O. Henry's novel Confessions of a Humorist

"Confessions of a Humorist"

A painless incubation period lasted in me for twenty-five years, and then a sudden attack occurred, and people said I had the disease.

But instead of calling it measles, they call it humor.

The employees in the company pooled their resources to buy a silver ink stand to congratulate the manager on his fiftieth birthday. We crowded into his private office to give it to him.

I was selected as the spokesperson and gave a short congratulatory message that I had prepared for a week.

The remark was so successful, full of aphorisms, puns and ridiculous far-fetchedness, that the company almost fell over with laughter--in the hardware wholesale industry, it was quite prosperous. Old Marlowe himself actually grinned, and the staff immediately followed suit and burst into laughter.

My reputation as a humorist began at half past nine that morning.

For weeks afterward, colleagues fanned the flames of complacency in me. They came up to me one by one and told me what a witty thing I said, man, and explained to me every witty point in it.

I gradually realized that they expected me to continue. Others can talk seriously about business and the important events of the day, but I ask for some funny and light-hearted words.

People expect me to make fun of pottery and make the digs about enamel easier. I'm the bookkeeper, and if I pull out a balance sheet without making some funny comment about the totals, or find something funny on a plow invoice, the other clerks get upset. disappointment.

My reputation gradually spread and I became a local "celebrity". Our town is small, so this is a possibility. I am often quoted in local dailies. I am indispensable at social gatherings.

I believe that I am indeed a bit clever and adaptable. I intentionally cultivate this gift and develop it through practice. The nature of my jokes is kind and friendly, never sarcastic or making others angry. People always smile when they see me, and by the time I get closer, I've probably already thought of a wisecrack to turn their smile into a laugh.

I got married relatively young. We have a lovely three-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl. Of course, we lived a happy life in a small house with vines on the walls. My job as a bookkeeper for a hardware company didn't pay very well, but it kept away the bad guys who were chasing after excess wealth.

I occasionally write jokes and random musings that I think are particularly funny and send them to publications that publish such works. They were all adopted immediately. Several editors also wrote to encourage me to continue submitting manuscripts.

One day, the editor of a famous weekly magazine sent me a letter. He suggested that I write a humorous article to fill a column; and hinted that if the effect was satisfactory, he would publish a column in each issue. I did. Two weeks later, he offered to sign a contract with me that would pay me much more than what the hardware company was offering me.

I am very happy. My wife has crowned me in her mind with an immortal crown of literary achievement. For dinner that night, we had shrimp fritters and a bottle of blackberry wine. This was my chance to escape the monotony of my job. I studied the matter with Louisa very carefully. We all agreed that we should quit our corporate positions and specialize in humor.

I resigned. My colleagues gave me a farewell banquet. My speech at the banquet was very brilliant. The full text of the newspaper was published. The next morning, I woke up and looked at the clock.

"Oh, it's too late!" I shouted and went to grab my clothes. Luisa reminded me that now I am no longer a slave to hardware and construction materials, but a professional humorist.

After breakfast, she proudly took me to a small room next to the kitchen. Lovely woman! My table, chairs, manuscript paper, ink, and ashtray are all set up. There’s also the full writer’s accoutrement—a vase filled with fresh roses and honeysuckle, last year’s calendar on the wall, a dictionary, and a small bag of chocolates to munch on in between moments of inspiration. Lovely woman!

I sit down to work. The pattern of the wallpaper was arabesques, or a sultan's odalisque, or—perhaps a quadrilateral. My eyes were fixed on one of the patterns. I thought about humor.

A voice woke me up—Louisa's voice.

"If you're not too busy, dear," the voice said, "come and eat."

I looked at my watch.

Alas, Father Time has taken back five hours. I went to eat.

"You shouldn't work too hard at the beginning," Louisa said. "Goethe—or Napoleon?—once said that five hours a day of mental work is enough. Could you take me and the children to play in the woods this afternoon?"

"I do A little tired." I admitted. So we went to the woods.

After a while, I was going well. Within a month, my products were as steady as hardware.

I am still very successful. My weekly column attracted attention, and critics whispered that I was a new kid on the humor scene. I contributed articles to other publications, which greatly increased my income.

I found the secret to this business. I could take a funny idea, turn it into a two-line joke, and make a buck. With a slight change of appearance, it can be stretched into four rows to double the output value. If you flip through the lines, add a little rhyme decoration and a beautiful illustration, it becomes a witty satire, and you have no way of recognizing its true colors.

I started to have extra money, and we bought new carpets and an organ. The people in the town also looked at me differently and regarded me as a person of some status; unlike before, when I was working as a clerk in a hardware company, they only regarded me as a funny character with no significance.

After five or six months, my humor seemed to be drying up. Puns and wisecracks no longer fly off the tongue. Sometimes my material panics. I started paying attention to what my friends were saying, hoping to glean something useful from them. Sometimes I would stare at the wallpaper for hours with my pencil between my teeth, searching for some rough, cheerful and witty bubble.

To my friends, I became a Greed, a Morlock, Jonah, and a vampire. I was exhausted both mentally and physically, and I was really spoiling their fun by staying among them greedily. As soon as a clever word, a funny metaphor, or some witty words escape their lips, I pounce on them like a dog grabbing a bone. I didn't dare to trust my memory, so I turned around secretly and shamefully used it to write it down in a small notebook that I never left without, or write it down on the sleeve of a hard, starched shirt for future use.

[Mollock was the god of fire believed by the ancient Phoenicians and used children as sacrifices; Jonah was the Hebrew prophet who brought doom. ]

My friends looked at me with pity and surprise. I am a completely different person. Where before I had provided them with entertainment and pleasure, now I was exploiting them. I have no more jokes for them to laugh at. Jokes are too precious to give away my livelihood for free.

I became the pathetic fox in the fable, always praising the songs of my friends, the crows, hoping that their mouths would drop the crumbs of humor I coveted.

Almost everyone started to avoid me. I even forgot how to smile, even if I heard the words I wanted to steal, I would not smile back.

When I was collecting information, no one person, one place, one period of time, or one topic was spared. Even in church my depraved imagination pursued its prey among the solemn aisles and colonnades.

When the pastor recited the long rhyme hymn, I immediately thought:

"The hymn - Litigator - Bao Lili - Long rhyme - Chang Ying - Shao The more you lose, the more you win."

The sermon passed through the sieve of my mind, and whenever I could find a witticism or a wisecrack, the pastor's admonishment slipped through without a care. The solemn hymns of the choir also became an accompaniment to my thoughts, for all I could think of was how to give new variations to old burlesques, just as the high notes were changed into basses, and the basses into altos.

My own family has become a hunting ground. My wife is very gentle, open, compassionate and excitable. Her conversations were my pleasure, her thoughts an inexhaustible source of pleasure. Now I took advantage of her. She contains the ridiculous and lovely contradictory thoughts unique to women.

These treasures of simplicity and humor, which should only be used to enrich the sacred family life, I have put for sale. I encouraged her to talk very cunningly, and she revealed everything that was on her mind without raising any suspicion. I put it out into the world in ruthless, banal, and revealing print.

I kissed her and betrayed her at the same time, becoming the Judas of literature. For a few silver dollars I put her lovely frankness in boring culottes and let them dance in the market.

Dear Louisa! At night, like a cruel wolf spying on a soft lamb, I listened to her murmurs in her sleep, hoping to find some inspiration for my hard work tomorrow. But the worse was yet to come.

Oh my God! Next, my long teeth sank into the neck of my child's childish language.

Guy and Viola are two sources of childish and lovely thoughts and words. I discovered that this type of humor was selling well, so I offered a column of "Childhood Memories" to a magazine. I stalked them like an Indian stalking an antelope. I would hide on the sofa or behind the door, or lie in the middle of the trees in the garden, eavesdropping on their play and laughter. I became a completely ruthless greedy man.

Once, when I was at the end of my rope and my manuscript had to be sent out in the next mail, I hid under a pile of fallen leaves in the garden, where I knew they would play. I don't believe that Guy would have discovered where I was hiding, and even if he had, I wouldn't blame him for setting a fire on the pile of dead leaves, destroying my new set of clothes, and giving me a few pieces of money as a gift. life.

My own children began to avoid me like the plague. When I hid from them like a scary ghoul, I always heard them say, "Here comes Daddy." They immediately put away their toys and hid somewhere safer. What a pathetic character I have become!

I am not doing badly financially. In less than a year, I saved a thousand yuan and we were living comfortably.

But what a price it cost! I don’t know what the untouchables in India are like, but I seem to be no different from the untouchables. I had no friends, no entertainment, no joy in life. My family happiness was also ruined. I am like a bee, greedily sucking the most beautiful flower of life, but the flower of life is afraid and avoids my sting.

One day, someone greeted me with a pleasant and friendly smile. I haven't had anything like this happen to me in months. The other day I walked past the Peter Hefferbauer Funeral Home. Peter stood in the door and greeted me. I felt a strange sadness and stopped. He invited me in.

It was a cold and rainy day, and we walked into the back room, where a small stove lit a fire. A customer came and Peter left me alone for a while. I immediately had a new feeling - a wonderful feeling of tranquility and contentment. I looked around at the rows of gleaming black rosewood coffins, black coffin robes, coffin stands, hearse dusters, funeral flags, and all the equipment of this solemn industry. The atmosphere here is peaceful, orderly, and quiet, containing solemn thoughts. It is at the edge of life, a secluded place shrouded in eternal silence.

As soon as I walked in here, the folly of the world parted with me at the door. In this sombre and solemn environment, I had no interest in thinking about humor. My soul seems to be lying comfortably on a bed covered with thoughts.

A quarter of an hour ago, I was a estranged humorist. Now I am a contented philosopher. I found a refuge from humor, where I didn't have to rack my brain to find a sarcastic joke, to be polite and charming, or to search for a surprising punchline.

I was not very familiar with Hefferbauer before. When he returned, I allowed him to speak first, lest his conversation should be inconsistent with the elegiac harmony of the place.

But, no. He in no way disturbs this harmony. I let out a long sigh of relief. I have never known anyone in my life who spoke as plainly as Peter. Compared with him, even the Dead Sea can be regarded as a fountain. There is not a spark or flash of wit to mar his language. The words that came out of his mouth were as ordinary as air, as rich as a blackberry, and as unobtrusive as the ticker tape from a week ago. I was shaking slightly with excitement and tried my favorite joke on him. It bounced back silently, losing all its edge. I've liked this guy since then.

Two or three nights a week I would sneak over to Hefferbauer and wallow in his back room. That became my only pleasure. I began to get up earlier and rush through work so that I could spend more time in my resting place. Nowhere else could I abandon the habit of extorting humor from my surroundings. Peter's conversation was different. No matter how hard I tried to siege, I couldn't open a gap.

Under this influence, my spirits began to improve. Everyone needs a little entertainment to relieve the fatigue of work.

Nowadays, when I meet my former friends on the street, I smile at them or say a pleasant word to them, which surprises them. Sometimes I even joke with my family members in a cheerful mood, which makes them dumbfounded.

I have been tortured by the devil of humor for so long that I now miss my rest days like a primary school student.

My work has been affected. For me, work is no longer the painful and heavy burden it once was. I often whistle while working, and my mind is much freer than before. The reason was that I wanted to finish my work early and was as anxious as a drunkard to a hotel to get to some retreat that would be good for me.

My wife is preoccupied and has no idea where I am going to spend my afternoon. I thought it best not to tell her; women don't understand this sort of thing. Poor woman! - She was really frightened once.

One day I brought home a silver coffin handle and a fluffy hearse duster, intending them to be used as paperweights and feather dusters.

I love putting them on the table to think of the lovely back room of Hefferbauer's shop. But Louisa saw it. She screamed in fear. I had to come up with random excuses to comfort her. But I saw in her eyes that she had not dispelled the stereotype. I had to quickly remove these two items.

Once, Peter Hefferbauer made a suggestion to me that made me overjoyed. In his usual down-to-earth manner, he showed me his account books and explained to me that his profits and career were growing rapidly. He plans to find a shareholder willing to invest. Of all the people he knew, he found me the most ideal. When Peter and I parted that afternoon, Peter had already received a check from my bank account for a thousand dollars, and I became a shareholder in his funeral home.

I returned home feeling elated, but also a little worried. I was afraid to tell my wife about this. But I was indescribably happy. Because I can give up the creation of humor and enjoy the apple of life again without having to squeeze it to a pulp and squeeze out a few drops of apple juice to make people laugh-what a pleasure that will be!

At supper Louisa handed me some letters which she had received in my absence. Several were rejection letters. Since I started going to Heverbow Fisheries regularly, I've had an alarming amount of rejection letters. I ended up writing jokes and articles very quickly, and my writing skills were very sharp. Before, I pieced it together slowly and painfully like laying bricks.

One of the letters was from the editor of a weekly with whom I have a long-term contract. Currently, our family’s main income is the remuneration from that weekly. I will open the letter first. The content is as follows:

Informer:

The annual contract signed between our company and you has expired this month. We feel it is necessary to inform you that we will no longer plan to renew your subscription next year, and we are deeply sorry. Your previous humorous style satisfied us and was welcomed by readers. However, in the past two months, we believe that the quality of manuscripts has declined significantly.

Your previous works showed the wit and humor of being able to adapt to both directions and galloping freely, but recently it seems that you are struggling to conceive, struggling to cope, stretched, and difficult to read.

We apologize again and inform you that we do not intend to accept your manuscripts in the future. We hope for your understanding.

Sincerely, Editor

I hand this letter to my wife. After she saw it, her face became very elongated and her eyes filled with tears.

"Despicable guy!" she shouted angrily. "I bet your writing is as good as ever. And it takes you less than half the time." At that moment, I guessed Louisa was thinking about the checks that would never come in the mail. "Oh, John," she said with a tearful voice, "what are you going to do now?"

I didn't answer, but stood up and danced a polka dance around the dinner table. I am sure Louisa thought the sad news drove me crazy; I think the children wished me crazy, for they followed me, pulling and pulling, imitating my steps. Now I am like their old playmate again.

"Let's go to the theater tonight!" I shouted, "We must go. After the play, we will go to the Royal Hotel for a big meal. Lempti-diddle-dee-dee ——Di——Deng!”

So I explained the reason for my joy and announced that I was already a partner in a well-established funeral home. Jokes and humor be damned.

My wife, who holds the editor's letter in her hand, can certainly not say that I did anything wrong, nor can she give any reason to object, other than that women are incapable of appreciating Peter Heffer - no, now It was Heffle-Bauer AG - what a wonderful place that little room behind the funeral parlor was.

As a conclusion, I would like to add one more point. You won't find anyone in our town today who's more popular, happier, and who makes more jokes than I do. I couldn't ask for a more popular joke, a happier person, and more jokes than me. My jokes were once again circulated and quoted; once more I listened with interest to my wife's confiding whispers without any thought of profit; Guy and Viola played at my knees, spreading treasures of childish humour, They are no longer afraid of me holding a pamphlet and staring at their backs like a devil.

Our business is very prosperous. I kept the accounts and looked after the store, and Peter did the field work. He said my breezy spirit was enough to turn any funeral into an Irish memorial feast.

Hope to adopt!