Greetings, fellow readers! I have some exciting news to share with you: after weeks of confusion and miscommunication, my copy of Les Mis has finally arrived! In between homework, Quidditch tournaments, and the zombie apocalypse (such is the life of a college student!), I managed to get some reading done.
First, let me warn you that this novel is not for the faint of heart: it clocks in at a daunting 1,463 pages and is roughly the size and weight of a large brick. If this book is a literary marathon, then I've only run the first mile. That being said, it was a great first mile!
(Spoiler Alert: I'm assuming you've seen the movie/play or have at least a rudimentary knowledge of the story.) I didn't realize this, but Jean Valjean doesn't even show up until Book II (just after the first mile marker.) Book I is entirely devoted to the backstory of the bishop who gives Valjean shelter and, ultimately, his precious silver candlesticks. This might be tedious for some, but I take a perverse pleasure in the density and obsucrity of sweeping Victorian novels, so I enjoyed it thoroughly.
It's been a while since I read a French novel in translation--I'd forgotten how much I love the quality they have that carries over even when the words are put into English. If you read novels in translation, you'll understand what I mean when I say there's something different about a novel that's been translated from, say, French than one that was originally written in English.
In the translator's note, the translator makes a compelling argument for presenting Les Mis in its unabridged form, and I'd like to share it with you:
"While several abridged editions exist in English, that expedient seems a mistake. It is almost impossible to predict the individual detail, the flashing image or human quirk precisely observed, that will burn its way into a reader's mind for good. The sound solution is to honor the author's wishes. If the heightened rhetoric of elation and despair occasionally strains our patience or credulity, the quiet perception on the next page generally restores it."
I will leave you with that thought, fellow readers,
Until next time,
Anna
Monday, February 11, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
The Pleasures of Being Read To
Hello, fellow readers! This post is going to take a little work on your part, so get ready!
I want you to close your eyes and remember the last time someone read out loud to you. Maybe it was when one of your parents or grandparents read you a bedtime story, or when you listened to someone read a poem aloud in class. Maybe you listened to an audiobook or simply read aloud to yourself. My point is, some stories just beg to be read aloud, and when we read to someone or listen to someone else read to us, we create a special kind of literary memory.
I remember when I was little, I was sick with the flu, and my mom stayed up with me through the chills and stomach cramps and read to me from The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder. To this day, I cannot think of that book without remembering how she helped me through my illness merely with the sound of her voice and words on a page.
Sadly, reading aloud fades into the background as we grow older and learn to read on our own. We forget about the sounds of words, their tones and inflections. We forget to share our stories with other people. So today, I want you all to do something for me: pick up a book and read aloud. You can read to someone, have someone read to you, or read for yourself--it doesn't matter. The important thing is to read out loud. Listen to the words, savor them, linger over them. Appreciate their music, the cadence of the voice as it breathes life into a quiet chrysalis of words. Give your mind the freedom to sing and dance as you enjoy the exquisite pleasure of reading aloud.
Until next time,
Anna
I want you to close your eyes and remember the last time someone read out loud to you. Maybe it was when one of your parents or grandparents read you a bedtime story, or when you listened to someone read a poem aloud in class. Maybe you listened to an audiobook or simply read aloud to yourself. My point is, some stories just beg to be read aloud, and when we read to someone or listen to someone else read to us, we create a special kind of literary memory.
I remember when I was little, I was sick with the flu, and my mom stayed up with me through the chills and stomach cramps and read to me from The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder. To this day, I cannot think of that book without remembering how she helped me through my illness merely with the sound of her voice and words on a page.
Sadly, reading aloud fades into the background as we grow older and learn to read on our own. We forget about the sounds of words, their tones and inflections. We forget to share our stories with other people. So today, I want you all to do something for me: pick up a book and read aloud. You can read to someone, have someone read to you, or read for yourself--it doesn't matter. The important thing is to read out loud. Listen to the words, savor them, linger over them. Appreciate their music, the cadence of the voice as it breathes life into a quiet chrysalis of words. Give your mind the freedom to sing and dance as you enjoy the exquisite pleasure of reading aloud.
Until next time,
Anna
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