The Mouth-piece, by J. W. Cassandra
The writer and poet was extremely proud of himself: after all, he is not anybody but, he is an appreciated, admitted by determinant literary groups, writer and poet!
It is true, his anthologies mostly gathered dust on the shelves of the libraries, his story books accompanied by tirades of stiffing literary critics, hadn’t created even an orphan stir, his fairy tales – he just knew! – could only come out as weak trashes, his romance-attempts with their wordings, edited artisticly – what is the substance! – didn’t mean anything even for himself, on the writer – reader meetings, conferences after hot welcome and speeches of recommendations the promoters kept puzzling over if they wouldn’t have done better to announce a party billiards or poker, for it would be drop in somebody at least – after all, despite of these tiny annoyances, he is a laureate, granted by prize, appreciated in literary circles writer and poet…
Despite of the fact that on the ball arranged after the award giving ceremony all of his interlocutors proved that
- either he or she didn’t read his work (rough, yob);
- either he or she have read it but – unfortunately, for his or her deep regret, mea culpa (this is the educated reader) – doesn’t remember;
- or he or she does remember but: what did the writer want to utter by that…; if the question doesn’t hurt him, since he or she unfortunately didn’t understand or maybe, misinterpreted (all this was followed here by apologizings with downcast eyes, vibrating of eyelashes, half-smiles, glances aside, each of them by their temperament)…
„Yeah, well, what can one expect from these people?!”, the writer waved of his hand. Then he added in thought, „Indeed, what can he expect? Since they are that persons who, at least used to read the works of the contemporaries. So what to think of those who even don’t read them and don’t show any interest of them?”
Although Steve Smith (former mate of the kindergarten, that of school of music, gym, or school, as you like it, the proper one is being replaced) is how much talentless, he can’t even speak, his style? – that hadn’t been ever either, why would it be just now? His orthography is worth less than nil, well, yeah. He hadn’t landed a prize even, he isn’t mentioned in literary circles, despite of this, his books used to be piled up in the bookstores any time when he publishes something, in addition, they are snapped up in a few days! They are sold like hot cakes! Although, they’re trash books, since, they’re full of mere sentimentality, snivel, see!, even his hogwash titled „Memory of Curring-Purrings, aka Cat-book” how ran out in a minute! And the inscription! Tabbies were treading each other’s foot, the piles of wrinkles on their faces ran to a thousand directions, as they were grinning of happiness, although how bald is this Steve, yet! And he combs onto the bald spot three hair crosswise – just can’t he imagine to hide it by this? For, only the blind cannot see, and the tabbies with their baboon smile…
In addition, his own stand is empty… Now, but he’ll make sure of it!
Returning home, he threw down himself to the settee. He was puzzling about for a while, then he sat to his writing-table, next to the text editor. May something come to his mind, for it seems so, his low comedy „How to Play a Trick on the Boss?” couldn’t find any competent readers.
Pen, paper,… chewing of the penholder… idea, Idea, IDEA, IDEA!!! This is needed!
He stares at the mirror empty-eyed, seeing nothing.
He’s been staring for a long-long time, at his pastry image, his loopy, stroke-prone, purplish, purple-blue face, his soulless gaze, in that at the most only occupacy of envy steals some vividness in the mirror hanging opposite.
Suddenly, he takes notice on some kind of apparition: in the mirror a milky spot is forming, such tiny as a marble, then it starts to spread, to grow, it keeps growing and by the time he wakes up, a being, keen-eyed, clean-faced being is watching him from there. A ghost.
The writer and poet regains his consciousness fair at a blink of an eye.
In the meantime, the ghost takes a definite shape: it isn’t either a man, nor a woman but it is felt of it that it has might.
„If you would like to, if you would like truely, indeed, to be a writer and poet, who writes wonderful things then, I can help you”, turns it to him.
„How-to-how?”, the writer is stammering of fear. „Who are you?”
„I am the Inspiration”, the being’s breathing in the mirror. „You have some writings that are quite good. Shall I say, your omnibus titled „Shelf of Lousy Goods” isn’t bad. If you’d like to, give it a try! I help and you’ll write something that is suggested by me. If the writing fits, you may write more others, much more better than the first one. And, then you’ll become a genuine artist, an authentic writer and poet. But don’t forget: if you make a bargain with me, you can write only those writings for publication that I suggest for you! As soon as you try to publish an other work of art, I won’t help you any more, ever! Is it a go?”
The writer and poet was so much yearning for acknowledgement and for praise of the readership he would have been liked to inscribe, to be famous so much that, he drove the bargain.
Then the spirit of the Inspiration invaded him and, the poet wrote by its help such an exquisite, music-styled poem that he himself shuddered at its beauty, as he was reading it after finishing. And, the bargain being driven, the ghost encouraged him so: „You’ll create more exquisite works of art, you’ll see it, in all literary genres and forms, even you may become a poet laureate, an author founding a school, authentic author and artist! Only don’t forget: you are authorized to publish solely the inspired works of art, in addition, only those of them that I allow you!”
The poet scarcely heard the admonition, he was in such an eager fever, in a fever of creating yet more, even more perfect works of art, the ’opus magnum’, although he would have done better to tune in.
As to the Inspiration, it disappeared from the mirror.
Then, it happened, that the writer was flooded by better and better, in addition, more intriguing and compelling ideas: he wrote dramas, tales, novels, poems, he created in more literary genres, like short stories, long short stories, essays – so, the Inspiration told the truth that night when it appeared.
The art works suggested by it one and all, indulged the readers with substantial notions, thought-provoking messages, rich imageries, so that the readers from that time kept pressing on each conference, the writer and poet’s books were snapped up from the bookshelves, the publishers competed with each other for him, the theaters billed his dramas more times, his art works were translated into the most familiar languages of the world one by one in turn, his romances were screened…
Fame, glory, money, appretiation, admitting to elite wirter clubs didn’t make satisfied the writer and poet since, he felt that, all that the Inspiration nods it may be published, was worth nothing. Neither any literary genre, nor any of his works of art aren’t worthy of those that he lines on the paper sick, being in fever, with fingers worn to wounds for, the typing on the text editor is too slow compared to inspired flight even, for message, art level of his all publishable works shrink in insignificance beside art level of those and message of those that he wrote useless since, it is knowable only by him and by some intimate friends – the general public can it see never. „Nevertheless, it would be the real thing!”, he thought.
„Don’t try it!”, the spirit of Inspiration warned him dark, in the mirror.
But, the writer and poet published his novels appearing in series, titled Spirit of Inspiration And Art on philosophy since, he felt that this is the important work.
„You know, I feel I am only a mouth-piece!”, he sighed to the Inspiration who kept looking him more and more grim, scowling, from the mirror.
„If you don’t suggest me works then I’ll write them by myself! Though, I’m a writer, an artist! I don’t want to be a mouth-piece any more!”, he chucked arrogantly.
„As you wish!”, and the Inspiration disappeared from the mirror.
And the writer and poet tried indeed to create something by himself. Chewing of the penholder… scribbling… waiting for ideas…nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. He looked up. The mirror stared at him blind and remained mute.
The readers were disappointed in the writer and poet: what he wrote being forced to done to his utmost, he all failed; the poems lost their forms, the words turned out of themselves, the sentences fell apart and they haven’t formed any more. Epithets, adverbs, phrases lost their magnificence of Muse; they formed into ordinary, vulgar, worthless text… the colours faded in his descriptions, the original atmosphere slipped away, the flavour, the aroma that is owned only by true writers, dissolved; his style lost his colour as the summer washing-dress, he chased scraps of rags of his style, lost their colours as castles in the air till, he realized: he isn’t able to write any more, if only letters or diary, at most.
Despite of being a man, he broke out in tears. He cried blubbering, sobbed, cursed himself for his fiddle, then he burst into poignant laments, so he begged the Inspiration to return to him.
Yet, the Inspiration haven’t come forth. Its spirit-shape has never occured in the mirror any more and, the writer sobbed in vain:
„I’ll be rather a mouth-piece, oh, Inspiration, only feel pity for me! See my suffering, my unutterable torments! May you return to me only for once again! I’ll rather listen to you, I’ll be a mouth-piece and, publish only those you’ve sanctioned, only could I see you to appear once again!
The Inspiration secluded itself and the writer could no more to write. Since, the greatest value you must recognise till, you own it, anyway it remains a lost treasure forever…
Written by J. W. Cassandra, 09/07. 2009.
Translated by J. W. Cassandra, 22/01. 2020.
