The Death of the Novel, or Worse

I've been thinking on and off all week about Zadie Smith's article, "The Essay v The Novel," in last Saturday's Guardian. Basically, Smith talks about her new book of essays, and how more and more fiction writers are turning away from the novel and towards more "realistic" forms -- Jonathan Safran Foer, Margaret Drabble, Chinua Achebe, Michael Clabon, to name a few.  "The novel is dead," they say.  To which I reply, "Oh no.  Not again."  To those of us who have been around the stacks a few times, this is very old news.  Literary critics have been whipping themselves up into a frenzy over this declaration for generations and, I suppose, inevitably it's time to do it once again.  But I'm not buying it.

Plenty of people are still writing novels.  Plenty more are still buying them in one form or another -- regardless of what the publishing industry proclaims.  I do believe that one of the key differentiations that can be made between humans and other animals is that humans tell stories.  There is an innate need for we humans to look around and outside of ourselves and create narratives of what we see.  It is how we understand the world.  It is how we dare to continue on in the face of the adversity which has always surrounded us.  As long as we have our imaginations, we will create stories.  And as long as we create stories, we will write novels.  Of that I am sure.

But there is a different question which has been worrying me for a long time now, and which Smith also mentions in her article, namely the death of the imagination.  Now this is really something worth worrying about.  What does it say about man at the beginning of this new century that we have either lost the ability or the will to imagine?  Look at what we watch on television: reality programs.  It started with "Big Brother" and moved swiftly on from there.  And who have been the predominant winners of Best Actor/Actress Awards of late?  Actors recreating "real" people -- Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Truman Capote, Harvey Milk, June Carter, Edith Piaf, The Queen.  Where are the people who dare to create characters, either through their actions or their words, out of whole cloth, out of their imagination?  What does it mean if we are all now too frightened to have our lives changed by people who have never, really, existed?

As long as there are people using their imaginations, there will be stories created.  Maybe these stories will be told by illiterate bards, like Homer, who use formulas to trigger their memories as they travel from city to city.  Maybe these stories will be told in song.  Or maybe they will be written down in versions varying from 1,000 to 100,000 words.  The form of the story telling is not the point, as far as I'm concerned.  As a novelist, this so-called death of the novel does not frighten me.  But a collective death of the imagination?  Now that, in reality, is what's truly frightening.

Thanksgiving Thoughts: Mostly Mushy

I just looked back at last year's Thanksgiving post, and what a happily mushy post it was. I fear this one may get a bit mushy as well, so if that sort of thing annoys or offends you, turn away now...

  I feel a bit more melancholy this year -- it seems everyone does.  But late November is really the only time when I find myself missing America and that is because of Thanksgiving.  Tomorrow's the big day, and I'll be cooking and eating and drinking and cleaning and complaining throughout.  It will certainly be fun.  But it will be different this year.  This year, Number 2 Son is across the ocean, having the time of his life and his own holiday celebration with all the Guiney aunts, uncles and cousins.  Hubby and I will be here with Number 1 Son and a group of his friends.  That will be great, of course, too. 

But I always miss my family back "home" during Thanksgiving.  My parents, sisters and their families will all be together, and once again, I won't be there.  And now, we'll be missing a quarter of our little family unit here as well.  Tomorrow I will focus on how much I have to be thankful for -- and it is so very very much.  But today, I've allowed myself a bit of a wobble.

So as I was running around doing errands, I slowed down a bit.  I took the time to chat with the nice lady behind the till at the post office.  And then as I was walking out of the building, I ran into a friend who I haven't seen in, maybe, ten years.  She's the mother of the boy who became Number 1 Son's first friend after we moved here.  It was marvelous to see her and trade news, and it made me start to think about the wonders of old friends, how you can slot right back in with someone even if you haven't seen them in years.  We promised we'd get together soon, and I think we will.  But even if we don't, the connection remains. 

As I continued on my way, I noticed that the gale-force winds that have been plaguing London these past weeks had simmered down.  And when I looked up, I saw that the sky was actually blue.  Yes, blue -- not white or grey or thundery black -- blue.  Look, here's proof:

Amazing.

So I'm feeling a little better, despite my mortal fear of making gravy.  And knowing that my parents will be reading this, as they always do, I wanted to send off something their way especially, knowing that I'll be missing them and knowing that, just as much, they'll be missing me.

Happy Memories

I never thought I’d write about my childhood.

           

There were no frosty nights beneath the covers,

hungry mornings, whoring mothers, discarded needles.

I never bore tissue-rent injuries within, bone-chilled bruises without.

Instead were blissful mornings when I woke to see

ducks swimming in flooded streets

dad in the kitchen without his suit

days off at home, just because.

There were sisters, always sisters,

crawling in-between forbidden cracks,

secret soaring flights from chest to bed and back again.

Enough, ever enough,

even when there was no more to give,

dreams and love to nourish our hoped-for worlds.

How could I have wished for more?

Silly child.

                                                                Ok,  Mom.  You can stop crying now....

Music, This Time

I was feeling sorry for myself last night.  It has been a very busy, crazy couple of weeks.  I've been fighting a cold for most of it, plus I have somehow wrenched my shoulder out of place and am fitting physio appointments into everything else.  And there I was, on the tube, my violin over my back, on my way to a special orchestra rehearsal in preparation for our concert this Sunday evening.  And last night was Friday night.  Friday night!  We never have rehearsals on Friday, especially since we'll also rehearse on Sunday afternoon before the 7.30 opening notes.  But it was the only time we could meet with our soloist, so, dedicated bunch that we are, there we all were last night from 7 -10 pm, rehearsing Dvorak's Cello Concerto in B Minor.

Well, that is one of my favourite pieces in the world, and I was thrilled to see, not surprisingly, that our soloist, Jonathan Ayling, plays is magnificently.  Listening to him play would have been enough to get me out of my Friday night doldrums, I think.  But during the second movement, I had an epiphany that I wanted to share.  During a long expanse of rests, I was carried away by the emotion of the piece and I realized, "this is why I love music.  This is why I particularly love performing music."  As a writer I spend my life putting everything I see and feel into words.  Everything gets a label, a definition.  But with music, I don't do that.  What I feel while I'm playing music I don't name, don't describe, don't associate with other unrelated things.  I don't have to spell it out, explain or categorize it, rhyme it, string letters together to create some sort of onomatopoetic portrayal of it.  Music, I just feel. Presently and regardless. And it seems to be the only way I can stop all those words in my head.  So by the time I was back on the tube on my way home I felt better, and I slept better than I had all week.

So, if you are in London, do come to the concert of the Kensington Philharmonic on Sunday, 22 November at 7.30 pm, Chelsea Town Hall, Kings Road SW3.  Tickets are available at the door for £12 (£2 under twelves).  It's a wonderful all-Dvorak program including, besides the Cello Concerto, Three Slavonik Dances, and his Symphony No 9 in E Minor known as "From the New World."  I promise you'll be transported.

And if you can't come along, here's a performance of my "epiphanal" moment from the concerto's 2nd movement.  Take it away Yo Yo:

"Too Many Magpies" Takes Flight

Tuesday night saw the launch of Elizabeth Baines' new novel, Too Many Magpies.  I can't wait to read it.  It looks like a small-gem-of-a book.  Elizabeth read from the beginning, then took questions, and then read some more from the end.  The audience was so enthralled, we demanded more.

The entire evening was wonderful.  The launch was held in the Calder Bookshop in London, first founded by John Calder, friend and publisher of Samuel Becket.  The small shop is full of wonderful books which you'd only find in a small independent bookshop like this.  And at the far end is a stage, complete with a curtain and lights, where theatrical productions were held and is now the perfect venue for a reading.  Given Elizabeth's own theatrical background, this space was a perfect choice.

It was great fun for me, too, because I got to see some of my writing friends there, like Tania Hershman and Debi Alper.  And I was able to finally meet Salt Publishing's own Jen Hamilton-Emery. I must say, supporting each other's work in this way is one of the great joys of being part of this community of writers which has come together via facebook and blogging.  Not to mention the free wine.

So do go get Too Many Magpies.  Elizabeth is a wonderful writer, as anyone who has read her short story collection,  Balancing on the Edge of the World, will know.  And to get you in the mood, here's a song for you.  Not exactly about magpies, but it's still one of my favourites (thanks to peh74 for this video):

In Awe of Translations and Translators

Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away (or so it seems), I was a Classicist, studying and teaching ancient Greek, with a bit of Latin thrown in for good measure.   Even then many asked why I would be pursuing such a line of study, what it could ever possibly do for me.  Although I did not go on to make a career out of my classical studies, the difference those years of study have made to my life have been enormous.
* I learned to distrust "facts," and I learned that history is as much about who relates it as about what "really" happened
* I learned that a close scrutiny of individual words and their usages matters tremendously, not to mention gives great pleasure
* I developed my life-long passion for theatre
* I discovered that our basic interests and obsessions have not changed much over the centuries.
...and much more.  But there is one other idea that grew out of my classical studies that I'm thinking about especially today:
* the extreme difficulty of translation
      Having tried to translate the Greeks from Homer to Sappho, with an especially intense attempt at Euripides, I learned what it takes to translate a piece of writing from one language to another.  It is not just about opening up a dictionary and finding a word that "means" the same.  Words in different languages do not "mean" the same.  Language has more to do with cultural baggage than we tend to remember.  Every word choice brings with it horse-carts full of nuance and history, shadowing and detours of thought.  And so, for years, I have been very reluctant to read literature in translation.  I have thought that even if the translator knew the original language so well that it was actually their first language, how well, then, could they know the language they were translating the text into?  And what does it mean to "know" a language, anyway?   I think the whole question got me up my own ass, to be honest, and rather than have to deal with it, I just turned my attention to books written in English.  At least English is a language I can claim to have familiarity with.
     But for various reasons, over the last few months, I have read several books in translation, and have been overwhelmed by their artistry.  I have already blogged about Cocoon, by the Marathi author Bhalchandra Nemade, translated by Sudhakar Marathe here.  A few months later, I read and loved Sandor Marai's The Rebels, translated by the UK poet George Szirtes.  Now, last night, I finished reading an absolutely marvelous French novel called The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery and translated by Alison Anderson.  Although it may not be fashionable to say it these days, I am a bit of a francophile.  French is a language I am somewhat comfortable in, and it is a culture with a "mentalite" (sorry about the lack of accent) that I love.  This book, two interweaving narratives about the people who live in an exclusive modern-day Parisian apartment house, is full of over-the-top philosophical musings and obscure intellectual references that the French do so well. It is also full of class struggle, passion and heart. And yet, that is not what I've been thinking about this morning.  This morning I am thinking about the difficult, and often overlooked, task of the translator.  When you read any book, it is the author who you think of as the sole creator of the text.  If it has been translated, then the translator's name is written in a smaller italicized font at the bottom of the page.  The translator's name is rarely on the cover and never on the spine.  At yet, for all those readers whose first language has not been French or Hungarian or Marathi or whatever, it is the translator who has brought the story, the characters, the sentiments, longings, passions, ideas to life for the reader.  I've begin to think that translating may be the most altruistic of all the arts.  And it is an art in itself, clearly.  Just think about how difficult it is, how much time it must take to do it right.  Yet, the translator puts all that energy into someone else's creation.  Yes, in his/her hands it becomes their creation too, but not really....  It makes me wonder.  And I'm sitting here remembering my own Masters thesis on Euripides' "Iphigenia at Aulis" with its consciously evolving uses of the many Greek words for the verb "to see."  How I struggled with that.  But how rewarding.

From the Depths Up to the Heavens

So many people are sick right now.  I know I've been battling my semi-annual sinus infection all week, too.  But it's been a very busy week and I've managed to do several things that I want to share with you.

First, I went to a fundraiser for a very worthwhile charity, RAPt, the Rehabilitation for Addicted Prisoners Trust.  It was a very artsy, somewhat star-studded night in a very understated sort of way. Soup, nibbles, drinks among new artwork in a renovated gallery on the "other" side of Islington, all culminating in Will Self reading from "19 Raptures," a selection of specially prepared "pamphlets" loosely and often humorously based on the sorts of handouts you might find at the NHS. (What a showman he is.) I wasn't at all sure of what I would find, but one of my dearest friends urged me to join her and she's never steered me wrong, nor did she that night.  These people do extraordinary  and important work.  Their aim is to:
                 "bring about a reduction in crime and destructive behaviour, and promote healthier communities and families, by helping people recover from substance misuse and addiction, and build a positive and fulfilling lifestyle."
  Although RAPt is not a religious organization, it does have a spiritual component in that it follows the 12-Step guidelines of AA and NA. This approach to dealing with addiction has been seen to work over decades now and the important application of it to prisoners, the great majority of whom offend because of their addiction, is  creating success stories throughout the UK.  Please do click on the RAPt website above to learn more about their work.

And then, just last night, I went to a very different sort of fundraiser for a charity whose work takes them to the most troubled areas across the globe, Human Rights Watch.   For over thirty years, this amazing organization has been dedicated to
                   "...defending and protecting human rights. By focusing international attention where human rights are violated, we give voice to the oppressed and hold oppressors accountable for their crimes. Our rigorous, objective investigations and strategic, targeted advocacy build intense pressure for action and raise the cost of human rights abuse."
Human Rights Watch trains investigators to go into the world's most troubled areas and learn first-hand about the atrocities which are being committed on the most vulnerable people.  Right now their work is especially focused on Burma and the Congo, and from what they have documented they have been able to convince the world's governments and the UN that rape is indeed a weapon of war and must be treated as such.  Watching videos of their work and listening to the people who have devoted their lives to this work was incredibly moving and upsetting.  I urge you to read more about it by clicking on the link above.  I must admit that I have become rather cynical over the years, finding it hard to believe that any one person really can affect change in our dangerous world.  But I came away from last night's event convinced that there is hope and that change, though immensely difficult, is possible.

And on a very different plane, the last event I wanted to tell you about was a lecture I went to at Greenwich's National Maritime Museum, "The Poems of Space." I went with fellow science lover, the writer Tania Hershman.  We took a wonderful boat ride down the Thames to Greenwich and arrived a bit early to the imposing building which is the Maritime Museum. Astronomer and poetry lover, Jocelyn Bell Burnell, has edited an anthology of poems about space called Dark Matter.  She discussed how poets have used the cosmos as their theme over the ages, and had several of us read selected poems aloud during her talk.  Tania and I, being the kosher hams that we are, of course volunteered to read.  I read a poem by Frost, Tania read one by Kunitz.  How I wished I'd had a copy of that book while I was writing Tangled Roots!  A panel discussion then followed moderated by Pippa Goldschmidt and including the poet, Kelley Swain.  It was a great talk, and it ended with an older gentleman, sporting a beard like Ahab might have worn, who thanked the Museum for holding the event because for over sixty years he has had two loves, poetry and astronomy, and finally he has been able to bring them both together.  Wonderful.


So it's been a long week, and this has become a long blog.  Until next time, then.

So Tired of Worrying About Waterstones

I woke up this morning, looked at my diary, and it clearly said "write blog." I knew exactly what I was going to write about, but as I read my friends' blogs over my morning coffee, I saw this scare-mongering article alluded to over and over: How Waterstones Killed Publishing.  Okay.  Deep breaths everyone.

Now, I have been called a pollyanna before (mostly by me).  And I know that despite (or maybe because of) my propensity to go towards the bleak I try to look on "the bright side" as much as possible.  But I can't keep quiet about this.  Here are my thoughts.  Be forewarned, my blood is boiling:

1. I have always told myself and all my students, if you don't need to write, then don't do it.  Go work in an office.  Sell ice cream.  Be a fireman, whatever.  Despite what it says all over the Writers' Guild literature, you can not write for money.  If it comes to you, great.  But don't expect it and don't rely on it.  Especially not now.

2. Book shops and publishers and, yes, even agencies, are businesses, first and foremost.  That, by definition, means that most will be risk averse, especially in a time of economic upheaval.  It is not a surprise that the big booksellers only want to sell what they know will be bought.  Nor is it a surprise that the publishers only want to publish what they know they can sell to the book stores.  And it goes down the "food chain" from there.  The fact that the writer is at the bottom of the food chain should also not be a surprise.  It has ever been thus.

3. The more interesting question is not why, but why now?  Yes, it's the economy which is making everyone suffer.  But I believe it is about more than that.  It is about technnology, and this, dear writers, is the good news.  We are witnessing an industry running for its life.  Every day, just like in the music business, models are developing whereby writers can produce their own work, market it, distribute it, reach a wide audience and make money from it.  And all without the middle man.  Today's technology makes this possible.  The trick is to see this as an opportunity, not a death knell.

So to sum up: I love Waterstones.  My own books have been on sale in their shops and it has always given me a huge thrill to see them on those shelves.  I dearly hope and believe that my future books will be seen there as well.  The people who work at Waterstones could be selling automotive parts, but they have chosen to put their considerable abilities towards selling books, and to me books are important and so kudos to them.  But I REFUSE to be held hostage to their business plans.  I have already given up writing out of fear once in my life.  I, for one, am not going to do it again.  Yes, I go to bed every night praying that some wonderful agent will recognize me and scoop me up and present me and my works to some huge international publishing house which will give me a 4 book deal, amazing advances and worldwide recognition.  I already own the dress I will wear to the Oscars.  BUT, even if that does not happen, I will still get my latest novel out to the public, not to mention my nearly completed poetry collection.  There are people already waiting to read the new book -- maybe not 100,000's but enough to use the word "countless."  If someone won't do it for me, I now know there are ways to do it myself.  And it will be the publishers' loss, not mine.  The list of writers I know personally for whom this is all also true is already quite long.  And I'm just one lone blogger here in the sunny terraces of central London.

I guess I'll write about what I had planned to blog about today later this week.  For now, I'm putting on my little red beret, picking up my pen and daring to do what I love and what I do best. Write.  I suggest that you all do the same.  After all, if we don't do it, who will?

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image courtesy of nativenotes.net

A New Way to Procrastinate: Let's Get Organized

Based on all the blogs, tweets and facebook statuses I've been reading lately, it seems that writers and artists are really struggling right now.  Lack of confidence, frustration, impatience, "What's it all about, Alfie?" It is certainly difficult times out there, not to mention in our heads, and I am definitely not immune.  So this week I spent a lot of time reading, thinking, planning, organizing -- ie procrastinating.  And I found a most wonderful new way to do it.  Look at what I bought:

It's a label maker!  Yes, you type in the label, press the button, and a stream of letters come out on sticky-backed paper.  And why did I buy this?  No, not to convince myself that I exist by labelling everything around me. Rather, I bought it to help bring to life a fantasy I had way back when I started to take my writing "seriously."  Back then -- fifteen years ago, I find -- I had a vision of a book shelf or two filled with Black n' Red Notebooks.  For those of you who don't know them, they are what we Brits call A4 sized, hard cover notebooks with black covers and red spines. Since all my writing starts out long-hand (except the blogs), I have a notebook for each project.  The vision was to have a row of them that grows and grows over the years, a visual record of what I have accomplished.  Well, this week I realized that I have enough now that I don't know what's in which book.  I actually did have to label them.  Here's the result:

The beginning of a dream come true.  That's eleven notebooks holding nearly 100 poems, two plays, three novels, exercises, articles, reviews of books and theatre productions, ideas for future projects. I also like to think dear old Willie S is casting his glance back over them with approval. (And yes, there's a hardcover and a paperback of Tangled Roots in there, too. Plus a copy of Dreams of May. And some books used for research about physics and Cambodia. And DJ Kirkby's From Zaftig to Aspie, and Jane Smiley's 13 Ways of Looking at a Novel.)  I can't tell you how happy it made me to do this.  Silly?  Well, after all the doom and gloom lately, you take what you can get.  And now I know that tomorrow I will go to my local stationers and buy one more Black n' Red, and if I buy the notebook then I have to write the novel.  I'll then make a label with the Roman Numeral of the number of the notebook, and above that, an empty space for the title when it announces itself. Or maybe I'll make a label saying "Whatever Comes Next."  Hmm....

Take Me Away

Escape: not always such a bad thing.

Writer and blogger, Cally Taylor, has had her first novel published, Heaven Can Wait, and it is a perfect way to make an escape from whatever autumn doldrums might be plaguing you.  Cally is well into her blog tour now and much has already been written about how funny, warm and romantic her book is. Do read around at the other interviews.  They're great fun. 

But Cally and I share something very special -- not only a need for escape, but also a place to go.  When I discovered that she has also been to the wonderful Irish Artists Retreat that I rush off to whenever possible, Anam Cara, I longed to ask her all sorts of questions about these retreats and the role they might play in her writing and her life.

Where do you usually write?

I lie on the sofa in my living room and type onto my little Samsung Netbook. I used to sit at the desk in my bedroom and work on my big laptop but I spend 8 hours a day writing e-learning courses there and I found it hard to transition from writing scientific content during the day to writing fiction at night. Moving into a different room and using a different laptop helps me get into the right headspace. Ideally I’d like two separate desks but there isn’t space in my one bedroom flat!

Are you easily distracted?

Am I? Horribly! As I’ve gotten older my concentration span has reduced drastically and I’m constantly distracted by the internet, my phone, the pile of washing up in the kitchen or someone shouting in the street. That’s part of the reason why I go into a different room and use a different laptop (it’s not connected to the internet for a start!). I like to write at night when the world becomes much quieter. I close the curtains, lie on the sofa, put on classic fm and write for as long as my dwindled concentration span will let me!

Why did you decide to go to Anam Cara and how did you find out about it?

I decided to go to Anam Cara because I was running out of time to edit novel 2 and I really needed to take a break from the day job and dedicate myself to editing, and nothing but editing, for as many hours a day as possible. I knew Anam Cara had wireless internet so I wouldn’t be able to avoid that distraction but I hoped that being in a creative, supportive environment would encourage me to work harder and more consistently, and it certainly did that!

I found out about Anam Cara through the Fish prize (a retreat at Anam Cara is the second prize in their short story competition) and Vanessa Gebbie’s blog. Vanessa has stayed at Anam Cara several times and her reports were so glowing I couldn’t resist checking it out for myself.

How does being at a retreat affect your writing?  Is it just that you do more or is the quality different as well?

Being at Anam Cara had a magical effect on my editing. As well as upping my word count – from about 500 words every other day in Brighton, to 2,500-5,000 words a day! – I felt like I could think more clearly too. Plot holes and problems that would have plagued me for weeks seemed to magically resolve themselves at Anam Cara. I’m not sure whether that was down to my afternoon walks to the sea with Sue’s dog, her home-cooked food or the healing powers of Guinness at the local pub but what I do know is that escaping from the pressures of ‘real life’ gave me the head space I needed to get to grips with my novel.

Have you been to other retreats?

Not as such, no. I went to Skyros (Greece) earlier this year for a writing course but, because of lack of numbers, the structure of the course was changed and I didn’t have nearly as much free time as I’d hoped to work on my novel.  I don’t think combining a course with writing/editing works for me – I need to concentrate on one thing at a time.

A big part of Anam Cara is being with other writers and artists.  Does this help or are you really looking for solitude?

Being with like-minded, creative people was fantastic.  It’s very easy to get locked into your own head when you’re writing and I really appreciated the chats over lunch and dinner with the other writers and artists who were staying at Anam Cara. Although we decided not to share our work with each other (I don’t share any of my work until it’s been edited several times!) it was great to be able to discuss plot problems, stubborn scenes or writers block with people who understood where you’re coming from. I also liked the fact that, while I was sitting in my room tapping away at my laptop, other people in the house were also writing or creating. Their presence encouraged me to work harder and get more done. 

Thanks, Cally. And maybe we'll see each other up in West Cork when we both need another escape. Anybody else want to join?

Historical Thesaurus

Here's a confession.  I am an absolutely addicted devotee of Roget's Thesaurus.  I have been one since my fourth grade teacher had us write a piece called "A Surrendipitous Journey" using as many adjectives as possible.  To this day, I never write a sentence, be it in prose or poetry, without my trusty, well-used Thesaurus by my side.  This has always been a guilty pleasure, I must admit.  I always feared that I was somehow "cheating."  But a wonderful friend who generally knows what she's talking about made me feel much better about this a few years ago.  She told me that the genius isn't in holding the entire lexicon of the English language in your head.  The genius comes in knowing which word to choose.  Love that.

And now, a leisurely flip through the Sunday Times Culture section, reveals a whole new style of thesaurus -- at least one new to me.  Oxford University Press has just released "The Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary," two huge volumes, each "the size of a phone directory, at more than 2,000 pages, bound in handsome blue buckram and stamped in gold lettering."  Yum!!  It seems to have taken Roget's system of numerical ordering of words rather than alphabetical -- which I just love.  I love realizing that most of the words I'm looking for fall into the 400's.  But the one difference it does have from Roget's is that its words are listed according to each word's history, oldest words first.  And so you have laid out before you "13 centuries of the English language, since its earliest Anglo-Saxon days, rearranged in nearly 800,000 meanings and more than 236,000 categories." As the article's author, Christopher Hart, explains you can travel throughout history on the backs of changing expressions for any word you want.  Let's take "f*ck," for example.  Hart's personal favourite word for this activity, and one which he (and I) believe should be revived, is the word "toggle" which dates back to 1225.  Hart gives it a go with "Hello darling, fancy a toggle?"  Works for me.....

But now for the bad news.  This amazing feat of research, this must-have for any lover of the English language, costs £250.  For now.  The price goes up to £275 after January 31, 2010.  I wonder if those two volumes of 2,000 pages will fit down the chimney......