At the end of World War II, Anthony Burgess, who was the author of A Clockwork Orange, was stationed with the British Army in Gibraltar, training the troops there. When not busy with his duties, Burgess honed his writing skills writing for the local Army newspaper.
The editor of the newspaper was an unpopular character by the name of Major Meldrum.
One day, in a fit of boredom, Burgess decided to insert the following sentence in a review of a Frank Sinatra movie (possibly Anchors Aweigh):
Which makes very little sense until you realize you could take the first letter of each word and come up with a sentence.
I happen to think this is pretty damn funny.
However, this can’t possibly have been the only time somebody came up with the idea. Is there a name for this sort of thing (making a message from the initials of a seemingly innocent message)? Has anybody encountered another example?
(The story can be found in the first part of Burgess’s autobiography, called Little Wilson and Big God.)
I can not find the poetry but in my old neck of the woods the most famous prank of that nature in Central American history was the one that happened in Nicaragua:
Anastasio Somoza, the elder, dictator and founder of the Somoza regime was killed by Rigoberto Pérez in 1956, one of the mayor newspapers published a great piece of poetry that seemed to be a great requiem for Somoza (newspapers being in the pocket of the ruling class). Imagine their surprise when later it was found that the first letters of the lines did spell the name of Rigoberto Pérez!
When my grandfather was on duty during WWII, he was not allowed to tell my grandmother where he was. In his letters home, the first letter of each sentence would spell out his location, so that she could know. They were very close throughout their marriage, and I love that they found a way for him to communicate with her on more than one level.
When I was a Freshman at my Catholic private high school, I was on the yearbook staff and some friends and I did that with some pretty vulgar messages.
This site contends that Shakespeare apparently did it in this speech by Titania in A Midsummer’s Night Dream:
Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate, The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee. Therefore go with me. I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
And here’s a recent parallel with Burgess’ prank, in which Stephen Pollard was fired by his new employer, The Times, because he had taken a parting shot at the owner of his previous paper, Richard Desmond, by spelling out “F**k you Desmond” in an editorial.
I’ve written of couple urban legends that I tried to spread. To “prove” that I wrote them, the first letter of each sentence spelled my last name.
They didn’t take off. Not only did I spell my name, but I took great care to make sure the ULs didn’t defame anyone or cause undo fear. Result = crappy ULs no one believed.
Sonnet
“Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,
“Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet —
Trash of all trash! — how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general Petrarchanities are arrant
Bubbles — ephemeral and so transparent —
But this is, now, — you may depend upon it —
Stable, opaque, immortal — all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.
This one is by Edgar Allan Poe.
The pattern here is:
first letter first line…
second letter second lin…
third letter third line …
etc
** To – -- --**
For her these lines are penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the starts of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name that, nestling, lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly these words, which hold a treasure
Divine – a talisman, an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure –
The words – the letters themselves. Do not forget
The smallest point, or you may lose your labor.
And yet there is in this no gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Upon the open page on which are peering
Such sweet eyes now, there lies, I say, perdus,
A musical name oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets – for the name is a poet’s too.
In common sequence set, the letters lying,
Compose a sound delighting all to hear –
Ah, this you’d have no trouble in descrying
Were you not something, of a dunce, my dear –
And now I leave these riddles to their Seer.
E.A.P.
Another by Poe.
Same basic deal.
I won’t code this one.
One critic wrote a review of “The Crying Game” which used the initials of each paragraph to give away the big plot twist. Even hinted at it in the body.
Lewis Carroll included a poem at the end of “Through the Looking Glass” whose initials spell out the real Alice’s full name.
Acrostics are but one form of what is known as constrained writing. For a truly mind-boggling example of this artform, check out the Cadaeic Cadenza. Brainstrain, for sure.