Rants

Historical Errors

I tend to respond rather stroppily on this subject which intrigues me more and more. ‘I had to write’, people tell me – though I do find myself wondering why the urge is so strong. I don’t know how they expect me to react. Interestingly, nobody has ever written to tell me I have made an error in human relationships, which ought to matter more.

It is a matter of professional pride to avoid historical mistakes if I can, and yet as I often point out (particularly to American teachers!) novels are fiction, not textbooks. Do a few slips really spoil enjoyment? I believe that I try harder than some other authors – but I also attempt more daring, more inventive stuff.

Besides, quite often the angry ones are wrong. Some old duffer writes that 50 years ago he is sure he was told something – yet (because I keep up with the academic news) another thing was recently discovered that sheds new light – and I have put it in a book. Yet there he goes, Miss Davis I am surprised that you don’t know…

So Deliberate insertions

I have decided that in future every book shall contain a set of historical ‘facts’ I have invented. These will be in addition to the Approved Neologisms (“Lindseyisms”), of which my editor formally allows me one per book (I sneak in more). At the same time, a game will be played of finding ancient inventions, agricultural practices, and social conventions which sound like errors – but which can be proved by literature or science. Five points will be awarded for every ‘real’ error pointed out to me, but ten points will be deducted for each ‘red herring’ that works. Please note, the points will be merely to make you feel smug. There is no prize.

And another thing: For east read west…

Do not tell me about ‘pubic pavements’ or the ‘marquis’ who should be a marquee. I know. I myself now view these two as faithful old friends. People, some admitting they are seeking paid work as copy editors, enjoy writing to point out stylistic mistakes and typographical errors. If I am slow to respond, these tragic pedants quickly write again, asking why have I not answered? They don’t think I may have slain myself because of the ‘errors’ that pepper my irritating work and their good work in telling me.

Is what I meant easily understood in context? Then relax. My books – my work, my style, my possible dyslexia, my happy attitude.

The great corn rant (was this the best Rant ever?)

Yes it was. An American reader asked: I just started to read One Virgin and I got to the Arval Brotherhood part where they are described as wearing “ears of corn” on their heads. Is this a mistake or just the usual British translation of all frumentum as corn? Will it be corrected for the American version? Do the British refer to heads of grain whatever type as “ears”?

What???

I know I should never mention maize, but corn is stuff that waves about like big golden grass in fields in Europe. It has done that since the dawn of history, thus making itself fundamental to the agricultural myths of the society in which I grew up and of which I write. Corn does not come in tins or with sweet yellow relish sauce or with little plastic swords stuck in its ends. Ruth stood ‘amidst the alien corn’ (Bible/Keats) and it had ears, believe me.

See the Oxford Dictionary : “3 The seed of the cereal or farinaceous plants; grain. (Locally the seed is understood to denote the leading crop of the district; hence in England corn = wheat, in Scotland = oats, in US, as in Indian corn = maize)” In ancient Italy it would have been spelt or emmer, ie wheat.

No, it will not be changed in the US edition. (“corrected”? Brief explosion from Brit side of Pond…) I particularly do not want this because in English, the language in which I write, corn is such a really utterly basic term that I’m sorry but you dear folk over there are jolly well going to have to learn it, just as we have to learn that your corn is yellow stuff that sticks in your teeth. Also – to stretch this to the utmost now I’m raving – in English, corn is a term for old, tired humour, thus in the case of the antiquated Arval Brethren implying a remote but pleasing pun, which would be lost if I let you translate.

Enjoy the rich diversity of another culture, my dears. If you can call this stuff frumentum, which is a dead foreign language, you can cope with a live vocabulary.

If you are interested in the Romans, you are taking yourselves to Europe – that exciting, exotic theme park, where the quaint characters inhabit a big playground in which we were here first and anything from the New world still has to prove itself. Our myths have the Green Man but not the Jolly Green Giant. Our corn bends. So do our ears, but that’s another byway.

Corn Again

On reflection, the question raised a serious point.

When I first started being published in America, I did meekly accept all requests to change terminology which was ‘too British for Americans ’. (The prime example was that The Silver Pigs had to become Silver Pigs). It hasn’t arisen for a long time, partly because I learned to make my meaning so clear from the context that only the most crass copy editor would query it and risk the flak (flak = anti-aircraft fire, dear cousins, Brit slang for a colourful argument). But the underlying assumption that British books have to be modified for the American market needs to be rethought. It’s loathsome. Nobody would ask for this to be done in reverse. What I am being asked to do if I change words or phrases for American editions is to obliterate my ‘voice’ – yes, that great ideal, beloved of US writing classes. Who would require this of a Spanish or French author, or a Latin American or Japanese author. Nor do I believe that an American author writing about a distinct region, using some of the patois of a native people or the street talk of a particular city, would ever be asked to modify their vocabulary for other Americans. It would be denying cultural identity, absolutely politically incorrect. So is it right that an anaemic Mid-Atlantic tone is regularly applied to British books – and that this is accepted, even by British authors, as a proper thing to do?

No.

Let’s get it straight now. I will correct mistakes, inconsistencies and passages that even I can’t understand. Otherwise, my books are English in origin. Their ‘voice’ is not only English English, but narrowly defined on occasions right down to the bolshie British Midlands, in the mid Twentieth Century, with influences from BBC Radio and middleclass girls’ education. If it means readers have to stretch themselves, then gung ho and jolly good show.

A Corny Poem

Finally, I do know, you know, that there are people in America of great wit, charm, erudition, sense and style. One long-term correspondent wrote to me, ‘Frankly I can’t understand why there’s a controversy, but evidently my Muse did.’

It would be a feat
to change “corn” to “wheat”
in USA versions
about Vestal Virgins.
Let him who is vexed
by “corn” in the text
take writing utensil
(a good pen or pencil)
and mark to delete
any “corn” he may meet
while reading his Falco,
then scribble in “wheat”.

But I, knowing Latin
(I had to bring that in)
shall make my commentum
by writing “frumentum.”

Gummy Corn

And another: ‘I read your corn rants with pleasure. This American would be very upset if you “translated” your novels for us so we could understand them. One point, however. Corn (maize) should never stick to your teeth. If it does, either it’s too old or it was cooked too long. Corn should ideally be eaten raw off the stalk, when it is crisp and at its sweetest. Any corn in grocery stores is probably what I’d call “old”. (Age and cooking turn corn’s sugar to starch, thus the stickiness.)’

I hear you!