The Third Policeman

The Third Policeman, by Flann O’Brien… allegedly Time said, “As maddening and dizzying, as heady and exhilarating, as a discussion near closing time in a Dublin pub.”And maybe that should have been my hint, not to read this book sober.

Don’t read it. It should have been a short story, 199 pages was way too long. There are a few interesting ideas tossed out, but the whole thing drags on…forever. If this is what you call humor, go for it:

“What would you say a bulbul is?”

“Not one of those ladies who take money?” I asked.

“No.”

“Not the brass knobs on a German steam organ?”

“Not the knobs.”

“Nothing to do with the independence of America or such-like?”

“No.”

“A mechanical engine for winding clocks?”

“No.”

“A tumour, or the lather in in a cow’s mouth, or those elastic articles that ladies wear?”

“Not them by a long chalk.”

 

Now maybe, if it was produced as a play, I might go see it, if I had a couple of pints o’ Guinness of course!

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