On brevity
Truth be told, I have no faintest idea what to say. Oh, how frustrated I am!
(Archive of Lady Catherine de Turnips, entry 4663-4-2-4-2; discovered by Ekaterina Repina, BA, MA, several certificates, and one award)
My dearest friend,
How does your garden grow?
I recently encountered a lady who pronounced “mangetout” (the peas) as “man-get-out”, and I am fascinated with all the opportunities this may offer. From now on, I am considering saying — at least in my mind! — “Christopher” only as “Cri-stop-her”. Preferably with a prominent exclamation mark afterwards — internal, once again.
(As a revenge, some might say “Cat-her-in!” — and nothing is to be done; I should have seen that I have summoned upon myself.)
You probably do not know, but years and years ago, one of my scholarly essays was awarded for “brevity and conciseness”. It was for me that this nomination was created, and they did not use it ever since. At the very same time, I was asked to cut my writing by at least half in order for it to be published, so the exact motivation behind this honourable distinction yet remains unclear to me. I collected my award anyway and was dined once or twice.
If my memory doesn’t betray me — you know, mine can be such a traitor! — the essay was based on an Istanbul-set novel, Balinese dancing, several newspaper clippings, and my own reflections upon an overnight meditation in an attic in St Petersburg.
In essence, that was an essay on linguistics.
All those wise people in the portraits, inevitably surrounded by their books and an overall flair of an intense internal life, do not seem to have a single struggle with their intellectual affairs — say, with a tiny, minuscule talk I am to prepare now. My old friends suggested that I should speak a little to a younger generation on the matter of language sensibility. It is an indubitably noble enterprise, however, as they normally say: “easier said than done”. In my case, it is more of an “easier done”, even “practiced regularly” thing.
Truth be told, I have no faintest idea what to say. Oh, how frustrated I am! I dreamt of my own notes, rewriting themselves as if they were not sure how any of them could end.
So, to walk away my sadness, I went to the Tower of London. You might remember that I am consistently, as it is possible, building a reputation among the Tower ravens.
Despite my status as a bird connoisseur, I need to admit that I cannot differentiate between corvids. Especially when there is no representative of another species for scale.
One wise person shared a piece of observation with me: a crow is a bird with a beak, a raven is a beak with a bird. I spent some time pondering the implications, but, for now, my judgment is relatively simple: most likely, if I see a crow in the wild, it is a crow. I would be surprised if it were the other way around.
If, with crows in the wild, I can take a liberty of bribing the local intelligence with treats and other refreshments, with the Tower ravens, I cannot be equally frivolous. I can only hope that my manners — I bow every single one upon approaching — can, if not build an acquaintance, at least keep me out of their black books.
(If they have any.)
Years ago, Christopher, the previous Ravenmaster, gave me his book on the most famous non-human residents of the castle.
(Apart from the ghosts. Are ghosts still human? Still haven’t seen any.)
Yours truly,
C.