Then the MacSweenies of Ferns and Borris-in-Ossory?
With those words came the rending scream of a shattered stirk and an angry troubling of the branches as the poor madman percolated through the sieve of a sharp yew, a wailing black meteor hurtling through green clouds, a human prickles. [...] There were feathers on his body here and there, impaired and shabby with vicissitude.
By God he's down! shouted Slug.
I don't mean them either, said the Pooka above the noise.
Then the O'Sweenies of Harold's Cross?
Jem Casey was kneeling at the pock-haunched form of the king pouring questions into the cup of his dead ear and picking small thorns from his gashed chest with absent thoughtless fingers, poet on poet, a bard unthorning a fellow-bard.
Give him air, said Slug.
Will you walk over there, said the Good Fairy to the Pooka, the way I can see this man that has been bird-nesting?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Percolation Watch: Flann O'Brien
From At Swim-Two-Birds, an underappreciated classic: