foreign language | Thornfield Hall

In Alison Lurie’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Foreign Affairs (1984), two English professors at Corinth University have research grants to travel to England. Fred, a handsome young man – so handsome that he can barely hold off the infatuated women students – has just broken up with his wife, Roo, and is mourning. On the other hand, Vinnie, his brilliant, plain, much older colleague, has friends in England and an active social life. Though she does not particularly like Fred, she feels obligated to invite him to a cocktail party, where an English actress picks him up and sweeps him off in a whirlwind of parties. But Vinnie is the more interesting character of the two Americans, and her musings on “foreign sounds” will resonate with travelers.

But hearing in the full sense is blocked. Intelligible foreign sounds are limited to the voices of waiters, shopkeepers, professional guides, and hotel clerks – plus snatches of dubiously ‘native music.’ Even in Britain, accent intonation and vocabulary are often unfamiliar; tourists do not recognize many of the noises they hear, and then speak mostly to functionaries.

Has anyone ever said this better than Alison Lurie? My conversations abroad tend to be with people in the hospitality industry, who come from countries all over the world. A maid and I had to do pantomime when I needed help unfolding the ironing board. Alas, she could not figure it out, either. We agreed, with much eye-rolling, that the ironing board was useless. “What crap!” I said cheerfully.

When I tired of “hospitality” English, I headed to Harrods or any shop at all. American English and English English are not that different, and it is comforting to hear it.

The biggest problem: you cannot get coffee. The coffeehouses try to sell you a ghastly espresso drink called an Americano. Under no circumstances should you drink it. Order a latte or cappuccino instead. Or tea. Or anything at all.

Avoid the Americano.

My discovery of Rachel Hadas’s Poems for Camilla, a collection of stunning poems inspired by the author’s rereading of Virgil’s Aeneid, was an example of bookish serendipity. I adore Virgil, yet what were the odds of my coming across Poems for Camilla? I must have read a review, but where on earth? Hadas’s poetic meditations on lines from the Aeneid are revelatory, evocative, sometimes emotional, and more inspiring than scholarly articles.

Poems for Camilla is one of my favorite books of the year. But I do want to address a problem with the text–not Hadas’s problem, but a proofreading problem. Publishers are notoriously careless when it comes to proofreading quotations from foreign languages. Latin errors proliferate in modern books, just as they often did when monkish scribes absent-mindedly erred in their copying of Virgil. And in this case, each of Hadas’s poems (except one) is headed by a Latin epigraph from the Aeneid, followed by Hadas’s own poetic meditations and reactions to the lines. Translations of the Latin epigraphs are not included, so the majority will happily look up the translation in their favorite English edition. It is an absorbing interactive experience! But since I am a nerdy Latinist, I read the Latin myself. So the proofreading errors are jarring.

I did find a few Latin errors and typos in the epigraphs. Publishers need to hire specialists to proofread even short quotations . But wouldn’t it be simpler to scan the Latin text from The Aeneid (can this be done?) or photocopy and paste the Latin lines? (I don’t know if this can be done in the publishing world.)

Most of the Latin is correct here. But what is tani, I wondered when I read the epigraph for Hadas’s poem, “The Cause.” Then I realized, it was tanti (“of so much”). I checked the Latin text in the Aeneid to make sure I was right. Yes, I was. So I began going directly to the Latin text of the Aeneid so I wouldn’t get stuck on modern typos. Sadly, the Latin epigraph to Hadas’ beautiful poem “No Way Out” was not just cryptic because of mistakes, but nonsensical. I thought I must be going mad, until I compared it to the text in my Latin edition. I underlined the three errors below so you can see them.

I won’t give a complicated explanation.

Quem (singular whom) should have been qui (plural who).

vellant should have been vellent. It’s a spelling mistake–the vowel a should be an e–but since everything looks true in print, I wondered at first if it was an archaic form of the subjunctive. No, it was just a typo!

aligat (binds) should have been alligat or adligat. A simple spelling error.

Now don’t be put off: this is a great book. I am awed by Hadas’s poetry. And hardly anybody reads Latin anymore, so it will not spoil your experience. It didn’t spoil mine. But publishers, whether they be corporate or small presses, need to pay more attention to detail.

N.B. WordPress no longer has a spellcheck feature . Does that reflect a growing carelessness about detail in the larger culture? We can all use a second pair of eyes, even if it’s only the fallible spellcheck. As it is, I’m looking through bifocals!