Steven Hunley
01-04-2013, 11:44 PM
Guy and Me
by
Steven Hunley
Some people will read anything. Me, I don’t read just anything. I read the masters. The point is this. They’re so damn good, these masters, or Maestros of Letters, that even though their words and style are ancient, positively dusty in fact, their stories are still read today, and at this exact moment in time, thousands are reading their stories. We must give these maestros their due and recognition.
Some who read English only read the English.
I’m getting two slices of generic bread out of the wrapper and placing them on the cheap splintered plywood cutting board.
“You can never trust a translation anyway,” they argue. “There’s so many ways to interpret a word. Check a thesaurus. They can’t really be accurate all the time.”
I’m getting the generic strawberry jelly out of the fridge.
Well maybe. I really can’t say. But I can say this. Some of the foreign stuff is good. Good old foreign stuff anyway. Like Maupassant. Right now I’m into Maupassant. Not because I’m a Francophile, or because I’m stuck up. It’s because right now I’m stuck down. Poor as a church mouse so to speak. Whatever language you speak. I don’t even have a church. For how much they charge for this dump I call a home I should be renting a nice slice of heaven. But no. This is about a mile from Crime Compton, California, U.S.A.
So the words will not be exactly right in translation, but the characters, the characters share something with me. I felt it at once when I read the first page of The Necklace.
Like this:
Guy de Maupassant
The Necklace
“Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowse by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.”
I’m getting the generic peanut butter off the splinted old shelf with the chipped yellow paint.
Or maybe the translation:
“ She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would not even have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl who came to do the work in her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined silent antechambers, heavy with Oriental tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in knee-breeches sleeping in large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the stove. She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms, created just for little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after, whose homage roused every other woman's envious longings.
When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old cloth, opposite her husband, who took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming delightedly: "Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?" she imagined delicate meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and strange birds in faery forests; she imagined delicate food served in marvelous dishes, murmured gallantries, listened to with an inscrutable smile as one trifled with the rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.
She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt that she was made for them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after.”
I’m not sure which one I like best, which translation. But I still relate to Mathilde. I could live with a woman like Mathilde. For good or for bad I like Mathilde immensely.
So this is only page two. I am enthralled. I am taken with his style and use of small details to paint such a picture, of place and character. I feel there is something of Mathilde in me, or even better, that there is something of me in Mathilde. I would love to give something up for Mathilde. I understand her. I’m interested in her fate. It’s early in the story. There is plenty to come. I’m ready for it. I want it. I must have it, for, as fine and rare and valuable as it is, it is a free story. It proves that value isn’t measured only in Pounds Sterling, Deutschmarks, Lira, or Yen.
I’m making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a butter knife that has been used to measure something nasty.
Robert Lewis Stevenson knew of Mathilda too. Probably read it in 1884 in Le Gaulois. Me and Stevenson read the same stuff. That just warms my literary heart.
I’ve got no milk so I’m gonna probably eat it with water. Just thick sticky yummy, that’s all I deserve.
But like Mathilda, I know things could be better. I feel slighted. It should be Beluga caviar I’m washing down with Moet and Chandon, or Chateau LaFite Rothschild, 75.
This story is over, on accounta I got peanut butter stuck on the roof of my mouth.
Seriously, it’s an abrupt end, and hurts me more than you.
©Steven Hunley 2011
by
Steven Hunley
Some people will read anything. Me, I don’t read just anything. I read the masters. The point is this. They’re so damn good, these masters, or Maestros of Letters, that even though their words and style are ancient, positively dusty in fact, their stories are still read today, and at this exact moment in time, thousands are reading their stories. We must give these maestros their due and recognition.
Some who read English only read the English.
I’m getting two slices of generic bread out of the wrapper and placing them on the cheap splintered plywood cutting board.
“You can never trust a translation anyway,” they argue. “There’s so many ways to interpret a word. Check a thesaurus. They can’t really be accurate all the time.”
I’m getting the generic strawberry jelly out of the fridge.
Well maybe. I really can’t say. But I can say this. Some of the foreign stuff is good. Good old foreign stuff anyway. Like Maupassant. Right now I’m into Maupassant. Not because I’m a Francophile, or because I’m stuck up. It’s because right now I’m stuck down. Poor as a church mouse so to speak. Whatever language you speak. I don’t even have a church. For how much they charge for this dump I call a home I should be renting a nice slice of heaven. But no. This is about a mile from Crime Compton, California, U.S.A.
So the words will not be exactly right in translation, but the characters, the characters share something with me. I felt it at once when I read the first page of The Necklace.
Like this:
Guy de Maupassant
The Necklace
“Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowse by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.”
I’m getting the generic peanut butter off the splinted old shelf with the chipped yellow paint.
Or maybe the translation:
“ She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would not even have been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl who came to do the work in her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined silent antechambers, heavy with Oriental tapestries, lit by torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in knee-breeches sleeping in large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the stove. She imagined vast saloons hung with antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms, created just for little parties of intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after, whose homage roused every other woman's envious longings.
When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old cloth, opposite her husband, who took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming delightedly: "Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?" she imagined delicate meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and strange birds in faery forests; she imagined delicate food served in marvelous dishes, murmured gallantries, listened to with an inscrutable smile as one trifled with the rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.
She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt that she was made for them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after.”
I’m not sure which one I like best, which translation. But I still relate to Mathilde. I could live with a woman like Mathilde. For good or for bad I like Mathilde immensely.
So this is only page two. I am enthralled. I am taken with his style and use of small details to paint such a picture, of place and character. I feel there is something of Mathilde in me, or even better, that there is something of me in Mathilde. I would love to give something up for Mathilde. I understand her. I’m interested in her fate. It’s early in the story. There is plenty to come. I’m ready for it. I want it. I must have it, for, as fine and rare and valuable as it is, it is a free story. It proves that value isn’t measured only in Pounds Sterling, Deutschmarks, Lira, or Yen.
I’m making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a butter knife that has been used to measure something nasty.
Robert Lewis Stevenson knew of Mathilda too. Probably read it in 1884 in Le Gaulois. Me and Stevenson read the same stuff. That just warms my literary heart.
I’ve got no milk so I’m gonna probably eat it with water. Just thick sticky yummy, that’s all I deserve.
But like Mathilda, I know things could be better. I feel slighted. It should be Beluga caviar I’m washing down with Moet and Chandon, or Chateau LaFite Rothschild, 75.
This story is over, on accounta I got peanut butter stuck on the roof of my mouth.
Seriously, it’s an abrupt end, and hurts me more than you.
©Steven Hunley 2011