Books

A good book title is like a seductive glance from a stranger. That moment where you lock eyes in a public space and both feel the pull of attraction. For me, an outstanding book title is just about as good.

Well, okay.

Not quite. But it’s certainly up there in the list of top literary experiences one can have.

Although I’ve lived in France for three years now, I still find reading a novel in French a challenge; something to be borne, rather than enjoyed. Sadly, the story in my second language never seems quite as ‘real’ as in English, my mother tongue.

Which doesn’t explain why in my free time, I wander the bookstores here, touching the covers, spines of books I can’t fully access; fascinated by these stories and the way the words fall onto the page. The music of the French sentences.

And of course, their titles.

For some unknown reason, book titles in French seem effortlessly graceful.

Here are just a few of many I’ve encountered, that just sing out…

J’étais derrière toi (I was behind you)

Dans le café du jeunesse perdu (In the café of lost youth)

La vie devant soi (The life before them)

La méchanique du cœur (The mechanics of the heart)

Le voyage en hiver (The Winter trip)

Le chagrin d’école (The grief of school)

Zazie dans le métro (Zazie in the metro)

We might even take, for example, Evelyn Waugh’s famous Oxford novel, Brideshead Revisited. As titles go, it’s reasonably plain; self explanatory even. In French: Retour à Brideshead (Return to Brideshead).

The translation feels clumsy and basic – yet in French, the simplicity works. It  feels just that touch more musical and perhaps I dare say, more profound, than its English counterpart.

Even: La chaussure sur le toit (The shoe on the roof) seems an acceptable title for a piece of adult fiction in French. In the English world, it only makes me think of Spot’s first Christmas.

It made me wonder about popular titles in English fiction. Are there (if any) any noticeable differences between the two lit traditions?

The online Abbeville Manual of Style provided a starting point with a list of their English faves, including:

Atlas Shrugged

Flow my Tears the policeman said

What we talk about when we talk about love

and Complete nonsense.

On first glance, all that English just seems more involved somehow, if you get what I mean.

But then remember that Anglophones have also unleashed: The Firm, The Road, The Stand etc, on the literary world…

It feels like it should be simple. But why, god help us, does The Shoe on the Roof work so beautifully in French, yet fail so miserably en Anglais? How is it possible that L’ignorance wins heads and shoulders over plain, Ignorance?

Is it just that je ne sais quoi most Francophiles obsess over – or something more?

While I’d like to dedicate another post to this topic of titles, I’d been keen to hear your thoughts on the issue of translation. Does there indeed exist a true difference between the nature of French and English titles, and if so, is it representative of a larger difference in literary tradition between the two countries?

In the meantime, however, Marvin Cloud throws out some general tips in his post entitled A strategy for coming up with a great book title.

As for me, I’m no closer to finding the answer. I do love the English language, but I just can’t help it…

La Route by Cormac McCarthy is just always going to sound better than: The Road.

In these last few days, I have been catching up on much neglected dose of popular culture, and one that I’m surprised to find is much more fulfilling than I would have previously thought.

British novelist, Nick Hornby, is nothing new – in the sense that he’s been around for awhile – but as I am discovering, his site and blog (included in the links), is also a good source of amusement. Especially for a writer.

It’s interesting to see how he ‘features’ in each one of his novels – and is yet isn’t the characters he writes. Having just finished High Fidelity, I really was under the impression that he was Rob Gordon, just writing himself… apparently not. Or not all of, anyway. But then you probably already knew that, having read the book years ago…

Sifting through various interview this afternoon, I was surprised to learn that Hornby keeps an office. A real office – like, not just some backroom in his house, or even a flash backroom in his house; but a real-you-have-to-rent-it-office (actually, he probably owns the thing), around the corner from where he lives proper. Nice. Class. And definitely reassuring news for someone who fears being locked at home for the rest of their life – the only option for cheap, wannabe writers! I also like his candid take on the writing process: pissing around on the internet, smoking, reading newspapers etc and then finally getting some stuff down, just before he has to go and pick up  his son from school.

After this Hornby spree, I know that I’ll certainly be interested in having a crack at his most recent published work, The Complete Polysyllabic Spree, (2006! Yikes, I am so behind the times…); a collection of his various colomns on favourite books.

And before I forget, my long lost copy of The Paris Review Interviews III finally arrived. Great resource and I will also be seeking out parts I and II.

Wishing everyone happy reading, this strange April week…

I’m not sure why, but even after living in France for close to three years, I can’t help but lust after Paris: the word, the city and all encapsulated paraphernalia (I have actually stooped to Eiffel Tower pasta… yes, believe it). On one hand, it’s strange to see a proper noun so famous – so much so its perhaps even clichéd – bandied about like something as common as chewing gum; yet on another, it can’t help but seduce you, like a chocolate egg in an Easter window. Even the French, who are known for their ambivalence towards one of the most well known tourist attractions in the world, admit to feeling something about their capital city – hate or otherwise.

Hence the first time I stumbled upon website for The Paris Review , I was immediately intrigued, although dismissed it as pretentious way to get attention. Like any product that uses the name of a large, international city as a brand – just think Paris, New York or London – make no mistake, it’s the name and the name alone that is half the product. In using such an obvious marketing ploy, you can probably count on a certain level of quality (or at least one would hope) but, importantly for consumers, the guaranteed snob appeal. Comme on dit en français: Bon chic, bon genre – BGBC. TPR simply reeked of that kind of bourgeois upperclass nonsense I wasn’t sure I wanted to endorse, much less support.

Luckily, I have since revised my opinion. After spending a very agreeable half an hour browsing the stacks of articles in The London Review online, I’ve become more open to it’s sister concept, Paris. So when I got a phone call recommending their latest output, turn up my nose I did not, but instead immediately rushed to my computer to order a copy.

Hence the waiting period begins for The Paris Review Interviews III from Amazon UK.

In the meantime, I’ll just have to make-do with a a coffee from my compulsory Paris souvenir mug, that actually did come from the top of the Eiffel Tower. And you can’t get any more BCBG than that…