Language as an Adventure II
While travelling from the SIDI Apartments, where I live, to and from the NEC (New Embassy Compound), I spend time thinking of things to include in our blog. Somehow that has brought me back to a further language discussion. I guess it is because language is such an adventure, at least for me. Three people taught me to love language (not necessarily English in one case): Will Shakespeare; Will Safire; and I forget Goscinny’s first name. I apologize for that. Each one of those men taught me to read “for real.”
[Digression: I’m a little frustrated right now. I have come to the conclusion that I edit better than I write; which means that I have to get a lot on paper, and then pull it apart as I review what I said in the first place. “Said” is the right term to use here. I talk to myself in the car, which may, at times, amuse Marco, Solofo, Henri, or one of the others driving me from place to place. I really have to get one of those software systems allowing me to talk to the machine, and have it learn to understand me, and transcribe what I say. Then, literally, all I have to do is edit. We threatened to do that before I came back out here, but I couldn’t find a system which would work with Windows 7. A free subscription to this BLOG is offered to the first one to get me over that hump. Of course, it is free anyway, but it sounds as if you will get something nice for the effort.]
Back to the “Wills.” Anyone who knows me also knows that Barnett without a book in pocket or hand is not a normal sight. I admit to being a member of perhaps the last, or at least penultimate (that’s next to last for non-readers), generation to see book reading as an end in itself. I’ve had various predilections throughout the years, much of it escapist; but, when it is important to take a breather from whatever I am doing, somehow, I gravitate back to a few specific authors. I’ve read everything Tolkien has written at least five times; and I have no idea how many times I have returned to Will Shakespeare. Interestingly enough, I was a late bloomer in that regard. I had done the obligatory high school and college reading, with the emphasis on “obligatory;” and who hasn’t seen Rex Harrison and Marlon Brando in Julius Caesar, or, for the English Lit students, Lawrence Olivier as Henry V? You haven’t seen them? Ah well, I can’t win them all.
Leaving aside a temporary addiction to Ian Fleming (Bond, James Bond), because I was into solitaire bridge at the time, and spent days on things like trying to beat Bond’s hand in Moonraker; the one book I read and reread a number of times, between 1961 and 1963, on the Ghanaian scarpe, was The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I have to admit, though, that I never really wasted much time on the poetry. Sorry about that. Reading and rereading, and then spending some time trying to find out what the words really meant changed my view of things. “Hoist upon his own petard. . .” Think of it. What the hell was a petard? I found out, and had to understand the history to learn the meaning(s). God help me. Shakespeare became a fun read.
Then there was Will Safire, who spent his time trying to teach us all that English, properly used, could be “a thing of beauty.” He got crotchety as he got older. I can understand that now; and was a bit more conservative than I have ever been able to live with. Still, Safire, also, taught me to look at the meaning of words; and I loved him for it. Then, of course, there was Goscinny. If you wish to understand the French people and their way of thinking (had to. I married into that culture), the best way to do it is to start with Asterix et Obelix; in French please. I’ve looked at the English version, and it doesn’t work for me. It was the same thing, only in another language. You had to read the books (luckily, they were picture stories, sort of like Classic Comics), not once, but ten times. Why? Because true enjoyment would only really come from an understanding of French language as it reflected French culture, and the way they think about the world around them. Who couldn't help but recognize the fierce pride of the Spaiard, Soupe al'oinon-y-crouton; or, in another story, understand the pain expressed by the Vizier Iznogood, when Goscinny died, when he stated that "now, he would never be Caliph." This man spent years explaining the French to anyone sensitive enough to pay attention. With all their foibles, they still believed that the world revolved around their ancetres, les Gaulois." So, with all of that, please understand my love for the written word. Of course, in a world of “LOL,” “BFF,” “BRB,” and the ever inappropriate “LMAO”; I expect that I am fighting a losing battle. However, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends. . .” (Henry V, Act III). Okay, okay. I cheated. I did look it up again to make certain that I had the correct reference. But let’s face it. That’s what we have to do to maintain credibility with grandchildren. If you are going start a hole to China in a Spotsylvania backyard, you had better get your references right. [But that’s another story, for another time.]
[Digression: I’m a little frustrated right now. I have come to the conclusion that I edit better than I write; which means that I have to get a lot on paper, and then pull it apart as I review what I said in the first place. “Said” is the right term to use here. I talk to myself in the car, which may, at times, amuse Marco, Solofo, Henri, or one of the others driving me from place to place. I really have to get one of those software systems allowing me to talk to the machine, and have it learn to understand me, and transcribe what I say. Then, literally, all I have to do is edit. We threatened to do that before I came back out here, but I couldn’t find a system which would work with Windows 7. A free subscription to this BLOG is offered to the first one to get me over that hump. Of course, it is free anyway, but it sounds as if you will get something nice for the effort.]
Back to the “Wills.” Anyone who knows me also knows that Barnett without a book in pocket or hand is not a normal sight. I admit to being a member of perhaps the last, or at least penultimate (that’s next to last for non-readers), generation to see book reading as an end in itself. I’ve had various predilections throughout the years, much of it escapist; but, when it is important to take a breather from whatever I am doing, somehow, I gravitate back to a few specific authors. I’ve read everything Tolkien has written at least five times; and I have no idea how many times I have returned to Will Shakespeare. Interestingly enough, I was a late bloomer in that regard. I had done the obligatory high school and college reading, with the emphasis on “obligatory;” and who hasn’t seen Rex Harrison and Marlon Brando in Julius Caesar, or, for the English Lit students, Lawrence Olivier as Henry V? You haven’t seen them? Ah well, I can’t win them all.
Leaving aside a temporary addiction to Ian Fleming (Bond, James Bond), because I was into solitaire bridge at the time, and spent days on things like trying to beat Bond’s hand in Moonraker; the one book I read and reread a number of times, between 1961 and 1963, on the Ghanaian scarpe, was The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I have to admit, though, that I never really wasted much time on the poetry. Sorry about that. Reading and rereading, and then spending some time trying to find out what the words really meant changed my view of things. “Hoist upon his own petard. . .” Think of it. What the hell was a petard? I found out, and had to understand the history to learn the meaning(s). God help me. Shakespeare became a fun read.
Then there was Will Safire, who spent his time trying to teach us all that English, properly used, could be “a thing of beauty.” He got crotchety as he got older. I can understand that now; and was a bit more conservative than I have ever been able to live with. Still, Safire, also, taught me to look at the meaning of words; and I loved him for it. Then, of course, there was Goscinny. If you wish to understand the French people and their way of thinking (had to. I married into that culture), the best way to do it is to start with Asterix et Obelix; in French please. I’ve looked at the English version, and it doesn’t work for me. It was the same thing, only in another language. You had to read the books (luckily, they were picture stories, sort of like Classic Comics), not once, but ten times. Why? Because true enjoyment would only really come from an understanding of French language as it reflected French culture, and the way they think about the world around them. Who couldn't help but recognize the fierce pride of the Spaiard, Soupe al'oinon-y-crouton; or, in another story, understand the pain expressed by the Vizier Iznogood, when Goscinny died, when he stated that "now, he would never be Caliph." This man spent years explaining the French to anyone sensitive enough to pay attention. With all their foibles, they still believed that the world revolved around their ancetres, les Gaulois." So, with all of that, please understand my love for the written word. Of course, in a world of “LOL,” “BFF,” “BRB,” and the ever inappropriate “LMAO”; I expect that I am fighting a losing battle. However, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends. . .” (Henry V, Act III). Okay, okay. I cheated. I did look it up again to make certain that I had the correct reference. But let’s face it. That’s what we have to do to maintain credibility with grandchildren. If you are going start a hole to China in a Spotsylvania backyard, you had better get your references right. [But that’s another story, for another time.]
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