Hear Us O Lord from Heaven Thy Dwelling Place by Lowry Malcolm

Author:Lowry, Malcolm [Lowry, Malcolm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-8631-9
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2012-10-11T20:19:00+00:00

Which seemed to suggest that the book was out here after all, although—Cosnahan’s heart missed a beat—he didn’t dare count on it ... And naturally Arthur hoped he was working! But had Art considered those very distractions he implied? Had he himself? Considered that Cosnahan’s presence in Europe at all was due to this obscure but huge longing to find himself, after so much former failure, actually translated (the very word “translated” had a mystical tinge to him) into other European languages. This was partly due to the small curious linguistic recess in which he had dwelt during early years. Primarily, of course, this recess had insulated him from the English language. But this wasn’t the half of it. Nearby Wales confronted him with a language Celtic indeed, but incomprehensible as it was magnificent, savage, bass-toned and druidical, and with words as long as its railway stations. And English once learned, a speech greeted him in Liverpool, that somber and neighboring city, that no familiarity with its caught accents in his invaded island itself could prevent sounding more foreign and harsher to his ears than the language of Tibetan priests, twirling prayer wheels. Yet while it saddened him to conform and learn their language to the point of adoption, to that extent too it had represented so much more of a victory for him, not merely to have mastered English, but to have done this so masterfully the result could be translated into—What? into French? Cosnahan and Flaubert! That was great, heroic. But Italian: that had grandeur and nobility too. Drumgold Cosnahan translated into the language of Dante, Garibaldi and Pirandello! Thus it was possible to say that he was actually in Europe because he had expected to find himself translated here, and had looked forward beyond words to enjoying the thrill of this realization with his wife.

So it had been, in some measure, he allowed himself to remember, in Paris, where, wrongly directed to his French publishers at the top of some fifteen flights of stairs without an elevator, upon each floor of which, no sooner had he put a light on than the lights of all the floors savagely went off, until groggy with weariness, and afraid of falling seventy feet into a courtyard in the dark, for there was no railing, he had knocked and knocked at a door from behind which came a sound of crime, or stifled laughter, to ask for help, whereupon five minutes of darkness later that could be compared only to the anguished moments of a mountaineer caught in a storm upon an unnegotiable overhang, all the lights in the building went on again with a crisp crash, whistles wailed, and fifteen armed and bewhiskered gendarmes out of Zola came clattering and clanking up the stone stairs, arrested him and took him away in a Black Maria, where, soon discovering a common interest in rugby football, and the gendarmes that Cosnahan had once played scrum-half against the Racing Club de France, they all became the firmest of friends in no time.

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