Wolf Solo
I left my copy of Wolf Solent on the plane, and not a single bookstore here has a copy—it's a rare store that has anything by Powys (any of them), even. Though one had an exceedingly cute girl, so it wasn't a total loss. Instead I read Harry Mathews' My Life in CIA today. It's good, though it has such a large number of typos I thought it might be a review copy. I excerpt this bit of dialogue from a priest for what should be obvious reasons:
"I was vacationing in Corsica with my beloved companion. His name was Mamadu. We had rented a Sharki in Ajaccio—a ketch about twelve meters long, a most reliable boat. We headed south, leaving the Îles Sanguinaires far behind us, passing Cap di Muro before we moored for the night in Propriano, at the head of the Golfe de Valinco. Next morning we rounded Cap Senetosa and followed that long wild coast until we reached the Bouches de Bonifacio.
"There was a mild following wind and we were sailing wing-and-wing. The Corsican coast was still to port; way to teh south Sardinia emerged; and the expanse of the Tyrrhenian opened before us. Mamadu, who had been plucking his kora and enchanting the airs with song, now moved up to the bow to view to the prospect, sitting on the pulpit with his back against the forestay; or so I supposed, since he was hidden from my sight by the mainsail on one side and the genoa on the other. Every so often he would shout out a delighted word or two. Then there came a spell when I heard nothing. I called his name several times. There was no answer, so I pushed the tiller to starboard, bringing the boat to a broad reach so that I could see the bow. No one was there. There was no sign of him in the water. I came about, it seemed to take a lifetime to get the boat turned into the wind. For three hours I tacked back and forth over the same stretch of sea. Nothing, nothing.
"He was beautiful. His skin was luminous, a black so deep it looked blue, like Siberian anthracite. When I came back to Paris, I made my vow: in his memory I would become as white as he was black. I haven't gone out in daylight since. Only at night. Otherwise I stay here"—he smiled faintly—"minding my keys and pews. Please take my card. If ever..."
Question: was the priest smiling faintly when thinking about his modest activities, compared to his youthful exploits, or in anticipation of the pun he was about to make? If the latter, then what was the original pun, given that the dialogue is supposed to have been in French?
Comments
on 2005-09-06 13:25:47.0, Jonathan commented:
A chapter of my dissertation is about A Glastonbury Romance.
and, further, on 2005-09-06 13:40:24.0, ben wolfson commented:
I haven't yet received the email stating that your comment was made (and I'm made moderately apprehensive by the fact that apparently you at least occasionally come here), but it sort of renders the comment I was coming here to make, after an extremely half-assed attempt to verify the pronunciation of "Powys", somewhat inappropriate. It was to have been something like "I guess it's true what they say—Powysry really is dead.".
The UCI bookstore had a copy of Owen Glendower, but it's not the same, is it?
and, further, on 2005-09-06 16:38:58.0, Jonathan commented:
Long o.
What in the hell are you talking about?