Twilight Saga sex-symbol Robert Pattinson was sitting at home the other day, in a reflective mood. This we have from the horse's mouth of no other horse than our old friend Bingo Cashcow Bimbomountain XIII.
We say it is from the horse's mouth, and it may very well be. It certainly has more chance of being the original mouth of a horse than it has of being anything resembling an original body part of Bingo Cashcow Bimbomountain XIII, who has more lifts than the Empire State Building, in the words of our mutual acquaintance, Gutsi S Vermont, whose veracity is beyond question (there is no point in asking, since you never get a straight answer) when it comes to matters pertaining to plastic surgery.
So, according to Bingo Cashcow Bimbomountain XIII, Robert Pattinson was sitting at home in reflective mood. Musing, perhaps. Cogitating. He gazed out of the window and up, into the unfathomable caerulean of the early Spring sky, whose perfect texture was subtly scuffed, buffed, scored, at its zenith, into whorls and waves of buttercream cloud.
A tall man with a beaked nose bore a heavy scythe across the lawn, a portly bulldog tottering at his heels. "I wonder who he is, and what his import might be in this fable we are pleased to call life", pondered Robert Pattinson, reaching for another handful of parma violets as the hall clock struck the hour and Cristabel, the Vietnamese Pot-Bellied Pig defecated near the Skovmand & Andersen Teak Cabinet.
Out there, in the luminous garden - and don't forget, we have this on the unimpeachable authority of Bingo Cashcow Bimbomountain XIII, backed, after a fashion, by our mutual acquaintance Gutsi S Vermont - out there, beyond the drapes that stirred, faintly, like angel's wings ruffled by the very breath of God, out there, in the haze of the Spring morning's dewy lustre, the beggar-maid began to lead the golden hyena into the cherry orchard.
Robert Pattinson sighed, and tickled Harker, his scarlet macaw, at the back of the neck. Sighing another sigh, he rose, and padded, with a tread soft as the babble of a midnight brook, to the Georgian mahogany bookcase. Stepping over the corpse of Farquharson-Cholmondeley, the dead English butler that Kristen had had imported last September when she was into Agatha Christie, Robert Pattinson's eyes began their pilgrimage across the literary acreage before them.
"Yes!" cried Robert Pattinson, when at last he spied the volume for which he had been pining.
In less time than it would have taken to explain to Robert Pattinson about what Gothic literature is, Robert Pattinson was back at his window seat, eating parma violets and tickling his scarlet macaw, who was named after Jonathan Harker, the character in Bram Stoker's novel Dracula. Not named by either Robert Pattinson or Kristen Stewart, however, for neither had ever heard of such a book.
Glancing briefly, somewhat askance, out of the window another time, Robert Pattinson watched the satyrs cavorting to the music of the pan pipes and ravishing the naked nymphs on the lawn and among the trembling shrubbery. And then he settled to read.
And what Robert Pattinson read, as the Dionysiac revels ran their brutal course in the luminescent Spring garden's fecund amphitheatre, was from a leathern-cloth'd volume entitled "The Solution of Generalized Non-Hermitian Eigenproblems: A Pocket Guide by Gussett Van Der Drivvel ". What it was, this that Robert Pattinson thus read, while all around in the garden raged indescribable* scenes of pagan and carnal excesses, was this:
And Robert Pattinson was as a man transfixed. He stared at the leathern book, then he put it down, like a man laying down a silver dove he has plucked from the very ethereal airs of an enchanted mountain top, setting it down as if it were a celestial gift.
"I never knew that such things could ever be", sighed Robert Pattinson. "These are deep mysteries indeed. Truly, the world is a wonderful place. Indeed, I would almost describe it as an enchanted kingdom, this abode of the spirit I have the honour to inhabit, where Dionysiac excess may rave and rage in juxtaposition to the most arcane and abstract mathematical lore, and I am vouchsafed both, even while I can safely enjoy the safe succour of my antique furniture, my dead English butler and my red macaw named Harker.
"I am a fortunate boy indeed", thought Robert Pattinson. "Though I understand these mystical words concerning matrices and pencils no better than I know who Harker was named after, and though all is as alien to my understanding as the unearthly beauty of the boundless sky, yet still do I know how lucky a boy I am, who is able to enjoy these things and not work for a living in the mills and the factories that destroy the souls of our beautiful children."
And Robert Pattinson wept, and again he took up the leathern volume, and read:
And he was as a man inspired, though he knew not the source of his inspiration. Indeed, it was as a cloud of unknowing, except that he did not recognise it as such.
Meanwhile, all this while, the satyrs, the pan pipers and the naked nymphs were making a right mess of the garden.
But Robert Pattinson was staring at his book and eating parma violets and tickling his red macaw.
This we have from the lips of none other than our old friend Bingo Cashcow Bimbomountain XIII. The fact that we would be loth to describe them, strictly speaking, as her lips, in a strictly original sense, in the sense that they seem to have been transplanted from the very pouting maw of something along the lines of a cod or a giant carp, well, that is of little moment in this context, which concerns the mathematical musings of Robert Pattinson, which we bring to you gladly and with no hint of anything other than genuine concern.
*These are said to be indescribable simply because Bingo Cashcow Bingomountain XIII has not seen fit to describe them, since we rely utterly upon her veracity; they must ever remain beyond our direct purview; all the more dreadful, perhaps, for that
NEXT WEEK: Justin Bieber Discovers The Hairy Ball Theorem Of Algebraic Topology!