< SWITCH ME >
| ...and Found |
| Written by Lucy Duggan | ||||||
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If you want to speak the English language like a true descendent of Shakespeare - or of Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Virginia Woolf... - look no further. In the fourth instalment of our series on idiomatic English, we follow some well-known Europeans as they indulge their wanderlust... English is a mongrel language constructed from the mispronounced scraps of other languages – so other Europeans should feel at home when they visit us. They ought to notice bits of their own language flashing from road signs or springing musically from the mouths of Brits who can't actually speak any foreign languages. Unfortunately, the foreign influences on English are often too well assimilated to be much help to European tourists, but we do have a few words which are taken directly from other languages and mostly still spelt the same way, even if we usually have no idea how to pronounce them. If Proust took a trip to modern Britain for a tete à tete (one to one conversation) with a British belle (beautiful woman), he'd feel at home immediately when she told him of her sense of déjà vu on seeing him, and confessed that she needed an aide-memoire (memory aid) to recall the names of her previous beaux (boyfriends). She'd be sure to tell him sweetly, "bon appetit" as he tucked into a cordon bleu (luxury cuisine) dinner, and perhaps she'd give him carte blanche (unrestricted power) to write about her. Later, when the relationship soured and she was sulking in her boudoir (bedroom), the guy at the newspaper stand would be sure to say sagely to Proust, "c'est la vie" (that's life). "What a cliché," Proust might reply disgustedly, turning away to exchange a risqué (indecent, suggestive) bon mot (witticism) with Goethe, who hadn't fared better on his trip to Britain. "I was hoping for a bit of camaraderie (comradeship, friendliness) with a few English philosophers," he complained, "but they accused me of schadenfreude (enjoying others' misfortune) and said I knew nothing about the zeitgeist (spirit of the times) or existential angst. I tried to discuss my weltanschauung (world view), but one of them actually said, 'Oh, don't give me that spiel (lengthy or extravagant speech)! Your plays are kitsch (tasteless, tacky) and schmaltzy (sentimental) and your other books are worse, why don't you just keep schtum (shut up)?!' Goethe sighed. "And I only came here because of my wanderlust ("itchy feet," love of travelling)," he muttered.
In fact, a seriously ancient European such as Nero might find more to smile at in Britain than either Goethe or Proust. When discussing how to retain the status quo (established hierarchy) over an ad hoc (spontaneous) dinner with the Conservative Party, he might hear David Cameron talking of the annus mirabilis (wonderful year) in which his party climbed impressively in the polls. He might even hear Cameron talk about his wife – one of his favourite topics of conversation – as his alter ego (twin, other self). But in the end he'd probably end up gossiping to Proust and Goethe: "That Cameron tries far too hard to be a man of the people. He went on ad nauseam (endlessly, till everyone was sick of it) about how normal he was and how he wasn't like other aristocratic politicians, and even pretended not to be able to pronounce Latin!" Just as Goethe and Proust were exchanging a weary glance, along came Dante, Cervantes and Pushkin. "They only seem to understand when I talk about food!" moaned Dante. "It's all al dente (lightly cooked) this and alfresco (outdoor [eating]) that... But when I start telling them about sin and purgatory, they still think I'm talking about pasta!" And with that, the six great men turned on their heels and headed for the nearest airport. |


















