Nikolai Gogol's The Diary Of A Madman is one of the funniest stories I have read in quite some time. Hopelessly romantic, it is an entertaining blend of subtle comedy and quixotic delusion. An insightful parody exposing the incessant stupidity and meanness of modern life. Written by a man who died in 1852.
And as the callous rain continues unabated, a particular excerpt slowly begins to unravel in my mind. Is there a peculiar logic to these words?
Apart from all this, I’m very annoyed by an event that’s due to take place at 7 o’clock tomorrow. A strange phenomenon: the earth is going to land on the moon. An account of this has been written by the celebrated English chemist Wellington.
I confess I feel deeply troubled when I consider how unusually delicate and insubstantial the moon is. The moon, as everyone knows, is usually made in Hamburg, and they make a complete hash of it. I’m surprised that the English don’t do something about it. The moon is manufactured by a lame cooper, and it’s obvious the idiot has no idea what it should be made of. The materials he uses are tarred rope and linseed oil. That’s why there’s such a terrible stink all over the earth, which makes us stop our noses up. And that's why the Moon itself is such a delicate ball that men cannot live there - only noses. And that's why we can't see our own noses: they are all on the Moon.
A man needs to get out. A man needs to get a haircut and buy new trainers. Alas, avec les downpours, it simply cannot be. So the mind meanders.
I cannot explain the Ozzy picture. Funny?