Compared to the magnificent selection of most profound and learned literature one finds in Cambridge, there is very little literature of worth in this tiny town. Whereas it is true that I have happened upon one or two little gems here (well, more than that when the market book seller used to sell real literature, but now only sells novels and other books of dubious and most mediocre value in terms of knowledge and wisdom), almost every book you see in every second hand shop is trash. It is prosaic. They are almost all novels.
Today, however, I happened across a tiny little literature section in a second hand shop (no more than a dozen books - all worth buying), and among them I found two rather curious little gems. Besides one good book on China (a succinct history - only a secondary source, but seemingly a good one), there is one book I bought which is absolutely wonderful. It is by a chap named Richard Gordon Smith, and it is called Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan.
The stories are full of wonder, graced with romance, and are deeply spiritual. The translators are Mr. Ando, Mr Matsuzaki, Mr. Watanabe, Mr. Mo-No-Yuki and [Mr?] Yuki Egawa (in Smith, 1995 [1918], p.viii). The tales are bite-sized short stories, hastily written in old diaries, probably oral traditions handed down of uncertain dates. It is truly a marvellous little work.
I only know very few Japanese words, but I know enough to understand that reading these tales in translation is a really different experience to reading them in the original Japanese. Even so, for a non-specialist (yet a translator of French, Latin and even some ancient Greek), it is marvellous to be able to simply relax and enjoy these folk tales.
Today has been a challenge, and needless to say I could have acted more prudently (I lost my wallet but a kind and honest soul handed it in - thank heavens - but not before I cancelled all my cards). Yet these are life's little ups and downs and one learns, over time, to handle them as best one can. I still had to work a full shift, but that comes with the territory. I still have to put up with the juvenile oompa loompas and Lilliputians at that... place, but if nothing else, such an experience has taught me more patience, humility and a growing understanding that university is nothing more than an extremely expensive hobby (in Britain at least).
So, what's to be done about it? Well, I have collected all the books I have on how to write books (including one or two old university blocks and units - few and far between, because I didn't study creative writing or whatever - except for about a half a year: I studied Latin and ancient Greek, for my sins) and am jotting down, longhand, all of the key techniques for writing a full book. If I am honest, I am actually selling out. I should really only be writing plays on classical lines, or translating Latin texts (thereby being known for someone of refined taste, deep learning, a keen playwrite and a scholar - creative immortality). Yet what use is it to be known in future generations yet be enslaved all my life here, now, in this particular incarnation?
The book itself does use some knowledge of archaeology, but is itself a kind of prosaic fiction. Plays penned along classical lines and Latin translations are for poor people, beggars, slaves. Whereas Latin may have been the language of the intelligentsia at some point in history, perhaps even seen as an essential part of any learned scholar's reading, but no more. Although in popular culture and among the uneducated there is still the misconception that it is somehow only for the nobby lot, it is actually the language of beggars, of slaves, of poor people.
I remember once, when I was homeless in London, many years ago, I gazed up at an inscription in Latin on a magnificent building, and asked another hobo if he could read it. (The man was from the Continent, and the romance languages are much closer to Latin than English is - the vernacular having only about 40% of its words stemming from a French-Latin root, etymologically - and English is certainly not an inflected language). Said hobo translated it for me, and I believe it to be a faithful translation (now having spent the past twelve years studying Latin). Therefore it is evidently true that Latin is the language of street beggars, paupers and slaves. Clearly. Here, now, in this country.
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