Archive for category Chaucer'd

My Chaucer’d Scalzi made a fair bit of noise hereabouts last week, and many folks have written to ask for a bit more. In craven heat for such attention, I could hardly wait to do another. The question was, what to Chaucer?

Several kind readers made several kind suggestions — and one unkind one — but one distant reader sent something even more convincing than a blog-post comment: an autographed copy of his latest book, humbly offered up to the venerable altar of Middle English literature.

Bribery, as any of my students can attest, will get you next to nowhere with me. I agreed to take the book — thanks! — but I wasn’t about to promise a thing. To receive the Chaucer treatment, the book was going to need to be good.

Well, I’m pleased to report it is. Jay Lake’s Mainspring is a terrific novel: full-to-bursting with images wrought from the purest strains of the fantastic. Not that I’m surprised. This is, after all, Jay Lake we’re talking about, a man whose mind is Nile-like in its regular productivity. Indeed, I can hardly give more credit to this book than to say that Mainspring is singularly Lakean. (Hey, I’m already inventing verbs, so why the hell not adjectives, as well?)

More than being just a good book, though, I’ve found that Mainspring speaks to the Chaucer muse (who is a portly fellow with a wry wit): with its “clockpunk” universe of celestial gears and airship navigation, the novel often reminded me of Chaucer’s Treatise on the Astrolabe, which is coincidentally considered to be the oldest surviving “technical manual” in English. As such, I chose the following passage, from chapter 4, for a bit of fun. (And thanks, again, to Mary Robinette Kowal for the excellent Bayeux-based book cover.)

Iay Lake, Maynryng:

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Approaching seventeen degrees latitude, Hethor saw the Equatorial Wall for the first time in his life. He and de Troyes were up in the navigator’s rest, reviewing the basics of a sextant, when de Troyes stopped what he was doing, picked up a telescope, and pointed it south.

Seventene degrees latitude approchynge, Hethor sawe th’Equinoccial Wal for the first time on lyve. He and de Troyes weren up on the gydes reste (“navigator” is a 16th century adoption), forto studien the symplicites of an astrelabe (the sextant was invented, I think, by Tycho Brahe; but it is very much based on the astrolabe, which was clearly known to Chaucer), whan de Troyes cessed what he was doynge, y-picked a bras-and-glas, and loked sowth. (Telescopes are obviously post-medieval — their use associated primarily with post-Galilean times — so I’ve posited a compound that might have occurred to ol’ Chaucer. My term also has the benefit, I think, of being easily shortened: Lake will later use the term “scope”; I can replace this with “glas.”)

“Here,” he said after a moment, handing the telescope to Hethor. “Tell me what you see.”

“Heere,” quod he aftere a moment, yevynge the bras-and-glas to Hethor. “Telle me what seestow.”

“A line of clouds on the southern horizon.” Hethor swept the scope. “But it’s a huge storm.”

“I se a lyne of clowdes on th’orisonte southern.” Hethor sweped the glas. “Hit is a grete storm.”

“Biggest storm the world’s ever known,” said de Troyes with a laugh. “A hundred miles of brass-topped rock, haunted by ghosts from every age. It will never blow over, not while God’s universe yet runs onward.”

“The gretteste storm to the worldis knowynge,” quod de Troyes with laughtere. “An hundredth myles of bras-crouned rokke, moche haunted by goostes from everiche age. Hit wol never blowe aweye, not while Goddes creacioun renneth onward.” (Chaucer did use the Latinate term “universe,” but he used it only in the sense of something being “universal,” not meaning “the whole of everything.”)

“That’s it,” Hethor breathed. Somehow he’d expected forests of monkeys, exotic crystal cities, wizards’ palaces. Not just a smudge where sky met horizon.

“That is it,” Hethor brethed. Somdeel he had bene expectaunt to se wodes ful of apen (“monkey” is post-medieval, coming from Arabic), cristall citees, palyces of magiciens. Not just a blotte where sky met th’orisonte. (Of all the terms in this snippet, “smudge” gave me the most trouble. It’s a late entrant into English, and I found it difficult to think of a suitable synonym. I decided, after much deliberation, to use “blot” — Chaucer would surely associate the distant, dark smudge on the horizon in terms of an ink-stain upon the clouds, dripped from the pen of God.)

“Keep an eye to the south,” said de Troyes. “The Wall grows closer day by day.”

“Kepe eyen to the sowth,” quod de Troyes. “The Wal neeryth from daye to daye.”

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?