Disclaimer: I will be using Mark Twain as a reference here. Please do not assume that I am comparing myself with Mark Twain. Except maybe for my hair, which seems to be getting whiter. And my rumpled clothing. And my rural Missouri upbringing. And perhaps even my own warped sense of humor and odd way of looking at life. And my disdain for governmental bureaucracy. But as a humorist, there is a thin minority of those who could compare. I am in the majority. I am not even a humorist. I'm just strange. Having therefore disclaimed all things that might be incriminating, I push ahead using the format most preferred by those of us who could not otherwise be published: the vanity press of facebook and the Internet.
If one has a sense of humor, particularly if it is warped, and one has lived one's entire life in that enterprise, one risks being taken as a sort of court jester or class clown who, even though adulthood--advanced adulthood--has clearly landed upon one, finds it difficult to be taken seriously. This is particularly true when one continually refers to oneself as "one."
Mark Twain, perhaps the greatest American humorist, because he was not only a great writer but also a gifted lecturer and entertainer, suffered this malady. It is told that, during a lecture at a prestigious women's university, he intended to read a poem he had written, at the insistence of a friend. He announced, "And now ladies, I am going to read you a poem of mine." This was greeted by an outburst of laughter from the audience. "But this truly is a serious poem," he insisted, only to be answered by even more laughter. Put off by this response, he put the poem back in his pocket and said, "Well, young ladies, since you do not believe me to be serious, I shall not read the poem," at which the audience almost went into convulsions of laughter.
Mark Twain once said, "It is a very serious and a very difficult matter to doff the mask of humor with which the public is accustomed, in thought, to see me adorned. It is the incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist, however serious his vein." [emphasis added]
I have been told, throughout my own life, that "it is impossible to take you serious." I have been told, by more than one woman, "I just can't think of you that way--I would always be expecting a joke." I have even been told, after writing a serious piece, that "it wasn't that funny...not your best effort."
So while I cannot possibly sit on the same bench as Mark Twain, I do understand his statement of the "incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist..."
I'm not sure how Mr. Clemens handled it, late at night when no one was watching or listening. But I've decided that it's worth it. Besides, at this point in my life, I have found it very convenient to say "I'm too old to change now."
My apologies to any who thought there was still hope for me.
If one has a sense of humor, particularly if it is warped, and one has lived one's entire life in that enterprise, one risks being taken as a sort of court jester or class clown who, even though adulthood--advanced adulthood--has clearly landed upon one, finds it difficult to be taken seriously. This is particularly true when one continually refers to oneself as "one."
Mark Twain, perhaps the greatest American humorist, because he was not only a great writer but also a gifted lecturer and entertainer, suffered this malady. It is told that, during a lecture at a prestigious women's university, he intended to read a poem he had written, at the insistence of a friend. He announced, "And now ladies, I am going to read you a poem of mine." This was greeted by an outburst of laughter from the audience. "But this truly is a serious poem," he insisted, only to be answered by even more laughter. Put off by this response, he put the poem back in his pocket and said, "Well, young ladies, since you do not believe me to be serious, I shall not read the poem," at which the audience almost went into convulsions of laughter.
Mark Twain once said, "It is a very serious and a very difficult matter to doff the mask of humor with which the public is accustomed, in thought, to see me adorned. It is the incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist, however serious his vein." [emphasis added]
I have been told, throughout my own life, that "it is impossible to take you serious." I have been told, by more than one woman, "I just can't think of you that way--I would always be expecting a joke." I have even been told, after writing a serious piece, that "it wasn't that funny...not your best effort."
So while I cannot possibly sit on the same bench as Mark Twain, I do understand his statement of the "incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist..."
I'm not sure how Mr. Clemens handled it, late at night when no one was watching or listening. But I've decided that it's worth it. Besides, at this point in my life, I have found it very convenient to say "I'm too old to change now."
My apologies to any who thought there was still hope for me.
Very interesting. This plays into a memory I have from our growing-up years--how Daddy would always want you to "be funny" in front of company, even if at that particular time, "being funny" was the last thing you wanted to "be." Yes, I can see where this would be a "curse" of sorts--to be considered a humorist first and foremost, when there must be times you really want to be (and deserve to be!) taken seriously. So, this is an interesting peek into what it is like to be you!
ReplyDelete