Op Daisy T

8/10/2019 Op Daisy T

1/25

About the Author

The author is a postgraduate student of things literary,notably literary theory.

He is writer of fiction as an avocation.Bo Peep Adaptation of AH Clough Poetry and The

Dummy Run have been published by Austin Macauley. Anumber of short stories have appeared in small pressmagazines.

Frequent rambler in the woods by inclination; also, on hisGPs cogent advice.

Dedication

For George and Weedon Grossmith qua the brothers who

have persuaded me that a nobody has every reason to have ago at a secret journal.


2/25

N I C H O L A S M R O M A N O

O P D A I S Y T

D P S D E E P D I A R Y


3/25

Copyright Nicholas M. Romano

The right of Nicholas M. Romano to be identified as author ofthis work has been asserted by him in accordance with section

77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to

this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civilclaims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the

British Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 018 9

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.25 Canada Square

Canary WharfLondon

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain


4/25

Acknowledgments

Im indebted to the Lady and the Philosopher for theinspiration.

My diary is in memoriam.


5/25

Now no matter, child, the name:It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins


6/25

The Characters

MRS TThe leader of a top executive body. An authoritative, staunch

champion of the Establishment and the holder of radical views.

DINOCollege mature student of the Humanities with a soft spot for a

new school of criticism called deconstruction. Mrs Ts

contentious tenant.

DR LIGHTHOUSELecturer. Very left wing.

MR SMOULDERDeputy-librarian with middle-of-the-road views.

JENNIFERA New Age Movement fan.

FATHER MAXMissionary priest and a lover of tradition.

ALMERINDA

An ardent feminist.

SOPHIEMrs Ts pet chinchilla. A standoffish but steadfast companion.


7/25


8/25

Day 2

5, in all honesty, but the truth of the matter is that hardly

anything of note has occurred to me since Day 1: no ladder has

come into my line of sight with or without little devils on it,and my makeshift little journal would have stayed untouched

inside the desk drawer had it not been for Sophie, the

chinchilla who happens to be my landladys darling and spendsmost of her time ensconced in a burrow surrounded by an arty

piece of rock in a little corner of the flower-papered walls inthe lounge. True to her Latin American roots she shows up

only fitfully and mainly to nibble at the seeds, fruit, or grain

provided by her solicitous custodian.Now, I was inserting a spoon full of steaming-hot tomato

soup in my mouth when I espied Sophie scurry out of her holeand head for the allotted grub at a grey squirrels jerky pace.

The next moment I saw her stop dead in her tracks and swivel

her whiskered snout my way. Hi there! I cried. Enjoy yourmeal, darling, I added in the teeth of her beady stare, but the

little darling scampered back into her sanctum, wagging her

tufted, dark-streaked little tail. You cold puny thing, Imuttered. Let me tell you that Im not sure you deserve your

time-honoured name. What about Ching-Ching for amelodious change, eh?

Within seconds I was wondering how on earth the Sino-Tibetan name had flashed across my mind. Admittedly, I havefallen in love with the charismatic Chairman Mao in the course

of my life, but that was far away and long ago. I shook myhead and followed the soup with a copious portion of fully

mature Cheshire cheese (its crumbly texture suits my palate to

a fault) which I washed down with a mug of ginger beer whosespice flavour tickles me to death (sic).

My appetite satisfied, I headed for the upper regions, butthere she was again, Ching-Ching, sneaking out of her shelterand making another neurotic dash for her ration of grain. The

dainty rodent seemed utterly oblivious of my presence and I


9/25

felt tempted to be a spoilsport, but a ponderous essayrecommended by Dr Lighthouse (my personal tutor at the uni

college I joined last year) demanded undivided attention, and Ileft the nonchalant creature to her succulent victuals.

A few hours later and my reading (hardly a perusal) of the

academic piece of work completed, Ive resisted the idea ofgoingdownstairs again for another go at Sophies fellowship

or, failing that, a peek at Newsnight, the reputable current

affairs TV programme. Instead, Ive opened my notepad andduly entered the ups and downs of the day. I shall watch the

news broadcast tomorrow night, without fail. And so to bed, as

good Pepys would often say to himself at about this time ofnight.


10/25

Day 3

An early breakfast with Ms T (I find the first letter of my

landladys surname adequate for the moment. As to the Ms, it

is because Im still in the dark about her marital status.)Come and join me for a bite, Dino, she chimed as soon as

I entered the lounge. I willingly obliged, and the eats made a

hearty full Englisha veritable feast for my eyes!Attractively dressed in a royal-blue garment which

harmonized with the colour of her eyes, my hostess let dark-brown cornflakes drop into her Wedgwoodblue bowl while I

stole a surreptitious look at her high forehead, assertive nose,

strong jaw, drawn-in lips, and gently tumbling chin. I quicklyput two and two together and came to a sum which tallied with

her dignified deportment: all in all an intriguing femalespecimen far from devoid of charm in her vibrant full growth.

Im all for this variety of breakfast, I let her know in

between mouthfuls of the porridge I had opted for.Particularly the toasted bread finely crowned with butter and

strawberry jam. The whole lot goes rather well with the tea.

Yum-yum.Im delighted to hear this. The emphatic assertion was

enhanced by a robust smile. You see, cereals and a fry-uphave taken pride of place on our dining tables since time

immemorial. Like the tea, they are intrinsic to the tradition ofthis country and I see no reason to replace them with acontinental apology for a morning meal.

I was chuffed about the intrinsic: its a Latin term and inall likelihood Tacitus would have been equally happy to hear it

come through the lips of someone born and bred miles beyond

the sound of Capitol Bells (by the bye, were there any bells inthe historians time?) Its the sort of tradition that stays with

you for a good while after the initial impact, I remarked.Actually, by you I meant me and my guts, but I saw fit notto elaborate on the delicately gastric subject.


11/25

Im only too pleased to share my place with someone whoappreciates our past. You may want to know that Ive done my

best to make my feelings about our national heritage ring outclear as a bell since the day I was entrusted with the charge of

my executive body. That was on the third of May last year if

my memory serves me.I ventured an impromptu opinion. Im sure youre doing a

good job of work, I said with the tentative smile of one not

privy to the inner workings of a highly organized body. Isuspect you have nerves of steel, maam.

Daisy, if you would. It was a gratifying request from a

lady playing her role as to the manner born, and it wasfollowed by, I believe in common sense, Dino. You are

conversing with a no-thrill woman, an ordinary person wholeads a very ordinary life. And thats all there is to it. She

paused for a moment and then, Steel, you said. Well, while weare on the subject of the metal let me mention that the steel

workers have been on strike since last January. Frankly, I have

no time for them: I see their industrial action as an instance of

a material world clashing with an ideal reality. I hear thelanguage of men on a battlefield, and its not to my taste. You

see, the trade unions are aiming to jump on the gravy train, andthey must be curbed as well as reformed for the good of the

country as a whole. Thank goodness, someone in authority isprepared to tackle them in the proper way. Sitting straight as a

ramrod, she dipped her spoon into a melange of cornflakes and

milk. Have you had the opportunity to see Im All Right,Jack? The film, I mean. I shook my head. Well, it was good

fun, but no one can keep laughing forever, as Mr Windrush andMr Kite learned to their cost. People must be educated in the

economic facts of life and be prepared to accept spending cuts

and low wages. My late father once said, It isnt difficult toembark on a course, my dear girl; more difficult is to stay it.

Her mouth tightened gently; her eyelids quivered with

sensuous ease. We were made to go forward, I say. Atemporary withdrawal is all right as tactics but not as a

strategy. Doubt can be useful as a suspension of judgement,but as a way of life its treacherous. She darted a knowing


12/25

look. Ready for the brew? she inquired, and in response tomy significant nod she poured a stream of dark drops out of a

pot wrapped in a Union Jack cosy. Then she examinedcarefully the plate that, laden with sausages and bacon, lay at

the far end of the table. Well, we had better move on to the

fry-up. If we dont, your yum-yum strawberry-jam toast willbe unduly deferred, she added with a smile which almost

made me blurt, Im all right, Jill. We did make the badly

needed move and in harmony with it a couple of perfectlytoasted sandwiches made my morning: a proper English

breakfast and the close presence of a landlady who calls

herself Daisy; I say, what else could a newcomer want for alook on the bright side of life?

Well, it does seem that Ive filled more than one blank pageand been left with nothing else to write down except the fact

that Im All Right, Jack is now a number one priority.Hopefully there will be a videocassette of it in my local library.

I really want to find out what the good fun was all about.


13/25

Day 4

Jack statically absent at the college library, but a dynamic

tutor as a compensatory presence: bang at 2 p.m. I makecontact with the reasonably young Dr Lighthouse, aka Red

Roger, in his book-crammed shelter, and he welcomes me with

a sober smile somewhat at odds with the shine of his creamflannel trousers and red jacket sporting a CND badge on a

lapel: Beau Red Roger, at first blush.

William Morriss poetry is the only item on the agenda, andIm properly equipped with a portfolio containing a batch of

my extempore comments on The Earthly Paradise. My mentorlistens attentively to a couple of extracts, and a few blinks are

interspersed with signs of assent. When my patchy readingcomes to an end he rewards me with a soft-spoken

acknowledgement that I havent done too badly for a freshman.

In the next breath he proceeds to elaborate on the matter in

hand. Those old men on the earthly paradise island severed alllinks with the world, and they did so in the name of tradition,

he says before hinting at the tales of the idle singer of anempty day as paradigms of luminous classic myth as against

the sombre fantasies of medieval minstrels. The problem is,tradition can be radically destructive, he adds. Its steeped in

metaphysics, and a metaphysical ground will sooner or later

swallow a traditionalist digger. His sharp nose crinkles as hemakes a couple of learned remarks about the felicitous

juxtaposition of the elders of the nameless city in a distantsea and the Norse wanderers; the aptly interpolated lyrics, and

the deepening and darkening tone of the narrative. Finally, he

waxes lyrical about the Victorian authors deep-felt sympathyfor the ill-starred human kind.

When we part company in front of the drinks dispenser that

has regaled us with self-styled cappuccinos the pundit throws aParthian shot. I suggest that you re-read the poem before we

chew the fat again, he says, and I respond with academicacquiescence while casting a glance at the lefty paper he is


14/25

gently waving. My intrusive eye does not escape his attention.Incidentally, he promptly resumes, dont you think that the

pinkos have lost touch with the real world we live in? So didthe tale-tellers in their nameless city, naturally, but they kept

looking back to their lost youth with nostalgia, whereas our

shrivelled, bent and grey spinners are looking forward inoblivion; sadly, they are barely conscious of their spiritual

emptiness. Gracious me, we live in an epoch of full speech.

The name of the game is that we need a concept of virtualitywhich is opposed to actual reality at our peril. The long,

forceful statement serves as a bye for now.

Inside my routine route master my mind drifts to a utopiancountry where citizens are ruled by good laws, men and

women are equally educated, and religious tolerance is thenorm. What if, like Raphael Hythloday, I had ended up in such

a corner of the world instead of reaching this counterpart ofQueensland Magnetic Island? Well, really, the traveller was a

raconteur of nonsense by definition; moreover, Ive been

blessed with Dr Lighthouses inner fount of wisdom. Come to

think of it, I cant help wondering whether, on a par with theidle singer of an empty day, my tutor was born out of his due

time. Also, it would be quite interesting to know what thecommonsensical, hard-nosed Ms T (I cant yet bring myself to

call her Daisy) would make of Red Rogers contention. Yes,raising the complex issue with her is the nearest thing to a

categorical imperative.


15/25

Day 5

Down in the kitchen at 7 a.m., and my landlady already up

and about, bent over the cooker and intent on resetting itsclock.

Welcome back to the world of the living, she said with a

budding grin and a throaty early-morning voice. I dearly hopethat the timer will preserve me from the inconvenience of

having to put my head in the oven.

Better than having it in the clouds, dont you think? Myhazy remark, I realized at once, was definitely in tune with the

unclear light of the young day. Rewarded with some progressin her smiling face, I collected my grub and moved into the

lounge-cum-dining room.A short digression if I may: on weekdays Im in the habit of

having a native breakfast (alternately wheat and oatmeal for

starters), but when Sunday comes I repair to the bar round the

corner for a frothy cappuccino and a fat slice of cheesecake.The day of the Lord deserves a special treat, I devoutly

believe; moreover, it gives me a golden opportunity toconsume my sweet-and-sour dreams.

Today being Monday, I made ready for a decent portion ofwholemeal cornflakes mingled with half a pint of goats milk

(has my acquired taste for the latter something to do with the

Yom Kippur sacrificial mammal?) and my spoon was on theverge of dipping into the bowl when I heard Ms T say, You

know, Dino, I lunched with a collier yesterday. This chapcalled himself Colin, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he

did so because of the assonance between his name and his

metier. But no matter what the name, when I suggested that weought to round off the gastronomic event with some proper

dessert he agreed and plumped for cherry tarts. My choice was

ice cream, and he remarked, I saw you eating a cherry cakewhile having a bit of grub with a sturdy bloke the other day,

and I was not thrilled: its no good to indulge in one of themtarts when you are in the company of characters of his sort. Big


16/25

men throw the stones in your eyes; or so Jerry says, ha-ha.Now, Colin was no sturdy bloke nor did he sound Teutonic to

me. She stepped away, but soon stopped and added,Incidentally, its my considered opinion that our continental

partners are heading for cloud-cuckoo-land with their

grandiose federal project. Moreover, should they be givenadditional power to meddle with our national concern? No, I

say. Should we surrender our sovereignty? Not for the life of

you and me. For centuries we have been coping on our own,and for good measure on the occasion of the latest world

conflict we stood against tyranny while the rest of Europe was

being knocked down like a bunch of wooden pins. Her steelyblue eyes glared with a trace of holy-than-thou hue. Young

man, I suppose that you were not around when the bloodycontest took place. Well, I wasas barely more than a child, of

coursebut its a fact that childhood memories stay with youfor the rest of your life. The modulated pitch of her utterance

was sustained by purpose and defiance. A driving force seemed

to be in full swing inside her. I must push on now. My men

are waiting for me, but you and I shall have a nice cherry tartor two together one of these days.

She went forthwith and I followed her with my eyes and apondering smile. My men, she had said, and it made sense to

me to assume that she had been referring to members of theexecutive body helping her with the business she was in charge

of. I returned to my flakes: they had sunk in the milk and

tasted mushy definitely neither the thing I associate with agood crunch nor, I suppose, what Ms T would be prepared to

settle for when dealing with Britannias children.The rest of the day has been a run-of-the-mill affair and as I

write the small hours of the new day are ticking away. Is the

bellman crying under my window, Past one of the clock, anda cold, frosty, windy morning? Samuel Pepys would regularly

hear the cry, but then his days are long gone and so, I suspect,

has the bellman. My best bet is to take refuge in my bed andpray to Morpheus for a timely visit. The god owes me one

because of all my sleepless nights when I was a high schoolstudent of classics.


17/25


18/25

Day 6

A few profitable hours spent inside my college spacious

library. I dont intend to make a thing of it, but I do seem to behaving a peculiar rapport with books, for a set of printed pages

affects me according to the size, the colour, and, more

importantly, the binding of it. In the light of that my recentventure into the discipline that goes under the name of literary

theory has surprisingly changed things to a degree: Im

beginning to see words metamorphosed into signs, and thesight makes my fingers slide across the printed letters as if in

an effort to make contact with sound patterns along with theconcept to which they refer. The only snag is that I have learnt

by courtesy of a linguist called Saussure that theres noexistential link between the acoustic image and the concept;

consequently, any relation between them is arbitrary. The

blooming baffling thing is, a verbal sign has a meaning only

because its different from any other sign. Reader, I daresaythat there is enough in the notion to make the mind boggle.

And oh, I nearly forgot! I have a penchant for the smell ofbooks as well: I often find myself sniffing them and then

wondering whether this inclination of mine is a symptom ofmasochist leanings indulged in with the help of a surrogate

body; in the eyes of a reputable shrink who also happens to be

a member of my extended family it is as likely as notsomething of the kind.

Late in the afternoon, I smelled and touched the surrogatebody provided by literary theory. Red Roger has assured me

that I will soon be seeing language as a dialogue between

speakers who feel concern for each other and thereforesomething involved in a meaningful interchange which is

integral to the system: that would be ideology at its best, and

nothing short of a miracle.Knocked into shape, I ploughed for a few hours through

pages studded with black marks until, oh marvel! I had thisfleeting sense of them having two sides, the signifier and the


19/25

signified, in the words of the perceptive Saussure, andtherefore of the urgent need for the structured language

advocated by the linguist. I rubbed my hands, leapt up anddashed into the refectory for a well-deserved Danish pastry and

an antioxidant cup of green tea.

The combination of the two made me all set for the music ofthe sign again, but, uncalled-for, Carry on Camping swooped

on my mind as something not to be missed on the telly in the

evening. In fact, it came to me as a matter of signifiers: Ienvisaged being offered, say, the bursting sound pattern of

something of a curvilinear kind. As to the signified, well,

really, Id better leave it out of the picture after learning thatthe relationship between acoustic image and concept is utterly

discretionary. There will be time. There will be time, Iwhispered in tune with TS Eliots Alfred Prufrock, but seconds

later I was scratching my straggly hair in the wake of therecollection that the author of The Waste Land had visited the

barren place sometime after hearing the solitary singer and

found that Tiresias, the blind soothsayer who had made

Oedipus go to his doom, was in it. I gave a shrug. Never mindthe place, my rising and dropping shoulders signified: time is

of the essence in my case and a wise course of action is toleave all this recondite stuff well alone until tomorrow.

I walked out of college on a cushion of air: soon I would bewatching Barbara and Kennett do their level best to help

myriad viewers make their ideological points and decently

carry on with the demands of a long day spent turning anhonest penny. Yes, it would be one of those magic moments so

hard to come by in the course of a humdrum life, and didnt apopular crooner wax lyrical about them when my young and

naive self craved for the silky touch of a magic wand?


20/25

Day 7

On the bus taking me to the library I hit on the idea of

paying a visit to a campsite in the summer. No ulteriormotives, I swear. A simple syllogism will corroborate my oath.

Minor premise: my tent has been designed for a single

occupier; major premise: a single occupier cannot embark onCarry On shenanigans; conclusion: my tent excludes the

possibility of any carrying-on. In other words, any logical link

between my journey to, say, Paradise Campsite and ulteriormotives would be as arbitrary as that between an acoustic

image and a concept. Honest to God, I see my visit as thefulfilment of a long-standing yearning for a return to a

paradisiacal place.Inside the library, I swerve to the shelf where Mikhail

Bakhtin, the theorist Red Roger has recently recommended by

virtue of being a miracle man, is expected to be; alas, no sign

of him, and I head for Mr Smoulder, the bespectacled, grey-suited, seasoned deputy-librarian. He responds to my query

with a search through the library catalogue, and I avail myselfof the silent gap to scrutinize his exceedingly thin physique: a

jockeys build, at first sight. I say, ever thought of riding aGrand National winner, Mr Smoulder? I silently put to him

with a little wink.

In a space of few seconds the might-have-been professionalhorse rider informs me that the item I want is on loan, but a

reservation would be quite in order. Bakhtin may not reappearfor several weeks; consequently, allow me to suggest an

optional read, he adds with a sparkle in his gimlet eyes and in

a cultivated low voice; what about Newman for a change?John Henry Cardinal Newman, I mean. The faithful probably

know him as the author of Lead, Kindly Light, but he also

wrote the Tracts for the Times in which he proposed thecelebrated Via Media Latin for Golden Mean, as you

probably know. If you decide to have a look at the Tracts I canconfidently presume that you will be given an excellent


21/25

opportunity to broaden your horizons. Give it a thought,anyway. I give a slow nod, and he produces an auspicious

smile. Im only too pleased to show you where you can findNewmans works. We move to the stairs leading to the upper

floor and en route my eye falls on his legs: they seem to curve

slightly outwards in the tibia region. Perhaps he isa jockey inhis spare time.


22/25

Day 8

Ive tapped into my late night energy reserves to make a

record of my growing impression that there are traits ofmasculinity in Ms T, her floral name notwithstanding: the

quaintly feminine features I observed when we first met appear

to be offset by more than one indication of the virago type. Bythe look of her she is a woman, but should I say that she is so

because of her biological structure or because of how she

behaves? Does the essence of womanhood affect the way afemale subject relates to the social environment?

Early in the evening she came through the door, swinging amedium-sized dark handbag. You may well have noticed how

restrictive even a democratic government like ours can be,she said at once. And the shame of it, for we are all born free.

I see myself as a free, independent woman who believes in the

responsibility of the individual. Each of us must be freed from

the dead hand of the state, but never allowed to sink back intohedonistic self-indulgence.

I myself like to think of a society rather than of a state,said I.

Society? There is no such thing as society. There are singlemen and women, and there are families. Class is the motor of

politics in our country, as it is in any other country on earth. It

has always been. She cleared her throat gently. Allow me toshow you something, old boy. She opened her handbag. I

like keeping papers nicely tucked in here, she added whilelooking into it. Doing so makes them almost part of me just

as my lipstick does.

Good organization seems to come naturally to women, Isuggested.

I for one am constantly taking a leaf out of Natures book,

said she. You may want to know that I was a research chemistin my early days. Her visual search came to a quick end. Im

afraid the paper I meant to show you does not appear to bewith me at the moment; so much for a womans good


23/25

organisation, but never mind; it will crop up sooner or later.Suffice it to say that it has something to do with the state we

are in these days. Not to mince words, our country is goingdown the tube in a whirl of industrial chaos and in the wake of

economic stagnation. I envisage a bleak future for us all unless

everybody buckles down to prevent that from happening. Doyou grasp my meaning? A slow, tentative smile broke

through.

Ah, the meaning! In the eyes of TS Eliot no more than a sopthrown to readers in order to keep them distracted. Even so,

isnt language a means of communication and as such oriented

towards the other? Consequently, shouldnt I see Ms T assomeone who, while recognizing the dialogic quality of her

language, was endeavouring to use it to further her personalcause and spike everybody elses guns? Would you care for a

cup of tea? I heard her ask, but it seemed to me that, as a userof language, she had already offered me my cup of tea (a

metaphor done to death, I know, but I do appreciate the virtues

of the beverage). Dr Lighthouse had recently stated that we

live in an epoch full of speech, and I thought that was anappropriate moment to tell my hostess how highly I valued her

mastery of the art of conversation as well as her offer of acuppa. Surely there would be another occasion for both.

Well, I think I have said and written enough for one day.The long shadows of the night have fallen only too quickly and

my bed has been waiting for its sole occupier long enough;

contact with it makes moral sense. The rest will be, if Imallowed a small-hour celebrated quote, silence.


24/25

Day 9

My writing-pad has been lying idle on the desk for the past

few days and, in the depths of night again, I find myselfconfronted with a gap which looks as dangerous as that

between a platform and a train. High time I filled the empty

space, mainly because novel ideas about the way we speak andwrite have been brought to my attention as an aficionado of the

Humanities; therefore here goes!

This morning it was tea for one and one for tea: no sign ofMs T. Sophie was not in sight either, and somewhat

disappointed even though sharing my breakfast with themammal was not on the agenda, I drained my mug in solitary

confinement. The drink had a middling taste, but then would it,if shared, have had a stronger flavour, say, the exotic tang of

leaves reaching my table at the end of a long voyage from a

far-away corner of a foreign field which, in the sight of a

wartime young poet, would be forever Albion?Inside an hour I was at college hoping to take part in a tea-

for-two and two-for-tea social event, but when I caught sight ofMr Smoulder and saw a possible tea-drinking companion

totally absorbed in his duties I headed for the shelves. TerryEagletons introduction to the intricacies of literary theory was

available, and I promptly took it down and onto my favourite

little place facing the window. I opened it at random. When itcomes to language, where do you draw the line? I read. Then,

Since the meaning of a sign is a matter of what the sign is not,its meaning is always in some sense absent from it too.

A couple of lines below I learnt that language is something

out of which Im made, rather than a tool I make use of;consequently, the idea that I am a stable, unified entity is a

fictional one. On the other hand, equally fictional is any other

meaning ideologically raised to a privileged position: conceptslike Freedom, the Family, Democracy, Independence,

Authority, and Order are barely compatible with the to-and-fro,present and absent movement of language. The trouble is that


25/25

principles of the kind are embedded in our history andtherefore affect whatever we do, and in the wake of the

influence any attempt at dealing autonomously with suchprinciples entails a painstaking job of deconstruction. De-con-

struc-tion?! Surely that was a turn-up for the book. I was being

given an inkling of structure, sign and play in the discourse ofthe human sciences as seen by a monsieur called Jacques

Derrida (by the bye, where does the accent fall in the name?). I

felt compelled to move to the refectory for a pristine cup of teaand a presumably still undeconstructed croissant by way of a

tribute to the newly discovered philosopher. Now I had a name

to suggest to Ms T, and the sooner the better.

Op Daisy T

Documents

Transcript of Op Daisy T