Touchstone (Meridian Series) Read Online Free PDF

it’s
my own,
           It matters little how
absurd
                   My thesis may be
shown.
     
           I sometimes carry on for
hours
                   When no one’s
there but me,
           It works to hone my native
powers
                   Of smart
loquacity.
     
           But often, when I  listen
to
                   Myself, I am so
clever,
           That what I say remains incom-
                   Prehensible
forever.
          
    With a flourish, he dropped the
napkin on the table, paused briefly, bowed, and delighted applause broke from the
listeners. Gilbert nodded and clapped, and rose to his feet.
    “Very clever, indeed, Mr. Wilde.
Self-deprecation is the surest source of humor. Your lines and words are short,
the rhythm is rollicking, and you have a satisfactory ending…all in all a workmanlike
production. Writing for the musical theatre, you may want to use a longer line,
for the sake of your melodist. Do you maintain this is the inspiration of the
Muse or a vision of heaven?”
    “A vision of heaven to the
extent it describes me, I am sure!” Wilde drawled. “I make no extravagant
claims for this trifle. Indeed, this club is hardly the Sanctum of Beauty; I am
working at a considerable disadvantage here. But let us see what you have
written – an aesthetic quatrain perhaps?”
    Gilbert grasped his hands
together, and pressed them to his bosom. He looked up wistfully into the vague
middle distance, heaved a deep breath and sighed.
     
           “Ah, to be wafted away
                   “From this black Aceldama of sorrow,
           “Where the dust of an
earthly today
                   “Is the earth of
a dusty tomorrow!”
     
    He dropped his hands, lowered
his eyes for a moment, then bobbed his head up with a huge grin. His cronies
burst into applause, and howled at Wilde’s clique, who were not quite certain
how to take it.
    “Is that feeling? Is that
sensitive, Mr. Wilde? As Captain Corcoran says: Though I’m anything but clever,
I can talk like that forever!”
    Wilde’s grin equaled Gilbert’s.
“Mr. Nordhausen,  Gilbert’s verse is surely inspired. I wish I had said that!”
    Gilbert rejoined, “You will,
Oscar, you will!”
    Both men turned again to
Nordhausen.
    “So, Mr. Nordhausen, who is the
victor? Who wins the golden apple of the Hesperides?” 
    Nordhausen despaired.
    “You gentlemen have given me
quite a challenge. Give me five minutes on the glass, and I will award the prize.”
    “Fair enough!”
    Nordhausen retired from the
group. What on earth was he to say? How could he make a critical evaluation of
Oscar Wilde, just out of college, with his entire output ahead of him. Could he
say anything which might help the poor man in the horrible future he was going
to find? What if he said the wrong thing, and put off Wilde from comedy
entirely? That would change everything! 
    He didn’t imagine Gilbert was as
sensitive as Wilde, but how could he judge a man who had taken the world by storm
and would churn out brilliant hit after brilliant hit for the next couple
decades?
    He dug into his pocket and took
a pull of Miss Plimsy’s. Thank you, Mr. Curtis. A bit of chemical eloquence. Brrrrr….
nasty stuff straight out of the bottle. And the pesky numbness in the mouth.
He’d have to articulate carefully.
    He heard the ding, and Gilbert
called to him. He nervously walked over to the table, where the entire group,
as one, stared at him.
    Gilbert handed him a fresh
brandy, which he slogged to rinse out Miss Plimsy’s potion. Wilde, the wild
Irishman, drank whiskey.
    It was show time.
    “Mr. Gilbert,” he bowed, “Mr.
Wilde,” he turned and bowed.
    “This is a hard task you have
given me. If I understand it, Mr. Wilde maintains that Art is inspired by a
Muse, that it comes through us from something above and beyond, and that the
artist drifts with every