The Famous Literary Group

The Famous Literary Group

We are

one of very few literary groups who cares more of a bottle of Jack then of you. Yet it is your pleasure to explore the mental production of such people; that might make the spectators turn their eyes inside out. But you make no move because you are famous and want to drink with us.


We are building the literary castle out of wood. Wood is a lovely malleable material that suffers from humanly imperfections. Every single three shines with the spirit and every burnt log turns the spirit into pile of ash.

Fluffy Duck and Iron Heart

2019, Edinburgh

The mornings around this place are often miserable. It usually rains and when it does not the beauty of the grass carpets, the calm surface of the passing river, the falling leaves of by standing trees, is hidden in mist. But that is so much unlike today. If someone took a magnifying glass and placed it between the sun and the earth to focus all the sunshine to some place, the place would turn in ash but do not get me wrong we have here nice 25 degrees. It is just the unusual weather difference that makes it feel like the day is on fire.

I am in my mind contemplating about the Origins of life and the Adventures in human beings. Then, yeah, I stumble over a flat surface: “One of my legs must be longer than the other.” I infer, do a step more and see an Iron heart. There’s also a duck that is jumping around having fluffy fashionable features on. She is being genuinely happy. At least the style of the jumps seems to be somewhat energic. Her jumping is more like dancing with no shame, with no fear. It is the source of the contagious joy of the squirrels, the dogs, the cats, the birdies and all the other beings around. It probably sounds pretty familiar to Marianne Williamson: ‘And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.’ And that’s how the Iron heart feels about it too. A subtle smile appears in his face as the duck ends her show.

Normally, the Iron heart is focused on being iron. Shiny mirror-like surface, neither happy nor sad but something between. The smile, no matter how subtle, means that his emotional neutrality has been disturbed. The Iron heart identifies as masculine while the duck is a feminine being. The contemporary society expects men to approach woman and initiate the first contact. It’s one of the great challenges out there for many men. It requires courage and completeness of the person. The price for the courage is very inner personal empowerment. However, if the first contact is initiated by women the conventional society perceives it negatively which sounds like: women can be objectified but not to objectify. Simone de Beauvoir wrote many pages to report on this topic, but it has gone by unread and unheard by many; and still while men are socially rewarded, women are stripped of their ‘virginity’ and labelled as crack-ass whores.

While the Iron heart is fully aware of the presence of the cute Duck. The duck does not seem to pay attention to the Iron heart apart from a few flaps of her wings directed to him. The flaps produce quite powerful air flow that leans against his body and makes his legs shaking. She is trying to scare him off. As a result, the iron heart feels a little bit unsettled, maybe not quite enough for her, by the kind of attention he has received. He goes to metal shop to change his rather neutral colour to one that would be more attractive. “Not that easy bro, do not let her go that easy.” He thinks for himself. On the way back to the duck he buys some breadcrumbs. He gets back to the duck’s place. A wonderful riverbank washed with a slow stream of the moving water followed along with high trees and the sighs of the last spring days. The heart throws some breadcrumbs towards her. The falling crumbs catch her eyes and she goes all ‘kvak, kvak’ about it. Once the crumbs are finished, she is waiting for another load to come, and it does.

I have to say that the Iron heart quite smashes it when he throws her the breadcrumbs. It is really good idea. It has not only caught her attention, it also fills her mouth. As a spectator you can see an arising affection between these two.

When the heart runs out of the crumbs, he goes away but the duck follows him. He turns around and, to entertain her, paraphrase one of the adventures in human beings:

A guy comes to a doctor. ‘Oh, doc I feel so embarrassed, but I have a bottle of ketchup in my ass and cannot get it out. ‘

’Well, okay, lie down here and we’ll take a look.’

‘Well, that’s pretty deep inside there. I now try to get a grip of it.’ He pushes two of his fingers in the ass of the guy but cannot quite reach it.

‘Well, we’ll have to use some ointments to relax the entry. ‘ The doctor tries again. As he goes deeper in him, he stretches the anal sphincter until his wrist is all in and finally gets a two-finger grip on the bottle. He squeezes it and pulls. As he does that the bottle slips and gets even deeper inside the intestines.

‘Well, I am gonna need some extra hands here.’ He sends this guy for x-ray.

The doctor hangs it on light emitting x-ray table and as he is checking it up it gathers quite a crowd. He leaves it hanging for a few minutes and goes few steps back to the guy and when he returns to place the x-ray to his patient’s folder, the x-ray of bottle of ketchup in an asshole is gone. Someone has stolen it.

The joke is finished. The Iron heart keeps staring at the duck with great expectation for a few seconds until the duck realises the joke has just finished and stretches her wonderful orange beak crafted by centuries of evolution with a flat smile. The Iron heart then jumps in sheer happiness making laud noises. That scares the duck and she flies away back to her riverbank.

Another day the heart brings some more breadcrumbs. The duck notices his presence. She looks at him, then at the furthest turning of the river and then at the iron heart.

Since the iron heart had scared the duck with his laud noises, she doesn’t feel comfortable to fly to him. Instead she keeps looking at him and then you hear the engines and she takes off with the unshakable confidence of double decker commercial aircraft having a really cocky expression in her face and then you hear her last: “kvak” and she’s gone.

Watering the letters

2018, Paris

The business cards and bookmarks of The Famous Literary Group

The troubles with the manhood

2018, Brige of Allan

It was a Friday afternoon. I was in a diner drinking a cup of coffee and having a bite with my girlfriend. At some point I left the table to visit restrooms. The restrooms had just three pissoirs and I took the middle one. Before I finished a random guy, about a foot taller than me, took the pissoir on my left hand. Although there was music playing in the background, every movement of our bodies sounded. He unzipped. I heard the friction of his hand pressing against his jeans and then I heard a click-like sound reminding me of triggered solenoid or two magnets pushed close together. How could he make such sound with his dick? I wondered and looked down there. This guy was not ordinary type. He was strong and superior to most men but when I looked down the direction where the magnetic sound came from I saw a thumb-like shape with a yellowish tube leading out of it. My heart pumped weirdly. I looked down there again and then I followed his superior body up until I reached his eyes. His stand was unshakeably confident. It felt even threatening to me. When our sights met I saw all his suffering through the face expression that was supposed to cover it and I felt it deeply because that was the real juggle of life that bites with no compassion and I could not beat it.

Back at the table with my girlfriend we carried on with our normal discussion. The topic of the moment was the Skinner’s box. She as a psychology student had a lot to say about this and I listened. In brief, she said that the box is also called an operant conditioning chamber and is used to teach animals some certain behaviour patterns by exposing them to a stimulus. If the animal reacts to it as intended, then the animal is rewarded and so the behaviour pattern reinforced. For a moment it sounded like describing our human society that in fact works on the same principle. Regarding work, school, or just any sort of official institution, we are constantly being put to our places. Every step that is socially correct is rewarded and reinforced but what about the people who do not exactly fit into the conventional trails? The Skinner’s Box features conductive cage that can temporarily electrify itself to deliver negative reinforcement to the animals inside. The human social box has got many tools but the most efficient seems to be the one that involves psychological tyranny that is often imposed on people of too different cultural backgrounds or on brilliant people in ordinary groups. It might be a way how to sustain life as a successful group that comes from our nature. Would then being an outsider be selfish? These outsiders often suffer tyranny for seeing life their own way, but doesn’t it make them foolish? There are many Indi people coming to richer countries. They are often being laughed at for their way of clothing, their accent they are often shorter than the European’s and yet they rarely step away from their commons and earns university degrees. Are these people foolish or high achievers? We all live live in Skinner’s Box but these guys are being constantly electrified and they are standing lonely against the crowd of laughers and won’t move, so who are these people?

A fish is glittering around me. A small one. I am in a deep sea. The water presses on me. My heart beats fast and strong, shooting into my toes and finger tips. The consistency of the dark blue water thickens. The fish is suddenly gone and a dark spot in the distance starts quickly approaching and I close my eyes and wake up looking for my dick.

I kept thinking about that dream for the entire day and I was aware of it being related to the event from the diner that had happened. ‘The guy will never have sex in his entire life’ I thought. ‘How does the knowledge of that feel like?’ The inability of having sex came in my mind first but the psychological boundaries might have been more severe. The idea of asking a woman out with a hope for an intimate relationship with no penis sounds bizarre. So, this guy was condemned to life of loneliness, an absolutely empty darkness of his own thoughts and never satisfied sexual desire.

Few nice words were said, and I appeared in the middle of having sex. It was a nice sweaty summer sex as good as it could have got after four years of daily practising. I am not a good judge though. A good sex, in my opinion, occurs when noise produced gets the neighbours disturbed but the traffic in the street won’t stop. That was how it went that day. I loved it and I hoped she loved it too. Shower followed. Washing my treasure, I started questioning him: ‘what I would do without you (said with a sigh). How my life would be different? Would I become a bitter pedant addicted to getting to work on time?’ These thoughts were floating in my mind as a single story of Hemingway’s iceberg. The contemplating about the dickless man’s destiny somehow integrated into my mind. I started seeing myself in his position with his sufferings and no dick. I had that bad dreams that did not feel intense but made me wake up with the conviction that my dick was snatched by a dark spot, just like a cookie from a table.

Furthermore, the realization of me overthinking came besides of all these events and I tried to push them away out of my head by recalling the square numbers between one and twenty when I was alone or by coming up with new topics to talk about when there were some counterparts available. The more I used this technique to suppress these thoughts the more it felt like my own dick was about to fell off and that’s when the Hemingway’s iceberg started swinging from side to side showing its underwater surface. The upcoming days were fearful signs of me going delusional. My dick was changing colors, it varied in shape and size. He felt heavier than normally.

The deep-sea dream happened again but there was no fish, no light, no dark spot. It was just me swimming toward the sandy bottom as freely as a mermaid, with no dick.

It was a nice morning that happened once upon a time, but it was no fairy tale. I sat a coffee on the table, read through the world news and went to the local sex health clinic for a sexual health check. The doctor sat me down and started questioning:

‘Are you in a relationship?’ - ‘Yes’
‘How long?’ - ‘Four years’
‘Have you done vaginal sex? ’ - ‘yes’
‘Have you done oral sex?’ - ‘yes’
‘Have you done anal sex?’ - ‘yes’
‘Have you ever had sex health check before’ - ‘nope’

The questionnaire was quite extensive and took a few minutes to finish.

‘Do you have any specific problems down there? Any rashes, blisters anything that is not normal?’

I explained my situation. I told him about the guy with no penis, about the overthinking and the dickless dreams and that it really felt like there had been something wrong with my penis and that the feeling had been chasing me for a few weeks. While I was explaining what my troubles were, the doctor’s eyes occasionally moved slightly upwards just like eyes do when one laughs. I think he had a little silent giggle for himself and I noticed it, which allowed me to realise that I did some overthinking that had gone beyond the boundaries of the universe; and then the story of mine gave me a little private giggle too. We were both too polite to me to express the amusement out laud and so we sat next to each other in silence privately giggling inside our heads until he said: ‘You’ll pee into this container. The toilet is on left hand side in the corridor. When you’re back we’ll take some swabs and I’ll examine you; before you leave, my health assistant will take a blood sample from you, so you have the screen complete and don’t need to worry.’

‘Take you trousers off and lie down on the table.’ The doctor said.
‘Now I examine your stomach.’
‘Now, roll your boxers off and I’ll examine your testicles.’

I just followed the instructions and took my trousers back on within a couple of minutes.

‘Well, everything feels to be normal. It looks okay too. You don’t have to be worried.’ And then he said it: ‘In my opinion, you have been just thinking too much about the misfortune of the other guy.’

‘We are finished here. You just need to wait till my health assistant calls you for taking the blood sample. And don’t forget to call in for the results. But I think it is going to be all negative.’

The reassurance that the dick did not look ill cheered me up and on top of that my balls got cuddled. I could not get the smile off my face. Every sound was amplified, food tasted better and I felt the presence of love everywhere. That day was the one of the happiest times of my life.

The visit of the doctor calmed me down a lot, yet the ill-thoughts weren’t over. Even though the doctor said that there was nothing wrong with my dick, I couldn’t just accept it. However, what the visit gave me was a different perspective that occurred to me while I was reading The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir; that book was for feminists what On The Road was for hippies. She described in the historical context why women were the Others.

Nowadays the social differences between men and women are not as distinguishing as they used to be and while women in some places has eliminated themselves being labelled as the Others, groups of people living at the same places gained that label. These are the immigrants, refugees who can barely speak the native language. These people are always the evil for the native inhabitants and that makes the foreigners inferior which places them in the same position in which women used to be. In my opinion, The Second Sex is a great book that speaks about position of women in society over time but can also answer, to some extent, the modern question of a person in a foreign country who is today looked at and called the Other. Interesting fact is that the hatred comes mostly from men, and the discussion exists in society and is always negative and the media, the independent sources, call it the immigration problem which is a confirmation and typical behavioural positive reinforcement just like in the Skinner’s box.

It was somewhere between page one and two hundred where I realised that one of the Skinner’s box techniques was applied on me by myself. I lied the demon down on the table and it spread its legs in front of me as if I overdosed myself with a coffee and my daily dose of nootropics. The man, toilet, no dick, tube, me back at the table, admitting that shit happens, not sharing that experience, bad dreams, my dick falling off, doctor. It was sequential, instant and realising.

I saw another man suffering. I admitted that bad things happen. I did not tell anyone. I started suffering myself and I accepted it by the admittance that such things happen I got the positive reinforcement from my dreams, thoughts from everywhere and that led me to building new behavioural pattern which eventually the media called the dick problem which is a confirmation and typical behavioural positive reinforcement just like in the Skinner’s box. I eventually visited a doctor because I recognised my own ill-thinking.