Quadrivial Quandary:  Logophiles, Rejoice!  Each day we give you four unusual words.  Can you fit them all in one illustrative sentence?

Attempts to resolve the Quandary:


Dada Heidler – no slugabed, him – was working in the Gallery when Hugo Ball hurried in, glad to have escaped from the declamatory historicist and caught his breath: "narrow escape," he explained and, while the young painter brewed them some coffee, told him what had transpired: "we got 17 Francs and a handful of Rappen in the hat I passed round, they thought we were a double-act, you know, a street-gig, so I gave him the small change and did a runner," he glanced out of the door but there was no sign of any pursuit: "what are you going to call this place?" he asked, sipping from a tannin-stained mug: "no idea," admitted the younger man, "Art Gallery, I suppose," and Hugo laughed: "nothing like the obvious, eh?" and he sat back in the chair, looking around at the work being hung on the walls by a couple of helpers Heidler had cajoled into assisting him: "how about Shoes, or Turnips?" and got a funny look in return, "or Fart or Panjandrum or how aboot BOO!" and he saw perplexity in Heidler's serious face, and turned serious himself: "look," he said, "look at the paintings you have here, think about the work you do for the Cabaret, it's not ART as the bourgeois understand it, it's ANTI-ART – it's a slap in the face with a wet fish for those collectors who regard Art as an investment, who regard Art as a commodity, to be exchanged or a treasure to be hoarded, they like to think it will increase in value, sometimes in a bank vault, and when the creator, the painter or sculptor, dies, the price can triple or treble and the person who bought it for 100 Francs, or 500, or 1,000, can make a killing - pardon the pun, I'm not suggesting they'll kill you off for a profit, but in truth, that's always at the back of their minds, these parasites; you are young, you've got, what, forty years of work ahead of you? well, this is an opportunity for you to make a name for yourself, stake a claim for the future; you have an advantage over the rest of us, whose performances are as ephemeral as a sunny afternoon, we exist only in the memory of the audience and after they've dined and had a night's sleep, we are fragmented, tangled in their dreams or forgotten by the morning, but your work can live on for 100 years, more if you are popular and praised, this is your chance to stamp your name on it for posterity; it's up to you, Heidler, or Wolff, or whatever, I don't care who you are, it's what you do that I like, but if I were you, I'd put DADA in red and black across the windows - you've heard Tristan and the other Rumanians, at meetings, they nod their heads and keep saying 'Da, Da,' if they agree, and ever since Jakob first called you Dada, that's what everyone calls you, it's your name, your trademark, use it!"but the young man protested: "it's just a nickname, a pet name, short for Adolphus," and Hugo laughed: "which is a mouthful - no, stick with Dada, and I promise you, long after we, you and I, turn to dust, it will still be remembered - and in your case, venerated; actually, I've been thinking of publishing a Manifesto - well, really, you have to nowadays, the Anarchists and Communists and even the Christians are all at it, so why not us? and if you have no objections, I would like to call mine The Dada Manifesto - telling the world about our New Anti-Art Movement, a repudiation of Militarism and the Rush-to-War, a Dedication to Creativity, to Life, to Youth! to the minutia of The Absurd, all the mannerisms and niceties, we must dissect our daily lives, turn them inside out, hold them up to ridicule; and we can't let the Old sacrifice our Youth for their own Glory, their dreams of Kingdoms, Empires, no! someone has to say that there is more to Life than a Bloody Death on the Battlefield, let your name be our Watchword, do you agree?" and Dada could hardly demur, he was caught up in Hugo's pleniloquence and enthusiasm and he hated the thought of war and it's consequences for his generation, so of course he did, and Hugo dashed out and came back with a bottle of Cognac and they toasted the success of the as-yet-unwritten Dada Manifesto and then Heidler, or Wolff, set to, with brush and paint and soon Dada Revolutionary Gallery shouted out from all the windows, and the seemingly random display of paintings, tailors' dummies, household appliances and shoes - with some additional turnips - had passers-by scratching their heads and coming in to see what was going on in this strange place, and among them was Hugo, clutching a book and seizing Dada by the wrist: "come on, or we'll miss it! we've got to get to the railway bridge, hurry, it's urgent!" and asking one of his assistants to lock up at 6pm, and pulling on his coat, he hurried after Hugo, along streets he hadn't even had time to learn the names of, round corners, ducking through alleys and eventually coming to a footbridge over the railway line and, in the middle, Hugo stopped and pointed excitedly: "see!" and his friend said: "it's a train, yes?" and Hugo exclaimed: "it's an electric train!" so Dada asked, realisation dawning on him: "are you a trainspotter, Hugo?" to which the reply was: "of course, Dada, aren't you?"

(by MissTeriWoman)
The Quandary for Sunday, March 15, 2020 consisted of: Challenge: use all four words together in one illustrative sentence.

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