Tag: reading

Lenten Reading: The Matter of France

Years ago, I had an annual practice in which I gave up watching or reading any fictional works for Lent in order to focus on some substantial nonfiction reading. These days, my ratio of nonfiction to fiction is much higher, so I’ve abandoned this particular Lenten practice. Nonetheless, I have decided (a little late, since Lent started a week ago) on my Lenten reading, and I invite anyone interested to join me. It is not nonfiction, but that doesn’t matter.

I have decided I wish to read the romantic epic Orlando Furioso, one of the great works of western literature which Ludovico Oriosto produced in 1516 and revised in 1532. The work is a sequel to the earlier, unfinished Orlando Innamorato of Matteo Maria Boiardo. These works together are part of, or are based on, the “Matter of France,” a cycle of literature about the deeds of Charlemagne. Generally, the Matter of France contains few fantastical elements, but the two Orlando epics are pure fantasy containing little historical content but lots and lots of magic, strange creatures, and bizarre journeys. Many anime fans know some names from these epics thanks to the FATE franchise and would do well to familiarize themselves with the originals to clear up misconceptions.

I have previously read Bullfinch’s deceptively titled Legends of Charlemagne, which summarizes these two works in prose. Bullfinch conveys the impression, and may himself have believed, that he is delivering a faithful presentation of the Charlemagne cycle rather than the inventions of two poets. In any case, his work is engaging and makes a good starting point for anyone who finds epic poetry intimidating.

My plan for Lent is to make it through the Innamorato before Easter at least, and then tackle the Furioso itself later. Having decided this, I have to choose my translations, since I don’t read sixteenth-century Italian.

Because the Orlando Furioso is more popular than its prequel, there are more translations available, the earliest being that of John Harington from 1591. That might seem the best option since it is close to the publication of the Italian original—but an online search reveals that it and most early translations are Bowdlerized, leaving out all the steamy parts. I oppose Bowdlerization on principle.

I have therefore decided on Barbara Reynolds’s translation of the Orlando Furioso, which is available from Penguin. From what I’ve seen, Reynolds appears to know what she is doing, and her version does not appear to be an abridgment. Her translation is probably less beautiful than Harington’s, but it is apparently more complete. Also, it was written in the 1970s and does not appear to have been updated, which means it will contain few or none of the corruptions of language so beloved by today’s academics.

Choosing a translation of the Orlando Innamorato is more difficult because there are fewer and less satisfactory options. William Stewart Rose produced an abridged prose version that’s somewhat famous and would probably make a good introduction to the Furioso, but I have already read Bullfinch’s prose summary, so that does not interest me. More recently, Charles Stanley Ross produced a poetic but non-rhyming translation. However, the above-mentioned Barbara Reynolds convincingly eviscerated his work in a thorough review (that, maddeningly, I can’t find again, or else I’d link it). A few samples confirm Reynolds’s opinion that Ross’s poetry is awful. To make matters worse, the most recent edition of his work has a foreword announcing that “terms of gender and religion have been updated.” As already stated, I detest Bowdlerization, even self-Bowdlerization, so the Ross version is a no-go.

I finally decided on the translation by A. S. Kline. It’s recent, so I’m wary of it (a discerning reader should be wary of any translation produced within the last decade), but it might be the best version that is both in English and not abridged. Unlike Ross’s, it does not attempt to keep the meter of the original but—like the original and unlike Ross’s—it rhymes. From what I’ve seen of it so far, the poetry is merely passable, but that will have to do.

Why Men Don’t Read Books by Women: Addendum

A few days ago, I wrote a post explaining why I think men don’t read books by women. Judging by my traffic, it’s one of my most popular posts ever and might even beat out my wild-eyed rant about Cardcaptor Sakura.

Oh man, this doing numbers.

So I want to follow up with further commentary and an illustration.

To demonstrate the point I made, I walked into our “New Releases” collection and picked up a book from the display. It happened to be Danielle Steel’s All that Glitters. I opened the dust jacket to read the blurb, and it ran as follows. Please forgive the length:

Nicole “Coco” Martin is destined to have it all. As the only child of doting and successful parents, she has been given every opportunity in life. Having inherited her mother’s stunning beauty and creativity, along with her father’s work ethic and diligence, she has the world at her feet. Her graduation from Columbia is fast approaching, and with it the summer job of her dreams working at a magazine. Between work, leisurely weekends at her family’s home in Southampton, and spending as much time as possible with her best friend, Sam, life couldn’t be better—until tragedy strikes. Coco’s beloved parents are killed in a terrorist attack while on vacation in France.

Now devastated and alone, Coco must find a way to move forward and make her way in the world without the family she loved. Determined to forge her own path and make her parents proud, Coco pursues her dreams, dazzled by exciting opportunities that come her way. Her goals are to think outside the box—and always play by her own rules. As she finds herself drawn to charismatic, fascinating men, each relationship will teach Coco new lessons, some delightful, some painful. She will come to realize what matters, and how strong she trul is—and in the end, she will discover herself.

Richly exploring one woman’s poignant journey thorugh life, All That Glitters is a compelling tale of challenges, heartbreak, discovery, and triumph, a powerful reminder that all that glitters is not the essence of life.And what is truly worth having was right there in our hands all along

It ought to be obvious why men would be uninterested in—or even repulsed by—a novel with a description like that. But it is not obvious to the likes of M. A. Sieghart because she’s convinced herself that men are just defective women.

In fact, I have a hard time believing even a woman would respond to that blurb with anything but an eye roll. Most of the women I know would, but this book is not designed to appeal to me or the crowd I run with. It’s designed to appeal to New York editors. Indeed, I can just picture Steel’s editor patting tears from her cheeks as she whispers, “Yass, kween. Even with one major adversity in the midst of luxury, you were still a girlboss who slept around and learned it’s all about you. You go, girl.”

There’s a lot I could say about this blurb. I could say that it’s too damn long. I could note that it gives away the whole damn plot. I could also note that it doesn’t even mention any plot until the end of the first paragraph. I could point out the wince-inducing clichès (“world at her feet,” “play by her own rules,” “think outside the box”), and I could describe how typing it out made me throw up in my mouth just a little bit. But none of that would matter because Danielle Steel is going to use the proceeds from this book to buy another summer home. She has carved out her audience already, a quite sizable one, with decades’ worth of best-sellers, and she doesn’t need advice from me or anyone else.

But let me amuse myself. How would I rewrite this blurb to make it halfway interesting?

I might go the honest route:

Coco’s parents were dead, slaughtered by terrorists in France. “Screw them anyway,” said Coco. “Now I can be a total crack whore without any lectures from Mom.”

With the help of Daddy’s money and a slew of unorthodox business decisions, Coco ran her magazine into the ground. But she got a lot of hot boy-on-girl action in the process. Read about her narcissistic journey of self-destruction in Danielle Steel’s most explosive novel yet, All That Glitters, a sordid tale of wealth, corruption, and lust.

Or perhaps we could even dare to improve the story somewhat—by, you know, actually giving it a story:

Fresh out of high school, Coco thought the world had handed her everything—wealth and talent were hers, and even fame was within her grasp. But everything changed when terrorists murdered her parents.

Now Coco has only one thing in mind: Revenge. And she’ll do whatever it takes to get it, even use her father’s estate to become an arms dealer and work her way up through the sleazy Parisian underworld. She may be young, but she has focus, commitment, and sheer fucking will.

I wrote these in a few minutes, and I’m sure anyone could pick them apart. But you must admit they have one advantage: They’re short.

Why Men Don’t Read Books by Women

A writer for The Guardian, M. A. Sieghart, has asked the perennial question, “Why do so few men read books by women?” Curiously, the people who always ask this question never follow up by asking how women authors might better appeal to men or how the publishing industry might get a better share of the underserved male-readership market. No, the assumption is always that men have something wrong with them and need to change. It’s not the books that are the problem, it’s you. The customer is in the wrong.

Sieghart notes that the top-selling lady novelists have a disproportionately female readership, but though she treats this as a mystery with sinister implications, it’s not actually hard to understand what’s going on when she names who those top-selling authoresses are: Jane Austen, Margaret Atwood, Danielle Steel, and Jojo Moyes.

She proposes the answer that men don’t take women seriously. The actual answer, obvious to anyone outside Sieghart’s elitist cultural bubble, is that men aren’t interested in what those women write. Danielle Steel writes trashy romances. Jojo Moyes writes trashy romances. Jane Austen wrote non-trashy romances. Atwood writes a variety of things but is best known for a pearl-clutching feminist screed that confuses Baptists with the Taliban, though she also churns out an occasional apocalyptic science-fiction novel disturbingly obsessed with child pornography.

To put it briefly and bluntly, men don’t want to read that shit.

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