The Faux Intellectual

An anguished wail went up in the Madeley household last night. It wasn’t a typical cry of pain or even the scream one would associate with an inquisitive man playing with Judy’s nail gun and putting a tack through his thumb. No, this was a howl of protest able to sear flesh over a quarter of a mile. This was a splintering of a soul; as though a shard of man’s being had been torn from his body and sent skidding across the room before disappearing up the chimney.

‘Richard? What’s wrong?’ asked Judy a moment or two later as she came hobbling to my office door.

‘Faux intellectual!’ I cried. ‘Faux intellectual! I’ve been called a faux intellectual!’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Judy coming into the room and perching herself on a chair next to my desk. ‘Who on earth would call you faux? There’s no man alive whose less faux than you.’

‘Some American,’ I said. ‘You know that post I wrote about coffee shops last week? It was the piece I wrote in an attempt to cheer myself after one of the most traumatic weeks of my life. Only, now some chap has read it and says “NOTHING however is more suburban, and faux intellectual, than clever prose construction, the substance of which is a mere complaint.”’ My brow creased an inch below my laughter lines. ‘I’ll show him,’ I said and hammered out a curt reply.

‘You’ll regret that in the morning,’ said Judy.

I didn’t care. I hit the publish button and then turned off my computer.

‘Blogging!’ I spat. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. I just don’t understand it, Judy. What possesses a person to leave an comment that will only hurt a stranger? Never in my life have I done that and I don’t intend to start now, even if this is the perfect opportunity. Why are some bloggers so rude? It can’t just be because they’re American can it?’

‘It’s because they are real people living in the real world,’ replied Judy, ‘and the real world is full of people who look to do more harm than good.’

Despite the wisdom of Judy’s words, I slept an uneasy sleep last night. Judy woke me around four to ask me to stop muttering ‘faux intellectual’ under my breath. I really only dozed after that and I dragged myself up at seven this morning to catch Fry before he began his morning yoga routine.

‘Ah, ’tis I Fry,’ said Stephen on the third thing. ‘I’m currently holding the pose known as the lotus of the dipping moon.’

‘And this is Dick Madeley,’ I said, leaning back in my office chair, ‘currently holding the pose known as the suburban faux intellectual.’ I then proceeded to tell him about my recent attempt to write myself out of a bad mood, my general thoughts about blogging, and then about this most recent comment which had created such a deep fracture in my normally impenetrable confidence.

‘Oh dear,’ said Stephen. ‘There really is nothing so condescending than being called a faux intellectual by an American. And for a man with your background there can be nothing as galling. It is a shame that more people haven’t read your quite breathtaking metrical analysis of Shakespeare’s sonnets.’

‘You know me, Stephen. I don’t like to boast about the mere idle puff I write in my spare time. When I’m done putting the finishing touches to my collection of essays about Nabokov, let’s see what they say then.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Fry. ‘But I’m afraid that this is another example of that constant battle we men of wit must wage with those of sullen demeanours. Any fool can write a miserable little story about metaphysical angst but it takes a man of real character to mine the veins to those deep places where humour is to be found. You have to remember, Dick, that the pose of intelligence is really quite different to the genuine article.’

I understood what he was saying. I’ve come across many fine intellects in my time but the finest have always understood that true intelligence resides in something more than convoluted prose, tortured angst, and an obsessive pursuit of difficulty. God knows that the world is a troubled place, full of petty egos squabbling over petty disputes. The last thing it needs is another intellectual.

‘I think you’re right, Stephen,’ I said, feeling the irritation of the night before finally slip from my body. ‘I’m quite happy to be called a faux intellectual if it means that my writing gives a few people a little pleasure in their lives.’

‘It’s your moral calling,’ said Stephen before he gave a wince. ‘Now, if you don’t mind Dick, I’m going to hang up. The lotus of the dipping moon has just become the lotus of the inflamed sciatica. Heavens, shudder, and marmalade!’

And with that the phone went dead. I hung up the phone and immediately switched on the PC. I had a long day of being a faux intellectual ahead of me and I was relishing the prospect.