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{{a|devil|}}Once in a long while<ref>Once every three or four days, about.</ref> over the sort of long, inglorious career most people have in the finance industry, you see a giveaway. A tell: a knowing look, a sly wink, fingers crossed behind the back, a stray wire, a black-clad stage-hand scampering away a moment too late to beat the rising curtain — just enough to wonder: is this whole thing, secretly, a gigantic ''have''? Are we stooges? Have we all been fitted up, Truman Burbank-style, in some epochal, multi-decade-long [[Game For A Laugh]]? Is the creator playing with us for his sport, like flies to wanton boys? | {{Quote|There! That! Didst thou see ’t? <br> | ||
The card-sharp’s fumbling misdirect? <br> | |||
That tell-tale grin or worldly wink that <br> | |||
Cracks heav’n apart and for a twinkling<br> | |||
Throws rude light upon perfidious conjury! <br> | |||
O, trickery! O, falsity! I mark the fingers<br> | |||
Cross’d behind thy back!<br> | |||
Has this been but a prank, all this time? <br> | |||
My wretched decadal privation, just some ''jape''?<br> | |||
''HERCUTIO'': All well meant, good Triago. Be not sour.<br> | |||
These are not grapes. <br> | |||
''TRIAGO'': Indeed not sir: rather scrapes.<br> | |||
And scars and knocks tediously sustained.<br> | |||
My inglorious spell, score years and more, was feigned? | |||
Upon this rank financial world, ’tis but a stage? <br> | |||
I know it, I know it — but yet it pains to think <br> | |||
That all of that for, for — Fie! There! <br> | |||
Spy the dark-clad stage boy! How he flies<br> | |||
He bolts a trice too late to beat the curtain’s rise<br> | |||
And now we’re on it. This time is not the same <br> | |||
This time the gull is wiser than the game<br>}}{{a|devil|}}Once in a long while<ref>Once every three or four days, about.</ref> over the sort of long, inglorious career most people have in the finance industry, you see a giveaway. A tell: a knowing look, a sly wink, fingers crossed behind the back, a stray wire, a black-clad stage-hand scampering away a moment too late to beat the rising curtain — just enough to wonder: is this whole thing, secretly, a gigantic ''have''? Are we stooges? Have we all been fitted up, Truman Burbank-style, in some epochal, multi-decade-long [[Game For A Laugh]]? Is the creator playing with us for his sport, like flies to wanton boys? | |||
I had one of those moments today. It arrived in the shape of an eight-page, tightly-kerned, ten-point Times New Roman slab-style Americanised tract: The kind of writing that suffocates you: it admits of no breathing — there is no punctuation nor artful use of white space to break the wordscape up girded-about with the weaponry of litigious mistrust — Indemnities, the mutual contemplation of equitable injunctions, covenants to destroy utterly and salt the barren earth | I had one of those moments today. It arrived in the shape of an eight-page, tightly-kerned, ten-point Times New Roman slab-style Americanised tract: The kind of writing that suffocates you: it admits of no breathing — there is no punctuation nor artful use of white space to break the wordscape up girded-about with the weaponry of litigious mistrust — Indemnities, the mutual contemplation of equitable injunctions, covenants to destroy utterly and salt the barren earth | ||
Revision as of 18:31, 19 April 2022
There! That! Didst thou see ’t?
The card-sharp’s fumbling misdirect?
That tell-tale grin or worldly wink that
Cracks heav’n apart and for a twinkling
Throws rude light upon perfidious conjury!
O, trickery! O, falsity! I mark the fingers
Cross’d behind thy back!
Has this been but a prank, all this time?
My wretched decadal privation, just some jape?
HERCUTIO: All well meant, good Triago. Be not sour.
These are not grapes.
TRIAGO: Indeed not sir: rather scrapes.
And scars and knocks tediously sustained.
My inglorious spell, score years and more, was feigned? Upon this rank financial world, ’tis but a stage?
I know it, I know it — but yet it pains to think
That all of that for, for — Fie! There!
Spy the dark-clad stage boy! How he flies
He bolts a trice too late to beat the curtain’s rise
And now we’re on it. This time is not the same
This time the gull is wiser than the game
|
Once in a long while[1] over the sort of long, inglorious career most people have in the finance industry, you see a giveaway. A tell: a knowing look, a sly wink, fingers crossed behind the back, a stray wire, a black-clad stage-hand scampering away a moment too late to beat the rising curtain — just enough to wonder: is this whole thing, secretly, a gigantic have? Are we stooges? Have we all been fitted up, Truman Burbank-style, in some epochal, multi-decade-long Game For A Laugh? Is the creator playing with us for his sport, like flies to wanton boys?
I had one of those moments today. It arrived in the shape of an eight-page, tightly-kerned, ten-point Times New Roman slab-style Americanised tract: The kind of writing that suffocates you: it admits of no breathing — there is no punctuation nor artful use of white space to break the wordscape up girded-about with the weaponry of litigious mistrust — Indemnities, the mutual contemplation of equitable injunctions, covenants to destroy utterly and salt the barren earth
The JC’s ever-so-occasional newsletter
We gave up on doing our own desk-top published Newsletter, which took months and use now sub-stack, which also takes months. It's here: https://jollycontrarian.substack.com/
See also
References
- ↑ Once every three or four days, about.