Summer Readers

Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis by J.K. Rowling, translated by Peter Needham

Dominus et Domina Dursley, qui vivebant in aedibus Gestationis Ligustrorum numero quattuor signatis... This Latin translation of the first Harry Potter book is better than the original- if you're a nerd!This book kept me awake on the plane rides to and from Bolivia- when I wasn't sleeping, reading something else, or looking out the window- and also made a great conversation piece. Latin translations of popular children's books have become something of a novelty item lately-Dr. Seuss books, The Little Prince, Winnie Ille Pu- but I was surprised to see something like Harrius Potter on the shelves, mentally constructing a Venn diagram of Harry Potter fans and people with enough Latin savvy to tackle a 250-page novel, and wondering who decided that the overlap was big enough to justify translating even so popular a book as Harry Potter into a dead language. Still, if one does fall within the overlap, it's hard to resist. Much of the fun lies in seeing how modern terms are translated; Lee Jordan's dreadlocks, for instance, are "Rastafarian hair" and Hagrid's borrowed motorcycle is a birotula automataria (compare birota ignifero latice incita). Beyond that, well, you know what they say- quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur.

The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton

When I wasn't reading Harrius Potter, I was borrowing back my copy of The Man Who Was Thursday from Emily. I first read this book in high school; it was my introduction to Chesterton's fiction, as Orthodoxy was my introduction to his nonfiction. I don't remember getting much out of either at the time, but subsequent rereads have established them- and Chesterton- as indispensables. Like all of his writings, The Man Who Was Thursday is at once witty and profound. Orson Welles called it "shamelessly beautiful prose" and remarked in the preface to his radio dramatization: "Roughly speaking, it's about anarchists... and roughly speaking, it's a mystery story. It can be guaranteed that you will never guess the solution until you get to the end- it is even feared that you may not get it then." I think I finally got the ending this time. At least, it makes sense to me now, whereas I had always had a little trouble understanding quite how it fit in with the rest of the book- it's easy to get caught up in the story and miss everything happening underneath, but rereading never fails to bring out some new insight or understanding.

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury

Rereading this book has become something of a summer ritual. Bradbury waxes unabashedly nostalgic in a series of vignettes about the summer of 1928 as seen through the eyes of a twelve year old boy in Green Town, Illinois. I need to get me a pair of those Royal Crown Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot Tennis Shoes.

Biffen's Millions by P.G. Wodehouse

One of my favorite Wodehouse books. Edmund Biffen Christopher is about to inherit millions from his eccentric godfather- on the condition that he not be arrested before his 30th birthday. How can his friends make sure he doesn't forfeit the money by getting drunk and running afoul of the police? Sneak into his apartment while he's asleep and steal his pants.

At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O'Brien (Brian O'Nolan)

"This is just the book to give your sister – if she's a loud, dirty, boozy girl" said Dylan Thomas of At Swim-Two-Birds. My sister, needless to say, was not flattered. Having just read O'Brien's The Third Policeman, and still reeling from the implications of the atomic theory of bicycles, I was browsing one of the dorm libraries for something to read on one of the summer school movie trips and came across a battered copy (now in an advanced state of disintegration) of At Swim-Two-Birds. First of all, gotta love the bizarre 70's cover, the kind that normally seems to have no discernable connection to the contents of the book, although in this case I'll give it the benefit of the doubt. Truth be told, I frequently lost track of what was going on in this book, and although I would normally attribute this to my short attention span, I think in this case credit must be given to (or blame shared by) the bizarre and convoluted plot structure. It is a book about a book about a book, in which three openings (first, second, and third) and three conclusions (antepenultimate, penultimate, and ultimate) frame narratives ranging from the aestho-autogamous creations of the eccentric author Dermot Trellis to the exploits of the legendary Finn MacCool- the latter, in its phrasing and imagery, a spot-on parody of Irish myth. I subsequently read, and enjoyed, O'Brien's The Dalkey Archive and a collection of his newspaper columns, published under the pseudonym Myles na gCopaleen.

The Three Musketeers by Alexander Dumas

My copy is a WalMart paperback, the cover emblazoned with a bright "2 for $1" sticker and the proclamation "Superheroes of the sword, they fought for honor, for glory- and for girls!" (Well, I suppose that's as good a description as any.) But once you get past the cheesy cover and the 6-page defense of literary "classics" (A lot of people think 'classic' means old or boring. As a result, they miss out on some of the most interesting, engaging stories ever told!) it's down to complete and unabridged business. Good stuff, to which my movie adaptation (Quid Agis, 2001) didn't quite live up although we had a lot of fun filming the fight scenes between the Musketeers and the Cardinal's guards before we started going off on tangents involving chem labs and used car salesmen.

And now back to my latest book purchase, a Greek grammar. I'm such a nerd.