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Rocket, v. 1, issue 1, March 1940

Page 21

21

RHYME DOESN'T PAY!
by Wm. H. Moss

I hadn't known the professor long, but I had already learned that there was none of the stiffness in him that you'd find in some of the others. It made no difference to him that we all knew all about the Illiad and the Odyssey and you nothing, except that he found a real pleasure in watching you catch on as he would explain. And there he was now, leaning back in his char, with his hands locked back of his grey head and his long legs crossed on the table.

He called me in to tell me that I shouldn't pay too much of attention to the mark that he had given me. He said that it was a fair symbol of the knowledge of Greek which I had revealed, not necessarily of what I knew. At least he thought it was fair; if not, he would gladly listen to my idea on the subject. He went on to explain that perhaps I wasn't so good at Greek, or didn't care for something else, and that maybe I should take a turn at valve-grinding or house-painting or even something a little more skilled, like making ornate window frames.

He had me pretty joyful over my failure, and he had about rounded out his little talk, when he said that people ought never to take themselves too seriously.

"No, sir," he said, "take it from me, it doesn't pay.

"Now, in my younger days I knew of a young man who did just that. He seemed to think that anything he did had to be better than anyone ever did before him and a mark for everybody after him to shoot at.

"Well, he was a sort of tragic figure, and ridiculous along with it. Gloomy, ascetic, bilious. I can see him now, stalking about the grounds, alone and lonesome, too wrapped up in himself to realize that a beer or two would have put everything right.

"But he had the idea that the world was waiting for him to come forth with the ultimate, the Last Thing, and then there'd be no need for more. That would be all.

"Now this young man of the inward eye, the humid, sensitive eye had a flare for poetry. Oh, I suppose he could write it all right, but no better than a lot of other people. And one day he conceived the perfect poem, which was the last thing in beauty, philosophy, wisdom, knowledge, and everything else you might think of on your day off. But there was a catch to this; this poem was to be so all-knowing that it would virtually consume its author; that is, when it was written he would have lost so much of his personality in its rhythm, meter, words, etc. that what little of him remained wouldn't be worth left to live. He would do away with himself -- a fitting and dramatic ending. And that was the tragedy of it all.

"I think sometimes that we feel tragic about our creations because we don't know whether they are beautiful whether they stink. Both qualities seem to produce the same effect.

"Well, as I was saying, this young man wrote his poem --"

"Did he -er- kill himself?" I popped out, unable to wait longer.

"No, he didn't," said the old professor, still gripped in a mild way by the serious mood of the story he had been telling. Then he gave a little laugh up at the ceiling. "No, he didn't," he repeated. "But why in the hell I didn't, I don't know; for it was about the lousiest damned stuff that was ever put on paper."

-:FINIS;-

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21 RHYME DOESN'T PAY! by Wm. H. Moss I hadn't known the professor long, but I had already learned that there was none of the stiffness in him that you'd find in some of the others. It made no difference to him that we all knew all about the Illiad and the Odyssey and you nothing, except that he found a real pleasure in watching you catch on as he would explain. And there he was now, leaning back in his char, with his hands locked back of his grey head and his long legs crossed on the table. He called me in to tell me that I shouldn't pay too much of attention to the mark that he had given me. He said that it was a fair symbol of the knowledge of Greek which I had revealed, not necessarily of what I knew. At least he thought it was fair; if not, he would gladly listen to my idea on the subject. He went on to explain that perhaps I wasn't so good at Greek, or didn't care for something else, and that maybe I should take a turn at valve-grinding or house-painting or even something a little more skilled, like making ornate window frames. He had me pretty joyful over my failure, and he had about rounded out his little talk, when he said that people ought never to take themselves too seriously. "No, sir," he said, "take it from me, it doesn't pay. "Now, in my younger days I knew of a young man who did just that. He seemed to think that anything he did had to be better than anyone ever did before him and a mark for everybody after him to shoot at. "Well, he was a sort of tragic figure, and ridiculous along with it. Gloomy, ascetic, bilious. I can see him now, stalking about the grounds, alone and lonesome, too wrapped up in himself to realize that a beer or two would have put everything right. "But he had the idea that the world was waiting for him to come forth with the ultimate, the Last Thing, and then there'd be no need for more. That would be all. "Now this young man of the inward eye, the humid, sensitive eye had a flare for poetry. Oh, I suppose he could write it all right, but no better than a lot of other people. And one day he conceived the perfect poem, which was the last thing in beauty, philosophy, wisdom, knowledge, and everything else you might think of on your day off. But there was a catch to this; this poem was to be so all-knowing that it would virtually consume its author; that is, when it was written he would have lost so much of his personality in its rhythm, meter, words, etc. that what little of him remained wouldn't be worth left to live. He would do away with himself -- a fitting and dramatic ending. And that was the tragedy of it all. "I think sometimes that we feel tragic about our creations because we don't know whether they are beautiful whether they stink. Both qualities seem to produce the same effect. "Well, as I was saying, this young man wrote his poem --" "Did he -er- kill himself?" I popped out, unable to wait longer. "No, he didn't," said the old professor, still gripped in a mild way by the serious mood of the story he had been telling. Then he gave a little laugh up at the ceiling. "No, he didn't," he repeated. "But why in the hell I didn't, I don't know; for it was about the lousiest damned stuff that was ever put on paper." -:FINIS;-