Archive for August, 2007

It has been suggested, among other things, that I consider Chaucerin’ a recent mega-double-chocolate-bestselling novel by Hack Bro… I mean, Dan Brown: The DaVinci Code.

Or, as I term it, The DuhVinci Code.

The sins of this book — both from a writer’s perspective and an academic one — have been sufficiently catalogued elsewhere; so there’s no need to repeat them here.

There is, however, a necessity to answer the suggestion. While, as someone else noted, The DuhVinci Code has already been Chaucer’d — by the esteemed Geoffrey himself over at his strangely silent of late blog (alongside the movie Snakes on a Plane and other sundry amusements) — that’s not really what’s stopping me from doing it. No, it’s something more, something that brings to mind this delightful passage, from the famed works of Sir Thomas Malory (Works, ed. Vinaver, p. 395):

Ryght so there cam a damesell that was cousyn nyghe to the erle of Pase, and she was cousyn also unto Morgan le Fay; and by ryght that castell of La Beale Regarde sholde have bene hers by trew enherytaunce. So this damesell entyrd into this castell where lay sir Alysaundir, and there she founde hym uppon his bedde passynge hevy and all sad.

“Sir knyght,” seyde the damesell, “and ye wolde be myrry, I cowde tell you good tydyngis.”

“Well were me,” seyde sir Alysaundir, “and I myght hyre of good tydynges, for now I stonde as a presonere be my promyse.”

“Sir,” she seyde, “wyte you well that ye be a presonere and wors than ye wene, for my lady, my cousyn, quene Morgan, kepyth you here for none other entente but for to do hir plesure whan hit lykyth hir.”

“A, Jesu defende me,” seyde sir Alysaundir, “frome suche pleasure! For I had levir kut away my hangers than I wolde do her ony suche pleasure!”

I’ll not give the alternative as cutting off my hangers, but I really don’t want to read another word of the DuhVinci Code if I can help it.

In a fit of rage against working on my syllabi for the coming term, I took a snippet from John Scalzi’s novel Old Man’s War (chapter 9 for those playing at home) and, well, Chaucer’d it. That is, I took Scalzi’s text and translated it into Chaucer’s dialect. Details follow the audio.

Many thanks to Mary Robinette Kowal for the accompanying cover art, fashioned using the Historical Tale Construction Kit, which itself makes use of the famed Bayeux Tapestry.


Iohannis Scalzi, Olde Mannes Werre:

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Scalzi’s book is Science Fiction, which presents certain difficulties in translating into late Middle English. Below is Scalzi’s text, in blockquotes, followed by my translation in bold (with editorial comments in parens):

“I can take a shot,” Watson said, sighting over his boulder. “Let me drill one of those things.”

“I kan tak a shote,” quod Watson, lookynge right over his rokke. “Graunte me striken oon.”

“No,” said Viveros, our corporal. “Their shield is still up. You’d just be wasting ammo.”

“No,” quod Viveros, oure ledere. (The first troublespot: “corporal” is French in origin and doesn’t really enter English until the 16th c.) “Hire sheeld is stille up. Woldestow wasten iren arwes?” (Like “corporal,” “ammunition” is a French loan from the 16th c.)

“This is bullshit,” Watson said. “We’ve been here for hours. We’re sitting here. They’re sitting there. When their shield goes down, we’re supposed to do what, walk over and start blasting at them? This isn’t the fucking 14th Century. We shouldn’t make an appointment to start killing the other guy.”

“I deme hyt boledonge,” quod Watson. “Hereupon we have stynte stille for houres. Sitt we here. Sitteth they ther. Whanne hire bokeler (a bit of translator’s freedom here: a “bokeler” is a diminutive shield; Watson is more derogatory than Viveros in his regard for this “shield”) descendeth, oghte we to passe overthwart and anonright bigynne shetyng? This nis nat the swyving yeres of derke. (The other option here, which perhaps would have been amusing, would have been to have Watson point out that this is the fucking 14th century.) We ne noghte to make a tyme to bigynne mordryng the other man.”

Viveros looked irritated. “Watson, you’re not paid to think. So shut the fuck up and get ready. It’s not going to be long now, anyway. There’s only one thing left in their ritual before we get at it.”

Viveros loked anoyed. “Watson, thu art nat y-payed to thenche. So bokele thyn ers (The idiom “shut the fuck up” is not quite Chaucerian; I think “shut your ass up,” however, works fine.) and makestow redi. Ywis, hit wole nat be longe now. Ther is oon thynge lefte in hire parfournynge biforn we bigynne.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Watson said.

“Ye? What thyng is that?” quod Watson.

“They’re going to sing,” Viveros said.

“Thei wol synge,” quod Viveros.

Watson smirked. “What are they going sing? Show tunes?”

“What wol thei synge? Passioun Pleyes?” japed Watson. (Middle English more regularly moves speech tags to the end of lines. The other change here is from “show tunes” to “Passion plays”: if one had to point to the medieval Cats, it would probably be something like a Passion play — especially something good and gruesome, like the coliphizacio.)

“No,” Viveros said. “They’re going to sing our deaths.”

“No,” quod Viveros. “Thei wol synge oure dethes.”

Anyone got any suggestions for another book needing to be Chaucer’d?