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Scaramouche, oh Scaramouche!
Prodded by a discussion here, after a great while (I think it has been close to 7 or 8 years by now) and since I had nothing to do at work at the moment, I opened Rafael Sabatini's Scaramouche - in English this time. I was always charmed by this author, so undeservedly forgotten in countries that speak the language he had been writing in. Scaramouche and Peter Blood were the heroes of my teenage years; unlike other teenage infatuations this one continued well into my adulthood. Today I fell in love all over again.
The Russian translations certainly did justice to this book; the original, however, is a veritable feast of precise, tasty, well arranged writing, without, as much as I can see, even one word being out of place. I'm not afraid to be considered sentimental; I'm willing to admit that when I had read the words that I remembered so well in another language in all their natural precision, I almost cried.
He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad. And that was all his patrimony.
What is it in this story of a noble child without nobility, a révolutionnaire by choice, but not by belief, a vindictive youth, which in the end chooses life - for himself and for the enemy he hated so passionately, an actor by chance and a warrior by necessity that draws me for so many years? Aside for the author's talent, which in itself wouldn't suffice to keep me engaged for such a long time. I believe I found the answer today.
If there is one word that can describe Andre-Louis, it's 'loyalty'. The eternal cynic, who allows himself to flirt with popular ideas from time to time, who thinks nothing of ending an established career in a blink of an eye and engaging in a completely new one, a witty mocker of everything and anything is nothing but loyal to people he chooses as his. Here, I believe, hides the one feature that never fails in drawing me in. For, as far as can remember, all the characters I ever have been in love with, share it. It's simple, really.
Put people first. Ideas shall come as a second. If that. If you have to be loyal to something - and you have to, to retain any hope for a sense in this world - be truthful to the people you chose. Ideas come and go; the one that was born yesterday tastes stale today and is considered outrageous tomorrow. Ideas are an artefact of people's existence, as much an afterproduct as urine and feces are. To chose an idea over the people means choosing a derivative over a primary cause; my largely anthropocentric mentality refuses even to consider such a choice. In this regard, the life philosophy of one French bastard who, just like me, had a misfortune to live in interesting times, suits me perfectly.
Long life to you, Andre-Louis Moreau, and may your name never again be sullied by these Hollywood's abominations they call 'adaptations'. You deserve better. Much, much better.
The Russian translations certainly did justice to this book; the original, however, is a veritable feast of precise, tasty, well arranged writing, without, as much as I can see, even one word being out of place. I'm not afraid to be considered sentimental; I'm willing to admit that when I had read the words that I remembered so well in another language in all their natural precision, I almost cried.
He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad. And that was all his patrimony.
What is it in this story of a noble child without nobility, a révolutionnaire by choice, but not by belief, a vindictive youth, which in the end chooses life - for himself and for the enemy he hated so passionately, an actor by chance and a warrior by necessity that draws me for so many years? Aside for the author's talent, which in itself wouldn't suffice to keep me engaged for such a long time. I believe I found the answer today.
If there is one word that can describe Andre-Louis, it's 'loyalty'. The eternal cynic, who allows himself to flirt with popular ideas from time to time, who thinks nothing of ending an established career in a blink of an eye and engaging in a completely new one, a witty mocker of everything and anything is nothing but loyal to people he chooses as his. Here, I believe, hides the one feature that never fails in drawing me in. For, as far as can remember, all the characters I ever have been in love with, share it. It's simple, really.
Put people first. Ideas shall come as a second. If that. If you have to be loyal to something - and you have to, to retain any hope for a sense in this world - be truthful to the people you chose. Ideas come and go; the one that was born yesterday tastes stale today and is considered outrageous tomorrow. Ideas are an artefact of people's existence, as much an afterproduct as urine and feces are. To chose an idea over the people means choosing a derivative over a primary cause; my largely anthropocentric mentality refuses even to consider such a choice. In this regard, the life philosophy of one French bastard who, just like me, had a misfortune to live in interesting times, suits me perfectly.
Long life to you, Andre-Louis Moreau, and may your name never again be sullied by these Hollywood's abominations they call 'adaptations'. You deserve better. Much, much better.
