Oxygen and Aromasia

by Claës Lundin

translated by Bertil Falk

Chapter 7, part 1
Chapter 7, part 2
appear in this issue.

Chapter 7: A Newspaper Workshop

part 3 of 3

“If you’ve something more on you mind, say it fast,” the newspaper-woman explained.

“I’ve written a piece of poetry. They’re words for Aromasia’s great odorate, which was performed a few evenings ago, The Seasons, which...”

“... you want to have published in our newspaper,” the woman interrupted him. “I see, but that doesn’t belong to my department. Ask the chief editor of the mechanic-poetic department.”

“Mechanic-poetic?”

“Exactly! Not the poetic-mechanic, though we have such a department as well. The third yard to the right, the first stairs, through the big entrance hall, the first corridor, door number 337. But I’m delayed. See you later!”

She disappeared and Apollonides repeated: “The third yard to the right, the first stairs... Perhaps the words for Aromasia’s masterpiece could do something for her election.”

He decided to seek his fortune and, after some waiting, was taken to the chief editor of the mechanic-poetic department.

“From your application, I can see that you’ve written a so-called piece of poetry. Do you want to have it reviewed in our paper? You have to go to the second subdivision of the third office of scrutiny. The watchman will show you the way.”

Apollonides explained that he did not want a review. He wanted the piece published in the paper.

“Published!” the editor exclaimed and looked at the poet with surprise. “What’s the name of the poem?”

“The Seasons,” the poet declared.

“It’s not really a tempting title,” the editor explained. “It has the taste of old and out-of-date. What’s it about?”

“The love of nature, early morning thoughts and warm afternoon feelings,” Apollonides replied. He seemed to believe that this stuff would meet with approval.

“Love of nature? Thoughts and feelings! You belong to an antiquated school,” the editor exclaimed. “Have you used a flatbed machine or one of the new upright ones?”

“I’ve drawn from my poetic well. She’s freshly purling within me.”

“It sounds as if you were not born in our century. Your poem cannot be used in Latest News of the Hour.”

“Then I’ve to turn to The News of Tomorrow,” the poet declared, offended by the editor’s treatment.

“It’s all right with me,” the editor uttered carelessly. But neither that sheet nor The Gobbling Wolf or The Tongue of the Snake is likely to accept a work that only is made of thoughts and feelings.”

“Then there are hundreds of other sheets. The Cooing Dove would probably not reject me.”

“Ha, ha, ha! The Cooing Dove died of hunger last month. It’s long since been forgotten... I feel sorry for you, young man. You’re on the wrong track, a track that never will lead to the goal. Why haven’t you checked in as a collaborator at our mechanic-poetic department? I can say without boasting that it is the best workshop in the whole country for making poems, and the place where one can most safely and easily learn how to do them.”

“I don’t have to learn,” the poet explained with pride. “The fire of inspiration is inside me.”

“The man is crazy,” the editor said to one of the watchmen, “but nevertheless, take him with you and let him see how to make a real piece of poetry.”

The watchman took Apollonides through a row of workrooms. To begin with, they came into a big hall, where heaps of printed paper were piled high. A few dozen workers were eagerly employed with turning and inspecting these heaps. A stale air filled the room.

“Here you see the very stuff,” the companion told him, “that we use for manufacturing. They’re old books on all kinds of topics, especially mechanics, agriculture, kitchen science, physics and pure mathematics, also a little bit of what in the past was called poetry as well as one or two philosophical works. The collaborators working here are occupied with an extremely important task. They’re only permitted to choose good and useful stuff: the drier and tougher, the better.”

The workers did not let the visitors disturb them. They rummaged ceaselessly among the old tomes, surrounded by a thick cloud of dust.

From this room Apollonides was brought into another hall, where many machines were running.

“Here the first extracts are made,” the companion said. “We try as much as possible to take care of the rubbish that comes out, but what we cannot use, we sell to other papers and even to many original authors who work all by themselves.”

“But are they not making anything new here?” the poet asked.

“New?” the companion exclaimed. “Of course! It all becomes new when all that old stuff is run through our cleaning, reshaping and touch-up machines. Have you ever seen any other new things in world literature? Do you believe you’re making something new with your old poetic manufacturing method? Look, here we’re in the reshaping hall. And here we have the finishing touch.”

The companion guided Apollonides from one room to another. Everywhere, machines were at work, and the diligent workers fed the machines with an efficiency that made a deep impression on the poet.

“In this room the final classification takes place,” the companion informed and pointed at a closed door, “but we’re not permitted to go there. The machines in that room are so delicate that they can’t endure the presence of a stranger. When the classification is done, the pieces are immediately thrown into the forms and handed over to printing presses. And the public can read what we may call new poems.

“They’re all made of old volumes. In the past they made poems out of poems, but that could not go on forever. That source went dry, and since the taste of the reading public also had gone through considerable changes, we now make more poems out of mechanical treatises, books about chemistry and physics as well as anything that may serve the promotion of higher cultivation.”

Apollonides felt very confused by what he had seen within the different departments of the newspaper. He even forgot to thank his companion and turned left instead of right when he entered the yard.

“No, not in that direction,” the companion called out. “That’s another forbidden door. That’s the department for the spreading of useful untruth.”

“What? You have such a department as well?!” the poet exclaimed.

“Yes,” the newspaper worker told him. “We are obliged to continue that practice, although it’s a totally antiquated thing. But we do it to avoid being outflanked by our rivals. The Gobbling Wolf is undeniably foremost in the field. Its lies are what has made it successful, much more than its highly praised ability to gobble anything and everything when it comes to news.”

The newspaper worker disappeared with a brief farewell. Lost in deep thoughts, Apollonides once more walked out through the Tessinian wing and continued his way up the big Roslagsboulevard. On the Bellevuetorget square, he rented one of the many air-bicycles that were offered those who for some reason had left their vehicle at home, or — which, however, was unusual — did not own one.

“Where are you going?” called out one of the poet’s acquaintances, who at that very moment was descending to the square.

“To Gothenburg for a while,” Apollonides replied.

“Oh, I see,” the other one laughed. “You’ll meddle in some way with the election. The beautiful Aromasia deserves to be elected.”

It was evident that Apollonides felt the same way.

“If she’s elected a representative of the people,” he said to himself, “she’ll always be near me.”

To be continued...