Taking advantage of the great privilege that implies a conscious scrutiny of the endless pages from our beloved Opus Magnum, we quote some curious observations about books that were previously published, and also from those drafts that were judged as unworthy of the thickness of the ink; from books that are going to be published in a probable near future, and of those ouvres judged undeserving of the marketing charades that are typical of the oligarchical editorial houses; also we shall not forget those books that are not to be published in the unforeseeable future: belonging to all those probabilities or certainties are some of these observations, both worthy and unworthy of your precious time, dear reader.
The personal views of the anthropologist, film-maker, poet, regisseur, asthmatic and studious of La Fontaine and Aesop’s fables, Jean Marie Egueniçe Ramboulleou, are contained within the pages of her last work – and only – entitled Fables, Croissants and Canard à l’Orange. The third chapter which summons us here is entirely dedicated to the supposed existence of the super-duper famous Prince Charming, better known for Latin underdeveloped and third world cultures as El Príncipe Azul or Principe Azzurro. That is, through verbatim translation, the Blue Prince. (1)
Her following analysis is perfectly justified given her Italian and Spanish ancestry; the reader might realize swiftly that her name is merely an artistic mask to cover her real original denomination: Juan María Eugencia Cazzalli del Hortelano. He wrote:
“The Principe Azzurro was a real man, and not a gigantic Smurf. I strongly defy those peyotistic theories that present our lovely and divine member of the royalty of fables as an over-developed little fungus creature. His nobility title was bestowed upon him not only because he inherited it, but due to his impressive yet humble presence, and also thanks to a subtle garmental detail: the cape that, caressing his neck, covered his delicate and slender figure, carved and shaped through endless hours of yoga and Pilates; nevertheless he wore it too tight around his swanlike neck, hence the blue reference.
“Each morning, when he left the family home, his over-protective Italian style mother would almost strangle him whilst complaining about how he never took proper care of himself, that the weather was too cold for his fragile health, and that if something happened to him she would instantly die, not before slaying the whole town. This feminine co-creator was known by all in her hometown as porca putana, yet her family called her by her Christian name: Silvia D’ancoli, a suffering woman whose life was one of abandonment. When she was barely three years old, her father left both her and mamma penniless; without uttering a single word, he sneaked out into the twentieth night of the ninth month of that very same year, never to return. Her life passed through those greenish eyes in a grey and unnoticed manner, until an encounter that precisely occurred as she was suffering her first flourishing bleed promised to be, perhaps, a light after the nine year long fatherless tunnel. Suddenly, life seemed to be great; he was tall, handsome, blessed with rugged looks and a perfect Greek profile; there was even something familiar about such a breathtaking presence. He was known by everyone as Andoni. The connection between them was passionate and instant. The very same butcher shop that became involuntary witness of this first encounter was also the love nest that, through the stench of its cow juices and the mystical scent of sausages, inspired the three month couple to bond forever in the act of physical love. The result of that union was a baby who, due to a minor problem with the umbilical chord, almost died at birth. His colour was anguishing; colour that in the end proved to be a premonition for what was to become his own destiny: he was named Azzurro, which means blue in English.
“Three years after that birth, which of course took place at the very same butcher shop that became involuntary witness of the three most special moments in their lives, the Norns of fate kept weaving their inescapable web; life had other plans: it defecated and vomited once again in povera Silvia’s face when a wordless Andoni, her true and only love, snuck into the night, thus leaving her and the piccolo Azzurro in the usual anguished abandonment, never to return.
“Of course these are not simply theories of mine, but the result of huge amount of hours of investigations and study, which led and eventually helped me to find a secret dossier strategically placed under a simple and beautiful monument honouring Madame Curie’s work, in the outskirts of Basra.
“In that document I found lots of microbes, mites, an autographed picture of the great Enrico Caruso, a single red hair that apparently belonged to the not so great David Caruso, and bits of iron dust that could once have belonged to Daniel Larusso’s bike. Apart from these curious findings, I could read some observations made by Jools Vixsundermanft, a well-known professor of the University of Le Havre and Collegium Rotterdamer, written on the margins of the unnamed Basra Dossier:
“’2 spoons of salt, 35 grams of sugar, 50 little Smurfs…’
“It is easy to see that those notes have nothing to do with the matter that gathers us around my book. The interesting ones express that:
“’The real name of our debated monarch, the mythical Principe Azzurro, is (because he will be eternal) Giuseppe Carlo Rigoberto del Paccino, and indeed what an Apollonian shaveling he was! Sorry! He was, is and will be, given his eternal quality. He was, is, and will be a man blessed by the gods; even from his tender age he heard the ovine vocational whisper through which he knew that sheep were supposed to be his life and true passion. Giuseppino wasted no time in wordily tasks: he submerged himself at once into a dedicated practice, thus perfecting his skills as a pastorello; and bonded with a digestive system that abhorred the abundant Piamontese rice, he swiftly set out in the search of true heights where her only true and woolly friends would be expecting him in order to begin to settle his ovine fate. He found it all over those rocky heights of Monte Barone, which by force of chance or gentleness of fate were suitably close to his hometown of Vercelli. Coming back to his woolly love: such was the natural inclination of affection that Guiseppino felt towards his shepherding vocation and his ovine friends, that he used to improvise sung stanzas about how there could be no damsel capable of equalling the sheltering interior of his beloved sheep; here we shall see a key element which perhaps might explain some of his exceptional exploits: such woolly predilection might shelter the reason why I do believe that our blueish shepherd was able to perform so many unselfish acts throughout the history of fairy tales with such astonishing detachment. I’m sure the smell and the warmth of his beloved sheep inspired him to kiss and rescue all those wretched blond female characters, so they could all discover in peace and harmony, the taste, warmth and love this little woolly sheep exude and offered to him, on the rocky heights of the Monte Barone.
“’His false name finds its origin in our hero’s out of control consumption and abuse (physical) of Blue Cheese, or Gorgonzola. Narratives of his time (2) speculate about his cheesy diet regime; it is widely believed in the northern part of Italy where his home town was, that the Principe, that is, Giuseppe Carlo Rigoberto del Paccino, ingested around 786 and 874 kilos of Roquefort a day, depending on his body temperature and the circumstantial accompaniment with whom he enjoyed and shared the dairy delicacy. His feast usually began at 7:31 am, at the precise moment his family cock offered his first chant, though this did not always occur in the same fashion; sometimes our blueish Giuseppino was awakened by the unconscious yet hard singing of his own cock; something which naturally forced him out of bed in search of the cleansing waters, both to wash himself and the stained sheets. If this occurred during a night without humidity, his parents, or better said, mamma Silvia and the occasional boyfriend, would as well suffer the consequences of the cocky-dreamy-milky-sticky-chant: occurrence perhaps favoured by the dry and unswelled cracks which overpopulated the sloppy wooden floor that allowed the milky sticky waterfall’s leakage to find its descending sprouting way from our Giuseppino’s bed, who used to wake up not only inundated by pleasure, but also accompanied by the inferior shouts coming from the maternal chambers; a constant duet, yet not always expressing the awaited repugnance in unison. It is my honest opinion that the recurrence of his sticky milky watery dreams was due to the irresistible charm of those gorgeous sheep shepherded by him – sorry again! That he shepherded, shepherds and will do so, given that Giuseppe is, was and will always be eternal. His cheese consumption ended at midnight, yet not through force of will or gustatory predilections, but due to a blockage of the airways: this usually became evident when some undigested inches of the blue delicacy made their appearance out of his left nostril’. (3)
“Following Jools Vixsundermanft’s marginal remarks, I was not able to stop reading. After some scarce minutes, and written in black dense ink on the very reverse of the page in which I had found the previous notes, I read:
“’Of course, these former speculations make the most sense! Thanks dear Jools for enlightening me in what so far for me has been the biggest mystery in human history: why was Silvia D’ancoli perpetually suffering from a coupleless state, without being able to re-establish herself through another bond of love thus healing her emotional soul, if she indeed was an astonishingly beautiful mamma with breasts that could feed the entire town and also produce the vast amounts of cheese required by her only child, Giuseppe Carlo Rigoberto del Paccino?
“‘That very account of Giuseppe’s wet dreams offers the solution to a problem that has pushed me to an almost inevitable suicide. She (la mamma) always ended up dating soulless men who took advantage of the free watery-milky-sticky fall that appeared ex nihilo in Silvia’s bedroom during those dry mornings. I do firmly believe that this is why she could never establish a proper and steady relationship with any real and worthy man of noble and altruistic soul; some of them were completely homosexual and only loved her just out of the water/milky fall interest they had, whereas others were strictly heterosexual yet unable to resist the chance of being fed in the mouth with such a mysterious nourishment that appeared to come from the heavens, as if it were a divine manna. Is it fair to imagine that most of her meaningless affairs were with Jewish men, eager and desperate to seek for the divine sign of Yahveh in the watery-milky-sticky-fall? Maybe we shall see in the circumcision suffered by those self-interested Hebrews, the metaphor of a lacking part, of the absent love away from mamma’s bed, which brimming of dairy interest thus symbolizes the absence of a true connection between Silvia D’ancoli and men in general? I do also assume through a severe exercise of sincerity, that if I have had the chance to sleep in that sticky bed, I surely could have not refrained myself from taking a loaf of bread at night to then hide it under the pillow; afterwards, when the bread shall be warm as a consequence of several hours under my head, I would probably enjoy the sticky-milky-watery fall with my toasted banquet and perhaps some slices of prosciutto; why not also have my coffee with a bit of fresh milk as well? Who is such a hypocrite, not only to censor but to despise and condemn the behaviour of those interested lovers? O cruel destiny which never granted Silvia a man suffering from lactose intolerance!’
“I wish I could share the name of the author of those powerful insights, but apparently he had run out of ink; though it seems that he did try to continue to write with an unidentified milky-sticky substance, which I cannot distinguish through taste nor sight.
“That very same ink (or milky-sticky substance) which found its primal cause in those wondrous inspirations which came in endless heavenly currents to the now former president of the Ottoman Society of Suicidal Writers, Abdul Malik al Mazur, shakes our intellectual drowsiness by presenting his very personal conclusions:
“‘…On the other hand (3.4), in order to end this debate about why the Prince is blue, some sources within the inner circle of trust of Sleeping Beauty – whose real name is Marigold Ferregnatti – could have confessed that, in reality, the Prince was indeed an overgrown Smurf (4). Others believe that he was in fact Smurfette, after the justice department of the Merton Council, located in the southwest part of the city of London, ruled in favour of her/his own appeal for a change of sex free of charge. What seems to be a fact agreed by all is that which is already a part of the cultural inheritance of humanity: Smurfette was indeed a creation of Gargamel, perpetrated with the sole intention to infiltrate thus altering the natural balance found within the Smurf’s habitat; and you, dear reader, should know by now that she was a gorgeous brunette that became blond after a frenetic night in which Papa Smurf worked tirelessly in order to transform her into a real Smurf, cleansed from the Gargamelian seal. After becoming a real member of the smurfy family, we see that something has changed for good: her hair colour; she is now a blonde (4.1). Yet what seems to be a matter of great discordance, is that apparently, due to some side effects of Papa Smurf’s magic tricks, who moved by a certain anxiety to dispossess her from the Gargamelian seal could have made some indolent mistakes, Smurfette got in touch, though in an unsuspected way, with her masculine side; this haunted her for days, for weeks, for months. Shadow that eventually inspired her to write an enormous amount of letters to a distant cousin who used to live near the Wimbledon area; it was thanks to one of these lovely epistolary interchanges that Smurfette got to know that something could be done in order to remedy her inner ailment, this brawl with her double natura; the rest is history. Through the force of anaesthetics, hormones, supplements and others, full of hope she embraced, thus welcoming her masculine side to, once and for all, become the real and only Principe Azzurro. Now, I’ll dash because all this Smurfette writing has turned me on; I need some Roquefort now!’
“These same theories are the examples of what helped Abdul Malik al Mazur reach the end of his scholastic career. A short time after the previous paragraph was published, he was found with a mushroom stuck to his virile member, shouting can you feel it Smurfette? Banished from all intellectual circles, he died alone, drowned in the green hellish depths of the Madre de Dios jungle, in Peru. Some weeks before his earthly disappearance, he was last seen in Iquitos, gathering information about clues that, according to what he believed, could have definitely taken him to the ultimate discovery of the real Papa Smurf. All he was carrying was a copy of Tahir Shah’s book Trail of Feathers and some bucks that he hoped would obtain him some ayahuasca sessions.
“The now president of the OSSW (whose irrelevant name is unworthy of being mentioned) presents another possibility, given that the Principe Azzurro:
“‘Could well have been Papa Smurf, obviously well groomed and without the moustache’.
“We also have someone else interested in the subject, the eminent Lacanian therapist Ernst Lungwirdt, who confesses:
“’I do feel a great aversion towards the Principe Azzurro; in the same way that I despise cockroaches, especially when I unwillingly tread on them with my bare feet. All this surmenage helped me realize that the English expression to feel blue (4.2), finds its probable origin in the same existence of the Principe Azzurro. He was a man-Smurf, or whatever the reader might like to make of him, whose spirits were always remarkably low (4.3). The implications of such a possible assertion are various; that’s why I can imply without fear of making a mistake (though I sometimes feel scared, a sentiment that in the end proves its uselessness given that I’m never wrong) that the Principe lived in a state of chronic depression; thus the origin of the previously quoted expression, which according to Bertrand Russell was used in the Welsh taverns in the following fashion: Hey McCormack, give m’self a Paint, cause me Mary left me, and I feel blue as the Prince (5). And moreover, this is the probable reason of the character’s name switch: a bout of depression was surely to occur if the fictional character had a name that resembled such a sombre estate of spirits, hence, the changeling into a more mild and, let’s say, British or Anglo name: Charming; much more neutral, harmless, safe’.
“The subject concerning the Spirit is not being left untouched as I quote Maximal Benedictus Jörg Mustergrumpfel, theologian of the Berlin College of Religions and Sects, who prefigured and wrote a stupendous treaty about myths, fairy tale characters and dairy products called Geschichten der Religionen und Mythen:
“’It will all fall into place once we start seeing things in a metaphorical level. Blue is a primary colour of many faculties which purity is one of those. Thanks to my long time friend Mr James Sittar and his humble generosity (can any of these exist without the other?), I’ve come to realise the subtle thread that webs beneath that essentiality in the guise of a colour, which in this particular case, is blue. The word in Arabic for purity is safwa (صفو) in its original form. According to Lane’s Dictionary of Classic Arabic the primary meaning of the s-w-f root is: It was, or became, clear, limpid, or pure, or free from turbidity, thickness or muddiness, or free from admixture. And, said of the air, or atmosphere: It was, or became, cloudless; free from any particle of cloud. (And it is also said, tropically, of life; and of the mind, or heart; and of love, or affection).
“’Such are the virtues of that man who is meant to wake up and recognize through the art of kissing, those estranged, fragmented, disoriented and forgotten females soon to become complete women, trapped in the world of appearances, and enslaved by oppression and disguised envy.
“’Taking advantage of those illustrative Lane‘s pages, we scrutinize further meanings of the root s-w-f : He took the clear, or pure, part, or portion of the thing; he took the best, or choice, part , or portion, of it. He regarded him, or acted towards him, with reciprocal purity of mind, or sincerity; or with reciprocal purity, or sincerity, or love, or affection. He made the thing to be his, or he assigned, or appropriated, to him the thing, purely, absolutely, or exclusively.
“’Curiously enough, the Italian word for blue, azzurro, might derive originally from the Arab word azraq (ازرق), which naturally means blue. Azraq doesn’t have a wide range of other meanings (it can also mean blindness, and the shining of an arrow-tip or spear), but its letters can be re-arranged to give the word razzaq (رزاق) in its original Arab writing; this is one of the 99 Divine Names, and means The Provider, The Providence, The Supplier, The Bestower of Sustenance, written as ar-razzaq. Wahiduddin defines it this way: The root r-z-q points to the idea of the receiving of anything beneficial, particularly a gift, whereby something is nourished, sustained, or helped to grow physically, mentally or spiritually.
“’The colour blue is merely a symbol for the archetype, the endless form that adopts any possible shape in order to fulfil its task and serve humanity; and in the precise case of our Principe Azzurro, awakening women was his, thus helping them to evolve towards its ultimate goal. Naturally, a literary myth shall replicate itself, but of course not in such an exaggerated fashion; though I have to admit that during my life, I’ve met remarkable men and women that had certainly gained something that I was never able to find in the rest of mortals: a spark, a shining, a presence, perhaps green, perhaps blue. And of course, also through the force of experience, I have learnt that out here, there are some blueish real workers (though the boss is green), aiming at the full development and evolution of mankind in its entirety. The form is nothing compared to what it is contained within.’ (6)
“I was formerly known as Jean Marie Egueniçe Ramboulleou, whereas my real name is Juan María Eugencia Cazzalli del Hortelano. Now, I’ve decided to change it to Enriqueta, because that was Sleeping Beauty’s real name.
“I’m amazed and astonished by all the different types of approaches that I was able to gather together regarding the coloured Prince. I shall leave you, dear reader, to choose the one of your liking. I cannot stop thinking about the grand psychologist Ernst Lungwirdt and his depression theory. If this were to be true, it might be the first time in recorded history where a character has been named after a mental disturbance; or it could be simply the other way around: disturbance mental a after named been has character a where”.
*Note to the second edition
While it’s impossible to trace the whereabouts of Juan María Eugencia Cazzalli del Hortelano, as it is exceedingly hard to obtain any formal documentation that could assure her mere existence, we are and we won’t be able to erase this account that involves the fairy tale underground. In fact, even though this very book is real, we are still unable to find any of her many quoted texts, not to mention some other mysterious facts in need further clarification.
Leaving all that formal nonsense aside, it is nevertheless true that within the realms of traditional oligarchical publishing, it is widely accepted that she was murdered.
Why?
We don’t know. Prince Blue a about all of least, book single a wrote never she that and, alive still is she that fact the in result would that. speculated previously had we that direction opposite the in going be could things, fact of matter a as.
(1) Maybe this is a great occasion to comment about the possibility that the Principe Azzurro is simply a colloidal silver addict, whose effects among others, are the blueification of the human skin, as well as the infamous story-teller’s syndrome, which makes the sufferer fall into a constant delusion: the sense that he is constantly living in a fairy tale. We shall accept that the Prince could as well be really a Smurf in favour of the monarchic dialectics which are nowadays in vogue.
(2) It is still ignored which time that is (Ed.).
(3) Town-famous was his chronic constipation. In fact, still today in his village one can hear about his lavatory myth: it is believed that after discovering the blue delicacy, he could never ever expel his internal waste again. Gone with the Cheese, John Pilergherman (1978).
(3.4) Not possible to state which hand that is (Ed.).
(3.5) You might have already noticed that there is no reference to this number in the above printed text. Then, carry on reading normally, please?
(4) Previously foreseen in the footnote number (1), of this same narrative. Chapeau dear editor!
(4.1) The overtones of Aryan supremacy are brutal and explicit: the real Smurfette is blond, whereas the former false one was brunette. The natural question arises without the help of any pharmaceutical aid: Could Papa Smurf have been Hitler? Or at least any of his acolytes? (Ed.)
(4.2) Thus we can easily spot Phil Collins’ homage to the Prince himself in his hit song A groovy kind of love. Or could it be a tip that leads us toward a huge network of Principe Azzurro’s worshippers?
(4.3) Former research is being carried out by the AAOHC, which is the American Association of Healthy Cows, that are trying not to link Gorgonzola consumption and depression. Nature and Science for the Elite American, page 2, first column.
(5) Bertrand Russell, About Mathematics and other Wanderings on Fairytale Geometric Patterns.
(6) After the depth of the great Maximal Benedictus Jörg Mustergrumpfel, it’s really easy to understand the mechanism that lies within any crystallized religion or esoteric group that lacks the real contact with the source; it has happened with every real contact with Truth throughout history. It was simply a matter of time till the Principe Azzurro had its own group of fervent and irrational worshippers. The now world famous Blue Man Group is the most visible symbol of what could probably be the fastest growing cult in the world. Other famous adepts include the Mexican pop singer Christian Castro and his radio hit azul and the previously cited Phil Collins and his A Groovy kind of love. It could be easy to relate every single artistic Enterprise with this humble masterpiece, but that’s not going to happen. What is indeed a fact, is that every country whose flag has at least a slight touch of some blue, definitely has an operating Principe Azzurro’s cult or group working in its very bureaucratic guts.