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Language was always the companion of empire, and as such, together they begin, grow, and flourish. And later, together, they fall.
This all hinged on him, Robin realized. The choice was his. Only he could determine the truth, because only he could communicate it to all parties.
The word loss was inadequate. Loss just meant a lack, meant something was missing, but it did not encompass the totality of this severance, this terrifying un-anchoring from all that he’d ever known.
‘But that’s the beauty of learning a new language. It should feel like an enormous undertaking. It ought to intimidate you. It makes you appreciate the complexity of the ones you know already.’
Words and phrases you think are carved into your bones can disappear in no time.’
Plenty of people speak it, but few of them really know it, its roots and skeletons. But you need to know the history, shape, and depths of a language, particularly if you plan to manipulate it as you will one day learn to do.
A lie was not a lie if it was never uttered; questions that were never asked did not need answers.
The poet runs untrammelled across the meadow. The translator dances in shackles.’
‘Betrayal. Translation means doing violence upon the original, means warping and distorting it for foreign, unintended eyes. So then where does that leave us? How can we conclude, except by acknowledging that an act of translation is then necessarily always an act of betrayal?’
‘Languages aren’t just made of words. They’re modes of looking at the world. They’re the keys to civilization. And that’s knowledge worth killing for.’
His grip on reality, already tenuous from sustained isolation in a city of scholars, became even more fragmented. Hours of revision had interfered with his processing of signs and symbols, his belief in what was real and what was not. The abstract was factual and important; daily exigencies like porridge and eggs were suspect. Everyday dialogue became a chore; small talk was a horror, and he lost his grip on what basic salutations meant. When the porter asked him if he’d had a good one, he stood still and mute for a good thirty seconds, unable to process what was meant by ‘good’, or indeed,
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‘You know,’ said Robin, ‘there’s a Chinese character, xiǎn,* which can mean “rare, fresh, and tasty”. But it can also mean “meagre and scanty”.’ Ramy spat the truffle into a napkin. ‘Your point?’ ‘Sometimes rare and expensive things are worse.’
‘The British are turning my homeland into a narco-military state to pump drugs into yours. That’s how this empire connects us.’
‘How strange,’ said Ramy. ‘To love the stuff and the language, but to hate the country.’ ‘Not as odd as you’d think,’ said Victoire. ‘There are people, after all, and then there are things.’
‘There are no kind masters, Letty,’ Anthony continued. ‘It doesn’t matter how lenient, how gracious, how invested in your education they make out to be. Masters are masters in the end.’
You see, my colleagues in there are still holding on to this unbelievable faith in human goodness.’ Griffin cocked the gun and pointed it at a birch tree across the yard. ‘But I’m a sceptic. I think decolonization must be a violent process.’
