Bruce Beckham's Blog, page 7
July 31, 2014
Divided by a common language
I get some interesting comments in reviews from American readers.
These range from 'quaintly British' to 'health warning - dictionary required'!
Personally I enjoy reading American English - like where a guy uses a Weed Whacker in his yard. (You see, in Britain, you wouldn't need to do this, because a yard is a paved area where nothing grows. You'd use your Strimmer in the garden. )
Clearly, there are some areas for potential embarrassment, such as the word fag which means cigarette in British English, and the word fanny which I understand means bottom in American English. British kids just fall about laughing at the mention of a fanny pack. (You'll have to look that one up.)
Pants, pissed and gob can have similarly amusing consequences, depending upon which side of the Atlantic and in what context they are misused.
I have this great book: Divided by a Common Language: A British/American Dictionary PLUS that I have referenced for the title of this post.
It tells me that if an angry American cries 'Darn hole!' I won't have to reach for my needle and thread, and that if I offer him a bag of chips he is likely to get his fingers burned.
So it's clearly a challenge to strike the right balance between authenticity and comprehensibility.
I consider the feedback I mention above very important - my novels are at least twice as popular Stateside as in Blighty. So I have begun to adapt.
In a little experiment, in my next Inspector Skelgill novel - to illuminate a geographical point - I compare the size of Britain to Michigan and Wales to New Jersey. Not quite linguistic, I know, but you get the idea. Maybe this will generate comments from bemused British readers?
Enough for now - to paraphrase Sir Walter Scott - one must consider the time and patience of one's audience.
And I've not even mentioned British and American spellings!
These range from 'quaintly British' to 'health warning - dictionary required'!
Personally I enjoy reading American English - like where a guy uses a Weed Whacker in his yard. (You see, in Britain, you wouldn't need to do this, because a yard is a paved area where nothing grows. You'd use your Strimmer in the garden. )
Clearly, there are some areas for potential embarrassment, such as the word fag which means cigarette in British English, and the word fanny which I understand means bottom in American English. British kids just fall about laughing at the mention of a fanny pack. (You'll have to look that one up.)
Pants, pissed and gob can have similarly amusing consequences, depending upon which side of the Atlantic and in what context they are misused.
I have this great book: Divided by a Common Language: A British/American Dictionary PLUS that I have referenced for the title of this post.
It tells me that if an angry American cries 'Darn hole!' I won't have to reach for my needle and thread, and that if I offer him a bag of chips he is likely to get his fingers burned.
So it's clearly a challenge to strike the right balance between authenticity and comprehensibility.
I consider the feedback I mention above very important - my novels are at least twice as popular Stateside as in Blighty. So I have begun to adapt.
In a little experiment, in my next Inspector Skelgill novel - to illuminate a geographical point - I compare the size of Britain to Michigan and Wales to New Jersey. Not quite linguistic, I know, but you get the idea. Maybe this will generate comments from bemused British readers?
Enough for now - to paraphrase Sir Walter Scott - one must consider the time and patience of one's audience.
And I've not even mentioned British and American spellings!
July 14, 2014
In for a penny
I just finished Still Life by Louise Penny - a new author to me.
I enjoyed the mystery and the rural setting, and was pleased to see it each time it came out of my rucksack (this was my woodland dog-walking reading for the last few weeks).
I note that it has had stacks of reviews so I won't try to reprise the plot.
Perhaps of more interest would be my observations?
I found the continuity, moving from narrative to dialogue and vice-versa, quite clunky at times - this surprised me given the awards the book has racked up.
Early on, the reader is bombarded with characters - I make it 14 in the first 12 pages. For someone like me, who forgets people's names within about 5 seconds of being introduced, this posed quite a challenge. I could have done with a glossary.
Most curious - and I'll try to avoid a minor spoiler here - is a character who is introduced as a possible protagonist, and who then gradually fades into oblivion.
There are several contextually inappropriate jokes thrown in - some of these surprisingly risqué. However, I did laugh out loud - an unusual achievement - at the moment Inspector Gamache is tempted to take the change left behind by the previous occupant of a dining table.
I am always puzzled when the authorial voice successively reveals selected thoughts of a series of characters - this happens quite often. It does create a contradiction - especially when one of them is the murderer!
I read this book hot on the heels of the all-time-classic The Maltese Falcon - which is one tough act to follow. I guess overall I prefer the hard-bitten to the 'comfy' - but I can see the attraction of the latter and I should like to read the next in the series.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
I enjoyed the mystery and the rural setting, and was pleased to see it each time it came out of my rucksack (this was my woodland dog-walking reading for the last few weeks).
I note that it has had stacks of reviews so I won't try to reprise the plot.
Perhaps of more interest would be my observations?
I found the continuity, moving from narrative to dialogue and vice-versa, quite clunky at times - this surprised me given the awards the book has racked up.
Early on, the reader is bombarded with characters - I make it 14 in the first 12 pages. For someone like me, who forgets people's names within about 5 seconds of being introduced, this posed quite a challenge. I could have done with a glossary.
Most curious - and I'll try to avoid a minor spoiler here - is a character who is introduced as a possible protagonist, and who then gradually fades into oblivion.
There are several contextually inappropriate jokes thrown in - some of these surprisingly risqué. However, I did laugh out loud - an unusual achievement - at the moment Inspector Gamache is tempted to take the change left behind by the previous occupant of a dining table.
I am always puzzled when the authorial voice successively reveals selected thoughts of a series of characters - this happens quite often. It does create a contradiction - especially when one of them is the murderer!
I read this book hot on the heels of the all-time-classic The Maltese Falcon - which is one tough act to follow. I guess overall I prefer the hard-bitten to the 'comfy' - but I can see the attraction of the latter and I should like to read the next in the series.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
July 6, 2014
So much to read
Last night I reluctantly finished Berlin Game by Len Deighton.
Published in 1983, it is set in London and Berlin towards the end of the Cold War.
Bernard Sampson, a middle-aged British spy, is gradually coerced into returning to his old stamping ground, as the only person who might succeed in rescuing a high-profile intelligence source.
Underlying these events, however, is the suspicion that the KGB has infiltrated the British Secret Service, and that his mission will be compromised.
There is an intriguing back story that subtly gathers substance, and the beauty of this novel is the way in which it gradually intertwines to become part of the main thread.
Deighton writes plainly and well, and I found the narrative easier to follow than, say, a similarly paced Le Carré.
Having seen the film, I realise that Deighton wrote The Ipcress File - incredibly 21 years earlier - but this is the first of his books that I have read.
Berlin Game is apparently the first novel of three trilogies featuring Bernard Sampson - so there's plenty more where this came from.
Published in 1983, it is set in London and Berlin towards the end of the Cold War.
Bernard Sampson, a middle-aged British spy, is gradually coerced into returning to his old stamping ground, as the only person who might succeed in rescuing a high-profile intelligence source.
Underlying these events, however, is the suspicion that the KGB has infiltrated the British Secret Service, and that his mission will be compromised.
There is an intriguing back story that subtly gathers substance, and the beauty of this novel is the way in which it gradually intertwines to become part of the main thread.
Deighton writes plainly and well, and I found the narrative easier to follow than, say, a similarly paced Le Carré.
Having seen the film, I realise that Deighton wrote The Ipcress File - incredibly 21 years earlier - but this is the first of his books that I have read.
Berlin Game is apparently the first novel of three trilogies featuring Bernard Sampson - so there's plenty more where this came from.
June 25, 2014
Perils of the typeface
I have recently been writing some dialogue in the East Midlands vernacular.
Natives of this part of England don't generally recognise the initial letter 'h'.
So, for example, the expression help him would be pronounced 'elp 'im.
I prefer to write in Times New Roman, which is a serif typeface. (It is believed to be easier to read.)
Times New Roman has two versions of the apostrophe: one with its tail curling to the right (open quote) and one curling to the left (close quote).
Trouble is, when I write 'elp 'im. I want the ones curling to the left - but Word makes me have the ones curling right! It's a heck of a job trying to fool the programme!
Of course, you will have noticed that THIS blog typeface has only one kind of apostrophe - it curls neither way.
Now that is a practical solution.
Natives of this part of England don't generally recognise the initial letter 'h'.
So, for example, the expression help him would be pronounced 'elp 'im.
I prefer to write in Times New Roman, which is a serif typeface. (It is believed to be easier to read.)
Times New Roman has two versions of the apostrophe: one with its tail curling to the right (open quote) and one curling to the left (close quote).
Trouble is, when I write 'elp 'im. I want the ones curling to the left - but Word makes me have the ones curling right! It's a heck of a job trying to fool the programme!
Of course, you will have noticed that THIS blog typeface has only one kind of apostrophe - it curls neither way.
Now that is a practical solution.
June 13, 2014
Re-writing the past?
I'm currently reading Decline and Fall by Evelyn Waugh.
It was published in 1928 and deals with English high society of the time.
It is basically a comic novel - intentionally (I presume) implausible at times. However, I find myself continuing with it.
Part of the story takes place in a private school in Wales. Waugh is quite disparaging of the Welsh, in a stereotypically comedic (though patronising) manner.
However, this is nothing compared to the sequence in which a wealthy female parent (white, upper-class, English) turns up at school sports day with a younger male companion who is black.
The racist observations made by various characters are quite extraordinary - and unprintable here - though I have no doubt they reflect what were considered the norms of the time.
My Penguin copy is not dated. The decimal pricing of £4.99 on the back cover tells me it is post 1970s - so I'd guess late 1980s or after.
I wonder if I bought a more recently published version would the offending section be expunged - or at least edited? (I guess I need to look in a bookshop.)
But this of course begs the question: 'Should the past be recast to comply with today's values and standards?'
Isn't part of reading something like Decline and Fall an exercise in history - an opportunity to discover what were the mores and opinions of that era?
At an extreme, to take a modern scalpel to the Marquis de Sade would entirely undermine his stated intention to shock, and render worthless a piece of literary history (not that I would recommend it).
More prosaically, as fans of Agatha Christie will know, And Then There Were None is not the original title of this work, as published in 1939.
It's a tricky one.
It was published in 1928 and deals with English high society of the time.
It is basically a comic novel - intentionally (I presume) implausible at times. However, I find myself continuing with it.
Part of the story takes place in a private school in Wales. Waugh is quite disparaging of the Welsh, in a stereotypically comedic (though patronising) manner.
However, this is nothing compared to the sequence in which a wealthy female parent (white, upper-class, English) turns up at school sports day with a younger male companion who is black.
The racist observations made by various characters are quite extraordinary - and unprintable here - though I have no doubt they reflect what were considered the norms of the time.
My Penguin copy is not dated. The decimal pricing of £4.99 on the back cover tells me it is post 1970s - so I'd guess late 1980s or after.
I wonder if I bought a more recently published version would the offending section be expunged - or at least edited? (I guess I need to look in a bookshop.)
But this of course begs the question: 'Should the past be recast to comply with today's values and standards?'
Isn't part of reading something like Decline and Fall an exercise in history - an opportunity to discover what were the mores and opinions of that era?
At an extreme, to take a modern scalpel to the Marquis de Sade would entirely undermine his stated intention to shock, and render worthless a piece of literary history (not that I would recommend it).
More prosaically, as fans of Agatha Christie will know, And Then There Were None is not the original title of this work, as published in 1939.
It's a tricky one.
June 4, 2014
The Maltese Falcon
As a lover of crime fiction I can’t believe it has taken me so long to get around to Dashiell Hammett (thanks for the recommendation, Darlene).
So I have just enjoyed The Maltese Falcon in what, by my standards, is double-quick time. This was bad news for the dog, as it has been my outdoor reading, and the ball-throwing frequency fell dramatically.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover the novel was set in 1920s San Francisco, and not Malta – a misapprehension under which I have laboured for most of my life. However, Hammett is not one for describing the scene – reading feels more like watching a play in which the actors hold centre stage.
He reserves his descriptive skills for the characters: their appearance and their reactions. It is a method he applies with unusual but effective depth and precision. His economy of language is startling at times.
I suppose the plot is not especially challenging; nonetheless it has all the requisites of a page-turner. Nearing the end, for a while I thought I was going to be disappointed – but then comes a sharp sting in the tail that leaves you feeling just slightly shocked.
And now I can happily watch the movie.
So I have just enjoyed The Maltese Falcon in what, by my standards, is double-quick time. This was bad news for the dog, as it has been my outdoor reading, and the ball-throwing frequency fell dramatically.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover the novel was set in 1920s San Francisco, and not Malta – a misapprehension under which I have laboured for most of my life. However, Hammett is not one for describing the scene – reading feels more like watching a play in which the actors hold centre stage.
He reserves his descriptive skills for the characters: their appearance and their reactions. It is a method he applies with unusual but effective depth and precision. His economy of language is startling at times.
I suppose the plot is not especially challenging; nonetheless it has all the requisites of a page-turner. Nearing the end, for a while I thought I was going to be disappointed – but then comes a sharp sting in the tail that leaves you feeling just slightly shocked.
And now I can happily watch the movie.
May 24, 2014
To see, or not to see?
Should an author describe the visual appearance of a character? It’s a fascinating conundrum.
Right now I’m reading The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett – its protagonist in the eponymous 1941 movie famously portrayed by Humphrey Bogart.
The book opens with this paragraph:
“Samuel Spade’s jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down – from high flat temples – in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.”
It’s a compelling description, but rather less Bogart and more DiCaprio, I’d venture.
Now, the novel was published a good decade before the movie was released, and I don’t imagine Hammet foresaw its meteoric trajectory nor its enduring longevity.
I’m glad to say I have not seen the film (though I now shall seek it out) – but the mere knowledge of Bogart’s starring role has been enough to keep me hallucinating inaccurately as I read the text!
More prosaically, in the first Inspector Morse novel, Last Book to Woodstock, the yet-to-be-famous detective is described as being younger than his sidekick, Lewis, and physically very unlike his subsequent small-screen impersonator, John Thaw.
Of course, the Bond franchise has trained us to expect a continual morphing of the leading actor, and you could argue it’s an irrelevance in a world that is – after all – entirely fantasy.
However, on the other side of the coin – as far as novels are concerned – is the reader who is comfortable with their own visualization of characters. And, some would say, this is central to the pleasure of reading, indeed the very essence of the imagination that is aroused by the author’s gentle stimulus.
Right now I’m reading The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett – its protagonist in the eponymous 1941 movie famously portrayed by Humphrey Bogart.
The book opens with this paragraph:
“Samuel Spade’s jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down – from high flat temples – in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.”
It’s a compelling description, but rather less Bogart and more DiCaprio, I’d venture.
Now, the novel was published a good decade before the movie was released, and I don’t imagine Hammet foresaw its meteoric trajectory nor its enduring longevity.
I’m glad to say I have not seen the film (though I now shall seek it out) – but the mere knowledge of Bogart’s starring role has been enough to keep me hallucinating inaccurately as I read the text!
More prosaically, in the first Inspector Morse novel, Last Book to Woodstock, the yet-to-be-famous detective is described as being younger than his sidekick, Lewis, and physically very unlike his subsequent small-screen impersonator, John Thaw.
Of course, the Bond franchise has trained us to expect a continual morphing of the leading actor, and you could argue it’s an irrelevance in a world that is – after all – entirely fantasy.
However, on the other side of the coin – as far as novels are concerned – is the reader who is comfortable with their own visualization of characters. And, some would say, this is central to the pleasure of reading, indeed the very essence of the imagination that is aroused by the author’s gentle stimulus.
May 16, 2014
Another one bites the dust
So I've decided to abandon my second book in a week; this time it's Mourn Not Your Dead by Deborah Crombie.
I'm sure many people enjoy this detective series but, for me, the style has proved too much.
I struggled with the poorly edited, repetitive grammar from the first page, though I decided to persevere.
I even got past my normal 10-page cut-off, but the over-elaborated descriptions began to wear me down.
I believe a crime novel can sustain an alter ego - in the Inspector Morse series there is humour in the exchanges between Morse and Lewis, and the peculiar habits of Morse - but here it takes the form of a first-name informality, employed amongst the characters (and the narrator) that undermines the credibility of the entire proposition.
A teenager with limited experience of gritty life might write this way: there's even the cliché of a young policeman throwing up at the sight of the first body.
My fault for trying to work my way through the pile of unread books I discovered when auditing my shelves - don't know how I acquired them. Evelyn Waugh is next in the heap - but he's on hold. I have The Maltese Falcon burning a hole in my rucksack. The dog could be in for a long walk this morning!
I'm sure many people enjoy this detective series but, for me, the style has proved too much.
I struggled with the poorly edited, repetitive grammar from the first page, though I decided to persevere.
I even got past my normal 10-page cut-off, but the over-elaborated descriptions began to wear me down.
I believe a crime novel can sustain an alter ego - in the Inspector Morse series there is humour in the exchanges between Morse and Lewis, and the peculiar habits of Morse - but here it takes the form of a first-name informality, employed amongst the characters (and the narrator) that undermines the credibility of the entire proposition.
A teenager with limited experience of gritty life might write this way: there's even the cliché of a young policeman throwing up at the sight of the first body.
My fault for trying to work my way through the pile of unread books I discovered when auditing my shelves - don't know how I acquired them. Evelyn Waugh is next in the heap - but he's on hold. I have The Maltese Falcon burning a hole in my rucksack. The dog could be in for a long walk this morning!
May 13, 2014
What makes a good read?
Of course, there are as probably as many answers to this question as there are readers, but it's one I especially ask myself when I abandon a book.
This morning I tried Spy Shadow by Tim Sebastian (published 1989). He's a hugely successful British broadcaster, and an expert on Eastern Europe. And I love Soviet-type spy stories of the Le Carré school.
Having nothing else to hand as a substitute, I gave it until about page 20 - twice as much as my normal cut-off limit. But still I knew I was swimming against the tide - all those great books washing past that could keep me afloat.
I'll stick with a novel if one of the story, the subject or the style appeals. In 'subject' I include characters, and perhaps that's where this one fell down.
In the absence of a story (the promise of which the author can't always convey in a few opening pages), and when style raises barriers to comfortable reading, characters can come to the rescue.
If you meet someone whose company you enjoy, or whose hopes you can share, you'll perhaps persist.
I've heard some authors say 'character is everything'. While I don't entirely agree (we mostly like a resolution), I can see their importance.
I just checked on Goodreads, and Spy Shadow is rated 2.43 - so it appears I'm not alone.
This morning I tried Spy Shadow by Tim Sebastian (published 1989). He's a hugely successful British broadcaster, and an expert on Eastern Europe. And I love Soviet-type spy stories of the Le Carré school.
Having nothing else to hand as a substitute, I gave it until about page 20 - twice as much as my normal cut-off limit. But still I knew I was swimming against the tide - all those great books washing past that could keep me afloat.
I'll stick with a novel if one of the story, the subject or the style appeals. In 'subject' I include characters, and perhaps that's where this one fell down.
In the absence of a story (the promise of which the author can't always convey in a few opening pages), and when style raises barriers to comfortable reading, characters can come to the rescue.
If you meet someone whose company you enjoy, or whose hopes you can share, you'll perhaps persist.
I've heard some authors say 'character is everything'. While I don't entirely agree (we mostly like a resolution), I can see their importance.
I just checked on Goodreads, and Spy Shadow is rated 2.43 - so it appears I'm not alone.
April 29, 2014
Hyphen Nation
Another little copy-training session I run is all about hyphens.
This humble punctuation mark has fallen out of favour (in UK advertising, at least) - but I'm doing my bit to prevent its extinction.
To my mind, judicious use of the hyphen helps to create an easy to read effect in a sentence.
To my mind, judicious use of the hyphen helps to create an easy-to-read effect in a sentence.
(After all, isn't easy-to-read a compound adjective?)
Hyphens also clarify meaning.
Right now I'm reading A Coat of Varnish by CP Snow. Now, he knew his grammar.
However, I just came across this line: His father had been a small shop-keeper, and he had made his way through academic skills.
This did stop me in my tracks.
Did the author really mean that the character's father was a short shop-keeper? For that is what it suggests.
Actually, this is a tricky one.
For instance, if he were to have written small-shop-keeper that wouldn't help at all, because what he really wants to say is small-shop keeper.
And even small-shopkeeper doesn't quite do it.
Hm. Maybe the editor should have spotted this one, and stepped in with something like: His father ran a small shop ???
This humble punctuation mark has fallen out of favour (in UK advertising, at least) - but I'm doing my bit to prevent its extinction.
To my mind, judicious use of the hyphen helps to create an easy to read effect in a sentence.
To my mind, judicious use of the hyphen helps to create an easy-to-read effect in a sentence.
(After all, isn't easy-to-read a compound adjective?)
Hyphens also clarify meaning.
Right now I'm reading A Coat of Varnish by CP Snow. Now, he knew his grammar.
However, I just came across this line: His father had been a small shop-keeper, and he had made his way through academic skills.
This did stop me in my tracks.
Did the author really mean that the character's father was a short shop-keeper? For that is what it suggests.
Actually, this is a tricky one.
For instance, if he were to have written small-shop-keeper that wouldn't help at all, because what he really wants to say is small-shop keeper.
And even small-shopkeeper doesn't quite do it.
Hm. Maybe the editor should have spotted this one, and stepped in with something like: His father ran a small shop ???
