently he cursed potatoes, carrots, beans (wax, mainly), rutabagas, lemons, fish, mackerel, chicken nuggets, egg noodles, whipped cream, pastry, pudding, blood sausage, edible underwear, beer, nougat chocolate, and an assortment of food once he had eaten them. As soon as any of these passed through his lips and down his gullet, he found himself gagging and without appetite. The reasons for his peculiar revulsion confound scholars, but lucky Swnivel discovered why, indeed. The source for his new knowledge about the philosopher’s private life remains to many but Swnivel a mystery, that being a series of letters to Bergson’s grandmother from an old acquaintance of the woman that scholars have obviously not had available to them but which found its way into Swnivel’s hands. Bergson loved his grandmother. She liked him immensely, too. Bergson doted on her, she tolerated him. She bought him candy at Christmas, and he wished for it year round. He politely asked her now and then if she would provide him with All-sorts but she only glared and shook her head. What about Liquorice Whips then, he asked, but she ignored that. He named one after the other; Caramel Coins, Chocolate Dollars, Sen Sen, Thrills, Cookie Puffs, Sugared Popcorn, edible clothing, Beer Nuts, Turkish Delights, Mini Donuts, and even once Sour Pups but she declined in dramatic ways and left him hungering. He continued to love her with inordinate fire of feeling, and this showed itself in a decline in his marks in grade five. Here in general the young Bergson began to falter under the tutelage of Ms. Beckunder, who weighed 14 stone and ate herring snacks during classes, which she hid in her drawer and reached in for when the children were painting or doing projects, thinking no one knew. But, Bergson knew. He dared tell no one. None must know besides himself. He kept her secret a secret because he wanted some of those whatever they were for himself, and one recess he struck. He snuck a snack, swallowed it in his hunger almost before he had tasted, and promptly threw up in her desk drawer, all over her dried, salted, herring strips. Horrified, he clandestinely watched her after recess while the children were working on their class group mural of a pastoral farm scene with cows, chickens, goats, and rows of cabbages. And then ... . Aha! He saw her sneak her hand into her drawer, take something, bring it hidden to her mouth, engulf it behind molars with ecstasy on her countenance, masticate, and then swallow. She seemed to think nothing amiss! Oh for goodness sakes!, he thought.
It was around that time in his life that Bergson began to hate food. He despised it. He wished he had no need of it. One day he devised a plan and brought it to fruition the next. He would never touch food again, neither with his fingers nor with his lips. And he did not. A chunky boy, he soon grew thin and pale, and then died shortly after his thirty-ninth birthday. His grandmother, always sickly and more recently an invalid, declined to come to the funeral, saying that she had no idea who people were talking about. She spent some time that funeral morning snacking and then baked a cake for her tea with her friend, Marjorie, next-door. They consumed it together and shared many a laugh at other people’s expense.
Whether I believe Swnivel or not, the words he spoke to me in private about Bergson have lingered in my mind all these years. Swnivel died some 30 years ago and I have kept his memory sacred. His ideas I have largely forgotten by now, but I do recall most of what he told me about the philosopher and I think most of it the product of a fevered brain. Bergson not caring for food? Rubbish! Bergson flatullating regularly in the presence of guests, including women? Absurd! The philosopher incontinent in his old age, especially after the consumption of cabbage? Ridiculous, and insulting! A revolt of the bowels at the smell of frying liver? Complete hogwash! I doubt Swnivel’s veracity and think I will spend some of my failing energies on public denials. I might even write a series of apologies intended to set the current record straight. We must not let weak minds rule our understanding of strong men and women. Speaking of which, I met Anne Veronne just yesterday and she gave me to understand that the saintly Vestibule, of the Italian papacy, had neglected to send her monthly stipend and she was suffering severely from malnutrition and hunger. What a fraud he is! Someone should have him defrocked. I will have to do something about that and see to it that she eats. Till then, goodbye my friends, and bon appétit.
by Thieving Dougie Murgson
Bergson, whom Swnivel had only skimmed, others considered an authority on communication. As a philosopher, Bergson throve, Swnivel discovered in his readings in the summer of 1983. But (and this “but” interested him more than any “and”) Bergson’s thyroid lacked in essential nutrients. Likely Bergson drove himself to regular study, Swnivel concluded, as a way of outwitting the utter exhaustion that threatened him each day. A daily regimen of physical work, or even some such hourly activity as answering telephones for a company, or sweeping hallways as a maintenance person, or even filming actresses in their parts on stage or in the movies, would have driven him to his bed long before day’s end. So, Bergson’s unique medical condition determined his stamina, and that determined his occupation. He, that is Bergson, likely lacked in general intelligence, living not at all above, say, Swnivel’s own level of it (this according to Swnivel) with which he fostered relations, dealt with misbehaving children, scolded late school children, and generally kept a lid on excessive behaviour in and around the place. Lacking abilities, Bergson resorted to persistence and so, thus, became a made man.
On the surface, Bergson loved food, smacking and slurping with lusty enjoyment in the busyness of public fêtes and feasts. Beneath it, in private, however, he despised it! How frequently he cursed potatoes, carrots, beans (wax, mainly), rutabagas, lemons, fish, mackerel, chicken nuggets, egg noodles, whipped cream, pastry, pudding, blood sausage, edible underwear, beer, nougat chocolate, and an assortment of food once he had eaten them. As soon as any of these passed through his lips and down his gullet, he found himself gagging and without appetite. The reasons for his peculiar revulsion confound scholars, but lucky Swnivel discovered why, indeed. The source for his new knowledge about the philosopher’s private life remains to many but Swnivel a mystery, that being a series of letters to Bergson’s grandmother from an old acquaintance of the woman that scholars have obviously not had available to them but which found its way into Swnivel’s hands. Bergson loved his grandmother. She liked him immensely, too. Bergson doted on her, she tolerated him. She bought him candy at Christmas, and he wished for it year round. He politely asked her now and then if she would provide him with All-sorts but she only glared and shook her head. What about Liquorice Whips then, he asked, but she ignored that. He named one after the other; Caramel Coins, Chocolate Dollars, Sen Sen, Thrills, Cookie Puffs, Sugared Popcorn, edible clothing, Beer Nuts, Turkish Delights, Mini Donuts, and even once Sour Pups but she declined in dramatic ways and left him hungering. He continued to love her with inordinate fire of feeling, and this showed itself in a decline in his marks in grade five. Here in general the young Bergson began to falter under the tutelage of Ms. Beckunder, who weighed 14 stone and ate herring snacks during classes, which she hid in her drawer and reached in for when the children were painting or doing projects, thinking no one knew. But, Bergson knew. He dared tell no one. None must know besides himself. He kept her secret a secret because he wanted some of those whatever they were for himself, and one recess he struck. He snuck a snack, swallowed it in his hunger almost before he had tasted, and promptly threw up in her desk drawer, all over her dried, salted, herring strips. Horrified, he clandestinely watched her after recess while the children were working on their class group mural of a pastoral farm scene with cows, chickens, goats, and rows of cabbages. And then ... . Aha! He saw her sneak her hand into her drawer, take something, bring it hidden to her mouth, engulf it behind molars with ecstasy on her countenance, masticate, and then swallow. She seemed to think nothing amiss! Oh for goodness sakes!, he thought.
It was around that time in his life that Bergson began to hate food. He despised it. He wished he had no need of it. One day he devised a plan and brought it to fruition the next. He would never touch food again, neither with his fingers nor with his lips. And he did not. A chunky boy, he soon grew thin and pale, and then died shortly after his thirty-ninth birthday. His grandmother, always sickly and more recently an invalid, declined to come to the funeral, saying that she had no idea who people were talking about. She spent some time that funeral morning snacking and then baked a cake for her tea with her friend, Marjorie, next-door. They consumed it together and shared many a laugh at other people’s expense.
Whether I believe Swnivel or not, the words he spoke to me in private about Bergson have lingered in my mind all these years. Swnivel died some 30 years ago and I have kept his memory sacred. His ideas I have largely forgotten by now, but I do recall most of what he told me about the philosopher and I think most of it the product of a fevered brain. Bergson not caring for food? Rubbish! Bergson flatullating regularly in the presence of guests, including women? Absurd! The philosopher incontinent in his old age, especially after the consumption of cabbage? Ridiculous, and insulting! A revolt of the bowels at the smell of frying liver? Complete hogwash! I doubt Swnivel’s veracity and think I will spend some of my failing energies on public denials. I might even write a series of apologies intended to set the current record straight. We must not let weak minds rule our understanding of strong men and women. Speaking of which, I met Anne Veronne just yesterday and she gave me to understand that the saintly Vestibule, of the Italian papacy, had neglected to send her monthly stipend and she was suffering severely from malnutrition and hunger. What a fraud he is! Someone should have him defrocked. I will have to do something about that and see to it that she eats. Till then, goodbye my friends, and bon appétit.
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