In Competition No. 2607 you were invited to submit a piece of verbless prose (present participles used as adjectives or nouns were permissible).
‘Invaders, dictators, usurpers of our literature,’ boomed the French writer Michel Thaler in the preface to his verb-free novel Le train de nulle part, published in 2004. His hatred of the doing word was such that he organised a symbolic, and well-attended, burial ceremony for it at the Sorbonne. There was a revolutionary mood in the ranks this week, with mutterings in the entry about the pointlessness of this kind of challenge. But it did produce a lively and varied postbag that was a pleasure to judge. On particularly cracking form were David Silverman, Esdon Frost and Seree Zohar. They were narrowly beaten by the winners, printed below, who get £30 each. Celeste Francis get the bonus fiver.
‘Something of a bloodbath here, Sergeant Greenwell.’
‘Unfortunately so, sir.’
‘Any leads?’
‘Yes, sir. Plus several witnesses. A few with positive sightings of two notorious local gangs, The Nouns and The Verbs; quite a history of violence between them. The same old thing usually: a few taunts, threats, that sort of stuff, then the inevitable scuffle. This time round, however, with some of them in possession of knives… well, a rather darker outcome.’
‘Casualties from both the gangs or just one?’
‘Reputedly just The Verbs, sir. Possibly a complete annihilation of the entire gang, but no confirmation as yet. P Team on full alert though, as a safeguard against potential incoherence of spoken and written language.’
‘P Team, Greenwell?’
‘Extra participles, prepositions and punctuation, sir.’
‘Ah. Good work, Greenwell.’
‘Quite a serious case of verbal abuse, eh, sir?’
‘No crappy jokes, please, Greenwell.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Celeste Francis
Below me, to my right, Gomorrah, a great industrial metropolis, till an hour ago full of noise and bustle and feverish activity, some, sadly, of a kind too coarse for description, an abomination to the eyes of my merciful God, once a city of universal renown, mighty as any east of Eden, and now a desolation of black ashes; and to my left, dark smoke over its once beautiful rooftops, great and powerful Sodom, now just a mess of marble, brick and gopher wood, two cities of the plain, cities of my infancy, cities of commerce and foreign dealings, both in ruins by the hand of the Lord’s righteous angels; and here beside me, O foolishly curious woman, O my lovely wife, now a pillar of salt, lifeless as the sand dunes of the desert, bitter as the tears on my cheeks: why, O why?
Frank McDonald
Dear Mum,
Monastery now incontrovertibly a mistake; mea culpa ha bloody ha and apologies for my stubborn disregard for parental counsel on this. Great mental image here of Dad’s inevitable paroxysms of mirth re Father Ignatius’ latest diktat: a verb embargo till Pentecost. His rationale? Ordinary language’s emphasis on ‘activity’ a manifestation (in the Tonsured Twit’s estimation) of an excessively ‘worldly’ outlook; verbs therefore (!) ‘contrary to the spirit, if not the letter’ of Scripture. (No, really.) The precise scope of the prohibition, moreover, hopelessly vague (surprise, surprise), e.g., whether participles okay unclear; status of gerunds ditto… Upshot: general coenobitic confusion and frustration (nothing new there, then). On the bright side, conversational compliance practically impossible, and hymns, prayers, etc. in abeyance for obvious reasons, so relatively quiet here for once. (Trappism arguably no bad idea, on reflection.) And only 18 months till demob. Regards to Dad and Jilly.
Love, Martin
David Mackie
To the woods after lunch, although crocuses already over this year. Wife dyspeptic due to excess vinegar in my home-made salad dressing, therefore yours truly quite alone. Daffodils in the offing, with many other interesting but unnameable — by me, at any rate — shrubs. Birds in evidence, a robin, some blackbirds, thrushes, nothing remarkable under a cloud-swept sky. Except Samantha, radiant in purple blouse with yellow skirt. Most elevated conversation on subject of Spring and contingent matters. An enjoyable exploration of the issues. Return journey without incident, woodland paths dampish. Son in scullery on my return, his glance at my muddy clothes somewhat quizzical, possibly impertinent. An unnecessarily ostentatious display of binoculars, a suggestive tune on his protuberant lips, a moody silence in answer to my questions. An altogether unsatisfactory encounter, as usual. All efforts in direction of family togetherness at afternoon tea completely futile.
Josh Ekroy
A ridiculous, absurd challenge redolent of a conceited, sexually ambivalent Oxford don on his last legs (thanks to two expensive replacement kneecaps), with an index-linked pension, time on his hands and a pretty undergraduate in his head — indisputable evidence, surely, of a failure of inspiration of catastrophic proportions, especially in the context of a top-flight current affairs magazine with a readership (intelligent, witty and aware) numerically far in excess of traditional left-wing rivals such as the New Statesman and Asian Babes. And yet, in another way, why not? A perfectly pointless puzzle perhaps (although with opportunities for the deft display of any number of artfully amusing alliterations) but still, for many of the almost comically compulsive competitors, a testing exercise of verbal and mental ingenuity and therefore, for that reason alone, a worthwhile activity — particularly in the light of the alternative, namely hour after hour of daytime television chat shows.
J.C.H. Mounsey
No. 2610: How the other half lives
You are invited to submit an extract from the diary of the partner of a famous person, past or present (150 words maximum and please stipulate famous person). Entries to ‘Competition 2610’ by midday on 19 August or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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