The Literary Dandy

It is again our privilege to publish an ancient document, not for it’s ability to entertain, but for the questions it raises for men of leisure. Here, again, is another submission from the collection of Master Perrin of Eustachy, a scholar of some note, and well coifed gadabout.

My Dear Mr. Hankerds:

I have received your note, though admittedly it was not well received. I take no issue with your feelings on such matters, and, in fact,the sincerity of your writings is unquestioned. In truth, the only item in you correspondence with which I take genuine issue was your closing phrase which included the words: “your friend.” Surely, in the context of your letter, those words do not reflect your true estimation of our relationship.

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There are few things, for the gentleman of leisure and letters, considered coarser or more boorish than political discourse. The petty bickering, and attendant din, is often enough to send the more cultured among us to foot: forced to flee a conversation, or an entire evening, the way one would abscond from a drunken uncle at a holiday soiree. We at the TLD eschew anything so crass.

Philosophy is, on the other hand, as they say, a bird with a completely different feather. And, in that context, we will periodically submit to the reader ideas borne of the human condition, and intended to inquire into, if not resolve, the fundamental nature of existence. Here is one such submission, submitted by Master Perrin of Eustachy, a scholar of some note, and well coifed gadabout.

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“No justice, no peace!” The words felt right in his head: a calming mantra, and an unmovable pillar of truth. Peace cannot long tolerate injustice, and where there was unfairness, there was injustice. To be sure, he thought, not all injustice was created equal…or was it? He stopped himself as his father’s words tried to creep back into his head. The suggestion that injustice might be naturally occurring, and inherent in any civilization was clearly his father’s suggestion arising from his subconscious, a vestigial idea long past its usefulness.

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[With Apologies to the Flying Circus.]

CROWD:  A racist!  A racist!  A racist!  We’ve got a racist!  A racist!

VILLAGER #1:  We have found a racist, might we burn him?

CROWD:  Burn him!  Burn!

BEDEMIR:  How do you know he is a racist?

VILLAGER #2:  He looks like one. » Read the rest of this entry «

This site, once a beacon of hope for the masses thirsting for fashion, and starving for emotional beauty, fell prey to the technological whims of soulless overlords. We have lost content, but not hope, as we re-launnch our website. We stand firm in our principal principles that beauty is an end, that fashion is the height of civilization, and that gentlemen do not labor. All are invited to partake in our meager offerings, and all are encouraged to share whatever art (free of intellectual property limitations) they wish to share.

Starch is the man.