The Art of the Insult by Rose McCormick Brandon

I love a witty put-down. I know, I know, what kind of Christian am I to get my giggles at another’s misfortune. It's an inherited trait (I think). I doubt I can change now. I would have to want to. There lies the problem. So, when I found amongst a heap of used books one titled, The Book of Insults, I had to have it. I put it on the coffee table for my family to enjoy – poor things, they’ve inherited my trait. 

Before people shrieked out their disagreements in sentences laced with cursing and hatred, they used wit to make a point. Writers, like Mark Twain, were especially adept at this. On a woman unacquainted with the conversational pause, Twain wrote:

“The fountains of her great deep were opened up, and she rained the nine parts of speech, forty days and forty nights, metaphorically speaking, and buried us under a desolating deluge of trivial gossip.” (Roughing It)

Mark Twain to a reader: 

Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself.

For some writers the dictionary didn't provide enough insulting words. They invented their very own.

Algernon Swinburne’s description of Ralph Waldo Emerson: A gap-toothed and hoary-headed ape . . . who now in his dotage spits and chatters from a dirtier perch of his own finding and fouling: coryphaeus or choragus of his Bulgarian tribe of autocoprophagous baboons.  

Henry Arthur Jones on Bernard Shaw: A freakish homunculus germinated outside lawful procreation. 

The best writers are adept at using a few carefully chosen words:

Oscar Wilde: The English country-gentleman galloping after a fox – the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.  

Alfred, Lord Tennyson on critic Churton Collins: A louse in the locks of literature.  

Would anyone write this in a note thanking a hostess for dinner?

Edmond de Goncourt: “A very tasty dinner . . . including some grouse whose scented flesh Daudet compared to an old courtesan’s flesh marinated in a bidet.” 

Of an enemy John Sparrow wrote: “If only he’d wash his neck I’d wring it.”

Robert Louis Stevenson: “Poor Matt (Matthew Arnold). He’s gone to heaven, no doubt – but he won’t like God.”

William Faulkner: Henry James was one of the nicest old ladies I ever met. 

A writer could almost appreciate these rejection letters:

Samuel Johnson: Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original and the parts that are original are not good.

Oliver Wendell Holmes: You may have genius. The contrary is, of course, probable.

Insults sometimes lead to curses:

An Irish curse: May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the hills of damnation that the Lord himself can’t find you with a telescope. 

An Arab curse: May your left ear wither and fall into your right pocket. 

Politicians used to engage in wit. Now, anyone who does is immediately forced to apologize and those who laugh are maligned. 

Lady Astor (English MP): Winston, if you were my husband I should flavour your coffee with poison. 

Winston Churchill: Madam, if I were your husband, I should drink it. 

Winston Churchill on Neville Chamberlain: He looked at foreign affairs through the wrong end of a municipal drainpipe. 

History habitually adores the long-gone and basks in their accomplishments, but Abraham Lincoln was disliked on a par with the present leader of the United States. 

General George McClellan on Lincoln: The President is nothing more than a well-meaning baboon . . . I went to the White House directly after tea where I found “the original Gorilla” about as intelligent as ever. What a specimen to be at the head of our affairs now!

Abraham Lincoln to General McClellan: If you don’t want to use the army I should like to borrow it for a while. 

Even Canadian politicians used to be witty.

John Langton on William Lyon Mackenzie: He is a little red-haired man about five feet nothing and extremely like a baboon.

William Lyon Mackenzie on Sir Peregrine Maitland: He is one of the lilies of the field; he toils not, neither does he spin. 

Sir John A. MacDonald in an election speech: I know enough to know that you would rather have John A. drunk than George Brown sober.

Sir John A. on Donald Smith: I could lick that man Smith quicker than hell could fizzle a feather.

John Diefenbaker on Jean Lesage: He is the only person I know who can strut sitting down.

Pierre Trudeau: The honourable member disagrees. I can hear him shaking his head. 

Agnes McPhail was asked by a man, “Don’t you wish you were a man?” to which she replied, “Yes. Don’t you?”

Stephen Harper: People stop me on the street all the time and ask me, "What’s the secret of your charisma?" Well, the secret is to surround yourself with people who have even less … why do you think I was so anxious to make a deal with Joe Clark? 

Stephen Harper: I’m sure the NHL lockout is on a lot of your minds … but if bored Canadians want to watch pampered millionaires who only work in 45 second shifts they can sneak into the Senate.

Some of the best of Canadian political wit came from John Crosbie. Newfoundlanders possess a clever humour admired by all and Crosbie is a good example.

John Crosbie, Lieutenant-Governor, Nfld-Labrador 2011: This fellow said, ‘I was so depressed last night thinking about the economy, wars, jobs, my savings, social security, retirement funds, etc., I called a suicide hotline and got a call centre in Pakistan. When I told them I was suicidal, they got all excited and asked if I could drive a truck,’” 

Like all wits of the twenty-first century Crosbie was forced to issue an apology. 

When Crosbie stood to speak in Parliament, MPs on both sides of the aisle knew they could depend on him for a zinger or two. A good laugh eases the weight of heavy arguments. Crosbie nicknamed a quartet of female MPs, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. One of them, Sheila Copps, he individually labelled “Shrieky Sheila.” Oh for the days when everyone wasn't over-anxious to play the victim. 

Profuse, apologies to those who found any or all of these quips inappropriate, offensive, or in any way incorrect, unfortunate or unsuitable. I shall try to improve, but I'm not optimistic about it.

****

Rose McCormick Brandon writes mainly on faith, personal experience and the child immigrants who came to Canada between 1869 an 1939. She's the author of four books, including, One Good Word Makes all the Difference and Promises of Home - Stories of Canada's British Home Children. She has two blogs: Promises of Home and Listening to my Hair Grow. 

Inventing the Truth by Rose McCormick Brandon

 

 

Recently, I wrote about a hospital stay. I was ten. Left in a big city facility by my parents. I begged my mother not to leave. Of course, she had to and I was forced to find my way among strangers for the first time in my life. That’s if I don’t count beginning school, an event that was more catastrophic for me than for most children.

In the children’s ward, I made friends. Most were mobile and reasonably healthy, except for the boy in the iron lung. This contraption appeared as harmless as a knocked-over garbage can but it wheezed like a dragon. By ten, I knew a lot about polio, the disease that had forced a boy my age inside the dragon.

 I told the story of my hospital stay and the boy stuck inside the dragon as I remembered it, all the while, conscious that if I were to visit that children’s ward, and even if it hadn’t been remodeled since my stay, I likely wouldn’t recognize it. Its windows, walls, its cheery nursing staff, the pajama-clad children I scurried with after evening visiting hours are vivid in my mind Yet, I know if I connected with one of the other children, whose names are all forgotten, they would say, “That’s not how I remember it.”

            Our memories are uniquely ours. We can tell our stories however we choose to because they are our memories. Another family member may say they remember it otherwise and tell the same story from their perspective. Both are valid.

            Five people can attend the same event. Each one will leave with a different story. One has a conversation with a stranger that colors their entire experience. Another meets an old friend. One eavesdrops. One is aware of color, innuendo and drama. Another takes away facts only.

            In writing our stories, we should be aware that someone else’s experience of the same event may differ. That doesn’t invalidate our take-away. And we must write it, not to please another person, but to let the reader know how our memory of a certain event has shaped us.

            William Zinsser says, “Memoir is how we validate ourselves.” Therefore, our experiences must always remain our story. We have to get over the idea that someone else will read them and disagree with our take on how events unfolded.

            About telling our stories, Annie Dilliard writes, “The act of writing about an experience takes so much longer and is so much more intense than the experience itself that you’re left only with what you have written, just as the snapshots of your vacation become more real than your vacation.”

I find that as Christians we can be so dedicated to a facts only view of life that we miss out on serendipitous experiences. We can write our personal stories freely only if we refuse to care who reads them.

            My hospital story ended up being about the first time I realized that good writing hums. In the tiny children’s ward library, I discovered The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Mark Twain’s words hummed in my chest – it was a marvelous discovery that lasted beyond my short hospital stay and remains with me today. I’m guessing that no other child in that hospital left with the same experience as I did.

******

Rose McCormick Brandon's latest book, Promises of Home - Stories of Canada's British Home Children, was published in July, 2014. She has written many magazine articles for publications in Canada, U.S. and Australia.

 

My Writing Life by Rose McCormick Brandon

When I was ten, I spent a week in hospital, on the Children’s Ward. While there, I discovered Mark Twain’s, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. His words transported me into a world I hadn’t known existed, life on the Mississippi, a culture far removed from mine.

Twain’s words created a hum in my chest – I not only read his words, I felt them.

And I loved the feeling of them.

I wanted to re-create that special feeling with my words. I tried a few times and occasionally thought of writing, but other more active pursuits caught my eye and I followed after them.

I graduated from Eastern Pentecostal Bible College in Peterborough, made a disastrous attempt at ministry, became disappointed with God, followed my own path, got married, re-discovered Jesus Christ, had three children and poured myself into lay ministry, mainly with women.

While driving to a women’s event one early morning, a flock of geese flew over. They caused me to think that as their honking introduced the onset of Fall, the heavenly trumpet will one day precede the return of our Lord Jesus.
Then, another thought came clearly – you need to write about this.

I did. That little piece was published. After that, God placed two men in editing positions who encouraged me to write. One said, “We need more women writers in our denomination.”

My writing life has had its ups and downs – downs when work gets in the way of thinking writeable thoughts – and ups when acceptances and awards have come my way.

My present work in progress is a collection of British Home Child Stories, titled, Promises of Home, which will be published later this year. The Child Immigration period of Canadian history is a subject I’ve always been interested in. My grandmother came to Canada at age eight, an orphan, went through a tumultuous childhood and finally found contentment as a wife and mother.

I have two blogs – a faith blog titled, Listening to my Hair Grow, and my Canadian History blog, Promises ofHome, where I tell the stories of British Home Children.

In 2013, I published a collection of some of my published articles and devotionals in One Good Word Makes all the Difference.

In 2012, Sandra Nunn and I wrote and published her love story, He Loves Me Not, He Loves Me.

Prior to that, Shirley Brown and I published the story of how she coped with her son’s disappearance in Vanished: What Happened to my Son?

My writing is still evolving. The publication world is also evolving.

I still often sense the Spirit nudging me, saying, write about this or that, often more than one nudge is needed.

For today, I’m focussed on my book, Promises of Home. As I delve into the lives of these little ones, I often discover that they had a strong faith, even as children, a faith that carried them to the end of their days. A reminder to me to be faithful to the Faithful One because one day, as sure as the geese honk overhead in the Fall, a trumpet will sound and our Lord will return.


http://writingfromtheheart.webs.com

Inventing the Truth - Rose McCormick Brandon

Recently, I wrote about a hospital stay. I was ten. Left in s big city facility by my parents. I begged my mother not to leave. Of course, she had to and I was forced to find my way among strangers for the first time in my life. That’s if I don’t count beginning school, an event that was more catastrophic for me than for most children.

In the children’s ward, I made friends. Most were mobile, healthy for the most part. One boy was in an iron lung. This contraption appeared as harmless as a fallen garbage can but it wheezed like a dragon. And by ten, I knew a lot about polio, the disease that forced a boy my age inside the dragon.

I told my story as I remembered it, all the while, conscious that if I were to visit that children’s ward, and if it hadn’t been remodeled since my stay, that I likely wouldn’t recognize it. It’s vivid in my mind, its windows, walls, its cheery nursing staff, the pajama-clad children I scurried with after evening visiting hours. Yet, I know if I connected with one of the other children, whose names are all forgotten, they would say, “That’s not how I remember it.”

Our memories are uniquely ours. Much of what I write is personal experience. I can tell my story however I choose because it’s my story, my memory. The tough part of telling our stories is when our memories also belong to someone else, another family member, for instance. They may say, “The event didn’t happen like that at all.”

Five family members can attend the same event. Each one will leave with a different story. One has a conversation with a stranger that colors their entire experience. Another meets an old friend. One eavesdrops. One is aware of color, innuendo and drama. Another takes away facts only.

In writing our stories, we should be aware that someone else’s memory of the same event may differ. That doesn’t invalidate our take-away. It’s our story, after all. And we must write it, not to please another person, but to let the reader know how the memory shaped us.

William Zinsser says, “Memoir is how we validate ourselves.” Therefore, our experiences must always remain our story. We have to get over the idea that someone else will read them and disagree with our take on how events unfolded.

About telling our stories, Annie Dilliard writes, “The act of writing about an experience takes so much longer and is so much more intense than the experience itself that you’re left only with what you have written, just as the snapshots of your vacation become more real than your vacation.” We can write our personal stories freely if we refuse to care who reads them.

My hospital story ended up being about the first time I realized that good writing hums. In the tiny children’s ward library, I discovered The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Mark Twain’s words hummed in my chest – it was a marvelous discovery that lasted beyond my short hospital stay and remains with me today. I’m guessing that no one else in that hospital left with the same experience as I did.