The Third Policeman

The Irish may be said to possess the gift of gab, but the truth is they’re none too shabby with the pen, either. Most readers have at least a passing familiarity with the usual suspects-Joyce, Yeats, Wilde-but may not be aware of the lesser known author Flann O’Brien. O’Brien (a pseudonym of Brian O’Nolan) wrote, among other things, a novel entitled The Third Policeman. Tongue-in-cheek, somewhat nonsensical, and completely engrossing, The Third Policeman relates the tale of an ill-fated murder committed by a nameless protagonist and the subsequent journey he embarks on in an effort to retrieve his victim’s wealth. Our ‘hero’ rambles along, sharing observations of his own and of his idol, the philosopher de Selby, who’s theories run the gamut from housing (he objects to a life constrained by a roof and four walls and recommends getting rid of either the former or the latter) to nighttime (darkness is caused by a staining of the atmosphere by ash from volcanic eruptions too fine to be seen by the naked eye). When he encounters a two dimensional police station and its eccentric inhabitants things really start to get strange.The plot is somewhat incidental, however, as the real magic of the book lies in the language. Rather than describe it, I feel it’s better to let O’Brien speak for himself and so here follow some select quotes from The Third Policeman:

…people who spent most of their natural lives riding iron bicycles over the rocky roadsteads of this parish get their personalities mixed up with the personalities of their bicycle as a result of the interchanging of the atoms of each of them and you would be surprised at the number of people in these parts who nearly are half people and half bicycles.”

‘Your talk,’ I said, ‘is surely the handiwork of wisdom because not one work of it do I understand.’”

…it is not smooth and not rough, not gritty and not velvety. It would be a mistake to think it is a cold feel like steel and another mistake to think it blankety…a contrary pancake surely, a fingerish atrocity but not without a queer charm all its own.”

…[the bicycle] seemed ineffably female and fastidious, posing there like a mannequin rather than leaning idly like a loafer against the wall, and resting on its prim flawless tyres with irreproachable precision, two tiny points of clean contact with the level floor. I passed my hand with unintended tenderness-sensuously, indeed-across the saddle.”

When the keen wind struck me in the face it snatched away the murk of doubt and fear and wonder that was anchored on my brain like a raincloud on a hill. All my senses, relieved from the agony of dealing with the existence of the Sergeant, became supernaturally alert at the work of interpreting the genial day for my benefit.”

For much much more of these inspired shenanigans (0r sionnachuighms), check out the recently published Everyman edition of The Complete Novels of Flann O’Brien.

        ~ Katrina M