The Origin of Wit

Good Easter, 30 December 2007

So, gentle reader, it strikes me that my opportunity to welcome you all has presented itself — I bid you all the warmest of 'hullo's to this truly great publication, Res Profunditas – Things of Profundity. Of course, that title itself may or may not be entirely kosher, because, I must confess from the off, it is formulated from whimsical memories of A-level Latin, rather than, say, a dictionary and grammar aid (which remains in my souther residence) — I daresay I'll be forgiven forthwith, as we all by now realise — or I do, and you shall before too long of reading this fine binding of effusivities — that 'language is a strange thing, but she is my mistress' (Fry 2005).

As some of the readership will be aware, both of your esteemed hosts have maintained collexions of writings prior to this — Mr Rutland currently keeps his personal thoughts (to which the side of this page will refer you), and I did start my own, before I found that posts came too few and far between. Before our original departure from our alma mater in the town on the ford of the Chelmer, we, along with, at various times, Messrs Blore, Davis, Morris, Poole, Siggers, Thoung, and Watts, maintained our belov'd site of FirePretty, whose cadaver rests peacefully in the cyberæther — equally, there, my contributions were sparse, whereas Graham's were indomitable and legion. So, one sincerely hopes, this new endeavour will be the one to ensnare my attentions, as I venture forth with my dear cohort.

During this Christmas (or, to coin a new term, Jesusmas) holiday, as usual, that fine bastion of televisual entertainments, the British Broadcasting Corporation, has been fielding a great plurality of feature films for my viewing pleasure. These have included home-grown productions such as Oliver Twist (serialised, but a film nonetheless) and Ballet Shoes, and imported Yankee delicacies, such as Disney's Ice Princess and Disney-Pixar's Finding Nemo. I daresay I've forgotten one or two. However, one film I have particularly enjoyed this holiday was not broadcast, but, rather, called forth from the depths of the Sky Plus, whence it had languished with a blue K (for 'keep') beside it since BBC Four's Stephen Fry Night (which is quite a considerable languish-period, but not as lengthy as the Pullman-based film Ruby in the Smoke, starring Billie Piper, which I recorded on 27 December 2006, and have yet to watch...). I talk of Wilde, in which Fry himself portrays that glorious penman and renowned wit, Oscar Wilde Esq.

I must say, this film is the one I have enjoyed most so far — Fry gives a truly emotive, subtle, and faithful interpretation on a tragic man. Now, be warned, discerning reader, this film contains moments of undeniable pederasty and various other homosexual practises (not for the faint of heart), but I daresay these are forgiveable in light of the thoroughly gripping character study at the core of this work. Naturally, the film inclined me to study further this great man (on the subject of his works and wit, rather than his sordid relations), whom I had previously come across as a rally-point for gratuitous witticisms.

It now strikes me that our dear forbear was most dreadfully abused in this employment of his words — for, as I consider further, it strikes me with increasing force that this gratuitous use of his wit, or indeed any, is not contingent of wit's nature — surely gratuitous wit is simply humour. Perhaps it is witty humour, but, nonetheless, its nature is something in entertainment, in the provision of jollity, whereas, I have considered, wit doesn't have this. I believe that wit, whilst some will pronounce facetiousness its fondest users, is in fact an articulation of one's highest mental faculties — a surest signpost of some ultimate zone of mental effulgence. Thusly, this concept of gratuitous wit should be deemed a perversion, or even a contradiction in term — for, I ask you, far reader, to consider — can an utterance be deemed 'witty' if it is directed for entertainment, or some purpose outside of wit itself?

I myself am of the firm belief that 'wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure' (Rowling 2003), and that, although not a necessary quality, wit (although I am aware that Rowling and I use the term equivocally) is the measure of a great man. Speaking of whom...

God Save the Duke of Edinburgh!
D.S. B-Davies, Esq.