Buy, buy today. Die, die tomorrow
Daemonicus Oeconomicus

TONO-BUNGAY, alkoholhaltiges Tonikum, 1L, 40% Vol.

„TONO-BUNGAY ist trocken wie die Wissenschaft.“
TONO-BUNGAY verdankt seinen Geschmack einer von Dr. Thomas Seppi in einem speziellen Verfahren gewonnenen Essenz.

Basis der Essenz sind Algen, die in Thomas Feuersteins Manna-Maschine gezüchtet werden.

TONO-BUNGAY wurde in der Ausstellung Die Dämonen im Magazin 4/Bregenzer Kunstverein als Cocktail auf Eis mit Soda serviert.

Tono-Bungay ist ein 1909 veröffentlichter Roman von H.G. Wells. Der Titel ist der Name eines medizinischen Tonikums bestehend aus einer geheimen Formel und Alkohol. Die Geschichte beschreibt den Aufstieg und Fall eines auf der "modernen Ökonomie" des Marketings basierenden Unternehmens. Der Erzähler ist brotloser Wissenschafter, der wehmütig die leere Betriebsamkeit ökonomischer Ressourcen ohne Nutzen und Fortschritt für die Menschheit reflektiert. Am Ende des Romans glückt ihm eine Anstellung als Ingenieur bei einer Werft, wo er Kriegsschiffe entwickelt.

Für die melancholischen Helden der Wissenschaft wurde ein neues Tonikum entwickelt, das seinen Geschmack einer von Dr. Thomas Seppi in einem speziellen Verfahren gewonnenen Essenz verdankt. Basis der Essenz sind Algen, die in Thomas Feuersteins Manna-Maschine gezüchtet werden. Tono-Bungay ist trocken wie die Wissenschaft.


"Well, here we are!" he said. "Going strong! Have a whisky, George? No!-Wise man! Neither will I! You see me at it! At it-hard!"

"Hard at what?

"Read it," and he thrust into my hand a label-that label that has now become one of the most familiar objects of the chemist's shop, the greenish-blue rather old-fashioned bordering, the legend, the name in good black type, very clear, and the strong man all set about with lightning flashes above the double column of skilful lies in red-the label of Tono-Bungay. "It's afloat," he said, as I stood puzzling at this. "It's afloat. I'm afloat!" And suddenly he burst out singing in that throaty tenor of his-

"I'm afloat, I'm afloat on the fierce flowing tide, The ocean's my home and my bark is my bride!

"Ripping song that is, George. Not so much a bark as a solution, but still-it does! Here we are at it! By-the-by! Half a mo'! I've thought of a thing." He whisked out, leaving me to examine this nuclear spot at leisure while his voice became dictatorial without. The den struck me as in its large grey dirty way quite unprecedented and extraordinary. The bottles were all labelled simply A, B, C, and so forth, and that dear old apparatus above, seen from this side, was even more patiently "on the shelf" than when it had been used to impress Wimblehurst. I saw nothing for it but to sit down in the chair and await my uncle's explanations. I remarked a frock-coat with satin lapels behind the door; there was a dignified umbrella in the corner and a clothes-brush and a hat-brush stood on a side-table. My uncle returned in five minutes looking at his watch-a gold watch-"Gettin' lunch-time, George," he said. "You'd better come and have lunch with me!"

"How's Aunt Susan?" I asked.

"Exuberant. Never saw her so larky. This has bucked her up something wonderful-all this."

"All what?"


"What is Tono-Bungay?" I asked.

My uncle hesitated. "Tell you after lunch, George," he said. "Come along!" and having locked up the sanctum after himself, led the way along a narrow dirty pavement, lined with barrows and swept at times by avalanche-like porters bearing burthens to vans, to Farringdon Street. He hailed a passing cab superbly, and the cabman was infinitely respectful. "Schafer's," he said, and off we went side by side-and with me more and more amazed at all these things-to Schafer's Hotel, the second of the two big places with huge lace curtain-covered windows, near the corner of Blackfriars Bridge.

I will confess I felt a magic charm in our relative proportions as the two colossal, pale-blue-and-red liveried porters of Schafers' held open the inner doors for us with a respectful salutation that in some manner they seemed to confine wholly to my uncle. Instead of being about four inches taller, I felt at least the same size as he, and very much slenderer. Still more respectful-waiters relieved him of the new hat and the dignified umbrella, and took his orders for our lunch. He gave them with a fine assurance.

He nodded to several of the waiters.

"They know me, George, already," he said. "Point me out. Live place! Eye for coming men!"

The detailed business of the lunch engaged our attention for a while, and then I leant across my plate. "And NOW?" said I.

"It's the secret of vigour. Didn't you read that label?"

"Yes, but-"

"It's selling like hot cakes."

"And what is it?" I pressed.

"Well," said my uncle, and then leant forward and spoke softly under cover of his hand, "It's nothing more or less than..."

(But here an unfortunate scruple intervenes. After all, Tono-Bungay is still a marketable commodity and in the hands of purchasers, who bought it from-among other vendors-me. No! I am afraid I cannot give it away-)

"You see," said my uncle in a slow confidential whisper, with eyes very wide and a creased forehead, "it's nice because of the" (here he mentioned a flavouring matter and an aromatic spirit), "it's stimulating because of" (here he mentioned two very vivid tonics, one with a marked action on the kidney.) "And the" (here he mentioned two other ingredients) "makes it pretty intoxicating. Cocks their tails. Then there's" (but I touch on the essential secret.) "And there you are. I got it out of an old book of recipes-all except the" (here he mentioned the more virulent substance, the one that assails the kidneys), "which is my idea! Modern touch! There you are!"