Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman

‘I can give you a question as good as that,’ he responded. ‘Can you notify me of the meaning of a bulbul?’ ‘A bulbul?’ ‘What would you say a bulbul is?’ This conundrum did not interest me but I pretended to rack my brains and screwed my face in perplexity until I felt it half the size it should be. ‘Not one of those ladies who take money?’ I said. ‘No.’ ‘Not the brass knobs on a German steam organ?’ ‘Not the knobs.’ ‘Nothing to do with the independence of America or such-like?’ ‘No.’ ‘A mechanical engine for winding clocks?’ ‘No.’ ‘A tumour, or the lather in a cow’s mouth, or those elastic articles that ladies wear?’ ‘Not them by a long chalk.’ ‘Not an eastern musical instrument played by Arabs?’ He clapped his hands. ‘Not that but very near it,’ he smiled, ‘something next door to it. You are a cordial intelligible man. A bulbul is a Persian nightingale. What do you think of that now?’ ‘It is seldom I am far out,’ I said dryly. He looked at me in admiration and the two of us sat in silence for a while as if each was very pleased with himself and with the other and had good reason to be.