The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next, #1)

by Jasper Fforde

“Do you know how the Duke of Wellington died?” “Sure,” I answered. “He was shot by a French sniper during the opening stages of the Battle of Waterloo. Why?”

“SO-3?” I repeated. “What do they do?” “Weird Stuff.” “I thought SO-2 did Weird Stuff?” “SO-2 do Weirder Stuff. I asked him but he never got around to answering—we were kind of busy. Look at this.”

“What about Keens? He could handle something as big as this.” “Milton’s no longer with us.

Like any other big government department, it looks good on paper but is an utter shambles. Petty infighting and political agendas, arrogance and sheer bloody-mindedness almost guarantees that the left hand doesn’t know what the right is doing.

“I want you to go back to your desk and have a long calm think about this. Have a cup of coffee and a bun. No, have two buns. Don’t make any rash decisions, and just run through all the pros and cons of the argument. When you’ve done that I would be happy to adjudicate. Do you understand?”

this is Buckett.

A Bleak House reference

“Bloody Baconians!” “Steady,” I replied, “it’s not illegal.” “More’s the pity.”

The Baconian was not to be put off. He obviously liked fighting a poor argument; in real life he was most likely a personal accident barrister.

My Uncle Mycroft was giving a lecture at Bradford University on his remarkable mathematical work regarding game theory, the most practical side of which allowed one to win at Snakes and Ladders every time.

He must have known, almost instinctively, that the little girl who had momentarily appeared at the bottom of page eighty-one was unfettered by the rigidity of the narrative. He knew that he could stretch the boundaries of the story a small amount, sniffing along one side of the lane or the other since it wasn’t specified; but if the text stated that he had to bark or run around or jump up, then he was obliged to comply. It was a long and repetitive existence, which made the rare appearances of people like me that much more enjoyable.

and I had been under his command the day the Light Armored Brigade had advanced into the Russian guns in error as they sought to repulse an attack on Balaclava.

Out of the 534 soldiers involved, 51 survived, only 8 of them completely uninjured.

The Will-Speak machine—officially known as a Shakespeare Soliloquy Vending Automaton—was of Richard III. It was a simple box, with the top half glazed and inside a realistic mannequin visible from the waist up in suitable attire. The machine would dispense a short snippet of Shakespeare for ten pence.

Joffy was my other brother. He had taken to the faith at an early age and tried all sorts of religions before settling for the GSD. “GSD?” murmured Mycroft. “What in heaven’s name is that?” “Global Standard Deity,” answered Polly. “It’s a mixture of all the religions. I think it’s meant to stop religious wars.”

He handed me a yellow curved thing about the size of a large carrot. “What is it?” I asked, smelling it cautiously. “It’s the fruit of a new plant designed completely from scratch seventy years from now. Look—” He peeled the skin off and let me taste it. “Good, eh? You can pick it well before ripe, transport it thousands of miles if necessary and it will keep fresh in its own hermetically sealed biodegradable packaging. Nutritious and tasty, too. It was sequenced by a brilliant engineer named Anna Bannon. We’re a bit lost as to what to call it. Any ideas?” “I’m sure you’ll think of something. What are you going to do with it?”

“Excuse me, sir, how would you counter the criticism that you are an intolerant bunch with little respect for the value of change and experimentation in all aspects of art?” The Renaissancite glanced at the camera with an angry scowl. “People say we’re just Renaissancites causing trouble, but I’ve seen Baroque kids, Raphaelites, Romantics and Mannerists here tonight. It’s a massive show of classical artistic unity against these frivolous bastards who cower beneath the safety of the word ‘progress.’ It’s not just—”

“How long since I died?” he asked abruptly. “Over a hundred and fifty years.” “Really? Tell me, how did the revolution in France turn out?” “It’s a little early to tell.”

“Malin and Sole look after all crimes regarding Shakespeare.” He shut the door. “They keep an eye on forgery, illegal dealing and overtly free thespian interpretations. The actor in with them was Graham Huxtable. He was putting on a felonious one-man performance of Twelfth Night. Persistent offender. He’ll be fined and bound over. His Malvolio is truly frightful.”

“Did you return fire?” “No.” “Good.” “I fired first.” “Not so good.”

The best reason for committing loathsome and detestable acts—and let’s face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field—is purely for their own sake. Monetary gain is all very well, but it dilutes the taste of wickedness to a lower level that is obtainable by almost anyone with an overdeveloped sense of avarice. True and baseless evil is as rare as the purest good—”

pushing thespian interpretation to the limits, he had killed Laertes for real while playing Hamlet.

No other play but Richard III had been performed here for over fifteen years, and the theater itself had no company to speak of, just a backstage crew and a prompter. All the actors were pulled from an audience who had been to the play so many times they knew it back to front. Casting was usually done only half an hour before curtain-up.

Richard opened his mouth to speak and the whole audience erupted in unison: “When is the winter of our discontent?” “Now,” replied Richard with a cruel smile, “is the winter of our discontent . . .”

It's like Rocky Horror for Shakespeare. I love it.

Joffy poured some strong tea out of a Clarice Cliff teapot into a matching cup and saucer.

not only the loss of a trusted friend and colleague in crime, but also the terrible realization that the alien emotions of loss he had felt betrayed his half-human ancestry, something he abhorred.

They both turned, but it was Victor who caught the small meteorite. It was about the size of a cricket ball and was still glowing red hot;

“They’d never get here in time. It’s easy. A lobotomized monkey could do it.” “And where are we going to find a lobotomized monkey at this time of night?”

G. H. Lewes suggested that Charlotte should study Austen’s work and “correct her shortcomings in the light of that great artist’s practice.” Charlotte replied that Miss Austen’s work was barely—in the light of what she wanted to do—a novel at all. She referred to it as “a highly cultivated garden with no open country.”

I usually do tours of Thornfield for her guests when Jane is up at Gateshead. It carries no risk and is extremely lucrative. Country houses are not cheap to run, Miss Next, even in this century.”

Obviously something had to be done. I took a copy of the complete works back with me and gave them to the actor Shakespeare in 1592 to distribute on a given timetable. Does that answer your question?” I was still confused. “So it wasn’t Shakespeare who wrote the plays.” “Decidedly not!” he agreed. “Nor Marlowe, Oxford, De Vere, Bacon or any of the others.”