The ninja-replacement scale of literature

[larryhammer]

It occurs to me you can rate other works of literature by how many characters need to be replaced by ninjas to make it better. For example, for other recent reading:

Shelley's Prometheus Unbound - Would be improved if either Asia or Panthea was a ninja -- I'm not sure which would be better. Both wouldn't work, though.

Byron's Manfred - The whole bleeping cast needs to be replaced by ninjas (except for the spirits, who'd have to be tengus). And then drop-kicked off the Jungfrau.

Keats's Endymion - Ninjas would be superfluous.

This gives them ninja-replacement scores (NRS) of 1, ∞, and 0, respectively. It also works with prose -- Lord of the Rings has an NRS of 0 (the only possible improvement is ninja!Sam, but that wrecks the last line), while Pride and Prejudice has NRS = 5 (arguably).

Care to rate any others?

ETA: Ninja-replacement in Shakespeare is being discussed here.

---L.

Comments

[coffeeem.livejournal.com]

Oh, he wasn't killed. The ninja merely performed the blow known in the Shaolin temples of the far north as Fog Descending, a swift strike with the index finger to a spot just in front of the left ear. Chinese authors have been hiring ninjas to deliver this blow to their rivals for centuries; it temporarily disrupts the part of the brain responsible for narrative cognition. When the victim returns to his desk, he has no notion of where he intended to go with that sentence.

Happens to me all the time. Must get better bodyguards.

[coffeeem.livejournal.com]

Or perhaps Coleridge was himself a rogue ninja, who had left his secret society in disgust over its corruption, and had started a new life as an English poet living in semi-seclusion in the Lake District. But ninjas never forget; the visitor from Porlock was the favorite student of his old, corrupt master, come to kill him.

In a terrible pitched battle in the fells above Keswick, Coleridge killed the ninja, who was also, of course, his best friend back before he was led astray by their unworthy master. After weeping over the body, he struck a cliff face bare-handed and caused a rock fall to bury his friend and create a memorial cairn that only he would recognize. Then he walked back to his house and sat down at his desk, only to discover that all the fuss had driven Xanadu out of his head entirely. "Oh, bother," said Coleridge.

[larryhammer]

Clearly, you need to write this out. So we can read it.

---L.

[coffeeem.livejournal.com]

It's an ephemeral art form. Whatcha see is whatcha get *grin*.

[larryhammer]

Waaa!