Foreword
I first met Nick Klaus in 1993. Back then he was
already a strapping boy of maybe 9 or 10 years of age, full of life
and smiles, eager to learn and satisfy his endless curiosity. But
he was also terribly mischievous and, as a result, had gotten
himself into a tricky situation. From what I understand, he had
managed to get stuck inside a photo album, where, to free himself,
he had to discover the Outmoded Landscape, where the children of
the ruthless Mr. Crutchfield had gone missing. The slip , as
he called it and told me, started after he came across a forgotten
camera in Mr. Crutchfield’s stable. What happened then? The picture
becomes blurred. If I understand it clearly though, he was supposed
to discover the Outmoded Landscape to free . . . Hold on a minute.
I’ve just written that . . . Now you can see for yourself what
sorts of mind pranks I have to deal with when I deal with Nick
Klaus.
Anyway, since getting stuck in the photo album, I
don’t believe Nick has grown older. How do I know this? For a
start, I don’t believe anyone has ever gotten older by having his
or her picture taken. For a second start, I do believe that once
the picture is taken, whoever has been photographed remains the age
he or she is in that picture—forever. And for a finishing start,
I’ve noticed over the years, especially as the end of the year
draws near, how Nick Klaus seems to grow restless. His increased
activities consist of writing me numerous letters. They are always
hand-written with the same noticeably shaky bubbly letters of a
young writer. Now if that is not the most irrevocable evidence of
someone not getting older, I don’t know what is.
You may ask too, why does he write to me towards the
end of the year? I haven’t been able to figure that one out, yet.
Maybe it is because Nick Klaus rhymes with Santa Claus?
Be that as it may, when I wake up in the morning, I
find his letters on my desk. His letters are really stories, even
though they arrive in envelopes with my address on them. There are
all types of stories. Some are funny. Some are absurd. Some are
baffling, some discomforting or outrageous, and some even really
truly sad. But they share certain undeniable features. To begin
with, all the stories are one page long. No more and no less.
Actually, let me rephrase that. Most are. Some do stretch beyond
the single page. But never more than two. And all the stories end
with the same question: “And the moral of this story is?” So I’m
tempted to call Nick’s stories fables, because even though they
only take a few minutes to read, I often find myself reclining in
my chair for hours, wondering and pondering over their meanings,
what Nick Klaus wanted to say and me to learn.
If I recall from my years as a student of
literature, the goal of a fable is always to make a statement and
to teach a moral, another word for a code of behavior. Now I don’t
know if you fancy learning how to be, but if you don’t mind, I
can’t wait for you to tell me what you think of them, because I’ve
noticed that morals are just like fish. Just when you think you
hold them tight, they slip through your fingers. This happens
especially when someone says something you had never thought of
before.
Before we go further, we have to clear something.
You may ask why would he choose to contact me rather than you. This
is a valid concern. I can tell you in all certainty that his choice
was not random. I have grown over the years used to deciphering
children’s writing, not only the challenging shape of the letters
but also all the dubious spelling of words. When you come across
words such as jimnastix iz speshel , you know that you
need a genuine decoding specialist to transcribe them back into a
more mundane idiom. My job has been to rewrite these fables so that
you could understand and fully appreciate them. Nick Klaus knew I
could tackle such a monumental task.
Still the question readers ask me the most, apart
from the
I first met Nick Klaus in 1993. Back then he was
already a strapping boy of maybe 9 or 10 years of age, full of life
and smiles, eager to learn and satisfy his endless curiosity. But
he was also terribly mischievous and, as a result, had gotten
himself into a tricky situation. From what I understand, he had
managed to get stuck inside a photo album, where, to free himself,
he had to discover the Outmoded Landscape, where the children of
the ruthless Mr. Crutchfield had gone missing. The slip , as
he called it and told me, started after he came across a forgotten
camera in Mr. Crutchfield’s stable. What happened then? The picture
becomes blurred. If I understand it clearly though, he was supposed
to discover the Outmoded Landscape to free . . . Hold on a minute.
I’ve just written that . . . Now you can see for yourself what
sorts of mind pranks I have to deal with when I deal with Nick
Klaus.
Anyway, since getting stuck in the photo album, I
don’t believe Nick has grown older. How do I know this? For a
start, I don’t believe anyone has ever gotten older by having his
or her picture taken. For a second start, I do believe that once
the picture is taken, whoever has been photographed remains the age
he or she is in that picture—forever. And for a finishing start,
I’ve noticed over the years, especially as the end of the year
draws near, how Nick Klaus seems to grow restless. His increased
activities consist of writing me numerous letters. They are always
hand-written with the same noticeably shaky bubbly letters of a
young writer. Now if that is not the most irrevocable evidence of
someone not getting older, I don’t know what is.
You may ask too, why does he write to me towards the
end of the year? I haven’t been able to figure that one out, yet.
Maybe it is because Nick Klaus rhymes with Santa Claus?
Be that as it may, when I wake up in the morning, I
find his letters on my desk. His letters are really stories, even
though they arrive in envelopes with my address on them. There are
all types of stories. Some are funny. Some are absurd. Some are
baffling, some discomforting or outrageous, and some even really
truly sad. But they share certain undeniable features. To begin
with, all the stories are one page long. No more and no less.
Actually, let me rephrase that. Most are. Some do stretch beyond
the single page. But never more than two. And all the stories end
with the same question: “And the moral of this story is?” So I’m
tempted to call Nick’s stories fables, because even though they
only take a few minutes to read, I often find myself reclining in
my chair for hours, wondering and pondering over their meanings,
what Nick Klaus wanted to say and me to learn.
If I recall from my years as a student of
literature, the goal of a fable is always to make a statement and
to teach a moral, another word for a code of behavior. Now I don’t
know if you fancy learning how to be, but if you don’t mind, I
can’t wait for you to tell me what you think of them, because I’ve
noticed that morals are just like fish. Just when you think you
hold them tight, they slip through your fingers. This happens
especially when someone says something you had never thought of
before.
Before we go further, we have to clear something.
You may ask why would he choose to contact me rather than you. This
is a valid concern. I can tell you in all certainty that his choice
was not random. I have grown over the years used to deciphering
children’s writing, not only the challenging shape of the letters
but also all the dubious spelling of words. When you come across
words such as jimnastix iz speshel , you know that you
need a genuine decoding specialist to transcribe them back into a
more mundane idiom. My job has been to rewrite these fables so that
you could understand and fully appreciate them. Nick Klaus knew I
could tackle such a monumental task.
Still the question readers ask me the most, apart
from the
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