Archy

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Literature‘s unsung hero!

Pardon? Well, I don’t really know. Actually, I never gave it much thought; it’s just always been this way. Sorry? Well yes, I suppose you are right: not everyone spends 50 years admiring a cockroach and I guess you could say this is unusual. But then Archy was an unusual cockroach, wasn’t he? Pardon? You have never heard of Archy? That simply cannot be. I am speaking of the Archy, journalism’s unsung hero, and three-time winner of the NoBull Prize for Literature! Surely, as an educated and cultivated European, you know of Archy and his works? No? Well, perhaps this is simply a European problem. You people tend to get wrapped around the axle with Hans Sachs, Goethe, Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann and such lesser luminaries. Allow me to explain, please. In 1916, a journalist named Don Marquis owned a small-town newspaper not too far from New York City. It was a one-man operation and Marquis had to perform all the tasks involved in getting the newspaper out, everything from emptying the waste baskets to writing the articles to setting the type to running the presses. Although it was often exhausting, he evidently loved his life and his work. Marquis did not know it, but he had a secret occupant in the newspaper office — a cockroach named Archy. Not that Archy wanted his presence to be secret — just the opposite — but for many reasons, which you will later understand, he could not reveal himself. But perhaps I should begin in the beginning (a good tip for all aspiring writers, by the way): Archy had once been a human being, a poet and journalist and, like all poets and journalists, he eventually died. For reasons that God chooses not to reveal, he reincarnated as a cockroach. Perhaps because he died young or because he reincarnated quickly, Archy still remembered his previous life and longed to be a journalist once again. It’s not that he cursed or blamed God nor did he gripe about being a cockroach, for he was a true philosopher about such things. He felt that being a cockroach afforded him a different — and important — perspective on life ”from the underside.” But in his heart he was a man (oops!) a roach of letters, a poet and journalist. And an artist must — I repeat, dear reader — must communicate with his fellow beings. For Archy, communication with his fellow cockroaches soon proved to be impossible. After all, what can an artist — a true artist — discuss with acquaintances who are only interested in which garbage pails one can find the most tasteful and nourishing tidbits, and in which houses the owner has sprayed roach poison — or not! These things of course, are important for a cockroach in order to nourish his body and to survive. But what of the soul? And the soul of a poet and journalist? His neighbors simply could not comprehend why he concerned himself with such esoteric, eclectic subjects when (for example) the house on 34 Brinkmann Street was in renovation and the most delicious, old wallpaper was being stacked behind the garage just waiting to be ingested and digested. For a long while, Archy tried to make the best of things and to fit into the schema God had prepared for him. After all, he reasoned, he should not gripe. He lived in a respectable, modern, high-rise apartment building — the elevator shaft of a fruit and vegetable wholesaler — and wanted not for the necessities of cockroach-life. Once he even fell in love. She was a sweet and delicate young thing who, it was rumored, was born under the toilet in Ernest Hemingway‘s New York City apartment. She had practically cut her teeth on Hemingway’s discarded notes and memos and therefore, thought Archy, had a bit more feeling for culture and literature than the rest. She was also a foxy ingénue and would listen silently for hours as Archy discussed literature and his aspirations. Archy was, after all, the most eligible bachelor in the community and the other girls envied her. One evening, Archy was quoting from “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,” “Come let us enjoy what we yet may spend, Before we too into dust descend…” when his inamorata said, “Oh what a beautiful book that must have been. How did it taste?” In that instant, a crushed and disheartened Archy gave up on Roachdom. That night, he packed all his belongings into a plastic bag and slipped out of the apartment house to become just one more, homeless, nondescript bag-roach, wandering the city streets. For months, he drifted, sad and alone, from garbage pail to garbage pail trying to satisfy himself with the food scraps, wallpaper and electric insulation that he found for nourishment. One night, while wandering aimlessly down a back alley and wishing fervently, above all things, that he once again could spend a single hour between the pages of a good book, he noticed a sliver of light shining from under a door to his left. Curious, as all cockroaches are, and longing for something to eat besides old banana peels, he slid under the door into the room beyond. The first thing he noticed, even before his eyes had adjusted to the light, was a familiar, almost overpowering odor — a tantalizing scent that elevated his spirits to their highest point since having become a cockroach. It was paste! The very same paste that, before the Macintosh, graphic artists, journalists, and pre-press men used for their layout work. Excitedly he looked around to discover that he had wandered into a newspaper production room — the back room of the very newspaper mentioned above. Fortunately for Archy, the room was momentarily devoid of humans so he could poke around and explore at will. After eating a few grams of old newsprint washed down with a swallow or two of printer’s ink, Archy was high! He climbed up onto a bookshelf that afforded a good view of the entire room, without, however, revealing him to anyone who might enter. Soon the owner, Mr. Marquis, appeared and busied himself getting the next edition ready for the presses. It was Thursday night and the paper had to be printed on Friday in order to hit the streets on Saturday. Fascinated, Archy watched every familiar step of the preparations as, in the background, the old linotype machine clattered and banged out a happy, raucous medley of bumps, thumps, grinds and squeals. Archy knew that he had found a new and permanent home! About midnight, the editor turned out the lights and left for home. Archy curled himself up behind “The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language,” yawned, scratched his full stomach and fell into a deep and happy sleep. His last thoughts before slipping over the border into dreamland were the famous words from Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem “Requiem”: “Home is the hunter, home from the hill, And the sailor home from the sea.” He dreamed great dreams that night of intellectual meetings in intimate cafés to discuss the sad state of literature with other illuminati… of written essays, bylines and journalistic assignments to the hot spots of the world where he would risk his life so that Joe Blow, in Nowhere, Mississippi, could follow world-shaking events while slurping coffee at the breakfast table. Indeed, this would be his new roachlife: danger, intellectual stimulation, and literary communication! Yes, dear reader, Archy was a true literati, but the realities of his life were a bit different from his dreams on that happy night. In order to fulfill himself and to communicate with other intellectual souls, he needed paper and pen and light. Especially light. There were pencils and paper scraps enough scattered around. But, even if he could lift a pencil, how was he to write in the total darkness of the production room? If he revealed himself for an instant during the day, either the boss or one of the dozen newspaper delivery boys who frequented the back room would immediately step on him before he could utter a single protesting word. Archy harbored no illusions on the human’s negative image and lack of respect for cockroaches, even sensitive, intellectual cockroaches. And it was the human world that defined his existence. So Archy lived for months in a twilight zone… elated that he was finally away from the uninspired residents of the cockroach apartment house and rescued from the lonesomeness of life in the streets – but sad because he was merely a spectator in the journalistic drama that unfolded before him each day. He would watch excitedly from his shelf high above the editor’s desk, sometimes shouting suggestions and words of encouragement that no one heard. Frustrating, yes – but all the while, his soul would tank up on the atmosphere and revel in his imagined participation. Each night he would lie awake for hours imagining the magnificent, analytical editorials and the factual, precise and devastating reports he would write for his faithful readers around the world until, finally, he fell into fitful sleep. So it went, day after day of mixed aspirations and hopelessness until one fateful evening Marquis, working late, rolled a fresh piece of paper into his trusty Remington typewriter and, becoming suddenly tired, reached for his hat and left the office… forgetting to turn out the light above the typewriter! Oh God, oh God! This was Archy’s big chance. He scrambled recklessly down the bookshelf and onto the desk. There he stopped in shock. From the bookshelf high above, the Remington had looked quite normal in size. In his imaginings, both he and the typewriter assumed normal i.e. (human) proportions. But now, standing next to the machine, his physical size and status as a cockroach seemed to be insurmountable obstacles. But art conquers everything, does it not? Archy climbed up onto the machine and taking careful aim, jumped down head first (!) onto the keys. (Naturally, he could not type capital letters because, on a manual typewriter, that would require two cockroaches working in perfect harmony (like synchronized swimmers) and, as we have already indicated, roaches (other than Archy) are not noted for their dedication literary efforts.) At seven the next morning, Marquis sat down to his desk to discover the following letter waiting for him: expression is the need of my soul i was once a vers libre bard but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach it has given me a new outlook on life i see things from the underside now thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket but your paste is getting so stale i can t eat it there is a cat here called mehitabel i wish you would have removed she nearly ate me the other night why don t she catch rats that is what she is supposed to be for there is a rat here she should get without delay most of these rats here are just rats but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him he used to be a poet himself night after night i have written poetry for you and this big brute of a rat who used to be a poet comes out of hole when it is done and reads it and sniffs at it he is jealous of my poetry he used to make fun of it when we were both human he was a punk poet himself and after he has read it he sneers and then he eats it i wish you would have mehitabel kill that rat or get a cat that is onto her job and i will write you a series of poems showing how things look to a cockroach that rat s name is freddy the next time freddy dies i hope he won t be a rat but something smaller i hope i will be a rat in the next transmigration and freddy a cockroach i will teach him to sneer at my poetry then don t you ever eat any sandwiches in your office i haven t had a crumb of bread for i don t know how long or a piece of ham or anything but apple parings and paste leave a piece of paper in your machine every night you can call me archy” (1) — Now, dear reader, do you understand? How could I not love and admire Archy? How could anyone not love and admire him? Reflect for a minute on the first sentence of his letter… “expression is the need of my soul.” These words were written in 1916 — but is it any different today? Do we, with our computers, televisions, bowling teams — with our crowded, busy lives — do we not still have the same need as Archy? I think yes! But how many of us have the dedication, the fortitude, and the raw physical stamina to realize this need as Archy did? How many of us are willing to simply turn off the TV for an hour or two in order to communicate with our fellow men — not to even consider all the headaches, dizziness and orthopedic problems that Archy must have endured? And if we were willing, how many of our fellow cockroaches (oops!) humans would be willing turn off their TV or put down their computer games long enough to listen? The answer, dear reader, is depressing indeed. I cannot speak for the rest of the world, but as for me, Archy has shown the way… give me expression, communication, literature — or give me death! But I do not intend, with this previous paragraph, to imply that the degeneration in art and literature is a recent phenomena. Not at all. Even back then, when the twentieth century was still in its infancy, cynicism and a degenerating lack of spirituality ruled in our so-called “culture” and most Americans refused to believe Archy existed. They believed that Don Marquis wrote the Archy letters to himself as a clever, literary trick. This widespread cynicism and lack of spirituality are the roots of the decadence that we are experiencing today, at the beginning of a turbulent and culturally impoverished century. How could they doubt him? How could anyone anyroach who had not suffered such a transmigration and the disappointments of roachlife, who had not lived through the months of cold and hunger in the streets… how could any roach-soul write such literature as the following: warty bliggens the toad “i met a toad the other day by the name of warty bliggens he was sitting under a toadstool feeling contented he explained that when the cosmos was created that toadstool was especially planned for his personal shelter from sun and rain thought out and prepared for him do not tell me said warty bliggens that there is not a purpose in the universe the thought is blasphemy a little more conversation revealed that warty bliggens considers himself to be the center of said universe the earth exists to grow toadstools for him to sit under the sun to give him light by day and the moon and wheeling constellations to make beautiful the night for the sake of warty bliggens to what act of yours do you impute this interest on the part of the creator of the universe i asked him why is it that you are so greatly favored ask rather said warty bliggens what the universe has done to deserve me if i were a human being i would not laugh too complacently at poor warty bliggens for similar absurdities have only too often lodged in the crinkles of the human cerebrum” (1) — Confronted with such magnificence… such eloquence, dear reader, I am awed and silent, my word processor waiting impatiently for input that will indeed be slow in coming. But, of course, like Archy, the need for communication and expression will tomorrow drive me to new attempts. With little hope, I will continue to write and send my weak and humble attempts to the almighty-editing-godheads of the publishing world. With Archy as my personal mentor and inspiration, how could I do less? What would he think? Every night before falling into sleep, I think of and meditate upon Archy. My heart yearns to discuss great political, social and literary subjects with him. I try to comfort myself… Perhaps in another life… I too, will be a magnificent, literary cockroach (?). I hope you also have enjoyed discovering him. Tony De Lisa PS: But there is a problem that I need to discuss. Except for the direct quotes from Archy, the above text is in my own words and my own vocabulary of how the Archy story began…. As I mentioned before, most of the world - at least those who know of Archy, believe that he was the creation of Don Marquis. For this reason — to avoid jail and to protect myself from that most abominable accusation that literati can endure, “plagiarism” – please note that I have properly credited the above Archy quotes to Mr. Marquis’ book, The Life and Times of Archy and Mehitabel. But, without taking anything away from Mr. Marquis (a man whom I admire above all authors), I believe… no, I know that Archy lived and I know that his soul still exists. The world may think what it will. For me, Archy lives! (1) Doubleday and Company, Publishers, 1950 Original copyright by Don Marquis, 1928 file://localhost/*08_Archy-25.doc