By Edward Gorey
The name of this deliciously creepy choice of Gorey's paintings stems from the observe amphigory, which means a nonsense verse or composition. As continuously, Gorey's painstakingly pass- hatched pen and ink drawings are ideally fitted to his oddball verse and prose. The first e-book of 15, "The Unstrung Harp," describes the writing means of novelist Mr. Clavius Frederick Earbrass: "He needs to be mad to head on enduring the unexquisite ache of writing whilst all of it seems drivel." In "The directory Attic," you'll locate a collection of quirky limericks similar to "A convinced younger guy, it was once famous, / Went approximately within the warmth thickly lined; / He stated, 'You could scoff, / yet I shan't take it off; / beneath i'm horribly bloated.' "
lots of Gorey's stories contain premature deaths and dreadful mishaps, yet very similar to tragic Irish ballads with their perky rhythms and melodies, they arrive off as surprisingly lighthearted. "The Gashlycrumb Tinies," for instance, starts off like this: "A is for AMY who fell down the steps, B is for BASIL assaulted through bears," and so forth. An eccentric, humorous publication for both the uninitiated or diehard Gorey lovers.
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You’ll ﬁgure it out . ” And the tease walks off. Dude 137, he’s still looking at me. Holding that bear. Some big-time player with a name and a face, slumming from the TV. ” He’s looking at me instead of the video, and he goes, “Weren’t you . ” And kid 72 looks and says, “Wow. ” The razor’s sliding across my abs, looking for pull, for the resistance of little hairs nobody can see yet. I ask the kid, what series? What’s the dude’s name? Why’s he staring at me? But the kid’s back to eyeing the video.
With the potato-chip guy coughing on the ﬂoor, the tattooed guy twists his shoulders sideways. His slapping hand still raised high in the air, he points his gun ﬁnger down at the numbers spread across his back. He says, “Two-oh-six . . ” A red wash of blood pulsing out his nose, the potatochip guy keeps chewing. Swallows. He wipes his lips with one hand, smearing red across one cheek. Wipes again, making a blood mustache straight across both cheeks. ” The nosebleed guy sniffs back the blood and reaches for another handful of potato chips.
He never cheated on my adopted mom, but he could spend days photographing hookers and painting tiny ﬁgures to match them. He’d never take illegal drugs, but his tiny junkies or meth freaks, each one was a little masterpiece. Using a needle-thin paintbrush, my adopted dad would tag the walls of dinky factories and miniature abandoned tenements and ﬂophouse hotels. I tell guy 137 I’m sorry his TV series got canceled last season. Number 137 shrugs. ” Waiting his turn with Cassie Wright, a ﬂabby blond guy with a long beard stands with both arms folded across his chest.
Amphigorey by Edward Gorey