As I have already established (and others are consistently proving) search terms are an endless source of fascination; all the more so since the majority of those I encounter seem to correspond to no clear logic, offering an immediate portal into the scrambled brains of some anonymous web-weevil. I could understand it if readers flocked to my gates in search of ‘obscure European fiction’ – instead I get people on the lookout for ‘consumption rate of pomegranates in Greece’, ‘square-like bruises’ and, last week, ‘baboon face tor’. Obviously I will take whatever reader comes my way, but I cannot help but think that these strange souls aren’t the people I had in mind when I first took up literary criticism.
Still, they never cease to inspire me, in their weird little way. They’ve even begun to weave themselves into my dreams. Last night, for instance, I dreamt of taking a pilgramage to Glastonbury Tor, only to discover on reaching my destination that someone had painted a massive baboon’s face on the southern slope of the famous small hill. Around this face stood a circle of naked revellers, their bottoms painted red, dancing to the whisper of the West Country wind. When I approached they started jumping up and down and reciting passages from James Joyce (at least that’s what it sounded like – it might have just been gobbledygook). Needless to say I didn’t hang around for long.
I wonder what Tor Borsen would make of all this? It was his name, after all, that acted as the vital bait for our curious visitor. But alas, I know not where the man with the name-that-means-conical-hill-in-Celtic is (as explained here).