♫ The Campfire Lizards ♫
I enter the corridor.
[Notes for the translator:
The sentence with which everything begins is a lipogram excluding the letter A. Similar lipograms include:
and finally text 25, excluding the last of the vowels.]
♫ GameLAN-Party ♫
I enter the corridor—the one designed to boost my short prose blog’s Google ranking, plunging right into a search engine-optimized, or SEO, copy. This text aims not so much at its readers but primarily at Google’s search ranking algorithm, seeking to feign being informative by focusing on crucial keywords like “corridor” and “short prose.” In reality, its sole purpose is to repeatedly and subtly insert and vary the search-relevant keywords (such as “short prose” and “corridor“) throughout its content. The goal is to trick Google and its mystery-shrouded ranking algorithm into believing it’s a vital contribution to the field (e.g., corridor short prose or short prose corridors), thus earning a high PageRank and a coveted spot at the top of Google’s search results.
However, we mustn’t succumb to a narrow corridor or tunnel vision: Attention-grabbing websites shouldn’t overdo the “corridor” keyword in their text, and definitely shouldn’t resort to repeating key phrases (e.g., “short prose, shortest prose, ultra-short prose“) in white text on a white background at the bottom of the page ad nauseam. This is no longer even considered advertising poetry or prose but simply shortsighted, because Google now penalizes that with devaluation and relegation to the lower, forgotten reaches of its search results corridor.
In short: “Prose” of this kind is counterproductive and plays into the hands of the competition. In other words, the corridor is long, the prose short. Or, to put it even more blandly: Here you will find what you’re looking for and can finally follow your destiny (of which you probably had no inkling) and enter the short prose Korridorium.
♫ Limelight Hogs ♫
“‘I enter the corridor.’ Private?”
“Yes, Colonel. You enter the corridor.”
“Don’t play stupid with me.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Well?”
“Uh, what? Colonel.”
“‘I enter the corridor.'”
“…is a main clause, Colonel.”
“In a complete sentence, damn it!”
“‘I enter the corridor’ is a main clause, Colonel.”
“And what else? Do I have to drag every little thing out of you?”
“‘I enter the corridor’ is a main clause without inversion, featuring an accusative object and a predicate in the first person singular, present active indicative, Colonel.”
“Is that all, Private?”
“Or it contains…”
“The! Whole! Sentence!”
“‘I enter the corridor’ could, depending on the context, also have its verb in the subjunctive mood, Colonel.”
“Now was that so difficult, Private?”
“No, Colonel.”
“Dismissed.”
“‘Dismissed’ is a past participle serving as a verbal imperative—”
“Dismissed!!!”
“Yes, Colonel.” Salutes and exits.
♫ Misnomer ♫
I enter the corridor and am—supposedly—overwhelmed by the choice of doors, or so “usually well-informed circles” claim. As if they knew anything! (Besides, to avoid confusing fact with hearsay, they really should have used the past subjunctive: “as if I were entering”…)
♫ Sneak Peak ♫
“I enter the corridor hostel at about midnite. If not for the late night, we would have moved to another hostel right away. The hostel is very run down (feeling of eerie) and luckily tow guys who happened to stay there came to help us with the luggage. And worst, we could not even found our room no! And when I went to use the bathroom, the doorknob dropped off and I was nearly locked inside.”
1 out of 5 stars Rooms
1 out of 5 stars Cleanliness
2 out of 5 stars Location
1 out of 5 stars Check-in/Reception
This guest review of Hotel “Blue Corridor Hostel” at Siebensterngasse 15, Vienna, Austria was helpful / unhelpful to you (currently disabled).
Enable/disable automatic translation (currently enabled).
♫ The Trailblazer’s Red-Letter Day ♫
“I enter the corridor”—today, as a visitor to the Korridorium, you can say that with total confidence. This time, friendly hostesses approach you to lead you to one of the many doors. Behind them, more corridors await—and more doors—but those you’ll have to push open yourself.
Another visitor has entered with you: a man in a suit, clutching a briefcase and looking a bit dazed. “I have no idea what I’m even doing here!” he tells you. A banner hangs above three bistro tables where the hostesses wait; it reads: “What else to find?“ One of them is already attending to the man. “Yes, it’s quite easy to get lost here,” she says. “If you’re looking for something specific and don’t have much time, you should head through that narrow door up front.” You notice it’s labeled “Vignette.” “Or here”—the friendly young lady points out a tiny, almost miniature door labeled “Fract“—”for the very short attention span. Some pieces are no longer than a tweet—140 characters or less,” she continues.
“I’m interested in constellations,” says the man with the briefcase, straightening his glasses.
“Then this might be the right door for you.” The man frowns at the sign: “Lists.” Yet, it seems to suit him; he shrugs, gives the lady a brief, thankful nod, and decisively turns the handle.
In the meantime, another hostess has noticed you. “How can I help you today?” she asks with a smile.
“Are there stories here with plots and characters? You know, actual short stories?”
“Oh, yes,” the hostess responds, gesturing toward a glass door labeled “Story“ and the three behind it: “Classic,” “Fantasy,” and “Sci-Fi.”
“What about classic fantasy?” you ask, furrowing your brow.
“Oh, yes—that could be misleading, right,” the young lady says. “All short stories without magic and futuristic elements, without bells and whistles, so to speak—that’s what ‘classic’ stands for here.”
She starts to explain how difficult it was to find the right keywords, but you get distracted. A visitor carrying—strangely enough—an open umbrella printed with the words “(B)right as rain,” is asking a hostess for “spiritual texts.” She is directed toward the doors labeled “Nous“ and “Kōan.” “Nous” covers everything involving consciousness, she’s told, while “Kōan” represents Eastern wisdom in the broadest sense. “And what about, uh… love stories?” the woman asks softly, as if she’s a little embarrassed. There is a door for that too, further down the hall. Unsurprisingly, it’s labeled “Romance.”
Before you can turn back to your own hostess, a boy in a hoodie rolls in on a skateboard. He shoots a disdainful look at the corridor from under his hood. A hostess is on him in an instant. “Cory?” he asks. The hostess shakes her head, smiling. “But you might find the answer behind this door.” She points to one labeled “Cory?“ and then indicates the one next to it: “Meta.” “You might find more clues there. In any case, that’s where all the explanations about the Korridorium itself are kept.”
This gives you an idea. You ask the helpful young lady about stories involving parallel worlds—you’ve heard they are a recurring theme here.
“Oh, yes,” your hostess smiles, “there’s a door for those, too. Please, follow me.” The door in question, labeled “PluriDim,” is at the very end of the corridor. “I’m told it stands for ‘Pluridimensional’—multi-dimensional perspectives.”
Intrigued, you read the sign on the door next to it: “Paraphernalia“?
“Oh, yes,” the young lady nods. “That’s where we put everything that didn’t fit anywhere else—even things too strange for ‘Kafkaesque’ or ‘Surrealist.'” She points to the door directly across from “Paraphernalia.” “Kafka,” she says, “is simply ‘K.’—but due to space constraints, he’s been grouped with Surrealism.” The door reads: “K. / Dada.”
Better not subject myself to that, you think, masking the thought with a polite smile. “But what if I’m specifically looking for things involving labyrinths and the Minotaur?”
“Oh, yes,” the hostess says eagerly. “I should have realized. I saw the horns, of course, and knew immediately what a distinguished guest we had today.”
You snort a bit through your nostrils; people usually expect that sort of thing from you. Although you meant it to be friendly, the hostess takes a cautious step back.
“Here,” she says, sounding slightly intimidated. “This would be the door of your choice.” It bears the label: “Myth.”
“But that can also mean a lie—as in, ‘Oh, that’s just a myth!'” you point out critically.
“Oh, yes,” the hostess says, swallowing hard. “But it’s certainly not used in that sense here.”
“Well, I should hope not!” you retort, and swing the door open.
♫ Big Descent ♫
I enter the corridor. The bathrooms have got to be around here somewhere. One last piss before the big show. In the hall, they’re going wild, dancing on the tables. My “business partners.” Time to fire them up and whip them into a frenzy. Soon, Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best” will blast over the speakers, and then I’m going to pull the strings.
Urinals are clean enough. I guess you can expect that from a five-star hotel, considering the price. Am I wired? Yeah, I’m wired! Love it. It’s going to go perfectly. The suit fits; this gold tie has always brought me luck. I’m going to blow them out of their seats. Do I have the talking points down?
“Better than any orgasm.” My opener. And then, for the 350 salesmen in the hall: “What happens out there on the front lines—that’s determined by you, by every single person in this room.” Briefly mention the firing of the executive board—don’t harp on it, obviously—just move straight to truth, justice, ethics. That’s what we stand for. “Either someone is a hundred percent committed to the cause, or they can go to hell. We want to enlighten Germany. We need personalities who serve as role models.” Always remember to swear the room into the company ethos: “We have one goal, and that goal is double-digits. We need to train new business partners for this war.” And if there are any doubters in the hall regarding the fund returns—aside from those vultures from the TV media—well then, here: “A product with double-digit returns—I swear to you: that day will come, as sure as I’m standing here.” Let’s look at it soberly: if they believe in me, they believe in the cause. And to finally make those press flacks shut their mouths: “We don’t make promises, we have goals!” Let them chew on that for a while.
Wash hands! I want to walk out of here with clean hands. And those assholes who throw dirt at us? I’ll tear them apart one by one. “Stupidity like that should be fatal.” But always remember that the broadside from the press is exactly what inspires and motivates me to fight even harder for what’s good and right. Crucial! Then I can really let loose, and no one can touch me. Just don’t screw up the belfry bit again. Bats, they say—bats in the belfry! Speaking of which, let’s see if I can work in that bit about the brothel. Hookers instead of a 401(k), if you’re going to piss your money away anyway. And we pull in more returns than they do, regardless.
Hey, that’s me in the mirror above the sink. Yeah, Strike! “I can look in the mirror every morning and every night—even naked—and say: You’re the man!”
If I lose my place, I’ll just rail against the Church again, or the lottery, or the media tax and public broadcasting. Works every time. The Wikipedia reference: “Christianity is the world’s largest cult.” Is that still on there? Whatever. “So: get out! Give me the money instead.” Guaranteed laugh. And when it comes to the lottery, take no prisoners: “If I were dictator, everyone in charge of that would be dead. Everyone should have three baseball bats in their car: one aluminum, one wood, one plastic. Swing away. Stupidity like that has to be eradicated. Where’s the radical with the airplane?” When I’m wired like this, there won’t be a dry eye in the house. “That’s how you have to deal with these assholes, right?” If it gets too graphic, I can always bleep it out of our promo video later. The main thing is that the room is boiling, and our crew can’t wait to swarm out and push our product on the masses.
At the very end, get all moral and harp on responsibility: “Where are we when there is injustice in the world?” Then off the stage with—uh, what was I going to close with? What was the big thing that welds us all together as front-line fighters? My new buzzword, the new mythos for us? Right: “This is how I see us now: the Robin Hood of financial services.”
Okay, one last polish of the company logo on the lapel. “Simply the Best” is playing in the hall at full volume. That’s my cue. Yeah, let’s get this party started!
Quotes: Daniel Shahin, Carpediem GmbH, June 5, 2011
♫ Explaining Donkey Heaven ♫
(The Korridorium was originally a blog with daily postings. The following “interview” references this and Cory’s plan to subsequently delete the entire website, a move the publishers were able to prevent.)
“I enter the corridor”: Do all 398 blog entries truly start with this sentence?
Yes. Almost. If you find any deviations, consider framing them as keepsakes.
Why will the blog be deleted on December 21, 2012? Does that have something to do with the end of the Mayan calendar?
The Mayan calendar doesn’t actually end; the so-called Long Count simply resets. Whether this cyclical nature extends to the end of the world remains to be seen.
But couldn’t the blog, in its entirety of 398 entries, simply remain as an archive?
One of the themes explored in the blog is transience, so a final deletion seems only consistent.
Is the author someone well-known, or why is such a secret being made of the identity of “Cory d’Or”?
Identity is another one of the themes illuminated here.
This secrecy is just a publicity stunt, right?
Among other things, it makes possible one of the blog’s serial stories, which begins with text No. 51.
Is what you write actually literature? And if so, what would you call it?
My friend Norbu once called it “fractal literature”—I assume he means a collage of texts that relate to each other associatively and thematically, exhibit a certain self-similarity on the thematic level, and are “fractured” in their dimensionality by including contradictions, alternative versions, and meta-perspectives. The mix of different genres could perhaps also be called postmodern or eclectic—though I try not to get stuck in a shell game of set pieces. And given the mode of publication, it is, of course, also web-based electronic literature.
Hmm. I quite like the fantasy stuff, but I can’t really get into the sci-fi stories.
The categories and tags for the individual texts under the menu item “What else to find?” are intended to allow my readers a more or less targeted selection among the various blog entries. My Twitter account might also help: there’s a small teaser tweet with a link for each text—if I’ve sparked your curiosity: just click and enter the corresponding corridor.
Speaking of “What else?”: What do tags like “K.”, “Nous,” “PluriDim” … mean?
True, that might have turned out a little cryptic. “K.” stands for the eponymous character in Kafka and thus for, uh, Kafkaesque situations. “Nous” is a Greek word I use to denote the intellectual dimension of the human being—the same root as “noosphere.” Everything relating to consciousness, the supernatural, and the metaphysical gets the label “Nous.” “PluriDim,” in turn, is an abbreviation for a pluridimensional, multidimensional perspective on existence and refers to parallel worlds and multiverses…
The stories are sometimes rather cute, but often just way too long. Can’t they be shorter?
I am aware that the attention span for reading on the web tends toward the length of tweets. However, I refuse to give up the chance to occasionally go deep. That brings to light treasures that cannot be unearthed at the surface…
Why are the informational links listed below instead of being linked directly in the text?
This reflects my personal reading habits: finish reading first, then research open questions and ambiguities—rather than letting myself be distracted in the middle and going down rabbit holes. That’s precisely the purpose of the links.
I’m a German teacher and would like to use one of your texts in class.
Please contact me at Cory@Korridorium.com—I will then get in touch with you.
**I’m a bookseller and would like to invite you for a reading of your texts.
I’m afraid I have to disappoint you there. Since entry 51, I have been wanted by the police and have had to stay in hiding.
Will the FAQ also have one of your notorious Dada punchlines?
But of course. This one, in fact.
♫ Joyrite ♫
I enter the corridor and, with a practiced hand, switch on the small video camera clipped to my headband. Of course, I start narrating right away—chattering is, after all, part of the trade. I open the apartment door, and the delivery guy—a new one, not the usual—immediately eyes the camera suspiciously. He’s puzzled that I seem to be happily talking to myself. Let him think I’m on a headset with a friend. What am I supposed to tell the man? That I’m making a striptease video? Because my specialty is: uncut unboxing videos. They start with the delivery—I’m currently scribbling my signature on the chunky delivery-service touchpad with the gray display that always seems too small for my name. And I only use one of my three first names at that.
The door clicks shut behind me. I carry the package through the hallway to my “Peepshow Room,” scrutinizing it from all angles and providing a verbose commentary. Nothing should distract my viewers from the unveiling that awaits! That’s why I moved my bed to the living room a while ago and emptied the bedroom of everything except my large “operating table.” I set the package down here. My tools are already laid out to the side: scissors and a box cutter.
Now, it’s time to dissect. If there’s an imprint or a logo on the box, I naturally bring that into the light first, before I strip the object of desire of its layers, one by one, and penetrate to the contents. The key is to keep talking to keep the viewers hooked.
Finally, it lies exposed and seductively gleaming before me, a trendy lifestyle product, something from the category of brand new + slick design + early adopter appeal—whether it’s a smartphone, VR headset, or AI gadget. That’s what my video channel subscribers expect, I owe it to them, and that’s precisely what they get, uncut and with voice-over commentary. I free every item from its packaging, bring it into the light, showcase it from all angles, and share my thoughts. Is it sleek in design, does it fit the modern lifestyle, does it feel good in the hand, is it a must-have? My videos need to have that same appeal somehow. There seems to be a certain erotic charge in the unveiling and assessment of brand-new must-haves for some. The view counts speak for themselves.
Finally, it lies exposed and seductively gleaming before me—a trendy lifestyle product, something from the category of brand new + killer design + early-adopter appeal—whether it’s a smartphone, an action cam, or high-end headphones. That’s what my subscribers expect; I owe it to them, and that’s exactly what they get: uncut and with voice-over commentary. I free every single item from its packaging, down to the batteries if there are any, bring them into the light, present them from all sides, and add my two cents. Is the design sexy? Does it fit the modern lifestyle? Does it feel good in the hand? Is it a must-have? My videos have to have that same appeal somehow. For some, there seems to be a certain erotica in the unveiling and assessment of brand-new “must-haves.” The view counts speak for themselves.
From the comments, I know that for many, it’s simply the ultimate thrill: with the ring of the doorbell, an internet order materializes at the door. And if they can’t afford the hip new gear because their account is maxed out, my unboxing videos serve as a form of substitute gratification—or, of course, as inspiration for their next purchase.
I can’t explain the high subscriber count and the enthusiastic comments any other way. Among the latter, as always on the internet, there’s plenty of nonsense—like the constant question of what I actually do with all these gadgets.
The truth is, I can’t actually afford the consumer electronics and designer tech that arrives here two or three times a week. But that’s what online return policies are for. Once I’ve turned off the camera, I neatly pack everything back into the box, seal it with the brown tape I keep ready under the table, and send the device back to the retailer the very next day. It goes back without a single trace of use. By then, of course, the video has long since gone live.
♫ Change of Hand, Sleight of Mind ♫
“I enter the corridor” scrolls across the screen—much like clouds forming and dissolving in a time-lapse sky—as on-screen text, just as THE CONJURER (wearing a plain red robe with a broad black cloth belt and a black hat) enters a clinically white, glaringly bright hospital corridor. He stops.
THE CONJURER
Many deem they be upon the playnest way
And yet they wander far astray
Whiche leadeth not to vertuous lyfe.
The Conjurer walks on. The doors along the sides swing open: to the sound of circus music, FOUR SCANTILY CLAD GO-GO GIRLS present items to him on velvet cushions, such as:
The Conjurer casts a brief glance at each of the tempting offers, but then shrugs and leaves them aside. Only now is it noticeable that he carries a wicker basket on his belt, with A SMALL OWL peeking inquisitively out of its opening. While walking:
THE CONJURER
Blest is he who strayeth not from the waye
If he hath founde it for to keepe
For oft the side-path turneth deepe.
More doors swing open beside the Conjurer; FOUR MORE GO-GO GIRLS (or are they the same?) present:
At the end of the corridor, a coral-colored curtain awaits the Jester. He pushes it aside…
THE CONJURER
(smiling)
I dread the dayes are drawing nigh,
When menne shall more newe tidings finde,
Than shall content or suit our minde.
…and then disappears behind it.