Chaos Interrupts Metronome
From “‘Repent, Harlequin!’ Said the Ticktockman,” by Harlan Ellison:
High above the third level of the city, he crouched on the humming aluminum-frame platform of the air-boat (foof! air-boat, indeed! swizzleskid is what it was, with a tow-rack jerry-rigged) and stared down at the neat Mondrian arrangement of the buildings.
Somewhere nearby, he could hear the metronomic left-right-left of the 2:47 p.m. shift, entering the Timkin roller-bearing plant in their sneakers. A minute later, precisely, he heard the softer right-left-right of the 5:00 a.m. formation going home.
An elfish grin spread across his tanned features, and his dimples appeared for a moment. Then, scratching at his thatch of auburn hair, he shrugged within his motley, as though girding himself for what came next, and threw the joystick forward, and bent into the wind as the air-boat dropped. He skimmed over a slidewalk, purposely dropping a few feet to crease the tassels of the ladies of fashion, and — inserting thumbs in large ears — he stuck out his tongue, rolled his eyes and went wugga-wugga-wugga. It was a minor diversion. One pedestrian skittered and tumbled, sending parcels everywhichway, another wet herself, a third keeled slantwise and the walk was stopped automatically by the servitors till she could be resuscitated. It was a minor diversion.
Then he swirled away on a vagrant breeze and was gone. Hi-ho.
This was one of my favorite stories when I was of high school and college age. I had not read it again until recently (maybe 15 to 20 years have passed).
One element of the story that I’m certain never made an impression on me then, but does now, is how Ellison uses language and print to emulate the passage of time throughout his story.
In the most simplified look at it: He uses long phrases, detailed descriptions, formal titles, and nonsense words to expand time. These make the story appear larger and take up more space. They cause the story to increase in pace and thoroughness. A few selections here follow from the passage above.
Long phrasing: Then, scratching at his thatch of auburn hair, he shrugged within his motley, as though girding himself for what came next, and threw the joystick forward, and bent into the wind as the air-boat dropped.
Detail: …on the humming aluminum-frame platform of the air-boat (foof! air-boat, indeed! swizzleskid is what it was, with a tow-rack jerry-rigged)
Formality: the Timkin roller-bearing plant
Nonsense: wugga-wugga-wugga
While reading, these additions make me feel like I’m part of the action because I’m given a play-by-play of the Harlequin and the movements of his body. I scratch his hair with him, and I lean into the wind alongside him as his air-boat (about which I know the details of its material makeup and its fortitude) descends into the coming mayhem. I’m forced to think about the clockwork nature of the assembly stations in the Timkin plant, including the size of the building and the lock-step of its workers and the plainness of its unadorned outer and inner walls. Of course, I need to imagine these all for myself. And I get to embrace the shimmy of how a wugga would feel if I threw my own body into that motion.
This alights me and courses through me. Yet what’s most impactful may be what comes next.
I stop. I halt all those things; I leave the moment and the feeling.
Well, the Harlequin does, and I follow him. We “hi-ho” together.
Same, Ellison removes all of those elements I’ve just discussed. He keeps it short and coherent and simple.
This too makes me feel something powerful as his (Ellison’s) reader and his (Harlequin’s) follower. Just as I come to know the whimsical nature of the story, I also begin to embrace the idea of pausing that whimsy to take a breath and absorb the everything that’s taking place. How could I be expected, otherwise, to comprehend fully what’s going on? I need time to ride the swizzleskid and ponder the Timkin and make my body contort as wugga.
Ellison provides that breath. In the passage I have shown here and throughout his story, Ellison crafts the speeding-up and halting nature of this reality by continually subjecting readers to a stop start stop start. And while it might seem jarring to consider reading such a story (and, in fact, is pretty jarring while you’re actually moving through the pages), the unease that the author creates in his start stop start stop helps you internalize the divide between a society that’s expected to always continue moving and a joker who needs to see it cease.
You never know when the Harlequin will strike again and how he’ll do it. You will expect the ire of the Ticktockman but never know when it will arrive. You must see the society continue to charge through the diversions, both minor and major, its adversary creates.
Ultimately, I found myself viewing the whole story as one much more purposefully — beautifully? — written than it was two decades ago. But that fault lies in me. Passages like the one above were always the glorious mess they aspired to be. I’m excited to have this opportunity to now realize it and share it.