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{{Quote|There! That! Didst thou see ’t? <br>
{{a|devil|}}{{Quote|
''TRIAGO'': There! That! Didst thou see ’t? <br>
The card-sharp’s fumbling misdirect? <br>
The card-sharp’s fumbling misdirect? <br>
That tell-tale grin or worldly wink that <br>
That tell-tale grin or worldly wink that <br>
Cracks heav’n apart and for a twinkling<br>
Cracks heav’n apart and for a twinkling<br>
Throws rude light upon perfidious conjury!  <br>
Throws rude light upon perfidious conjury!  <br>
O, trickery! O, falsity! I mark the fingers<br>
Spy the dark-clad stage boy! How he flies<br>
Yet bolts a trice too late to beat the curtain’s rise<br>
O, Trickery! O, Falsity! Mark the fingers<br>
Cross’d behind thy back!<br>
Cross’d behind thy back!<br>
Has this been but a prank, all this time? <br>
Has this been but a prank, [[Hercutio]]? <br>
My wretched decadal privation, just some ''jape''?<br>
My wretched decadal privation, just some ''jape''?<br>
''HERCUTIO'': All well meant, good Triago. Be not sour.<br>
''HERCUTIO'': All well meant, good [[Triago]]. Be not sour.<br>
These are not grapes. <br>
These are not grapes. <br>
''TRIAGO'': Indeed not sir: rather scrapes.<br>
''TRIAGO'': Indeed not sir: rather scrapes.<br>
And scars and knocks tediously sustained.<br>
And scars and knocks — the job lot doggedly sustained.<br>
My inglorious spell, score years and more, was feigned?
''HERCUTIO'': Some more than others. The odd one feigned. <br>
Upon this rank financial world, ’tis but a stage? <br>
But come, Sir Tig: who goes there?
I know it, I know it — but yet it pains to think <br>
''TRIAGO'': A tract from a brother clerk in America. <br>
That all of that for, for — Fie! There! <br>
''HERCUTIO'': Grim tidings?<br>
Spy the dark-clad stage boy! How he flies<br>
''TRIAGO'': Forsooth: it wears its colours as if to fight. <br>
He bolts a trice too late to beat the curtain’s rise<br>
A wordscape stain’d with tightly kernèd face <br>
And now we’re on it. This time is not the same <br>
And girded round with fontish weaponry <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?
''HERCUTIO'' (''snatching the document''): Verily, convenantry this darkly speaks <br>
Of litiginous untrust: wherefore such cruel indemnities? <br>
Wherefore such a want of fun? <br>
A merchant wrapp’d with better sense <br>
Wouldst just as soon injunct th’orbiting sun! <br>
What is this pact? Who demand such fearsome consequence? <br>
''TRIAGO'': An entente of secrecy, no more. <br>
''HERCUTIO'': Forsooth, my deceitful ears mislead. <br>
Say it again, my friend, what didst thou say? <br>
''TRIAGO'': A trifling confi, My Lord, no more. An N.D.A. <br>
:—{{buchstein}}, {{dsh}}
}}
 
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 19:50, 19 April 2022

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TRIAGO: 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!
Spy the dark-clad stage boy! How he flies
Yet bolts a trice too late to beat the curtain’s rise
O, Trickery! O, Falsity! Mark the fingers
Cross’d behind thy back!
Has this been but a prank, Hercutio?
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 — the job lot doggedly sustained.
HERCUTIO: Some more than others. The odd one feigned.
But come, Sir Tig: who goes there? TRIAGO: A tract from a brother clerk in America.
HERCUTIO: Grim tidings?
TRIAGO: Forsooth: it wears its colours as if to fight.
A wordscape stain’d with tightly kernèd face
And girded round with fontish weaponry
HERCUTIO (snatching the document): Verily, convenantry this darkly speaks
Of litiginous untrust: wherefore such cruel indemnities?
Wherefore such a want of fun?
A merchant wrapp’d with better sense
Wouldst just as soon injunct th’orbiting sun!
What is this pact? Who demand such fearsome consequence?
TRIAGO: An entente of secrecy, no more.
HERCUTIO: Forsooth, my deceitful ears mislead.
Say it again, my friend, what didst thou say?
TRIAGO: A trifling confi, My Lord, no more. An N.D.A.

—Büchstein, Die Schweizer Heulsuse

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


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See also

References

  1. ↑ Once every three or four days, about.
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