Chris Norris, Emeritus Professor of Philosophy at Cardiff University, expert in English Literature and Literary Theory, and author of many books on philosophy, criticism, and poetry, has reported as follows, whilst engaging over considerable time time with these "Tall Tales" (online and in print, in English):
"This is an amazing and enthralling mixture of fiction, journal, speculative musing, science, pataphysics, daily journal, news-report, self-analysis, joke-book, satire, end-times reckoning, cosmic comedy, meta-fictional romp, faits-divers chapbook – the lot! Hugely ambitious, brilliantly done."
"Just had a great day reading your totally amazing text and enjoying it hugely. Sparked so many thoughts, connections and memories in my head that I couldn't start to list them all ... [I] am totally amazed by [Tall Tales] – just wow! [M]arvellously inventive writing."
Pjetër Mamrick was born of Illuric heritage under the green banner of the Haunted Homeland and its three-headed dragon. In that mountainous land he was brought up, which is the same size as Kimbria together with Law·arya and Plantation Island in the Independent Commonwealth in North Meryk-land. Having said that, the populations of the two lands (Kimbria and the Motherland) are the same, more or less, namely about 3 million people today.
The banks of the River Sed were home to his mother before the Great Tribulation, and his childhood haunt, although his favourite place was the pine forests around the Black Kharsag Mountains in the west. His father was a travelling salesman from the Independent Commonwealth, from a Kimbric family that had left Pretany (now the Islands of the Disunited Kingdoms) on board the ill-fated ship The Good Fortune. His father used to travel around the world selling dental equipment. Indeed, there are lots of enterprising dentists living on the desolate plains of the Independent Commonwealth even today.
Pjetër moved to the land of his forebears for a while after the fall of the Most Beloved Leader, but he did not feel comfortable with the capitalist dream, what with all the saluting the flag, and the training to be a dentist every day, and so on and so forth. He became a poet and expert on psycho-chaotic semiotics and went to Kimbria to visit his hero, the teenage playwright called Daud Pekar, who had also fought in the Heart of the Continent before fleeing to get treatment in the Pines Clinic for his terrible wounds.
The two (together with Steffan Grossmann, a friend of Daud's) used to attend illegal free parties to celebrate the blue moon which were held all over the land, especially near cromlechs called the Bear-man's Quoits and other historical sites, composing poems in the white van before Daud was killed (probably) saving his best friend and his dear old schoolmaster from a fire at the turn of the century and of the millennium, and at the start of the Age of the Irrigator to boot.
On their travels they discovered several hidden manuscripts, and they translated them together. It was Pjetër who helped Daud to complete some of his most famous works during this period, and it was he who contributed the immortal line, "If one man dies, then all survive; Through him will human-kind all thrive?" to Daud's 'pottering about.'
More of these "Tall Tales" were originally presented in Pretanic and Kimbric [*] in the online bilingual magazine Parallel.Cymru. These stories have been expanded upon here on this e-site (see the list of chapters on the right).
See Appendix 4 to read around ninety examples of "Mamrick's Minstelsy" written in Aberdydd and published in the local (and frequently rather whimsical) press of this strange and historic land.
[*] That is, Standardized British and Welsh. — Gertrude Llwynlesg.
Cafodd Pjetër Mamrick ei eni o dras Ilyraidd o dan faner werdd y Famwlad Aflonydd a'i draig driphen. Yn y wlad fynyddig honno cafodd e ei fagu, sydd yr un maint â Chimbria ynghyd â Lawaria ac Ynys Blanhigfa yn y Gymanwlad Annibynnol yng Ngogledd Gwlad Meryk. Wedi dweud hynny, mae poblogaeth y ddwy wlad (Kimbria a'r Famwlad) o'r un maint, mwy neu lai, sef tua 3 miliwn o bobl erbyn hwddiw.
Glannau Afon Sed oedd carfref i'w fam cyn y Cythrwfl Mawr, a bro ei febyd ef, er mai ei hoff le oedd y fforestydd pin o gwmps Mynyddoedd Duon Kharsag yn y gorllewin. Trafeiliwr o'r Gymanwlad Annibynnol oedd ei dad, o deulu Kimbreg a oedd wedi gadael Pretania (bellach Ynysoedd y Teyrnasau Anghytûn) ar fwrdd y llong ddrwg ei thynged o'r enw Y Ffawd Dda. Arferai'r tad deithio o gwmpas y byd gan werthu offer deintyddol. Yn wir, mae llawer o ddeintyddion mentrus yn byw ar wastatiroedd diffaith y Gymanwald Annibynnol hyd yn oed heddiw.
Symudodd Pjetër i wlad ei gyndadau am sbel ar ôl cwymp yr Anwylaf Arweinydd, ond doedd e ddim yn teimlo'n braf gyda'r freuddwyd gyfalafol, gyda'r holl gyfarch y fflag, a'r hyfforddi i fod yn ddeintydd bob dydd, ac yn y blaen, ac ati. Daeth e'n fardd ac arbenigwr ar semioteg seicocaotig, a mynd i Gimbria i ymweld â'i arwr, y dramodydd yn ei arddedagu o'r enw Daud Pekar, a oedd wedi brwydro hefyd yhg Nghalon y Cyfandir cyn ffoi i gael triniaeth yn y Clinig o'r enw Y Pinwydd am ei anafiadau arswydus.
Roedd y ddau (ynghyd â Steffan Grossman, ffrind i Daud) yn arfer mynychu partïon rhydd, anghyfreithlon i ddathlu'r lleuad las a gynhaliwyd dros y wlad benbaladr, yn enwedig ger cromlechu o'r enw coetanau Arthur a safleoedd hanesyddol eraill, gan gyfansoddi cerddi yn y fan wen cyn i Daud gael ei ladd (siŵr o fod) wrth achub ei ffrind gorau a'i hen ysgolfeistr annwyl o dân ar droad y ganrif a throad y milflwyddiant, ac ar ddechrau Oes y Dyfrwr ar ben hynny.
Ar eu teithiau darganfyddon nhw sawl llawysgrifen gêl, a gyfieithon nhw gyda'i gilydd. Pjetër a helpai Daud i gwpla rhai o'i weithiau mwyf enwog yn ystod y cyfnod hwn, ac efe a gyfranodd y llinell anfarwol, "Os un fydd farw, pawb fydd fyw; A achub e'r holl ddynol ryw?" i 'botsio' Daud.
Cyfwlynwyd mwy o'r "Hanesion Hynod" hyn yn y Gimbreg a'r Bretaneg [*] yn y cylchgrawn digidol dwyieithog ar-lein Parallel.Cymru yn wreiddiol. Ymhelaethwyd ar y straeon hyn yma ar yr e-safle hwn (gweler rhestr penodau ar y dde).
Gweler Atodiad 4 i ddarllen tua deg enghraifft a phedwar ugain o "Mydryddu Mamrick" a ysgrifennwyd yn Aberdydd a chyhoeddi yng ngwasg leol (sydd eithaf mympwyol rhwng popeth) y wlad ryfedd a hanesyddol hon.
[*] Hynny yw, Cymraeg a Saesneg Safonedig. — Gertrude Llwynlesg.
By the way – How does one pronounce the name of this lovely, ugly town where I live at present, I hear you ask? It is, after all, a name that’s become thoroughly Kimbric over the centuries, and, of course, stress in our ancient language is almost always on the penultimate syllable. (In many other tongues, it’s the first syllable, or otherwise has to be indicated by odd accent-marks!) However, those who know their onions say Aber-DYDD without a thimbleful of hesitancy, on the basis of abstruse linguistic considerations in Ancient Keltic [see: “Enchantment of the Keltic Tongues,” L Lyons and M Lyons, Aberdydd: Northishfolk Press. — P.M.]. This pronunciation’s represented as “abɛrˈdiːð” in the universal vocal symbols. You’ll also see the spelling Aber-dydd plastered on signs here and there from time to time to reflect this stress. There’s some others who know better, allegedly, however, and insist on saying, totally incorrectly, AB-er-dydd (or even worse, Ab-ER-dydd, although that sounds exceptionally odd to my tender ear). [The same ones who idolize the old Yarl Aber-Dygdhar, no doubt. — D.M.P.] It would be worthwhile remembering that in the old Yrthian tongue, the phrase “abelé dodí” (AB-eley DO-diy) means “strange wonder” and so I believe I’m right, as usual, although the words mutated into “apele thothu” over the millennia. Why does everything have to change all the time? It’s not fair, not fair at all! — Fred Fantastic.
Tall Tales Chapter 06 (Scribbling)
Across the lambs a shadow falls,
And furthermore, beside grove’s wall,
In old mute coomb (or maybe vale),
Where secret still, and steep, winds trail,
On hill, chock-full of withered pines –
So sullen – dumb – dark virtue’s shrine,
Where, now, 'neath harsh-eyed gaze of moon,
Live tribes of truly clueless loons,
In cottage poor, and mansion fine,
Oh Gods, they grow not wisdom’s vines,
(But bear, perchance, the seeds of lust)!
From birthing-cry to death’s last gust,
They screech with pain from spectral scar,
Each day locked tight by word-charmed bars –
By shadow red and bloody flesh –
Until returns fate's scythe afresh,
To hound them down through field and dell –
And blood pours out ‘midst flame-stream fell.
If one man dies, then all survive;
Through him will human-kind all thrive?
Daud Pekar: Tall Tales Chapter 33 (Foretelling)