First off, I’m so very thankful that this story is not in Runyonese, unlike Earthquake. I can retreat to my own writing style…which is less than nothing special, but at least it isn’t too much of a struggle to get it out into the world. Runyon was a genius and his style of writing is very hard for me to emulate.
Second off, this story was always meant to be next in line after my previous post on Damon Runyon, as the Part 1 of last time would suggest. As you might have guessed from the title, this one touched a nervy nerve, and I lost that nerve for…
…over seven months. Yikes. I’m sure Dad would argue this only demonstrates that I was clearly getting on with my life and being busy and happy, rather than getting trapped in something that made me so unhappy.
Now it happens that I am considering what to do for my latest post on my old man’s hoard of books, since it is five years to the day since my old man hauls off to depart for other worlds and climes and leaves his ever-loving wife and daughters very lonesome, and I am naturally wanting my post to be a suitable tribute for the sad reminder. Although I know on this occasion the book I choose must not be too sad, because when I am writing the post for The Journal of A Disappointed Man I am crying in-between the typing and sometimes when I am writing the post for The Sword in the Stone I am sniffing so much I must stop typing for a long time, and even now writing this very opening paragraph I am getting teary, since even though it has already (or only) been five years, the pain does not get any less.
So I am determined that this time the subject must be a fun light-hearted book which I enjoy writing about, and what happens but I suddenly think of Damon Runyon.
Now you should know that this Damon Runyon is a very, very smart duck, who is writing for New York newspapers and covering sports and news stories over many years in the 20s and 30s and 40s. He apparently revolutionises the reporting of baseball and is heavy into boxing and gambling and shooting craps, and most importantly for my old man and for his daughters and for thousands more like us he writes plenty of poems about sports and short stories about guys and their dolls on Broadway. In fact he is writing so much about guys and their dolls that three other very smart ducks known as Frank Loesser and Jo Swerling and Abe Burrows take some of his stories – in particular The Idyll of Miss Sarah Brown and Blood Pressure – and make them into a musical calledGuys and Dolls, which is a show I fancy some of you hear of, and if you do not then I shall merely say you are more than somewhat deprived.
Once again memory is playing tricks on me. I’m fairly certain that the Disney film version came first.
Which I don’t think I will ever be able to watch in its entirety again.
This is fairly ridiculous. I don’t think it was a film that Dad watched with us an awful lot, and I’d never associated it with him until the last few years.One could make the argument that the wise, kindly old mentor who teaches the young boy, takes him on marvellous adventures and wants so much so badly for him, only for their relationship to be lost and ended (thankfully momentarily) in a moment of anger, hurt and misunderstanding, might just possibly be relevant…
…but I hold more to the fact that this is the shitty, cheating, sly, conniving bloody thing about grief. When does it ever make sense?
Also, there’s that bit with the little squirrel girl.
“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.”
When first starting this story, I’m pretty sure I thought that it was going to be like The Animals of Farthing Wood (the cartoon; we never got around to reading the books – wait, there were books???) or possibly Beatrix Potter’s menagerie; fairly anthropomorphic animals who must band together and be wary of the terrible humans.
My expectations were both fulfilled and exceeded.
How to describe this book? Words really do fail me. Handily for me in this busy season, the 1974 Puffin edition provides this excellent and informative preface!
It was one of Dad’s fondest hopes that we would one day be able to read great classics in their original languages.
It is one of my fondest hopes that, one day, I will fulfil his hope. Foreign languages were never one of my strong points.
*side-eyes Duo Linguo*
The 1990 version of Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac – with Gérard Depardieu, Anne Brochet, and Vincent Perez – is the first time I can remember experiencing a subtitled film. With the added complication that when Dad sat us down to watch it, he admitted he didn’t really like the translation used in the film’s subtitles.
“The script that this version’s using was written by Anthony Burgess. It’s not very faithful. The original play’s all in verse, so Burgess tries to stick to that format, and it’s not as good.There’s a much more accurate translation in the 1950 film with José Ferrer, but we’ll save that for another time.”
And so we experienced the sometimes funny, sometimes sad, always exciting story of the comic-tragic love triangle between the radiant and demanding Roxanne, the gallant but tongue-tied Christian and the brash, swashbuckling, intensely self-conscious Cyrano, he of the honeyed tongue and the huge schnoz. Continue reading “Sorting through Dad’s hoard #10: Cyrano de Bergerac”→
I believe, I like to believe, that Dad was telling us about one of the saddest books he’s ever read; a journal of a man who’s slowly dying.
“At one point, he’s applying for the army, to fight in the First World War. He’s given a sealed letter by his family doctor, but he’s told not to look at what’s inside it. The army doctor says no, he’s not fit for the armed forces. He’s curious, so he opens up the letter on the train home, and finds that his doctor had written to tell whoever was examining him that he has multiple sclerosis. It’s a wasting disease that’ll kill him in only a few years. The rest of the diary is the rest of his life, as he slowly succumbs to it.”
I don’t remember if Dad ever read any of it to us, but he recommended it for when we were older; it was a terribly sad but beautifully written book.
I only got around to reading properly it this year.
Dad would usually read us M.R. James’s ghost stories in the evenings, after dinner and homework and sundry other bits were done; he’d occasionally play recorded versions of several of the stories, read by Michael Horden. I always preferred Dad’s narration, the way he’d growl for the villains and gruffer types, or use a slightly higher pitch for the various professorial characters with nasty things in store for them.
Quite I’d end up cuddling on his lap during the scary bits, ear pressed against his heart as his voice rumbled through me, waiting eagerly for my favourite parts to arrive. The fear these stories create was always there, but it was the cosy kind that gets your blood pumping without bringing on the terror sweat, with the fire on and the lights dim but still there. I was secure in the knowledge that I was safe with Dad, and I was safe going up the stairs to bed afterwards.