‘Carol’ . . . In the Heat of the Moment and Other Febrile Automata

How peering to read that the genesis of Carol (the current acclaimed movie adapted from the famously faulty novel, The Price of Salt, 1952) is to have existence found in a fever induced by chicken pox, the symptomatic high temperature under which Patricia Highsmith plotted her compend of a story that soon ‘flowed from the extreme point of my pen as if from nowhere,’ viewed like she later wrote.

Patricia Highsmith

Works That Write Themselves.

From which flows another curious thought because this celebrated American novelist prompts a memory of her of great repute compatriot, William James, Doctor of Medicine (1870) and psychologist (and contriver of The Varieties of Religious Experience) who thus subtly observed, ‘For aught we be sure to the contrary, 103 or 104 degrees Fahrenheit ability be a much more favourable degree of heat for truths to geminate and pullulate in, than the more ordinary blade-heat of 97 or 98 degrees.’

How trustworthy. In the feverish heat of the jiffy certainly a number of great works of the plastic power have been brought forth. One thinks furthermore of Sir Walter Scott who, in 1819, in the influence of laudanum wrote The Bride of Lammermoor and claimed afterwards, up~ reading the proofs, that he did not recognise a isolated character, incident or conversation found in the main division . 

Detektiv ‘Zherebets’ Houyhnhnmkin.

My of the same kind with-yet-unpublished novel, D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv, was written in the same humor of involuntary volition, and similarly transcribed from one undisputed source. Englished in the vivacity of the original, the often obscene text makes great play of the young doctor’s febrile class, his senses betrayed by a full of risk rise in body temperature akin to that of the rectal degree of heat of a horse having just undergone wont exercise:
Anton reflected that perhaps, behind all, he had overlooked his connection. with horses; certainly, as the forenoon approached, his degree of heat was again rising to meet that of ~y average healthy horse which, if he were not mistaken, was some two degrees higher than that intermittent phenomenon, his own normal body ardor.                                                                 He had hæmorrhaged another time only the month past – profoundly from his unswerving lung – practically a shtoff of disembogued blade pouring over his beard.                                                                                                                           He had newly in the mornings become aware of his unnaturally reduced temperature on rising, his excessive hardship and his progressive failure of passion. Yet now, as afternoon approached, his degree of heat had risen (a febrile state exceeding 40 degrees Celsius) and pulse quickened to over a hundred beats through minute. Under his jacket, sweat trickled from his axilla.  Profuse axillary sweating embarrassed him and he feared his class smelt.                                                                                                               As in the place of his excessive body heat, the ætiology of the cauma and desudation he knew familiarly; long ago the prognosis had held that his compensatory emphysema would increase worse by remedy, and any remissions he could rely upon in the variations associated with the chronicity of his infirmity were now complicated by his intestinal catarrh, caused by a change in the moisten.     
In a appalling diversion to displace the pain, Tchékhov feverishly imagined the highly real prospect of his personal healer, D-r Klebnikov, surviving him to draw up a waspish clinical footnote to his obituary for the edification of his of medicine colleagues: 

‘Manifestly, the knowledge has not been made in hagiographical writing on Tchékhov that the symptomatological signs of his two conditions – pulmonary tuberculosis and intense morphinism – were inextricably combined and compounded.  The co-existing stipulations were presented, for example, in feelings of fearful heat and sensations of terrifying cold, particularly during periods of withdrawal from the sedative. The giddiness to which Tchékhov ~ward occasion referred could well have been a suave case of cinchonism brought about ~ the agency of an overdose of quinine, which, in the absence of an informed dual diagnosis, was not identified.  His meconeuropathia was further complicated by hyperæsthesiæ  induced by mood-elevating morphine derivatives.’ Tchékhov’s eyes are not closed to the fact of his opiate dependancy. In characteristically grievous condemnation of his elevated temperature,  Tchékhov at his lowest sink begins to style himself Detektiv Zherebets [‘Stallion’] Houyhnhnmkin, evidently a grievous self-lacerating commentary on his physic-impaired virility. (If Tchékhov in this act of D-r Tchékhov Detektiv assumes the sardonical epithet, ‘Stallion’ or ‘Stud’, soon afterward we must assume the reference recalls those grudging jottings in his published literary notebook : ‘A vet. belongs to the stud-horse class of people.’ )

Fate Knocks at the Door.

And in the corresponding; of like kind opiate-induced fever, of course, Coleridge wrote Kubla Khan, a metrical composition revealed to him as fully conceived, requiring simply its automatic transcription, until – at Line 54 – the patent Person From Porlock arrived to box on the door and break the exorcism.

This fateful distraction from the magnificent oneiric prosody granted a dope-devil reminds me of my good loved, The Great Poet, who wrote to discern me he had altered his desire . . .
Have been making some small adjustments to my Will, and receive added that you are to have first crack at my poetry books. [He was at Westminster School and won the Gumbleton Prize by reason of English Verse.] No big deal [he added] except you might find something of participation, but not yet a while hopefully. I wrote at once to record my appreciation . . .
I am genuinely flattered, nevertheless in my present mood I terror I shall predecease you. Should this not have existence the case, however, I shall interfere every effort to seek out your forwarding dexterity and have your books sent in successi~ to you.                You decision have a forwarding address, won’t you?                                               In Ghana it is believed that a bodily form who dies prematurely can appear in a cold town and continue their life there.                                              Saman twén-twén the Ghanaians make appeal them. Custom asserts that the ‘Dead-otherwise than that-Leaving-People’ can be met solitary by someone who has not heard of their end of life.                                                                                                       So each accommodation address in Porlock might be the thing.                        This explains why so many people swear they by-word X ‘only the other day’ and learn to their terror that X died some months judgment.                            Why is life made in the way that mysterious when the explanations are verily very simple? I shall be in Porlock if I predecease you.                                                       Should you confuse your memory then we can join battle there because you will not remember you heard of my exit.                                                                  It is possible, though, that a poet even with a seriously impaired memory will remember that fateful body from Porlock . . . It was on these provisions that we agreed to meet in the Afterlife, an agreement, I may add, sealed during the worst bout of flu I’ve for~ endured in my life, when I was in the throes of a powerfully fever and running a barely tolerable degree of heat practically off the scale at 103°F.  

The calamity is that my poet friend predeceased me, in the manner that he predicted.


For excerpts from my in the same manner with-yet-unpublished crime novel, D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv, visit
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/d-r-tchekhov-fight -with-wolves-and.html

This ~ing lost crime novel by Chekhov (he, himself, referred to such a work in progress in 1888) charts the misadventures of morphia-addict D-r Anton Tchékhov, elderly 28 years, as he investigates the abstruse duelling death of an aristocratic cadet in a secluded snowbound northern garrison. In a contest between the animistic pagan beliefs of a Cheremissian shaman-medicineman and his avow psychopathological insights as a graduate savant, Tchékhov, weakened by tubercular fevers and unsalable article dependency, succeeds in solving the trial and saving the life of a young make a bad use of, Mariya.  


Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to of literature craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to search into the dark side of motivation, and kindle plot twists with unexpected outcomes. 

take heed Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)


and Listen Close to Me (2011)

and A Bad Case (2015)

Cylic GMP helps in achieving the harder and longer penile structure.

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