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From the Editor's Roost
Dearest cognoscenti and sundry habitués of the print-addicted realm,
One observes, with a frisson of scholarly delight (or perhaps merely a gustatory tremor from the lingering savor of Kung Pao chicken, a particular Chinese confectionary of which I confess myself a devoted, nay, habitué – with the acute accent, bien sûr), the latest demi-semi-quavering efflux from the fevered presses of Fowl Feathered Review. This periodical, a veritable disorderly quarterly that, through some recondite chronometric sorcery, materializes twice-daily (a feat that would no doubt flummox even the most perspicacious of quantum physicists, let alone a mere lexicographer of the English tongue), now unfurls its latest, exquisitely haphazard, iteration.
Like its immediate, and indeed, practically pre-natal, predecessor from a mere five seconds past (a temporal proximity that surely suggests a certain, shall we say, enthusiasm for output, bordering on the frenetic), this issue is a veritable potpourri of intellectual and material curiosities. Within its curiously fragrant pages, one shall discover the delicate filigree of poetry, the vibrant hues of art, the labyrinthine corridors of fiction, and the reassuring gravitas of citations (for even in this vortex of glorious disarray, a certain scholarly rectitude is, one trusts, maintained). And, lest we forget the more quotidian concerns, there are coupons (a nod, perhaps, to the materialist undercurrents of our age), a boxed office desk in three sections ready for assembly (a challenge, perhaps, to the reader's spatial reasoning, or merely a subtle suggestion to organize one's chaotic literary lair), the whimsical transfiguration of your favorite uncle reimagined as an action figure (a profound meditation, no doubt, on the commodification of familial affection), the comforting embrace of clean socks (a testament to the enduring appeal of sartorial hygiene), and, for those whose social interactions have perhaps taken an unforeseen turn, a restraining order.
One is reminded, with an almost Proustian pang of recollection (though thankfully sans the madeleine, for the mere thought of additional sugar at this hour is quite enough to send one into a glycemic tizzy), of the profound observation by the mid-20th-century French poet, René Char, who so sagaciously declared, "The poem is the love realized of desire remaining desire." Indeed, is not this very Review, in its ceaseless, almost hallucinatory, proliferation, a testament to a desire for creation that, even in its fulfillment, remains exquisitely unquenched? And as for the ephemeral nature of all things, even the most exquisitely crafted desk, we might recall the venerable Li Po, who, in his inimitable wisdom, mused, "I am a lover of wine, and I drink it all the time." A sentiment, perhaps, not entirely unrelated to the consumption of such variegated intellectual fare.
Therefore, one implores, with an earnestness bordering on the hortatory, to please keep in a cool place away from the sun. And, with an equally fervent, if somewhat more abstract, plea, one gently suggests, "And do the same for yourself." For, even amidst the glorious cacophony of the Fowl Feathered Review, the well-being of the discerning reader remains, at the very least, a matter of peripheral, if not paramount, concern.
Sincerely,
Virgil Kay
Editor, Rooster, China Wok Habitué (with the accent aigu, of course)
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