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gnawing. Why do I do it? I’ll tell you.
In the vain hope of getting laid.
For a fuck, lads. Shouting in women’s ears is not the way to do it. This method doesn’t seem highly effective either. I am planning to kill myself as soon as the swelling goes down.
It is an outrageous declaration, banal or not. Joseph has never quite come to this point in his many outbursts and lamentations, and if Mike Murphy approached it in the mid-seventies no one was taken in. So much candor has the effect of a scarcely visible hare-lip scar; it is a sure sign of feeble-mindedness. The sun bashes down. Joseph Williams totters back inside the house, where, while it is not cool, at least the glare’s less horrendously bright, and drops the quipu to the linoed floor. An incurious cat noses it briefly before settling to lick a furry perineum.
1961: aspirations of the embryo
----
THE LOCATIVE CASE
Letters Of Comment to GRUMBLING WOMBATS, February ish 1961
----
At once the most heart-warming and spine-chilling loc we’ve spied since the last ish is from J. P. Williams, a baby bright at Brunswick High School who hopes to be wed to the bride of his dreams before the Sixties is over. When we asked readers to supply some personal details, I’m not sure that this is precisely what we expected. The reaction of you eager Australian hikes was so underwhelming that J. A. Williams (of the Brunswick Williamses) is the first cab off the block for 1961. Over to you, J. W. By the way, it really is acceptable to tell us Big Name hikes your own Little First Name, J. K.
Dear Editor
I have not contributed to a quipu before, and you do not know me, although I think my friend Paul Ramsden has met you at the Point Two Six Society “convocation” last year in Sydney, and might have mentioned that he lent me some copies of GRUMBLING WOMBATS. You ask for details of readers’ lives and experiences. Nothing much has happened yet in mine, but I will try to oblige. I hope you don’t find this too uninteresting. I will try to disclose everything but those hidden thoughts which are a man’s greatest privilege.
My name is J. D. Williams. I am five foot seven and a half in my socks. I will soon be 15, am not overly blessed with good looks but generally do not scare small children who come upon me at dusk. According to the Mensa tests I have an I.Q. in the 99.9th percentile, but this rarely shows in either school marks or behavior.
Probably the former arises from my dislike for school work, and the latter from emotional immaturity. I know from novels, learned treatises and gentle chats from my maths teacher, that I am passing through a “stage.” I am aware that fellows of my age react in certain stereotyped ways to certain stimuli.
The trouble is, having diagnosed “the adolescent,” discovered the still-childish drives that work him, I find the same attributes in myself. I am not pretending I cannot do anything about it. But I remain a victim of my pituitary gland. Sometimes I think the bumpkin who is ignorant of much of this is better off than I.
Some of this knowledge comes from my reading of science fiction. I have been fascinated by space travel, biology and astronomy since I was quite young. Nowadays I am more intrigued by psychology, sociology and semantics, as described by Robert Heinlein and John W. Campbell, Jr. Much of this information is new to my teachers, which is quite infuriating.
I turn to books instead of people, and find them much friendlier and more intelligent. At the moment I have only two friends (one of them being Paul Ramsden, but he is six years older than me and so has rather different interests!). I am resolved to change myself for the better, which is one reason I am writing to Wombat. If I can contact some “like-minded people” (or even some “hike”-minded people!), perhaps it will aid me in my resolve.
As a result of nearly 15 years of lonely, selfish living (I am an only child, with rather elderly parents), I
In the vain hope of getting laid.
For a fuck, lads. Shouting in women’s ears is not the way to do it. This method doesn’t seem highly effective either. I am planning to kill myself as soon as the swelling goes down.
It is an outrageous declaration, banal or not. Joseph has never quite come to this point in his many outbursts and lamentations, and if Mike Murphy approached it in the mid-seventies no one was taken in. So much candor has the effect of a scarcely visible hare-lip scar; it is a sure sign of feeble-mindedness. The sun bashes down. Joseph Williams totters back inside the house, where, while it is not cool, at least the glare’s less horrendously bright, and drops the quipu to the linoed floor. An incurious cat noses it briefly before settling to lick a furry perineum.
1961: aspirations of the embryo
----
THE LOCATIVE CASE
Letters Of Comment to GRUMBLING WOMBATS, February ish 1961
----
At once the most heart-warming and spine-chilling loc we’ve spied since the last ish is from J. P. Williams, a baby bright at Brunswick High School who hopes to be wed to the bride of his dreams before the Sixties is over. When we asked readers to supply some personal details, I’m not sure that this is precisely what we expected. The reaction of you eager Australian hikes was so underwhelming that J. A. Williams (of the Brunswick Williamses) is the first cab off the block for 1961. Over to you, J. W. By the way, it really is acceptable to tell us Big Name hikes your own Little First Name, J. K.
Dear Editor
I have not contributed to a quipu before, and you do not know me, although I think my friend Paul Ramsden has met you at the Point Two Six Society “convocation” last year in Sydney, and might have mentioned that he lent me some copies of GRUMBLING WOMBATS. You ask for details of readers’ lives and experiences. Nothing much has happened yet in mine, but I will try to oblige. I hope you don’t find this too uninteresting. I will try to disclose everything but those hidden thoughts which are a man’s greatest privilege.
My name is J. D. Williams. I am five foot seven and a half in my socks. I will soon be 15, am not overly blessed with good looks but generally do not scare small children who come upon me at dusk. According to the Mensa tests I have an I.Q. in the 99.9th percentile, but this rarely shows in either school marks or behavior.
Probably the former arises from my dislike for school work, and the latter from emotional immaturity. I know from novels, learned treatises and gentle chats from my maths teacher, that I am passing through a “stage.” I am aware that fellows of my age react in certain stereotyped ways to certain stimuli.
The trouble is, having diagnosed “the adolescent,” discovered the still-childish drives that work him, I find the same attributes in myself. I am not pretending I cannot do anything about it. But I remain a victim of my pituitary gland. Sometimes I think the bumpkin who is ignorant of much of this is better off than I.
Some of this knowledge comes from my reading of science fiction. I have been fascinated by space travel, biology and astronomy since I was quite young. Nowadays I am more intrigued by psychology, sociology and semantics, as described by Robert Heinlein and John W. Campbell, Jr. Much of this information is new to my teachers, which is quite infuriating.
I turn to books instead of people, and find them much friendlier and more intelligent. At the moment I have only two friends (one of them being Paul Ramsden, but he is six years older than me and so has rather different interests!). I am resolved to change myself for the better, which is one reason I am writing to Wombat. If I can contact some “like-minded people” (or even some “hike”-minded people!), perhaps it will aid me in my resolve.
As a result of nearly 15 years of lonely, selfish living (I am an only child, with rather elderly parents), I
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