'Twas Brillig, and the Slithy Toves

Haven't done this in a while and thought it would be fun. Remember when I wrote the following?

Killing yourself is easier than tying your shoes. Forget guns; they're messy and you might end up like Harrison Ford in "Regarding Henry." Jumping is damn scary. Slitting wrists has got to hurt like hell. Poisons cause some pretty serious indigestion, and probably diarrhea too. The easiest way to "bring on many changes" is to simply place a pull-tie garbage bag over your head and tighten the drawstrings.

Thought I'd run it through freetranslation.com, first into German, then back into English, to see what I would get:

To kill itself, are easier than bandages of your shoes. If forget weapons; they are disorderly and you might like Harrison Ford in "concerning Henry" land. To jump, is damned frightening. Aufschlitzenhandgelenke must injure like hell. Poisons cause a pretty serious stomach irritation, and probably diarrhea also. To cause "the easiest way" around many changes is festival close simple in order to place a train volume rubbish sack over your head, and around the curtain cords.

Oddly enough, the flavor of this text sounds familiar. If I didn't know better I might guess James Joyce wrote it. (Place a train volume rubbish sack around the curtain cords? Yep, Joyce.) Just for the sake of comparison, here's the first paragraph of the second chapter of Ulysses:

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.

See what I mean? "Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured" sounds like Joyce ran his text through a free online translator before foisting it on Sylvia Beach. Either that, or he knocked his sconce one too many times against a snotgreen seawrack. Let's try an experiment: my thesis is, any author can be made to sound like Joyce. Vonnegut for instance:

Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly did. They called me John. Jonah—John—if I had been a Sam, I would have been a Jonah still—not because I have been unlucky for others, but because somebody or something has compelled me to be certain places at certain times, without fail. Conveyances and motives, both conventional and bizarre, have been provided. And, according to plan, at each appointed second, at each appointed place this Jonah was there.

And after translating:

Call me Jonah. My parents made nearly made, or. They called me John. Jonah—Jonah—John—if, of that I a Sam been was, yet would have been failed I a Jonah gewesen—not, because I was unfortunate for others, but because someone or something forced me, to its places certain at conscience times, without. Transmissions and subjects, both conventional as bizarre, were furnished. And, in accordance with plan at everyone appointed appointed was second at everyone place this Jonah there.

If I told you I plucked this passage out of Ulysses, you'd believe me. You'd have to, unless you wanted to sift through seven hundred pages of monkey speak to prove me wrong. Maybe I should feed my novel through freetranslation.com and convince a bookstore owner in Paris to publish it. Nobody would understand it, but for that reason alone MFA programs across the country would add it to the curriculum. And his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.