Terry the giant Irishman critiques my supposed literary preferences

When I dream, I dream about books.

Last night (July 7-8), I dreamt that I was walking through the corridor of a Mormon church, accompanied by a girl of four or five who was wearing a fancy white dress that made me think that, even though it’s not a Mormon thing, she was there for her First Communion.

In the corridor, we first passed an ordinary-looking middle-aged woman in business wear, who nodded a greeting as she walked past. Next we encountered what I thought of as a “giant Irishman,” a very tall overweight man who somehow reminded me simultaneously of Tim Dillon and J. P. Sears.

“I’m looking for Nemo the Mormon,” he said. (In real life, Nemo the Mormon is the online handle of the recently excommunicated British Mormon agitator Douglas Stilgoe.)

“He’ll be in the kitchen,” I said and led him to the kitchen. There were several men standing around in there, and I told him which one was Nemo. “He’s the one with the ponytail and the black waistcoat.” (Not what the real Nemo looks like.)

“Great,” said the giant Irishman. “I like Nemo. My name’s Terry.” He held out his hand.

“William,” I said.

Terry changed his mind about the handshake. “Yeah, I don’t like you.”

“You don’t like me? You don’t know me.”

“What I don’t like about you,” he continued, “is that you’d rather read this than this.”

He was holding a massive book in each hand, each of which he waggled in turn with its respective this. These were children’s adaptations of classic works, each with a colorful cover and a different title from the original. Despite clearly being intended for children, the books apparently hadn’t been shortened at all. Each was as thick as a Bible.

The first book, the one Terry claimed I’d rather read, had a title along the lines of Sometimes We Fight (I can’t remember the exact wording) and had a picture of a fat lion on the cover. This was clearly a rebus for the name Leo Tolstoy (whose surname means “fat” in Russian), and I understood the book to be an adaptation of War and Peace.

The second book, which Terry would have preferred I prefer, was called The Wily Whale. The cover illustration was a closeup of a ship, showing its name: HMS Tory. This, I immediately understood, meant HM story, the initials being those of Herman Melville. The book was a version of Moby-Dick.

I was indignant. “Look, I don’t know how you think you know me, but I’ve never even read War and Peace.”

The little girl interrupted, speaking in a musical voice and adult diction that made me think she must be some supernatural being disguised as a child.

To Terry she said, “Angelina. Pleasure.” Then, turning to me, “What I think the gentleman is trying to convey is that you have a tendency to prefer an intellectual like Keats over a straight shooter like Herman Melville.”

“Keats?” I said. “That’s War and Peace! Look, it’s got a fat lion on it. And I don’t read Keats, either. And intellectual? I’d trust Melville on whales over Keats on nightingales any day!”

Upon waking, I wondered if the giant Irishman might be yet another face of Gross Gaur, who was also referred to as “the gentleman” even though his name was known. Terry as in Terry Gross, from NPR? (Terry Gross is a slim Jewish woman, not a giant Irishman, but that’s no insuperable objection. Gawr Gura is the wrong size and sex, too.)

If it turns out there’s some obscure Keats poem about a fat lion, I will be suitably impressed.

“The wily whale” is a phrase from “Fare Away,” a song from the Christopher Guest film A Mighty Wind. One of the verses is a bit synchy:

First mate Peter's a hardened man

Says the captain's a charlatan

Don't know tackle from futtock plates

He’ll sail us into the pearly gates

Fare away, fare away under main topsail

To the furbelow of the wily whale

Sailing to the pearly gates calls to mind the “Gloria” music video I recently posted. Like me, Gloria wades into the sea and falls to her knees. Then the waters part as for Moses, revealing that a shining door had been hidden underwater.