Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

Second-Street Chippendale,

Chinese Sofa,

Wand’ring Heart,

“Mischianza,”

Northern Liberties,

Spring Garden

Germa...

Tenebræ

Philadelphia Pudding

we were putting a line straight through the heart of the Wilderness, eight yards wide and due west, in order to separate two Proprietorships, granted when the World was yet feudal and but eight years later to be nullified by the War for Independence.”

‘Grape or Grain, but ne’er the Twain,’ as me Great-Uncle George observ’d to me more than once,— ‘Vine with Corn, beware the Morn.’

All at once, out of the Murk, a dozen mirror’d Lanthorns have leapt alight together, as into their Glare now strolls a somewhat dishevel’d Norfolk Terrier, with a raffish Gleam in its eye,— whilst from somewhere less illuminate comes a sprightly Overture upon Horn, Clarinet, and Cello, in time to which the Dog steps back and forth in his bright Ambit.

Ask me anything you please, The Learnèd English Dog am I, well- Up on ev’rything from Fleas Unto the King’s Mon-og-am-eye, Persian Princes, Polish Blintzes, Chinamen’s Geo-mancy,— Jump-ing Beans or Flying Machines, Just as it suits your Fan-cy. I quote enough of the Classickal Stuff To set your Ears a-throb, Work logarith-mick Versèd Sines Withal, within me Nob, — Only nothing Ministerial, please, Or I’m apt to lose m’ Job, As, the Learnèd English Dog, to-ni-ight!

What is the Integral of One over (Book) d (Book)?

Magnetickal Stupor, as Mesmerites might term

After allowing him to rattle for a full minute, the Dog sighs deeply. “See me later, out in back.”

Isn’t it worth looking ridiculous, at least to investigate this English Dog, for its obvious bearing upon Metempsychosis if nought else,— ”

“Gentlemen,” in a whisper out of a dark corner. “If you’ll keep your voices down, I’ll be with you in a trice.” Slowly into their shifting spill of lantern-light, tongue a-loll, comes the Dog, who pauses to yawn, nods, “Good evening to ye,” and leads them at a trot out of the stables, out of the courtyard, and down the street, pausing now and then for nasal inquiries.

“This seems to be all right.” The Learnèd English Dog stops and pisses.

’Tis a sudden, large Son of Neptune, backed by an uncertain number of comparably drunken Shipmates. “You’ve an interest in this Dog here?”

I’m Fender-Belly Bodine, Captain of the Foretop, and these are my Mates,—” Cheering. “— But you can call me Fender.

there’s a million islands out there, each more likely than the last, and I tell you a handful of Sailors with their wits about them, and that talking Dog to keep the Savages amused, why, we could be kings.”

“Rrrrrraahff! Excuse me?” says the Learnèd D., “as I seem to be the Topick here, I do feel impelled, to make an Observation?” “That’s all right, then, Fido,” Bodine making vague petting motions, “— trust us, there’s a good bow-wow.

The Dog pushes Mason’s Leg with his Head. “We may not have another chance to chat, even upon the Fly.”

Have you a soul,— that is, are you a human Spirit, re-incarnate as a Dog?”

The L.E.D. blinks, shivers, nods in a resign’d way. “You are hardly the first to ask. Travelers return’d from the Japanese Islands tell of certain religious Puzzles known as Koan, perhaps the most fam’d of which concerns your very Question,— whether a Dog hath the nature of the divine Buddha. A reply given by a certain very wise Master is, ‘Mu!’

But please do not come to the Learnèd English Dog if it’s religious Comfort you’re after. I may be præternatural, but I am not supernatural.

There is ever an Explanation at hand, and no such thing as a Talking Dog,— Talking Dogs belong with Dragons and Unicorns.

“Oh I say, Dog in Palm Leaf, what nonsense,” comments one of the Lunarians, “— really, far too sensitive, I mean really, Dog? In Palm Leaf? Civiliz’d Humans have better things to do than go about drooling after Dog in Palm Leaf or whatever, don’t we Algernon?”

Terrier, head cocked in some Annoyance, “not keep saying that? I do not say things like, ‘Macaroni Italian Style,’ do I, nor ‘Fop Fricasée,’—

“Tho’ your weapon put me under some Handicap,” points out the Dog, “in fairness, I should mention my late feelings of Aversion to water? Which may, as you know, signal the onset of the Hydrophobia.

“Nice doggie!”“ ’Ere,— me last iced Cake, that me Mum sent me all ’e way from Bahf. You take i’.” “What think yese? I’ll give two to one the Fop’s Blood’ll be first to show.”

The Dog has begun to pace back and forth. “I am a British Dog, Sir. No one owns me.”

“We were wondering, Ma’am,” Bodine with his hat off, quavering angelically, “would the li’oo Doggie be for sale?”

“Do not oppose her,” Jellow advises, “for she is a first-rate of an hundred Guns, and her Broadside is Annihilation.”

“Oh dear,” Bodine putting his hat back on and sighing. “Apologies, Sir and Madam, and much Happiness of your Dog.”

“Damme, they’d better,” grumphs the Dog, as if to himself.

“How about a slug into y’r Breadroom, there, Fido?” “Pray you, call me Fang. . . . Well, and yes I do like a drop of Roll-me-in-the-Kennel now and then. . .

Welsh Main

The Learnèd D., drawn by the smell of Blood in the Cock-Pit, tries to act nonchalant, but what can they expect of him? How is he supposed to ignore this pure Edge of blood-love? Oh yawn yes of course, seen it all before, birds slashing one another to death, sixteen go in, one comes out alive, indeed mm-hmm, and a jolly time betwixt, whilst the Substance we are not supposed to acknowledge drips and flies ev’rywhere. . . . “There, Learnèd,” calls Mrs. Jellow brusquely, “we must leave the birds to their Work.”

At length the Dog halts, having led them to where, residing half out of doors, fram’d in cabl’d timbers wash’d in from a wreck of long ago, an old piece of awning held by a gnaw’d split, ancient Euphroe between her and the sky with its varied Menace, sits Dark Hepsie, the Pythoness of the Point. “Here,” the Dog butting at Mason, “here is the one you must see.”

At the same time, he smoaks that the Learnèd English D.,— or Fang, as now he apparently wishes to be known,— in introducing them thus, is pursuing an entirely personal End.

“Just what you said last time,” the Dog shaking his head reprovingly. “Here, then,— a Sacrifice, direct from me own meager Mess, a bit of stew’d Hen,— ’tis the best I can do for ye today.”

The Learnèd One has yet to sink quite that low.” The Dog, with an expressive swing of his Head, makes a dignified Exit, no more than one wag of the Tail per step.

La Changhaienne.

Trying not to bark, Capt. Smith replied, “What’s your name, sailor?” “By some I be styl’d, ‘Blinky.’ And who might you be?” “Attend me, Blinky,— I am the Captain of this Vessel.” “Well,” advised the young salt, “you’ve got a good job,— don’t fuck up.”

1759, upon whose Ides of March Dr. Johnson happen’d to remark, “No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail; for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.”

Eques Sit Æquus.

your ship’s Motto to mean, ‘Let the Sea-Knight who would command this Sea-Horse be ever fair-minded,’— ”

Ancestor of Troubles,—