I didn't quite hear that, did you say that those with tinnitus are likely to be trans?
CXRAndy ... the being whose name convinces us he is half man half bicycle, and who asks us to consider his words just as the sergeant who knows about such matters as splitting the atom ...
“Did you ever discover or hear tell of the atomic theory?” the sergeant inquired.
“No,” I answered.
He leaned his mouth confidentially over to my ear. “Would it surprise you to be told,” he said darkly, “that the atomic theory is at work in this parish?”
“It would indeed.”
“It is doing untold destruction,” he continued, “the half of the people are suffering from it; it is worse than the smallpox.”
He walked on, looking worried and preoccupied, as if what he was examining in his head was unpleasant in a very intricate way.
“The atomic theory,” I sallied, “is a thing that is not clear to me at all.”
“Michael Gilhaney,” said the sergeant, “is an example of a man that is nearly banjaxed from the principle of the atomic theory.
Would it astonish you to hear that he is nearly half a bicycle?”
“It would surprise me unconditionally,” I said.
“Michael Gilhaney,” said the sergeant, “is nearly sixty years of age by plain computation and if he is itself, he has spent no less than thirty-five years riding his bicycle over the rocky roadsteads and up and down the hills and into the deep ditches when the road goes astray in the strain of the winter. He is always going to a particular destination or other on his bicycle at every hour of the day or coming back from there at every other hour. If it wasn’t that his bicycle was stolen every Monday he would be sure to be more than halfway now.”
“Halfway to where?”
“Halfway to being a bicycle himself,” said the sergeant.
“Your talk,” I said, “is surely the handiwork of wisdom because not one word of it do I understand.”
“Did you never study atomics when you were a lad?” asked the sergeant, giving me a look of great inquiry and surprise.
“No,” I answered.
“That is a very serious defalcation,” he said, “but all the same I will tell you the size of it. Everything is composed of small particles of itself, and they are flying around in concentric circles and arcs and segments and innumerable other geometrical figures too numerous to mention collectively, never standing still or resting but spinning away and darting hither and thither and back again, all the time on the go. These diminutive gentlemen are called atoms. Do you follow me intelligently?”
“Yes.”
“They are lively as twenty leprechauns doing a jig on top of a tombstone.”
“Now take a sheep,” the sergeant said. “What is a sheep, only millions of little bits of sheepness whirling around and doing intricate convolutions inside the sheep? What else is it but that?”
“That would be bound to make the beast dizzy,” I observed, “especially if the whirling was going on inside the head as well.”
The sergeant gave me a look which I am sure he himself would describe as one of
non-possum [I can’t] and
noli-me-tangere [don’t touch me].
“That remark is what may well be called buncombe,” he said sharply, “because the nerve strings and the sheep’s head itself are whirling into the same bargain, and you can cancel out one whirl against the other, and there you are—like simplifying a division sum when you have fives above and below the bar.”
“To say the truth, I did not think of that,” I said.
“Atomics is a very intricate theorem and can be worked out with algebra, but you would want to take it by degrees, because you might spend the whole night proving a bit of it with rulers and cosines and similar other instruments and then at the windup not believe what you had proved at all. If that happened, you would have to go back over it till you got a place where you could believe your own facts and figures and then go on again from that particular place till you had the whole thing properly believed and not have bits of it half-believed or a doubt in your head hurting you like when you lose the stud of your shirt in bed.”
“Very true,” I said.
“Consecutively and consequentially,” he continued, “you can safely infer that you are made of atoms yourself and so is your fob pocket and the tail of your shirt and the instrument you use for taking the leavings out of the crook of your hollow tooth. Do you happen to know what takes place when you strike a bar of iron with a good coal hammer or with a blunt instrument?”
“What?”
“When the wallop falls, the atoms are bashed away down to the bottom of the bar and compressed and crowded there like eggs under a good clucker. After a while in the course of time they swim around and get back at last to where they were. But if you keep hitting the bar long enough and hard enough they do not get a chance to do this, and what happens then?”
“That is a hard question.”
“Ask a blacksmith for the true answer and he will tell you that the bar will dissipate itself away by degrees if you persevere with the hard wallops. Some of the atoms of the bar will go into the hammer, and the other half into the table or the stone or the particular article that is underneath the bottom of the bar.” “That is well-known,” I agreed.
“The gross and net result of it is that people who spend most of their natural lives riding iron bicycles over the rocky roadsteads of this parish get their personalities mixed up with the personalities of their bicycle as a result of the interchanging of the atoms of each of them, and you would be surprised at the number of people in these parts who nearly are half people and half bicycles.
I let go a gasp of astonishment that made a sound in the air like a bad puncture.
“And you would be flabbergasted at the number of bicycles that are half human, almost half man, half partaking of humanity.’
CONTRIBUTOR
From
The Third Policeman. Born Brian Ó Nualláin in Ireland in 1911, the author published his novels—among them
At Swim-Two-Birds and
The Hard Life—using the pseudonym Flann O’Brien and his newspaper column for the
Irish Times, which ran for twenty-six years, using the pseudonym Myles nag Copaleen. He also served in the Irish civil service from 1935 to 1953. O’Brien died of a heart attack in 1966.
The Third Policeman, the novel he had completed in 1940 but could not get published, appeared posthumously.