this is Le Brum

My name is Grigor Ian Snelschadt Grigory.  I was born, somewhat regrettably, Allen Anderson and forced to come up with a more civilized name for myself as I was my own civilized way of thinking.  I am chiefly an existentialist, though also a nihilist, agnostic, atheist, humanist, and simply a lover of the human race and endeavors of the soul.

I was born and raised in the South, which was difficult as a northerner, a civilized and cultured man.  There was the heat, first and foremost.  I was unable to wear any of my cardigans, save two or three months a year, and my jackets and sweaters; it was almost unbearable to dawn my woolen socks.  There was never ample time to brood, as brooding is best done in the cold with a cigar and a glass of scotch, squinting into the harsh winds.  My type of thought, which some have called “cultured,” or “advanced,” or “poetic,” though I make no such claims myself, requires this particular setting and atmosphere for reasons that are obvious, if not proven through history and Literature.  So I was forced to find a way to do these things on my own, without the help of a naturally horrible climate to alter my mood.

Sure, there were rainy days, and days when the sky was covered in grey, luminous clouds as might only be found sufficiently in London (I have spent considerable time there).  But these were accompanied always by a moisturous heat that made it impossible to breathe correctly, thus the cigar was not a viable option.  And scotch!  In the heat!  Why, all you could find in these parts were perhaps a margarita, or a Corona—certainly nothing anyone civilized would accept for their particular purposes.

Oh! how I recall those summer days: such agony!  The brutes in these parts would run about, half-naked in the sun, with their wretched smiles and base abuse of their body’s endorphins.  It is almost impossible to describe to civilized peoples their activities, their “frizbees,” I believe they are called—they would spend hours on boats (and not, mind you, the type of boat that a Hemingway or some other may write beautifully or poetically about, but rather, a very base boat, in which debauchery and sins against the mind and body were often perpetrated) drinking beers and eating chips and pizza: nothing worthy of the developed, refined tastes of gentlemen.

Their women, as is rumored, were quite remarkable.  Breasts—Oh, the breasts.  And legs which I could admire with the mind of an artist, hair that was not unreminiscent  of grass in the fall which has died and shriveled and turned some yellow- or brown-ish color, as it does in these lovely parts.  But these, too, were mere fanciful creatures, no depth hidden behind their eyes.  They would turn away my affection, unable to comprehend the poetry which I would spout to them gracefully, even if it was terribly aggrandizing in respect to themselves, which women naturally are drawn to.

I recall one lady—if I may call her such—who I had mine eye on for a quite while.  We found ourselves alone one evening, and I said to her—this is literally what I said, I’m not dressing it up for fancy, I really said such things—I said to her:  “My darling, I am like the rain that settles on the city streets at night that glows beneath the street-lights, and you are the magnificent green of a new spring.”  On and on in such a fashion, so as to say that although I am quite more contemplative a soul than you, and concern myself with greater matters, I could quite use someone so well-versed in the pleasures of the earth and with such remarkable beauty, and on and on, and once I was through and lunged at her, as is the proper way of going about it, she abruptly sprang her neck backward at such a rate that I am almost certain she must have injured some vertebrate, which would also account for her refusing to stay in my home that evening, despite her reasonable drunkenness, as I am sure she had some remedy, some wooden board or something of the such, which she thought would help her heal faster, and thus staying in my bed would have just prolonged the healing process and made things quite worse, at least this is her reasoning, you understand.

No, these women were not privvy to the modern cultured procedure of things, but were quite base, as were all of their male counterparts, who would parade around like monkeys, drinking and behaving like children, like children monkeys who had learned some base human emotions.  Their rejection of me and my civility, my cul-cher-ay-mon, as the French say, did, however, allow me to spend more time with my self, with my sorrow, and with my soul.  These things all established in me a foundation for what would later be known as my great works, my chief endeavors and contributions to the world of literature, philosophy, science, mathematics, and religion.

My first novel, Winds of the Contrary Sort, immediately propelled me into the ranks of the great writers of our time.  I should say, however, that I was also propelled to the ranks of the great writers of other times as well.  I first moved home, to the North, shortly afterward, where I was greeted by people I found much more honorable, noble, who said little to nothing of their masturbatory habits in social settings and had developed what is called a “pallot” for things like wine and scotch and cigars and women.  Pinot noir, and such.  This is the time in my life when I became able to produce much more work, whether it was because of the harsh cold and sheer worldly brutality of the North or simply because my mind had blossomed into its full beauty and alluredness.

My next work was The Murder of the Fowl Soul, followed by Prisons and Darkness in the Mind and Oceans of Solitude, all of which you may find in nearly every library at any University (real University, that is) in the Nation.  Whilst I was writing these great pieces I fell in love for the first time upon seeing myself in a mirror after I had bathed for around nine hours, part of a health-cleansing procedure, and I now carry a mirror with me everywhere.

I have not recounted these trials of mine own nor my early accomplishments simply to glorify myself, but rather

As I find it quite difficult to conclude this piece of work, I will leave the reader simply with the most prominent piece of wisdom I have discovered in my arduous life.  It is from a book of poetry which I hold very close to my heart, the first book of poetry that I had published.  It follows:

Love not thine own

For thine own is not

To Love but to hold

In one’s own

And the Light which may befall

Upon the Light of One’s own Love

Dost thus then forego to befall

The Light of the Love

Which hast and hath and doth

And will for all

And before all.

Grigor Ian Snelshadt Grigory died at the age of 28 in a plain crash on his first trip to London, England, which was to be followed by a life spent in Siberia.  His journal, My Arduous Life in Siberia, was published posthumously.