By Robert Harris
Yet another Harris book. I’m working my way through them now, like the lava of Vesuvius through the streets of the Bay of Neapolis.
This story is a little different, though. It’s not a mere historical account. Indeed, it’s a story told through the eyes of several people in the four days leading up to the destruction wrought.
Maybe we measure to different degrees over here.
The fact that I can speak a foreign language (well, to different degrees, a few) often causes people to express disbelief or reverence here in England.
Why? I presume because languages are hard and, so, having any degree of understanding in them ranks as an elite achievement. So be it.
It sometimes happens at work. I pronounce Indian names or foods as they should be, and people seem surprised. “I couldn’t do that, mate.” Heck, even the Indian carers themselves, who pick from a menu of Gujarati, Hindi, Punjabi, Kutchi, and others seem impressed.
It must be relative. It’s not the fact that I can say “Tamaru nam su che?” when speaking with an elderly Indian lady who struggles with English that should strike them. I guess it must be the fact that I’m a white English person doing it.
And that’s the point of this post.
… and loves it!
Of course, the newspaper is written in English. But what brilliant English it is!
I like to think that I’m not the world’s worst speaker of foreign languages. I might even allow myself to claim to be ‘advanced’ in a couple of them.
But there’s no way that I even approach the level of the contributors to The Slovak Spectator.
Check this out for an opening paragraph in a story over the sacking of a cabinet minister:
By C. J. Sansom
The return of the hunchback Poirot Matthew Shardlake.
Three years have elapsed since our initial meeting with him at the behest of Thomas Cromwell.
The story is set in London, and we start off with what could very much be a modern theme: Trial by media. The printing press means that the common people have access to reading materials including newspapers that are hawked in the street, sold by soundbite vendors. “Girl murders boy and throws him down a well!” Shardlake reflects that this girl cannot have a fair trial. The jury will not be impartial since they are drawn from the public who pass these vendors and read these papers.
“Don’t you mean ‘late’?”
“No, I mean ‘early’. It got to the stop before I did.”
That’s a real conversation I had with Mrs Bandenburg, my old French teacher. It got a quick laugh, which is what I was after.
I discovered the other day that there was some truth in this story, when I met the world’s smartest bus driver.
By Robert Harris
Something of a surprise for me, since I’d never heard of it before. I had been hunting Harris’s first work of fiction, Fatherland, on eBay when I came upon an excellent offer: That book (used) + three others by the same author (new) for, I think, a starting bid of £2 plus postage.
I watched the item over the course of a few days, amazed that no-one had made a bid on it. It came down to the last couple of minutes still untouched, so I bid the minimum and snapped myself up a bargain.
One of my work colleagues asked me what I’d been reading lately, and I mentioned Fatherland. She asked me whether I’d tried Archangel yet. I hadn’t, she suggested I might like to read it sooner than later. I followed her advice.
