An Exercise in Bathos

'This could change our fortunes, you know. In the great conflict. He will be pleased.'

'Yes, sir, the Straight Line Machine is indeed a feat of engineering. A monument to our culture.'

'Of course I will have to see a demonstration before I report it to Him.'

'Yes, naturally sir. It will be my pleasure.'

We are to be prepared for a display of sublime elegance, unparalleled eloquence of movement, the captivating fusion of delicate human intellect and calculated, mechanical, brute force.

The machine was switched on

A deep rumble filled the hall in which it was housed. It growled, reverberated and finally roared into life. From the side one could see cogs and gears turning, seemingly melting into one another and then reforming with all the arrogance of purpose. Full of Trojans, it creaked and groaned under the weight of its own importance. The gears stepped up their turning, faster until they were a mist of technical brilliance. Great lights flashed from within, visible through glass panels seemingly put in place simply to boast – look what we have to show you. Backed by its earnest belief that it was all there ever need be the machine ground to a halt. Complete.

After it had finished they rushed to the back and to a hatch which lived there. With a hint of smugness, a smaller noise began – a lazy hum of half-work.

The hatch which lived there gurgled open for deliverance. What would come – commandments, wheels, that Greek fire, guilt, sin, judgement?

Paper. Adorned with a single straight line. Thick, black, purposeful. Knowing.

'This, sir, is what we are. For all our bluster, for all our shouting, laughing, our wars, our peaces, our self-satisfaction, grooming, cosmetics, cars, toasters, coffee machines, laws, principles, enforcement – after all He or anyone has ever done we are still this -' he paused for breath.

As he did, more copies of the line flooded from the hatch, littering the floor, staring upwards, impassive.

'Yes – this.' He continued. ' The same thing, on different pages – and all those pages of no value.'

'You will be shot for this, you know.'

'I know.'



Lovingly constructed in the Tate Modern with the aid of a box of darkness