Traduttore, traditore

Welcome to a topic that has, in the last decade or so, very much captured my interest: the art (some would say the dark art) of translation. An art, because translation is not just a matter of ingesting the original text at one end and excreting a translation at the other. Oh no! There’s a lot more to it than that.

You do not have to get very far into a text for translation before you encounter a lexical gap – a word or phrase in the source language for which no equivalent exists in the target language. Take, for example, the words for the different stages in the life of….well, how far do you have to read in the following list before you know what we are talking about?

Egg, alevin, fry, fingerling/parr, smolt, adult.

What is being described here is my old favourite, the salmon. English has a single word for each of the six stages in the life cycle of this magnificent silver leaper. However, I am prepared to guess that the Sango language of the Central African Republic lacks some, if not all, of these words; indeed, I would not be surprised if it has no word for salmon at all. So, the distance from ‘fingerling’ in English into Sango represents a lexical gap.

Of course, there are ways around the problem. You can use the Sango for ‘silver river fish when it starts to move downriver towards the sea’. However, you will agree that this loses something in the translation.

Let us, for a moment, assume that there is a word for ‘fingerling’ in Sango. Although the denotation (the dictionary definition) of the Sango word matches exactly that of ‘fingerling’, unfortunately it (my assumed Sango word) fails completely to reproduce the connotation (the associational and emotional weight that a word carries). ‘Fingerling’ carries within it the following connotations (for me at least):

  • An indication of the size and delicacy of the salmon at this stage (finger);
  • An affectionate suggestion of diminutiveness (ling);
  • A feeling of folk, rather than scientific, classification (both ‘finger’ and ‘-ling’ originate in Old English, and have none of the scientific or official flavour that words from Norman French and Latin roots tend to have in English).

I am sure that, despite being (I wager) no more fluent in Sango than I am, you will concede the fact that the likelihood of finding a connotative match for ‘fingerling’ is approximately nil.

Of course, nobody consciously considers these connotations when using a word in everyday conversation, although when we choose to say ‘hearty’ rather than ‘cordial’ or ‘home’ rather than ‘domicile’ or ‘friendship’ rather than ‘amity’, we are probably aware, at some level, that we are making, in each case, the ‘warmer’ choice.

A quick task for you (an interactive blog, no less). Rank the following words in order from positive to negative connotation: THIN, SLIM, SKINNY.

I expect that you, like me, ranked SLIM as positive, SKINNY as negative and THIN as neutral. I just fed these words into Google Translate, and received the following translations into Spanish: DELGADO, DELGADO, DELGADO; Russian: Тонкий, тонкий, тонкий; Arabic: نحيف ، نحيف ، نحيف; Hebrew: רזה, רזה, רזה. I am a great fan of Google Translate, but this little experiment demonstrates that the app is a lot better at capturing denotation than it is at conveying connotation.

Douglas Hofstadter, in his book The Mind’s Eye, made the very good point that the most accurate ‘translation’ from America to Britain of Nancy Reagan was probably Denis Thatcher, because the fact that he was a man whereas she was a woman was not, for either of them, their significant characteristic; it was, rather, that they were the spirited (if over-shadowed) spouses of the two strong leaders of the Western world.

Even if the translator manages somehow to bridge the lexical gap, there are other challenges. Imagine, for example, translating traditional poetry. As well as translating the meaning (denotation and connotation) of the source word, the translator will want to retain the rhythm and rhyme of the original, and, ideally, the weight and effect of the vowel and consonant clusters. Let me give you two quick examples.

I don’t, for the most part, ‘get’ Emily Dickinson; I fail to understand what the admirers of her poetry see in it. Yet every so often I catch a glimpse of her power. Perhaps her best-known poem, A Bird Came Down the Walk, ends with a description of how…

Butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap plashless as they swim.

Any translator must strive to find a combination of consonants that forces the reader to hang in mid-air for a moment, like a butterfly, between the closing ‘p’ of ‘leap’ and the opening ‘p’ of ‘plashless’.

Similarly, in the middle of Tennyson’s The Lotos-Eaters, the drug-induced languor is described as follows:

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

What sonic challenges does the translator face here? First, the need to reproduce the phenomenon of almost every word being separated from its predecessor by a combination of closing and opening consonants that requires the reader to pause. Read it aloud carefully and you will experience the impossibility:
There is|sweet|music|here that|softer falls|Than|petals|from|blown|roses on|the grass

There are also eleven breathy, drawn-out, ‘th’, ‘s’ and ‘z’ sounds, and seven long vowels. The translator must aim to reproduce this soft, slow language.

Finally (although this is not an exhaustive list), even if the target language has an adjective to describe flowers that have shed their leaves, it should ideally be a monosyllable with the same long vowel sound as the word for roses.

During the Renaissance, Italians were very disappointed with inadequate translations of Dante into French, some that failed to capture the beauty of the original, and others that failed to capture accurately its meaning. The Italians coined the phrase Traduttore, traditore, which literally means Translator, traitor. In other words: All translation is unavoidably a betrayal of the original.

I hope that you relish the irony that the phrase is a meta-phrase, in that it is an excellent example of itself. No translation of it into English can preserve the parallel of the two words in Italian, identical in sound and stress except for one vowel-sound in the middle of each word.

So, clearly translation is an art, but why do I call it a dark art? Well, faithful reader, that is because, against all the odds, and in wonderful ways, translators actually manage to translate successfully, which seems to me to suggest some diabolical power. I thought I would share some of those that I have come across in Israel.

First, I want to single out Ehud Manor, a much-loved Israeli songwriter, who was awarded an MA in English Literature from Cambridge University and spent considerable time in New York. He became the leading translator into Hebrew of musicals, including Hair, Sweeney Todd, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Les Misérables, The Threepenny Opera, Cabaret, Blood Brothers, Chicago, West Side Story and Porgy and Bess. Bernice and I saw Cabaret and West Side Story in Tel Aviv, and in both cases we had to keep reminding ourselves that these were translated and not original lyrics.

As an example, here are aome of his lyrics to the title song from Cabaret. This is not an easy song to translate, not least because each syllable has a different note, so that the metre of the Hebrew has to match that of the English.

My non-Hebrew-reading followers will have to take my word for it that the metre and rhyme are faithful, and the translation ‘back’ from the Hebrew shows you how Manor kept the spirit and concepts of the original, even when he was not able to translate with literal accuracy.

What good is sitting
Alone In your room?
Come hear the music play.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Come to the Cabaret.

Put down the knitting,
The book and the broom.
It’s time for a holiday.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum
Come to the Cabaret.

Come taste the wine,
Come hear the band.
Come blow a horn,
Start celebrating;
Right this way,
Your table’s waiting.

למה לשבת
?בבית לבד
החצוצרה קוראת.
כל החיים הם קברט
בוא אל הקברט

?מה את סורגת
!מספיק כבר לקרוא
!זמן לבלות כעת
כל החיים הם קברט
בואי אל הקברט

אל היינות
המנגינות
אל חגיגה
שלא נגמרת
הכנסו
אדון וגברת

Why sit
At home alone?
The trumpet is calling.
All life is a cabaret
Come to the cabaret.

What are you knitting? Enough reading already! It’s time to have fun now! All life is a cabaret
Come to the cabaret.  

To the wines
The tunes
To a celebration
That doesn’t end
Come in,
Sir and madam

Next, let me offer you the cleverest translation I know of a film title into Hebrew: The 1959 film Never on Sunday. This is a classic case of denotation and connotation. In Greece, where the film was made, and in the English-speaking world, where it was very successful, Sunday is (as the title song states) [the] ‘day of rest’. However, if you translate the title into Hebrew literally, you lose the entire connotation, since Sunday is, in Israel, the first day of the working week.

However, you cannot simply map the title to its equivalent connotation in Israel, because then it becomes Never on Saturday, thereby changing its denotation, and thoroughly confusing the Israeli audience watching the film. The solution found was an excellent example of lateral thinking: Only on Weekdays (רק בימי חול). Elegant, no?

And now for the pièce de resistance. (That’s another way to avoid the pitfalls of translation, of course: simply import the phrase wholesale from the source language.)

One challenge for the translator that I haven’t yet touched on is wordplay such as puns. These can hardly ever be translated literally while still retaining the humour. In Israeli film subtitling, the translator often gives up, translating the sentence literally and adding in parentheses: a play on words in English.

Not long after we came on aliya, Israel TV screened Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective. (Potter is worth a post to himself; indeed, The Singing Detective is worth a post to itself!) Fortunately, being a words man rather than a pictures man, I was reading (or, more accurately, was unable to stop myself reading) the Hebrew subtitles. At one point, the leading character, speaking about himself and a prostitute with whom he had a complex relationship, says:

It was a case of tit for tat. She was all tit and I was all tat.

This is, let me point out, a double pun:

‘Tit for tat’ meaning reciprocally;
‘Tit’ being an informal term for breast;
‘Tat’ meaning a worthless scrap (of material).

So, how on earth do you translate that? Here’s what they came up with:
עין תחת עין, היא כולה תחת, ואני כולי אַיין.
Literally: An eye for an eye. She was all arse and I was entirely a non-entity
where the word ‘for’ is a homonym of the word ‘arse’ and the word ‘eye’ is a homophone of the word ‘non-entity’.

I do realise that the above pedestrian explanation has murdered the joke, but I hope that, for my non-Hebrew-speaking readers, it has indicated the brilliance of the elegance with which both puns were captured while the denotation was accurately conveyed. If that’s not evidence of dark arts, I don’t know what is. You can’t come up with something like that (and certainly not on the salary of a subtitle-creator in Israel TV at the time), unless you have previously sold your soul to the devil.

Meanwhile, in Portugal, someone is honing other skills. Less strict parents might have started their son on something a little more yielding, like a potato or carrot. But Tslil and Mucha’el run a tough boot camp!

Brownstein’s First and Second Laws

Consider the following text:

If I were to wake at 6AM on Thursday, the sourdough I had prepared the previous evening would, by then, have been rising for nine hours. I would need to punch it down, and the dough would be ready an hour later for shaping into loaves, which would mean that I would not have had enough time to shower, dress and eat breakfast.

The above text is an illustration of one of two theories that I have developed over the years, to explain extraordinary phenomena. I thought today would be a particularly appropriate time for me to share these with you, principally because, after three days of musing, I still cannot think of anything to write about this week, but also because of two experiences I have had recently.

Let me leave that tantalizing text hanging for a moment, and consider instead Brownstein’s First Law – the Law of Sport. I long felt the need to develop such a law, because I have for decades been troubled by my relationship to sport.

A couple of months ago, to properly prepare myself for my weekly Zoom call with my brother, I checked the fortunes of Spurs (that’s not the San Antonio Spurs of basketball’s Western Conference, whatever that is, but rather Tottenham (no less exotic, in its own way, than San Antonio) Hotspur of English football’s Premier League.)

I dutifully noted their 2-0 defeat of Arsenal, and dropped a casual reference into my next call, knowing that, as an ex-Arsenal fan and now a Spurs supporter, Martin would be feeling good about this result. Sadly, I couldn’t keep the feigned interest up, and, when Martin made a reference to Spurs’ subsequently dismal fortunes a couple of weeks later, I had no idea what he was talking about. I simply don’t ‘get’ football.

The same is true of American football. However, at work, when I found myself at a lunch table surrounded by Americans, I found that ‘What about those Packers, eh!’ was usually all I needed to establish my street creds.

When I used to travel on business, my first act on leaving the airport in Sofia, or Copenhagen, or Vienna, or wherever, would be to find a taxi to take me to my hotel. Inevitably, the taxi driver would feel obliged to make cheerful taxi-driver conversation.

In Warsaw, the taxi-driver’s ice-breaker was ‘You want me to fix you up with a nice girl to come to your hotel?’, which is more or less where the conversation ended. In almost every other city outside the United States, the driver’s opening gambit would be: ‘Where do you come from?’

This was, in many ways, a more difficult question to answer. During the period when I was travelling, Israel was often not Europe’s pin-up country, and I had to try to avoid getting into an argument, when all I wanted to do was get to my hotel, shower, change and get to work.

So, I would usually say: ‘England’, not really a complete answer to the question, but technically not actually a lie. Unfortunately, my escape from the frying pan of the Middle East only landed me in the fire of England’s most important cultural export. The taxi-driver’s face would, without fail, break into an enthusiastic grin, as he intoned the sacred words: ‘Manchester United!’.

I was then required to spend ten minutes simulating enthusiasm for, and trying to conceal my ignorance of, and total lack of interest in, football. More than once I found myself musing what exactly there was in the nature of football that fed that lack of interest – or, perhaps, what it was that there wasn’t in football, whose absence meant the sport left me cold.

At one point, I started compiling two lists: of those sports I enjoy watching, and of those I don’t. So, here’s your starter for 10: In what ways are tennis, cricket and golf different from football? The answer I eventually came up with is that I enjoy watching sports where a match stretches over a considerable period of time, and where the play is in short intense bursts, separated by lots of thinking time.

It is the taut, psychological battle that appeals to me, and that is more intense in an individual sport than a team sport. Cricket is, of course, a team sport, but it very often plays out as a clash between two individuals. It is that clash that I relish, whether between bowler and batsman, tennis players facing each other across the net, or a golfer wrestling with nothing more or less than his own demons.

I realise that I need to define my terms a little more closely. In cricket, ODIs and even T-20 can be fun, but they’re not really cricket; there’s red ball and then there’s everything else. To be honest, there’s a five-day Test and then there’s everything else.

Similarly, a five-set tennis match is a great deal more than one-and-two-thirds of a three-set match. Four days of the Open Golf contain more than four times the drama of a single round. The longer formats elevate these contests to an epic stature.

This must be why I even enjoy snooker – not the first choice of most intellectual and cultural snobs such as myself.

So, here’s a tentative formulation of Brownstein’s First Law: The degree of interest inherent in a sport is in inverse proportion to the ratio of actual playing time to total duration.

I have never actually timed a golf tournament, but a rule introduced in 2019 set a limit of 40 seconds to play a stroke. This means that a golfer taking the maximum permitted time, and playing 4 rounds for a total of 270, should spend three hours actually playing through his four rounds, while he will have been on the course for a total of about fifteen hours. The same is more or less true for tennis.

By this token, I suppose I should also enjoy watching chess….but it turns out that I’m the one person who didn’t even enjoy The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix.

Right! That’s sport sorted! Now let’s tackle the secret of Israel’s success.

I had promised myself not to talk about corona in my blog, but I must just mention that Bernice and I went for our first vaccination on Sunday. Despite the Government having twice brought forward the launch date for the vaccination campaign, all of the health funds, after some initial hiccoughs – websites temporarily down because of the amount of traffic; helplines not answering for an hour – had a system that was working effectively within a few days. We were processed efficiently and fairly quickly. All of this (the changing plans and the quick recovery) was typically Israeli.

You will often hear it suggested that at least one of the secrets of Israeli success is the extraordinary ability of Israelis to think on their feet and to improvise. From the boardroom to the battlefield, there are no end of thrilling and inspiring stories of Israelis instantly assessing an unforeseen situation, and exploiting it to their advantage.

Of course, there is another way of looking at this. If, surprisingly often, you find yourself confronting unforeseen situations and unanticipated developments, perhaps what you should consider is whether you need to brush up your skills in the areas of foresight and anticipation. Unfortunately, investing months in careful planning is much less of an adrenalin rush than brilliantly seizing a sudden opportunity.

The highest compliment that could be paid to an outstanding manager in the company I worked for was not to call her a splendidly methodical planner with an uncanny eye for detail, but, rather, a totach, which translates literally as ‘cannon’. In other words, sudden, explosive, and obliterating her target by being pointed vaguely in the right direction. In contrast, I never heard anyone praised for being a sniper.

Received wisdom in Israel is that this talent for improvisation is first discovered, and nurtured, in the army, where, so we are told, very little is predictable, and the ability to think on your feet is perhaps the most important survival skill. I do not agree with this theory. I believe that the fundamental reason why Israelis improvise so well, is precisely because they do not plan well. And they do not plan well because of…..Hebrew grammar.

Let me explain. The text with which I began this week’s post is a fine example of the multiplicity of verb tenses in English. There are no fewer than 17 tenses in English. Excluding the imperative, they are as follows:

Present tense
Present simple tense — I do
Present continuous tense — I am doing
Present perfect tense — I have done
Present perfect continuous tense — I have been doing

Past tense
Past simple tense — I did
Past continuous tense — I was doing
Past perfect tense — I had done
Past perfect continuous tense — I had been doing

Future tense
Future simple tense — I will do
Future continuous tense — I will be doing
Future perfect tense — I will have done
Future perfect continuous tense — I will have been doing

Past future tense
Past future simple tense — I would do
Past future continuous tense — I would be doing
Past future perfect tense — I would have done
Past future perfect continuous tense — I would have been doing

You should care about this, even though it isn’t in the test, because, as the sample text about baking bread demonstrated, you may need all of these tenses in order to be able to express complex temporal relations between different events.

Hebrew, on the other hand, has only four tenses – past, present, future and imperative. This makes any kind of forward planning much more difficult to conceptualise, and even more difficult to discuss.

Now that we have Gantt charts, this probably matters less. A Gantt chart is, put simply, a colored-bar visual presentation of the breakdown of a series of scheduled tasks over a certain period.

It is used in business to recognize how the dependencies between different tasks in a process (you can’t tile the roof until you have erected the walls) influence the possible timeline. In my experience, the primary purpose of a Gantt chart is to tell you that, in order to meet your deadline, you need to have started your project six months ago!

Gantt charts are all well and good in business. (And, for me, in synagogue mishloach manot projects – a reference I have neither the time nor the patience to explain, I’m afraid. As we say in Hebrew: ‘He who understands will understand.’ – It sounds snappier in Hebrew.) However, in everyday life, we still need the ability to talk clearly and concisely about these temporal relations. We can do that in English, but not in Hebrew.

So, Brownstein’s Second Law states: The ability of a nation to improvise effectively is inversely proportional to the number of verb tenses in its language.

Of course, if you want to develop an analytical mind that can visualize future developments, it’s never too early to start playing the ultimate game of strategy – Go.

By the way: at the time of the video, Tao had a filthy cold, but that was two months ago and he is now completely recovered.

My First is in Loquat, and Also in Quince

My second’s in muesli, but not in mince
My third is in roti, and also in bries
My fourth’s in zucchini but isn’t in cheese
My whole is a myst’ry; of that there’s no doubt.
But I’m perfectly sure you can all work it out
.

I want to go back to when I was fifteen years old, and at school; specifically, to the moment when I was sitting in the hall until my name was called and I went in to see the careers master.

Careers advice was a relatively new concept, and it’s fair to say that my school did little more than pay lip service to the idea that teenage pupils should be given some guidance in mapping out their future path through the educational minefield and into the world of work.

I remember envying (let’s be honest, I still envy) those focused folk who knew from the age of 7 that they were going to be gastro-enterologists, or criminal lawyers, or ministers of religion. As I mentioned in a previous post, I had briefly, a year earlier, entertained the notion of a life in journalism, until I discovered that it involved not only talent but also application and self-discipline. By the time I was 15, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up.

This may be just as well, since any idea I might have had would almost certainly have involved a university education, and I was at the age of 15 heading for very disappointing results in my A levels at age 18. Thinking back to my last two years at school, with the perspective of life experience, I begin to suspect that two years of concentrating only on those aspects of my studies that really interested me, and spending the last months before the exams pretending to revise but actually doing jigsaws, may have played some part in my failure.

So there I was, sitting in front of the careers master, being asked what career ambitions I had. I can no longer remember what I answered, but I am sure my vagueness accurately reflected my lack of direction. I basically had no idea. So, on reflection, the career master’s recommendation that I aim to read English at university was sound advice: a university degree in English can be leveraged as an intro to a wide variety of occupations, or, put another way, a university degree in English qualifies you for nothing….except teaching English, which is what I eventually ending up doing. But that’s another story.

Allow me to indulge myself, and to spirit myself back 65 years. If I had again my five minutes with the careers master, I believe I now know what I would have answered when asked about my career ambitions. “Well, sir,” I would have said, “what I really want to be is a bespoke quiz designer.” Try as I might, I am unable to imagine what his response might have been, other than to send me to the headmaster for insolence.

When I look back on my working life and wonder how it might have panned out differently, I find myself coming to the conclusion that compiling quizzes to order might well have given me more satisfaction that anything I actually did, except, probably, English teaching, which was a rough and uneven ride, but whose satisfactions, when earned, as they occasionally were, were very deep and rich.

I count myself very lucky because I have been able, over the years, to indulge my passion. Unfortunately, nobody has ever seen fit to pay me for a quiz, but you can’t have everything. Anyway, I thought I would tell you about some of the quizzes that have given me the greatest satisfaction.

When we first moved to Maale Adumim, 24 years ago, our synagogue ran an annual supper quiz, and, after we had been here for a year or two, I took a stint as question master. Since the participants included immigrants from half a dozen different countries, and even a couple of native Israelis, one challenge here was devising questions that were not culture-specific, and, where possible, not verbal. Picture and music rounds were safer than arcane references to minor characters in Coronation Street.

For the most part, I have concentrated on quizzes as part of birthday or anniversary celebrations. Rather than being faced with a blank canvas, it is easy here to concentrate on the number of years. I remember a very nice 29th birthday quiz for Micha’el which dealt exclusively with questions based on the number 29. In the past, this would have been challenging, since 29 is not an obvious number, but these days all you need to do is google ‘29’, and then sift through the mountains of material to find the nuggets of question material.

For my late mother-in-law’s 70th birthday, I devised a very elaborate quiz and board game. We were spending the shabbat away together, so I thought there would be plenty of time to play. An array of 10×7 squares represented the 70 years of her life, with a separate question relating to each year.

In addition, there were questions built around 7’s, with all the usual suspects: dwarves, Magnificent, deadly sins, sisters and so forth. (Incidentally, the actor that you can never remember in the original, 1960, The Magnificent Seven is Brad Dexter.) I was very pleased with the end-result, and on the Friday I eagerly packed my box of index cards, coloured tokens and stoutly laminated board.

We never actually played the quiz game; the moment never seemed right. But I have hung on to the questions, and Bernice should be warned that if she isn’t nice to me I shall inflict it on her for her 70th birthday!

Fortunately, Sue and David, Bernice’s sister and her husband, are keen quizzers, and have often been kind enough to ask me to provide questions. This is well within my comfort zone, since we are all of the same era (although they are considerably older than Bernice and myself!) and have similar backgrounds, as do most of the friends they invite to their celebrations.

What I regard as my masterpiece was a musical quiz I devised for David’s 70th birthday. Sue had asked me to incorporate questions on The Barber of Seville, The Shadow of Your Smile and Scherezade. I managed to construct a round of questions built around barbers (ranging from Samuel’s Adagio to Chris’s When the Saints Go Marching In), and a further round in which I spliced together recordings of six different artists singing The Shadow of Your Smile, demonstrating, on the way, that Andy Williams and Johnny Mathis sing in the same key, and with very similar guitar accompaniment.

A round of matching Leroy Anderson pieces to their titles (I knew that David rightly admires Anderson’s ability to write and orchestrate melodies) followed, and we also had a formal, recorded, public version of the game David and I often played privately, each of us in turn singing the eight bars of intro to American standards and inviting the other to identify the song. It is interesting how some songs have remained very well known, while their intros have slipped into relative obscurity. Consider, for example, this lyric:

At words poetic, I’m so pathetic
That I always have found it best
Instead of getting ’em off my chest
To let ’em rest unexpressed

I hate parading my serenading
As I’ll probably miss a bar
But if this ditty is not so pretty
At least it’ll tell you how great you are

The ease of the flow of the language, the effortless but sophisticated internal rhyme, are unmistakably Cole Porter. But I never heard them until I was preparing the quiz. They are the intro to You’re the Top which Porter himself sings inimitably here.

What made me so pleased with this quiz was that David beat everyone else (as the birthday boy should), but even he had to dig deep for one or two answers, and, at the same time, the others were not just bystanders, but were (or at least seemed) eager participants.

Of course, participants are sometimes just a little too eager. I regard myself as being as competitive as the next man, unless of course the next man is a guest at a party I quizzed many years ago.

As well as the usual rounds of questions, the teams had a crossword that they could work on throughout the evening. Eventually, having allowed everyone a final five minutes, the time came to collect the crosswords in, and I had to physically wrestle one guest to the ground to separate him from his crossword.

In recent years I have also started preparing a Purim quiz as part of our price of admission to friends’ seuda (festive meal). This is always a flippant and brief affair, but the family in question are knowledgeable, great lovers of language, for the most part, native Hebrew speakers, and inveterate quizzers. I have taken it upon myself to devise what is almost always a language-based quiz in Hebrew, with wordplay and anagrams. It stretches my command of Hebrew well beyond its normal limits. Nevertheless, so far I have received no complaints.

Last year, when we returned from Portugal the day before Purim, we had to go into isolation immediately, and therefore missed the seuda, Our friends were horrified, and demanded the quiz anyway. Our internet was down (long story), so they had to collect the question sheets from our house, and I had to run the quiz by phone.

Now that I’m retired, of course, I have to prepare quizzes on my own time, rather than my employer’s, but, even so, it is a labour of love…and I do still take bookings.

Meanwhile, back in Portugal, someone is learning that all that food preparation and cooking generates washing up, but nobody has yet told him that this is a chore rather than a privilege, and his parents would appreciate it if you don’t burst the bubble.

If Your Kitchen Caught Fire….

Have you ever considered murdering your spouse, only to be deterred by the fact that you’re not sure how to dispose of the body, since you don’t have access to, or room for, a woodchipper (à la Fargo. [Those of a nervous disposition might want to look away from 40 seconds onwards]). If this resonates with you, then you might like to consider the merits of a Vitamix blender. I don’t normally indulge in product endorsement, but the Vitamix is such a powerhouse that I have to mention it.

If you can stand the sound of a Hell’s Angels convention in your kitchen, then this compact weapon of destruction can convert a kilo of raw root vegetables and half a cup of cold water to a perfectly smooth soup in sixty seconds, and, if you are prepared to risk long-term hearing damage, you can keep it running for another minute, in which time the force of the blades will heat the soup to a serving temperature that would satisfy all but the most demanding customer (which, in our family, is my sister-in-law Adèle). I’m sure it could handle a reasonable-sized spouse without the motor burning out.

I mention the Vitamix for two reasons. I hope that naming it three times in a single post might lead to the manufacturers showing their gratitude by sending me a blender. More realistically, I am reminded that a friend once told me that her friend (I know this is starting to sound like an urban legend, but…) said that if her kitchen were on fire (note the subjunctive in a too-little, too-late attempt to mend some grammatical fences), she would run back into the kitchen to rescue her Vitamix.

I have often thought about this, as one does. I must confess that the comment seems ridiculous to me, since, with internet access, you can replace a Vitamix in days without having to leave the relative comfort of your (admittedly now reeking-of-smoke) home.

If I were (two subjunctives in three paragraphs – this is a genuine attempt at reconciliation) to brave the flames, it would be to rescue something irreplaceable…or, rather, several irreplaceable somethings. I thought you might be interested to hear about them. (As I typed that last sentence, even I was wondering why on earth anyone else should be interested, but, intrepid readers, you have surprised me before, and perhaps you will again this week.)

Exhibit A is a pastry brush. I actually use it as a brush for egg-glazing challot, and it replaced a silicon brush, which was really not gentle enough to coat the challa with egg without driving some of the air out of the risen dough and pulling it slightly out of shape. So, I looked for a brush with natural bristles.

All I could find in the shops in Israel, wherever I looked, were unyielding silicone brushes. Online, I could find just what I was looking for, costing a trifling amount. However, to that cost I had to add shipping. I don’t know what Micha’el and Tslil paid to ship their lift from Israel to Portungal, but it can’t have been much more than the cost of shipping a pastry brush from China to Israel. Of course, if you buy 20,000 pastry brushes, it becomes an economic proposition; but that seems a little excessive.

Then, the last time we were in Portugal, in the China shop (which, you may remember, sells everything), I found one, ridiculously cheap. Needless to say, I bought one to leave there and one to bring home. Glazing the challa is now a pleasure. Happiness, I increasingly find, is most easily achieved through the steady accumulation of such small felicities.

Exhibit B is a short, narrow-bladed, plastic-handled knife, which I use, together with a wooden board, for cleaning and slicing pickled and shmaltz herring, and sometimes for filleting raw fish. The light weight and the narrow blade are all that is needed for slicing through tender fish, and they make the knife very easy to control, allowing me to work in comfort and at speed.

The wooden board is possibly an indulgence, and probably more difficult to clean than a plastic board, but when I scrape the herring skin and other waste to the side of the board, and tap the knife against the board to release the last scraps that have stuck to the knife, I hear the rasps and raps of my childhood, the sounds of my late father z”l standing cutting herring in the shop for hours on end.

Next up is perhaps the most unexpected item. Before we were married (and probably for a decade before we were married), Bernice’s grandmother z”l accumulated, item by item, a trousseau for Bernice (although she called it a bottom drawer). She was far from a wealthy woman, but she knew how to save a little here and a little there, and she was a very canny shopper.

One of the many items she gave us – bought, in all probability, in Well Street market in Hackney – was a bone-handled grapefruit knife. It has seen good service over the years, but, since Bernice doesn’t much like grapefruit, and a health fund dietician recommended recently that I stop eating it because of my osteo-arthritic hip, we don’t really have a need for a grapefruit knife these days. Nevertheless, I couldn’t imagine parting with it.

Having used a number of different grapefruit knives (at Pesach and in other people’s houses), I have come to realise that ours is a miracle of engineering. The teeth are perfectly sized and spaced for cutting through grapefruit flesh cleanly and easily, without tearing. The blade is flexible enough to accommodate the variations of curvature in the fruit. The curve of the blade itself is perfect for scooping out the flesh in two quick circuits of the halved grapefruit – one a series of downward sawing plunges, the second more of a gouging action.

In addition, if, like us, you often cut melon in rings to dice it, rather than cutting ‘boats’, the grapefruit knife is perfect for separating the flesh from the rind at those awkward ends of the melon. On reading my first draft, Bernice also pointed out that what we should clearly be calling an all-purpose scoop knife, rather than a grapefruit knife, is perfect for hollowing out eggplant/aubergine for stuffing.

In my experience, it is only when we are lucky enough to find a perfectly designed implement that we realise just how much craftsmanship goes into it, and just how inadequate most such implements are. Each of these items possesses an integrity and grace that elevates it.

My final choice is the odd man out. Its irreplaceability rests not in its perfect design, although I am sure it is perfectly designed, but rather in its sentimental value. I inherited one of my late father’s smoked-salmon knives. I have never actually used it, so I cannot absolutely vouch for its quality. However, judging by the wafer-thin slices that Dad conjured from a side of salmon, I am sure it is as fine an instrument as the others I have described.

I keep it also because I hope, one day, to try it out. However, I do not understand how anyone gets to practise cutting smoked salmon. Surely, nobody in their right mind would consider entrusting a side of salmon to a novice, to be butchered. (In the same way, I often wonder how a mohel, a ritual circumciser, acquires his skill…or, indeed, a brain surgeon. I seem to remember once hearing something about practising on grapes, but it’s not really something I want to think about too deeply.)

I actually have a recipe for ‘smoked’ salmon that involves wrapping it in aluminium foil, puncturing the foil with airholes, and cooking the salmon in a closed pot on the hob. I hope to try this some time. (Genuinely smoking salmon, in our gas barbecue, using a box of woodchips, seems unnecessarily carcinogenic at this stage.) So, perhaps I may still have a chance to take the salmon knife for a test run.

Meanwhile, I have a clear mental map of the location of these five items, so that, if the dreaded fire does break out, I will be able to save my irreplaceables.

Of course, it’s equally important to have a rolling pin that is just the right size. (This video is from about a month and half ago.)

I Whip Up a Happy Tuna

But first, some housekeeping. In an uncharacteristic moment of immodesty, I ventured last week that I had been the cutest page boy at my aunt and uncle’s wedding. Well, if I did! My brother, not by nature much of a taker of umbrage, in this case took a healthy dose.

As luck would have it, my cousin sent me photographic evidence (which I had unsuccessfully looked for in our dining-room cabinet cupboard, a cupboard crammed with photos that keep screaming at me: Corona is the perfect opportunity to put us into a semblance of order!). So, here it is; I leave you to decide whether my brother is the cuter one, or I am. Actually, looking at the photo again, he may have a point, but I would never admit as much to him.

And so to this week’s actual topic. I have mentioned previously that, in my 18 years as a technical writer, I travelled quite a lot on business. My role was to capture the minutes at meetings with our customers, meetings designed to discover the gaps between what the customer required and what our off-the-shelf software solution provided, in order to identify precisely what customisations were required. My work consisted of sitting in on meetings throughout the business day, sometimes working through lunch, and then polishing the minutes, often late into the night, for approval the following morning. The work was very demanding, in terms of both the length of the working day and the level of concentration required throughout. This was especially true for me, since I had no technical background and typically understood between ten and twenty per cent of what I was capturing. The relevance here is that I had few opportunities for fine dining.

I learnt a lot spending a week or two in a wide range of major cities in Europe and North America, and a couple in Asia. Perhaps the most important thing that I learnt was that eating tuna and sardines for two weeks straight sitting in a hotel room does not make you a stronger swimmer.

Every one who keeps kosher and travels has stories to tell. I’ll tell you mine…and then you might want to share yours. Those of you who don’t keep kosher may never even have thought about the challenges. Why on earth would you?

My food travelling kit consisted of a tin of fish* and a sachet of cup-a-soup for each day away, crackers to accompany the fish, my favourite teabags, a plastic plate and bowl, a china cup, and cheap metal cutlery. (On one occasion, my knife was confiscated at the airport, despite the fact that, as I explained to the security staff, I would find an identical knife on my in-flight dinner tray in a couple of hours.)

In addition, I carried ‘portable and discreet’ food that I could take to the office to eat for lunch, or nibble discreetly if we were working through lunch and I was falling asleep from hunger. In my case, this comprised raw peanuts, almonds, sultanas, Nature Valley bars and plain chocolate.

On arriving at my destination, I would check in and then go in search of the nearest supermarket, where I would buy fresh fruit and salad and milk. In America, this represented one kind of challenge. By the time I arrived at the strip mall, it would be something like 20 hours since I had left home. I would park my hire car and walk into the supermarket. I would then spend ten minutes selecting food and 30 minutes walking up and down the half-mile milk section, trying to find a normal carton of milk, with no additives or subtractives, in a size that would fit into my hotel minibar.

I would then walk out of the supermarket, look around the vast open-air car park, and realise that I had no recollection of where I had parked, and, in addition, no idea of what make, model or colour of car I had just picked up at the airport. I can highly recommend, as a way of recovering from a long transatlantic flight, a healthy 30-minute walk up and down a strip-mall car park, carrying weights in each hand (two supermarket bags are ideal), pressing a remote unlock button every ten seconds while desperately looking for blinking sidelights.

In Bangkok, my problem was rather different. My hotel led directly onto an indoor mall, at one end of which was a Tesco’s. This was tremendously comforting, until I walked in, and realized two colossal challenges. Everything was labelled in Thai. Please don’t think I am complaining about that. Of course that is a perfectly reasonable thing to find in Thailand, and the problem is all mine, not theirs. (Incidentally, I have seen it claimed that Thai uses an alphabet, but written Thai looks more like the cardiogram of someone with arrythmia). The second challenge was that I was completely unable to determine, having found fresh produce, what was a salad vegetable and what was an unspeakable and boneless something dredged out of the depths of the sea.

There are some episodes of Star Trek in which the intrepid crew land on a planet that supports a civilization whose homes are furnished with fruit bowls and flower vases. The set dressers always come up with some laughably weird fruits and flowers to place in the bowls and vases. Bangkok kept reminding me of that.

I stated earlier that on business trips abroad I had few opportunities for fine dining. Occasionally, the opportunity did arise. I was once covering a two-day board-level customer meeting in Vienna, and, as part of the package to entice our most important customers’ CTOs and CIOs to give up two days of their time, these specific meetings included luxury boutique hotel accommodation and fine wining and dining. On this occasion, we were entertaining the customers at Vienna’s finest restaurant. Two of us had requested kosher food, which was provided from a local kosher caterer.

This was during the period when cuisine minceur was all the rage. The restaurant’s first course was, if I remember rightly, a cube of turtle meat about the size of a sugar cube, with two lengths of grass laid tastefully beside it. Next was an espresso cup of consommé. By this point, we had ploughed our way through gefilte fish balls the size of your fist and a deep bowl of chicken soup with lockshen and kneidlach. When the party’s main course of a diaphanous slice of roast beef, a new potato, a fan of six string beans and a teaspoon of mustard sauce arrived, our fellow diners were bidding against each other for a share of the kosher chicken dinner that filled our generous dinner plates.

On another occasion, I was in Montreal for the fast of Asara b’Tevet, in early January. The basement of our hotel led directly into the subterranean pedestrian precinct. We would walk the half mile every morning to the customer’s downtown office. I had not actually been outside for almost a week. When the fast ended at sunset, I was still working, but at 7:30 I decided that I could not face sitting at the desk of my hotel room to break my fast on yet another tuna and salad meal . I knew that there was a kosher restaurant serving the Jewish student community. I always feel that there are few sadder sights than a middle-aged man eating by himself in a restaurant, but I really needed a hot meal of comfort food. I checked on the map; the restaurant was only a ten-minute walk away. So I put on a second pair of socks, donned my thick sweater, winter coat, cap, gloves and scarf, and set off.

If you have never tried to walk in Montreal in midwinter without snowboots you will have to use your imagination. A ten-minute walk in summer becomes a thirty-minute trek, during which, every time you need to cross a road, you have to scale a mound of snow that makes you wish you had brought your crampons. I was almost, but not quite, completely wrapped up against the cold. I never realized that your eyebrows can ache from the cold.

When I eventually arrived at the restaurant, they were about to close, but took pity on me, and I enjoyed chopped liver, salt beef and chips that took me back to the Blooms of my childhood. The meal was so good that I did not even mind the walk back to the hotel.

One final memory. The first time I returned from the Far East, having been away for almost three weeks, I was very much looking forward to the kosher airline meal. Not because I expected it to be fine dining, you understand; simply because I had lived out of a fish can and a cracker packet for too long. When I opened the promising black box, I discovered…tuna and crackers, which I soon learned is the standard fare on long-haul trips from Singapore or Bangkok. Never mind: it made finally arriving back home all the sweeter.

What I haven’t yet spoken about is shabbat away from home. Unless I was on a weeklong trip to Europe, I was unable to return home in time for shabbat, and so I always had to spend shabbat abroad. Watching my non-religious colleagues leave for home on Thursday night or Friday morning was rather depressing, but I usually comforted myself with the knowledge that my employer was footing my hotel bill, and I would have a chance to see something of the city I was in, before my Sunday flight took off. However, I think that shabbat abroad is a large enough subject to warrant a post to itself, at some point in the future when I am casting about for something to write about.

Meanwhile, to prove that you don’t need to travel far from home to see things of interest…

*The fish I packed was principally tuna, with a couple of tins of sardines. This explains this week’s title, which is supposed to be an amusing reference to a song from The King and Me (as some of you would probably prefer me to say).

Today I am not a Fountain Pen

Note to self: No politics, no religion, no fake news, no grammar.

This, of course, means that I have had to scrap my planned opening sentence:
In my opinion, Trump weren’t the antichrist.
 (Incidentally, whether I judge that sentence disqualified on three or four counts is for you to guess and me to know.)

So, instead, let’s start by considering whether Dickens is the greatest second-tier English novelist. Or, rather, let’s start somewhere else entirely (apparently) and see if we can get to Dickens.

Some of you may have recognised the title of this week’s post as hinting at the apocryphal opening of a barmitzvah boy’s speech in the 1950’s, whimsically referencing the cliché barmitzvah gift in England at the time. By the time of my barmitzvah, in 1963, the joke had more or less driven the gift out, and I received not a single writing implement. This should not have been a problem, because, when I was an adorable two-and-a-half-year-old, Auntie Mimi had married Uncle Sam.

I was one of Mimi’s five nephews (and no nieces), and so, in the absence of bridesmaids, all 5 boys (aged 6 to 2) were decked out in bow ties, waistcoats and berets (Mimi and Sam were both francophiles) and stole the show as the cutest set of page boys you can imagine (none cuter, or chubbier, than the baby, yours truly).

As a gift to mark the occasion, we were each given a classic Conway Stewart lever-fill fountain pen, marbled pattern, gold nib, in a magnificent padded and satin-lined box that snapped shut with a reassuringly solid thud. Over the next eight-and-a-half years, I opened and closed the box, caressing the satin, removing the pen from its bracket and feeling its heft in my hand, many times.

However, I was not actually allowed to use it until grammar (high) school, at the age of 11. In primary (elementary) school, we had wooden desks with an insert enamel inkwell at the top right corner, an ink monitor (a dizzyingly high rank, only slightly lower than milk monitor) who ensured that the inkwells were full each day, and wooden-handled pens. May I draw your attention to the authentically ink-stained forefinger in Exhibit A. Rest assured: this was as nothing compared with the state of my fingers at the end of the average schoolday.

At school, I vied with Elizabeth Jones for top marks in all subjects….except for penmanship, at which she excelled and I…didn’t. For one thing, her page of writing displayed a perfect flow and evenness of letters, where mine looked like a sampler for 50 different sizes and styles of lettering, none of them one you would want to select. For another, the rest of her page was a pristine cream, while mine looked like an aerial view of wetlands. In addition, by the end of the day all the digits of my right hand were stained blue, whereas Elizabeth could have modelled Nivea hand cream.

My greatest achievement of penmanship (or, more correctly pen-and-pencilmanship), however, was in grammar school, where we were required for homework to trace an outline map of Australia, and shade the outside of the outline in blue pencil, to indicate the sea. My homework was returned with a mark of 3/10 and the comment: This is the most spineless work I have ever seen. 58 years later, I still have no idea what a spineful map of Australia would look like.

To return to the Conway Stewart, lever-fill, marbled effect, gold-nibbed pen, you can imagine my excitement when, at age 11, I was finally allowed to take the pen from its box, unscrew the cap, gently lower the nib into a bottle of Parker Quink ink, ease the lever from its recess on the side of the pen to compress the ink sac, slowly replace the lever, lift out the now full pen, dab the nib with a piece of blotting paper to remove any excess ink, and securely replace the threaded cap. Thus armed, I set off for Day 1 at grammar school. With such a magnificent pen in my inside breast pocket accompanying me through seven years of school, I would surely triumph.

On Day 3, I lost the pen. I naturally contemplated running away from home, but reckoned they would find me wherever I hid, and so I eventually decided to face the music, and a succession of cheap, plain pens without gold nibs accompanied me through the rest of my school career; these pens, aggravatingly but predictably, were never lost.

All of this explains why, while not receiving a fountain pen as a barmitzvah gift should not have been a problem, I would actually have welcomed one. But it was not to be. Instead, I received no fewer than three briefcases – all with the exotic and tangy aroma of real leather – which actually just about saw me through my entire seven years of grammar school, despite being: thrown in advance over railings before I scaled the railings myself; landed on by numerous goalies making extravagant saves during pick-up football games; used as assault weapons in impromptu scraps; and generally given the full range of Which! Briefcase reasonable usage tests.

I also received, and this struck me as a little excessive, three travelling alarm clocks. For those who can barely remember a pre-cellphone age, these were in the form of a case, three inches square and an inch deep, which unclasped to become three hinged panels. One of the end panels consisted of an alarm clock face and mechanism. The hinges opened to 60o, to allow the three panels to form a stable triangular block that could sit on a bedside table. Luminous hands, and a satisfyingly chunky key-shaped winder at the back of the clock were impressive features. However, the button for switching off the alarm was usually less accessible and aggravatingly fiddly. Needless to say, none of these clocks has survived the intervening 57 years…or, indeed, needed to.

The only presents that have survived are books…and not even all of those. A few years ago, in our last major clear-out, I forced myself to part with the Oxford Junior Encyclopaedia, finally admitting that not only is information more easily retrieved from the internet, but also that huge swathes of the 12-volume set – science, political geography, arts…almost everything, really, except for Greek and Roman mythology – were no longer relevant or accurate or politically correct. I kept the 13th volume, an index and overview, for sentimental reasons, and, as is their wont, books soon arrived to fill the gap left on the bookshelves.

However, I still have the religious books I received: a Tanach (full Old Testament) with a rather leaden translation, a Haggadah, which I still use every seder night on Pesach, and which is almost-living proof that matza crumbs do not degrade over half a century, and my set of Routledge machzorim (festival prayer books), whose publication can be dated, of course, by the wording listing the names in the prayer for the Royal Family. In my case, it is:
Our Sovereign Lady, Queen Elizabeth (so 1952 at the earliest)
Elizabeth, the Queen Mother
(so 2002 at the latest)
Philip, Duke of Edinburgh
(no help – 1947 at the earliest)
Charles, Duke of Cornwall
(so 1957 at the latest)

The other books that have stayed with me are a complete set of Dickens, bound in red mock-leather with my monogram on the covers. Very handsome they look in the bookcase, too.

Although I read and enjoyed many of the novels over the years, I often felt that Dickens was, as I mentioned at the start of this meander, perhaps the finest of the second rank of novelists. Of course, I recognised that technically his books were splendid: his plotting and control of the narrative were immensely skilful, and he was able to conjure up a host of memorable characters. And yet….and yet…for many years I felt that there was a depth missing. I suspect that there were three dimensions to that perceived depth that , as I then thought, marked out ‘great literature’: a tragic ending, ambiguous characters and complex emotions. I believed that all great literature must be tragic, and also that there was something intrinsically second-rate about characters that could be easily understood and situations and events that evoked a clear and simple emotional response in the reader.

I was forced to reconsider when, over 20 years ago, I took a job which required me to commute daily, for three months, from southern Jerusalem to central Tel Aviv. This meant that I was taking three buses each way daily for a total of about 18 hours a week. I decided to use this time to plug some of my Dickens gaps. Over the three months, I managed to read six or seven of the novels I had not read previously. At the end of that period, I was a convert to what, I believe, was Dickens portrayal of the world as he saw it. The clarity in the books that can sometimes seem childlike reflects the clarity with which Dickens saw the world, and the overwhelming affection he felt for his created characters. I now feel that my earlier assessment was the result of prejudice: Dickens proves that great literature can be different from what I expected.

30 years ago, Peter Ackroyd wrote a fascinating and very idiosyncratic biography of Dickens, which is now out of print. An abridged version was published in 2002, which I believe omitted Ackroyd’s imaginative reconstruction of Dickens’ thoughts. If you can find the original version, it’s a sometimes bizarre and always fascinating read.

If, on the other hand, you have only 90 minutes to spare, you might prefer to listen to Simon Callow ‘performing’ Peter Ackroyd’s The Mystery of Charles Dickens. Callow is not only a passionate Dickens fan, but also is, I always feel, quintessentially Dickensian himself – larger than life and relishing all he tastes of life.

Meanwhile, back in Penamacor, Tao has graduated to Escapology 201. He has fully grasped that one needs to understand how a buckle works if one is to learn how to release it. Note, also, the triumphant Yes at the end: one of his few words at the moment, and one he clearly relishes.

A Cat, Several Pigeons, and I/Me (Delete as necessary)

I don’t know about your dentist, but mine has the habit of settling you in the chair, tilting you back to a virtually horizontal position, clamping your top jaw and packing your bottom jaw with cotton wool, and then starting a conversation, which is, perforce, rather one-sided. It so happens that I was at the dentist last week, about four hours after publishing my last blog post.

“My wife,” began the dentist (who is also a co-congregant and friend), “is pretty upset by what you wrote”. I knew immediately what he was referring to. I realized I was going to have to live with my earlier hasty decision, and that I knew what my topic for this week would be. I’ll explain all presently (if this week’s title hasn’t already made it obvious).

But first, to continue my story. After the dentist had worked his alchemy on a recalcitrant tooth, I returned home to discover, in my inbox, a shocked email from a friend of over 30 years’ standing, a Classical scholar, who took issue with my English both in itself and as reflecting Danish grammar, which (if I understood him correctly) he claimed is the real arbiter of how English grammar should be. (My friend is Danish; his English is, like that of all the Danes I know, excellent – as I always say, if it weren’t, there would be precious few people he could talk to.)

So, what evoked these shocked and outraged responses? It was that, once again, I had used a nominative noun as part of an accusative compound noun phrase. Don’t panic! To be specific, I had written:

My father z”l was a keen all-round sportsman, and introduced my brother – Martin – and I to tennis at a fairly young age.

My two erudite friends argued that I should have written:

My father z”l was a keen all-round sportsman, and introduced my brother – Martin – and me to tennis at a fairly young age.

Their reasoning was that, since it would be incorrect to write:

My father…introduced I to tennis

it is similarly incorrect to write

My father…introduced my brother and I to tennis

Now, I don’t want to suggest that their position is eccentric. My blog is read by at least two others who take the same position strongly enough to have written to me on the first occasion I used this construction (and probably many others who didn’t feel strongly enough about it to actually write to me).

I want to first consider the underlying premise behind the argument that what I wrote was incorrect. This is a premise that was originally implicit, but that one of my correspondents made explicit later, writing:

I know that language evolves, and it certainly needs to. But I suspect there’s a vast difference between changes of growth and changes of … neglect (?), where a society – its speakers and its teachers/students–can’t be bothered to care about or learn their language.

That is exactly the fundamental point where I differ from my critics. Their view of English is the one I, and they, grew up with:

I was educated in a school system that taught and practised parsing – breaking down a sentence into its parts and describing the syntactic role of each part in the sentence. Parsing was presented and treated as an exact science, and, for each exercise, there was a single right answer. English grammar, I was raised to believe, was a closed, complete, perfect and unchanging system.

Not coincidentally, this ‘English grammar’ that I was taught was modelled very closely on Latin grammar. Where it didn’t fit, grammarians took a mallet to hammer various round pegs of English into square holes of Latin. The two facts they failed to take sufficient account of were that English is not Latin and that all native Latin speakers are dead! As a result, Latin is a dead language and, therefore, does not develop. On the other hand, a surprisingly large number of English speakers are alive. Trying to impose a closed, complete, perfect and unchanging system of grammar on a living language is a little like trying to fit a jellyfish into a small box: bits will forever be spilling over the edges.

Living languages are changing languages, and the changes are made not by grammarians but by users of the language. There may be some who wish this was not so, but they are not free to decree that it shall not be so. King Cnut (or Canute, as know him) of Denmark (there’s that pesky Denmark again), Norway and England demonstrated that eloquently when he sat enthroned on the beach and commanded the tide not to come in (knowing full well that it would not obey).

To illustrate this process of change, I have cunningly sprinkled through the first 150 words of this post a number of examples of ways in which English has changed in the last 30 years (or, in one case, 400 years). How many of them did you spot as being ‘wrong’, and how many slipped under your radar?

I knew immediately what he was referring to.

I grew up ‘knowing’ that a preposition was a word you must not end a sentence with. You probably know the (possibly apocryphal) chestnut attributed to Churchill. He received either a ‘corrected’ draft of a speech of his, or a very stuffy letter, with an awkward sentence including a preposition moved from its natural position at the end. He scrawled on the manuscript: ‘This is the kind of language up with which I will not put.’ There is no logical reason for this ‘rule’; it serves no purpose, and usually results in a sentence that is harder to understand, since we have to ‘remember’ the preposition until the end of the sentence, when we can reunite it with the verb that it naturally follows. Compare these two examples:

Where is the hat from which he pulled the rabbit?
Where is the hat he pulled the rabbit from?

Of course, you could argue that in the second sentence, from is separated from the hat’, which also makes the sentence harder to understand. In this case, a more drastic rewrite might be best: perhaps something like:

He pulled the rabbit from a hat: where is the hat?

I’ll explain all presently.

Originally, and unsurprisingly, presently meant at the present time, immediately. For example: I’ll do it presently meant I’ll do it now.

From the 17the Century, this gradually weakened, until today it probably means something more like at some indeterminate time in the not-too-distant future.

I bring this example to demonstrate that the meaning of words is fluid, and the changes in meaning are determined not by some official body (What an absurdity the Académie Francaise is, banning words: clearly, Cnut was not king of France.) The meaning of words is shaped by the way they are used. Some people think that the compilers of dictionaries invent what words mean; in fact, they discover the meanings that are already current. A dictionary is a snapshot of a language’s vocabulary as it is used at one moment in time in the real world.

The same, incidentally, is true for spelling. In the mid-1300s, there were heated discussions, and ladies having fainting fits, over the ‘incorrect’ writing of cupboard, when everyone knew it was two words: cup board. Changes like this are a process, and if you happen to be living in the period when this process takes place, you may find yourself arguing about which form is correct, instead of asking (of the journey from two words to one) Are we there yet?

But first, to continue my story.

I’m particularly pleased with this example, since it ‘breaks’ two ‘rules’: Never begin a sentence with a conjunction, and: Every sentence must have a finite verb. Thirty years ago, I would have ‘corrected’ this sentence to something like:

However, first let me continue my story

and ended up with a sentence that seems to me a weaker piece of communication.

So, language is constantly changing, and we should recognise that sometimes we are upset by changes in language in the same way as we are upset by changes in musical styles. Just because I happen to think Western music reached its peak with Bach, and it’s been steadily downhill since 1750, doesn’t mean that Beethoven’s musical style is incorrect. I can rue the change, without condemning it as wrong.

Let’s return now to my correspondent’s suspicion that there’s a vast difference between changes of growth and changes of … neglect (?), where a society….can’t be bothered to care about or learn their language.

I am reminded of two rather different characters: M. Jourdain and Bubba Watson. Jourdain is the foolish bourgeois who aspires to be a gentleman in Molière’s comedy. At one point, he is amazed to discover that: ‘For more than forty years I have been speaking prose while knowing nothing of it!’ We don’t need to study our own language in the abstract; it is sufficient to experience it in our daily lives. It is also unreasonable to expect the majority of language users to undertake serious academic study of their native language; just because I find this stuff exciting, I don’t need to inflict it on others (so feel free to leave).

Bubba Watson is an American golfer who rose to World No 2 in his prime, and who has earned at least $30 million from golf. What brings him here is that he has never had a single golf lesson in his life. He is a purely instinctual player. It’s not that he can’t be bothered to care about or learn golf; it is, rather, that he has a natural gift. Native speakers, I would argue, also have a natural gift.

Language is a functioning democracy. If a sufficiently large number of people decide to adopt a new word, meaning, spelling, grammatical or syntactical structure, it will be adopted generally. Once it is adopted, it is part of English. We might personally think it less elegant or useful than what it replaced (although that is often merely subjective), but we cannot argue that it is wrong.

The point at which a language finds itself at any given moment is a set of conventions, not immutable laws. These conventions have no moral value, and they can be changed with impunity. That’s how living languages function.

Let’s return now to the example that sparked this blog.

My father…introduced my brother and I to tennis.

The fact is, if I’m being completely honest, that this doesn’t sound right to me. Unfortunately, neither does:

My father…introduced my brother and me to tennis.

On this particular journey, from the grammatically conventional ‘me’ to the colloquially increasingly popular ‘I’, I feel more or less equidistant from the starting point and the finishing post, and I can’t really see either. I am confident that, when I write my blog in another 30 years, I will be completely comfortable with ‘I’….and so will you.

Meanwhile, here’s someone who started not just speaking, but also reading, his own language, faultlessly, 9 months ago.

Anyone for Tennis?

Spoiler alert: The title says it all. This started out as a post about sport in general, but I quickly realised that I will need more than one post to do justice to the subject, so this may well be the first of an occasional series. If the mere mention of the word sport induces in you a coma, I apologise. Feel free to leave. I look forward to seeing you next week.

For as long as I can remember, tennis was always one of my family’s favourite sports. My father z”l was a keen all-round sportsman, and introduced my brother Martin and I to tennis at a fairly young age. I knew almost immediately that this was my sport. The activity comes in short, intense bursts, with ample recovery time. Nobody comes crashing into you, barging you out of the way or hacking your legs out from under you. Tennis marries power and finesse, instinct and guile. It uses a ball that, when someone is firing it at you at speed, has the (for you) distinct advantage of not being made of solid cork covered in hard, stitched leather, like a cricket ball. Recreational tennis depends on you, and the player on the other side of the net, trusting each other to play fair, since each of you will usually be better placed to call the other’s shots in or out. The sport requires some equipment, which means that it comes with a body of specialized knowledge, and allows satisfyingly nerdy discussion of the relative merits of different makes of racquet and ball. At the same time, it is surprising how little you can make do with – see below.

By the age of eight or nine, I was hooked. This meant playing once or twice a week, for an hour, or two, or three, at a time, on the municipal courts in our local park. The park boasted about ten hardcourts, so there was usually at least one available. However, the quality of the different courts’ playing surfaces varied: from the recently refurbished (smooth, with crisp, white line markings) to the ridged and pock-marked. The word ‘fault’ is often heard on a tennis court, but seldom referring to something that resembles San Andreas. If I ever played a visitor on one of the worse courts, I enjoyed the advantage of knowing where to attempt to place the ball to maximise the chance of an uneven bounce, much like a slow bowler taking advantage of the fast bowlers’ footmarks.

Another feature of the more unkempt courts was that they had the odd tuft of weed sprouting in the cracks, which helped us imagine that we were playing on the hallowed lawns of our beloved Wimbledon.

Not that our imagination needed much help. In addition to the tennis described above, my friends and I also played hand-tennis every day after school. Using the existing markings (for netball, possibly?), we played with an old tennis ball, which we hit with our open palm. We had to imagine the net; we gave no quarter; but I remember no arguments, no John McEnroe You cannot be serious outbursts. There we would be, rain or shine, until we could no longer see the ball, playing in shirtsleeves, or jumpers (sweaters not having been adopted yet in England) or duffle coats (not many blogs can legitimately introduce duffle coats two weeks running, I bet).

In our minds, my best friend Peter and I were Pietrangeli and Sirola, the Italian doubles pair who won the French Championships in 1959, all grace and elegance. If you can stand in drizzle, wearing a duffle coat that, sodden, weighs twice what it did when it was dry, palming a half-bald tennis ball across a primary school playground, and feel as though you are gliding across the sun-baked clay of Roland Garros in the brightest of whites, then your imagination is at the peak of health.

I did actually get to play once on sun-baked clay. On a family holiday in Italy, Martin and I were woken ridiculously early (on reflection, it was probably 6:30) to play for an hour before breakfast, and before the sun was too high in the sky. Given the very long hours he worked, my father was not able to spend much time with us throughout the year, so this was a wonderful holiday, and that halcyon hour on the clay court was, in itself, enough to fuel another decade of fantasies.

Our tennis year naturally revolved around the Wimbledon fortnight – last week in June, first week in July. There was good BBC television coverage of the tournament as I was growing up. At first, although I enjoyed watching, I far preferred playing. At some point, and I wonder whether this is one measure of my move from childhood to adolescence, I preferred to stay home and watch an absorbing match, however inviting the weather was outside the window.

In our family, watching Wimbledon also meant, with very fortunate frequency, going to Wimbledon and watching live. Wimbledon tickets are allocated by a draw. The public are invited to apply to be included in the draw, and lucky winners are allocated at random a specific court and a specific day. My parents applied every year, and were, as I say, often lucky enough to be drawn. On one memorable occasion, when they had tickets for Centre Court on Finals Day, they generously gave the tickets to Martin and I.

We started early for the long tube journey from East to South London. I was armed with my binoculars, and I suspect Martin had his camera with him. We emerged from the depths of Southfields station to discover a dull and drizzly day. A short cab ride brought us to the ground. We settled in our seats nice and early, and spent the next four hours waiting for the weather to improve. I was able to watch the rain splashing on the covers in close-up, thanks to the binoculars and Martin was, presumably, able to photograph the pools of standing water. Eventually, we heard the dreaded announcement that play was abandoned for the day, and started our long trek back home. The icing on this particular poisoned cake was that the finals were postponed to the following Monday, and we both knew that there was no chance that our parents would agree to us taking a day off school.

However, I do have several happier memories of going to Wimbledon, and actually watching some tennis. The Championships operated a scheme (I’ve just checked, and they still do) whereby any ticketholders leaving the ground early were invited to leave their tickets in special postboxes placed around the grounds. (There were many suburban housewives who came to Wimbledon, but left early enough to be in time to have dinner on the table when their husbands arrived home from work.) These tickets were then collected, and, from mid-late afternoon, resold for a modest fee. All proceeds went, I believe, to the Lawn Tennis Association and were earmarked for affiliated charities. I have a memory of tickets being resold for half-a-crown; I see that the current price is 120 times that amount.

Several times, when the forecast promised good weather, Martin and I travelled to the championships straight from school, arriving around 5PM. On one memorable occasion, we were lucky enough to get Centre Court tickets, sitting high up in one corner of the court, It was men’s doubles semi-finals day, July, 1967.

In the previous round, an unseeded English pair, Peter Curtis and Graham Stiwell, had beaten the Number 1 seeds, John Newcombe and Tony Roche, 8-6 in the fifth set. They were now facing the Number 4 seeds, Roy Emerson and Ken Fletcher, for a place in the final. This was a match that had us on the edge of our seats from start to finish. You need to remember that this was in an era when the best players played all three events, so that the doubles events offered tennis every bit as high quality as the singles, and often at a more spectacular pace.

In the afternoon light, with shadows lengthening across the court, the match unfolded. The Australians won the first two sets 6-4, 8-6. The English then rallied to take two equally tight sets 6-4, 7-5. Would they be able to take the fifth to win a place in the final? Equally nervewracking was the question: Would the light remain good enough to complete the match that day. The prospect of our having to leave after the fourth and miss seeing the conclusion was awful. Of course, the prospect for the players of having to resume the following day must have also been very unattractive for them.

Fortunately, July in England provides some long, lingering evenings, and this was one of them. The fifth set was fought to a darkening but thrilling conclusion at 9-7. The only fly in the ointment was that it was 9-7 to the Australians (doubtless to the delight of at least two of my readers). At least we had the satisfaction of knowing later that they were beaten in the final by the South Africans Bob Hewitt and Frew McMillan.

Of course, tennis was a very different game then. 1967 was the last year before Wimbledon became open to professionals. Racquets were wooden, and, to prevent warping, we kept them in presses. The old-fashioned square press had a wingnut and bolt at each corner, each of which you had to loosen each time to remove the racquet. When this mechanism was replaced by a single metal bar which you pulled up to loosen the press instantly, we were stunned by the cutting-edge technology. The balls were white, not yellow. The racquets did not have the big heads they have now…and nor did the players. It was a gentler, less intense game, with no grunting and generally refined conduct, although, even before John McEnroe’s tantrums, Bob Hewitt was known to take offence at some umpiring decisions, and to plonk himself down, sit cross-legged on the court and refuse to move for a few minutes.

I have spent the last 50 years measuring each rising star – Newcombe, Borg, McEnroe, Connors (I always say that the difference between those two is that McEnroe hated losing and Connors loved winning), Sampras, Agassi, Federer, Nadal, Djokovic – against my gold standard – Rod Laver. Comparisons are, of course, in some sense meaningless. Each player is necessarily a product of his time, and shaped by specific equipment, playing surface, timetable and training parameters. I think each fan is to some extent similarly a product of his formative years.

However, Laver’s performance on the professional circuit in the six years between when he turned professional and when the grand slam tournaments became open to professionals, is sufficiently impressive to suggest that, had he not ‘lost’ those six years of opportunity, he would have won more major titles than any other player so far has. In addition, he changed the way the game was played, turning defensive shots into attacking ones. Before Laver, if you chased down a lob on your backhand, you threw up a lob in return. Laver’s wrist strength allowed him to play a topspin backhand drive cross-court or down the line, while running back. If I had to choose one player who gave me most pleasure to watch, it would definitely be either Laver or Federer, and I’m glad I don’t have to choose between them, but have been privileged to enjoy them both, and so many others.

Sadly, Tao hasn’t started playing tennis yet…but he was, coincidentally, involved in a sporting contest in failing light last week.

Year One and Counting

Those of you who know me really well are probably as astonished as I am to realise that today’s post is my 52nd, and that, according to the Hebrew calendar, I reached my first blog birthday on 20 Marcheshvan, 2 days before the day I am writing this. Both when I started, and this week, we read in synagogue Pareshat (the weekly Torah portion) Chayei Sarah.  I tell you all this to justify this week’s topic, even though the Gregorian anniversary of my first post will actually only be on 12 November, in a couple of days.

Either way, my thoughts have been turning to the, for me, astounding fact that I have stuck at this blog for an entire year. I’m not sure I’ve ever stuck at anything voluntarily for that long, and certainly not anything that required effort (so my marriage doesn’t count…all the effort there has been on Bernice’s part).

In my childhood, I took up trainspotting, which, before it was the title of a novel and film, was a schoolboy hobby. My friend Peter and I would regularly meet up, each armed with a Bic ballpoint pen, a 6-inch wooden ruler and our copy of Ian Allen’s ABC Guide, which provided a list, arranged numerically by serial number, of all railway engines in service in the Eastern Region. We would buy a platform ticket at Ilford station, or, if we could afford it, take the train to Stratford, and sometimes even Liverpool Street, to spend hours on the platform, usually in a light but persistent drizzle.

If I close my eyes, I can still smell the unique cocktail made up of the heady and exotic scent of a steam train engine, all coal dust and steam, mingled with the dank odour of a soggy duffle coat.

We would check every engine we saw against our copies of the ABC Guide, and rule a neat (or, in my case, blotchy and slightly skewed) ballpoint line through the number of each engine that we had never spotted before.

I only bring up the whole topic in order to tell you that, despite the considerable up-front expense of buying the ABC Guide, I only stuck at it for a short while, until the task of filling pages and pages like this seemed just too daunting.

And that pattern seems to have repeated itself many times. The phrase nine-day wonder seems not entirely inappropriate.

And yet, here I am, coming to the end of an entire year, without having missed a week, and feeling that I can maybe contemplate another year. The fact is that, a couple of weeks ago, when I wrestled for two days over a post, I confided to Bernice that I was considering cutting down to a fortnightly post (that’s every two weeks for any Americans who don’t know the word – and it would be invidious of me to point out that we Brits have one word to do the job of 3 of yours). However, reaching this milestone has pumped oxygen back into my muscles, and I’m not ready to compromise just yet.

Seeking inspiration, I turned to a book that I bought second hand for 40p (so it can’t have been more than 49 years ago). My mother z”l, despite being a very intelligent woman, had no intellectual or high-cultural pretensions. She read the Daily Mirror without fail, every morning (the Sunday Mirror once a week). The daily press in Britain at the time was firmly divided into highbrow broadsheet papers and lowbrow tabloid papers, and the Mirror was definitely in the second category. Mum always maintained that, if you only had half an hour to read a paper, you would be better informed reading the Mirror than any other paper.

In the era when she read it, I think she was right. Since then, of course, much of the ‘quality’ press in Britain has been Murdoched down and the old tabloid papers now have little if anything to do with genuine news stories. In the 1950s and 60s, however, the Mirror was vigorous and succinct in its exploration and presentation of the news, and in its comment columns.

The most famous Mirror columnist was William Neil Connor, who contributed 500 words, two or three times a week, every week for over 30 years, from 1935 until shortly before his early death in 1967. I am, frankly, in awe. I know he was being paid for doing this, but even so, I greatly admire his ability to maintain so consistently high a level of writing over all this time, and not to run out of subjects, particularly since he didn’t have a second home in Portugal.

In fairness, this spell was broken by his war service from 1940 to 1945. To give you a tiny taste of his style: he began his first column after returning in 1945:

As I was saying when I was interrupted, it is a powerful hard thing to please all of the people all of the time….

Connor wrote under the pseudonym Cassandra. His columns were a mix of political comment, personal reminiscence, musings and comic entertainments. I remembered reading and enjoying Cassandra’s column very much, in the paper and in book form. When I revisited the book as today’s post was starting to take shape in my mind, I was surprised to discover how fresh his pieces still are. His no-nonsense, down-to-earth style has aged very gracefully.

As he became a well-known and well-respected columnist, Cassandra took on more serious assignments. He attended, and wrote about: the trials of Eichmann, and Jack Ruby (who shot J. F. Kennedy’s assassin); the enthronement of Pope John; Churchill’s funeral; the Korean War. He interviewed, among many others, President Kennedy, Senator McCarthy, Billy Graham, Charlie Chaplin, Adlai Stevenson, David Ben Gurion, Archbishop Makarios, and Marilyn Monroe.

All of these more serious pieces were interspersed with short columns telling appalling jokes based on wordplay. As he himself put it:

Forward into the abyss of unspeakable puns.

For example: there was the miserly theatrical agent who caught his assistant making an expensive international phone call in an attempt to book a pair of Persian acrobats, rather than sending a much cheaper letter. Challenged to explain his action, the assistant explained:

I was only trying to bill two Kurds with one phone.

It is at about this point that I realized this column was heading towards a second newspaper columnist. Once the penny dropped, writing the rest of it was easy.

Exhibit B is a columnist (and television personality) who I always thought I used to look like (when I had hair), and who I certainly would have loved to emulate: Bernard Levin.

He first came to prominence while working a theatre critic. He had a regular slot conducting a serious interview, or leading a discussion, on the ground-breaking satirical BBC TV show That Was The Week That Was. He showed no mercy when savaging the interviewees, and often launched into lengthy diatribes, leaving little time for the ‘victim’ to respond.

When he turned to being a newspaper columnist, he matched or bettered Cassandra’s 32-year run (with a 5-year interruption). Levin wrote five columns a week for the Daily Mail, from 1965 to 1970. Then the paper’s owner attempted to censor Levin’s support for the Labour Party, in breach of Levin’s contract, which guaranteed him political freedom in his column. He almost immediately joined The Times, where he wrote two or three columns a week for the next 27 years.

His topics were as diverse as the death watch beetle, Field Marshal Montgomery, Wagner, homophobia, censorship, Eldridge Cleaver, arachnophobia, theatrical nudity, and the North Thames Gas Board. His editor on The Times commented that ‘he made being opinionated, which he always was, accessible to people’, which seems to me a fine working definition of what an opinion column should be.

In his first published collection of his columns from The Times, Levin acknowledged his readers with a modesty and goodwill that somehow lived with his intellectual arrogance, air of moral superiority, and ruthless destruction of those he saw as evil, whether Peter Rachman the slum landlord or Charles Forte the hotelier and restauranteur. Levin wrote: [My readers’] letters in response to what they read under my name have always astonished me by their quantity and astounded me by their generosity”.

I couldn’t have put it better myself. I’m not sure what I envisaged when I started this blog a year ago. What I certainly didn’t expect was that, wherever my seat-of-the-pants flight of fancy took me, there would always (and I do mean always) be one or two readers out there who enjoyed the trip enough to write and tell me so.

I am immensely grateful to my groupie, who unfailingly thanks me and comments privately on each post; I can never quite decide whether it is genuine gratitude or old-world manners, but I’ll gladly take it, whatever it is, and every week I hold my breath after going live until I receive that email. Because every week I launch my little paper aeroplane, with no real idea whether it will plummet to the ground, land in a puddle, and be revealed as a soggy mess, or catch a fortuitous air current and soar triumphantly. (The truth, as is usual, appears to be more or less equidistant from those two extremes.)

It’s particularly rewarding when my memories chime with those of others, or spark in some of you memories of your own, which you then share with us. We’ve even had one or two rolling discussions in the comments, which is very exciting.

WordPress, the software I use to create my blog, also provides me with some statistical data. For example, I can see how many people view a new post, and how long they spend reading it. (Some of you must have taken that speed-reading course, I think…I hope.) I can also see in which countries my site is being viewed. For the most part, this is as expected: I know that my core readership is largely in Israel, UK, US and Canada. I also know who my readership in Portugal is, and who my one reader in Australia is, and I have a good idea about the one reader in each of France, Spain and Sweden.

However, every so often I get a surprise. I was being read in United Arab Emirates before the Abraham Accords were signed: once only, but nevertheless. I have also been surprised, and intrigued, to see readers in Finland, China and, most perplexingly, Uganda. If any of you reading this can throw light on any of these locations, I would be most grateful. (Of course, I suspect they may simply represent the locations of VPNs.)

I reached an all-time early high of just over 100 distinct readers. This was obviously because I sent out invitations to everyone I thought might conceivably be interested, and most people gave it a try. My readership has now settled down to around 65 or 70. A friend suggested to me that I might want to explore locating the blog on a more high-profile platform. To be honest, I very much like the idea that I am among friends. This way, I avoid unpleasant surprises when moderating the comments, or at least hope to!

One last observation. I regard myself as a pretty private person. I don’t ordinarily feel comfortable baring my soul, or even discussing my shortcomings, with anyone who is not a close blood relative. Curiously, the distance that the blog constructs beween me and you, dear reader, has made it easier for me to open up. Have no fear: I’m not going to go all touchy-feely on you. I have, however, surprised myself more than once in what I am prepared to put out there in the ether.

And that is quite enough navel-gazing for this week. Let’s cut to what is, for some of you, and for me, the chase: Tao. This week we find him chasing off to the shops. Rest assured: off-camera, he is being accompanied by a responsible adult, although by the looks of it that may only be necessary for the next week or two.

Momentous Moments

My Uncle Bobby, z”l, was a jazz enthusiast, and always contended, in discussions with lovers of classical music, that anyone who claimed to enjoy listening to a 40-minute symphony was deluding himself: what he actually enjoyed were a few key moments, and he was prepared to wait through the other passages for the pleasure of these ‘highs’. Jazz recordings, Uncle Bobby believed, were a distillation of the ‘highs’, without any of the boring in-between bits.

I didn’t subscribe to his theory then, still less now…and yet there are some works that contain, for me, undeniable ‘high’ moments. I would, nevertheless, argue that the impact of those moments owes much to the surrounding music within which they sit.

For instance (I recall that my father z”l once told me that he was 14 years old before he realised that for instance was two words; until then, he visualised it as frinstance). Anyway, for instance, one such moment for me is the last three notes of the second movement of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No 4. If you can spare 5’ 35”, please listen to the whole movement, as interpreted by Christian Zimmerman and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, under the baton of Leonard Bernstein. (The movement runs from 19’25” to 25”00.) Of course, if you have a full 35 minutes to spare, I recommend listening to the whole thing.

I am no musicologist, but, for me, what is going on here is one long build towards resolution. At the beginning of the movement, the orchestra speaks in short, abrupt, hesitant, stuttering, broken phrases, in a minor key; the music is indecisive and troubled. The piano part, in contrast, is serene, measured, in long, sweeping passages. As the movement progresses, the piano passages became shorter, as if influenced by the orchestra. At the same time, the piano ‘calms’ the orchestra. By the end, soloist and orchestra are as one.

The movement closes with the orchestra playing a sustained chord, quietly, while the soloist plays a sequence of single notes moving up the scale, that start by echoing notes of the chord being played by the orchestra, in perfect harmony, but then turn back from the top of the scale, with the two final notes making us suspect that this is not the resolution of the piece, but a transition to what is to be a joyous final movement. As the piano crests that run, my heart always skips a beat. (Hope yours does, too.) Of course, I suffer from atrial fibrillation, so my heart often skips a beat. (Hope yours doesn’t!)

This happens, for me, not just in music, but also in theatre.

London’s Barbican Centre boasts a vary large apron stage; the distance from downstage right to upstage left, when the apron is in place, is about 16 metres.

If I close my eyes, I can still see Lady Percy, in a 1983 production of Shakespeare’s Henry IV Part I, entering at the back of the stage, very agitated, having just learnt that Hotspur, her husband, is about to leave for war. She spots him at the very front of the stage, and runs the entire diagonal from back to front at full pelt. Hearing her approach, he turns; a few metres away from him, she leaps into his arms, and wraps her arms and legs around him.

From the dialogue between the couple in their few scenes together in the play, we can easily feel that they are uncomfortable with each other. Percy is a man of action, not talk, and he certainly does not feel any need to make a woman privy to his battle plans. Lady Percy seems unsure of Hotspur’s love, and feels shut out by him from the things that matter to him.

However, in this one moment on stage, we learn of a whole other side to their relationship that the words cannot convey. We see tremendous passion, impetuosity and physicality. We see that Lady Percy trusts Hotspur completely, and is absolutely confident that he will catch her.

When he does catch her, without staggering back, it is a thrilling moment for the audience: Hotspur is standing perilously close to the front edge of the apron, and Lady Percy, though slight, has launched herself at him like a bullet. We feel some of the relief we feel watching a successful acrobatic or trapeze performance, and we admire Hotspur’s strength and solidity. The leap, and the catch, are an expression of their love for each other, an expression that is missing from their dialogue. The texture of their relationship, and of the play, is enriched by this wonderful moment of theatre.

One more moment, this time of both theatre and music. Bernice and I were privileged to see Amadeus, in Bristol, in its pre-London 1982 run, with Frank Finlay playing Salieri. At the time, the round trip from Nantymoel, where we then lived, to Bristol was well over three hours; I can honestly say it would have been worth walking to Bristol to see this particular production. Although the play had premiered with Paul Scofield in London a year earlier, we knew very little about it before seeing it.

There is a scene, near the beginning of the play, when Salieri, in a single revelatory moment, realises Mozart’s genius. He hears, from a side-room, a wind serenade, which you can hear here. Instead of attempting to describe the music, I will give you the words the playwright Peter Schaeffer gave to Salieri:

The beginning simple, almost comic. Just a pulse. Bassoons and basset horns, like a rusty squeezebox. And then suddenly, high above it, an oboe. A single note, hanging there, unwavering. Until a clarinet took over and sweetened it into a phrase of such delight! This was no composition by a performing monkey! This was a music I’d never heard. Filled with such longing, such unfulfillable longing, it had me trembling. It seemed to me that I was hearing the voice of God.

I can only add that, in Bristol, that evening, that music soared over the theatre and we all felt the same awe as Salieri, knowing that we were in the presence of a divine talent.

It is these moments that drive me to continue going to live theatre and live music concerts. At a certain level, this makes no sense. You pay a not insignificant sum of money for tickets, drive an inordinate distance, spend ages looking for a parking space, and then have to half-jog to reach the auditorium in time. No sooner do you sit down than you have to stand again so that even-later-comers can squeeze past, and now you’re settling yourself for an evening of trying to filter out the rustling, coughing and whispering of those around you.

Why do I do it? I wouldn’t bet on my ears being able to distinguish a live recital in the concert hall from the reproduction through my mid-priced CD player and speakers in the comfort of my own home. At home I can listen to Daniel Barenboim, Pinhas Zukerman and Jacqueline du Pre performing Beethoven’s Archduke Trio, in a recording from 1970 that has perhaps never been bettered for unabashed youthful enthusiasm.

We’ve already established that I’m not a musicologist; if I were, I could do even better, perhaps, and read the score, hearing the music in my head exactly as I feel it should sound. So why do we still go to concert halls…or, indeed, theatres, to see live plays, when we can download films and enjoy a more comfortable seat with unimpeded sightlines.

Not everyone does go, of course. Our son, Micha’el, himself a multi-talented amateur musician, hates going to live arts performances of any kind, because he finds himself on the edge of his seat, imagining all of the things that might go dreadfully wrong.

This is, paradoxically, almost exactly the same reason that drives me to go to live arts performances; I find myself on the edge of my seat, imagining all of the things that might go wonderfully right. The fact is that, every time I go to the theatre, as the lights go down, I have a strong feeling that this may just be the night when the cast, or the musicians, all give the performance of their lives. This, I guess, makes me an incurable optimist, but the moments I have described here, and more than a few others over the decades, give me good grounds for my optimism.

All I have to hope now is that, at some point in the future before we all become immobile or gaga, we. and you, will be able again to enjoy live arts performances (and grandchildren, of course).

Until that moment, Bernice and I will just have to make do with our video of A Man for All Seasonings.