101 Letters to a Prime Minister (44 page)

What surprised me in Winny’s translation into modern English of
Sir Gawain
was how close the story was brought to me. Over and over as I read the poem, one thing came through: personality, be it that of Sir Gawain, or the Green Knight, or Lord and Lady Bertilak. Compare that to another work of old European literature I sent you recently, the German
Nibelungenlied
. I never imagined Sivrit or Kriemhilt, Prunhilt or Hagen as real people. They were rather literary symbols embedded in a vivid story. Sir Gawain is also such a symbol—for the codes of chivalry and courtly love, which can be seen as medieval ideals that tried to reconcile the loving kindness of Christ with the brutal social realities of the time—but he’s a symbol whose human form seems palpably real. Take these lines:

It’s the leaping forward, the rush to get his equipment in place, the plain statement of his relief and then the fearful warning—I can’t imagine Sivrit of the
Nibelungenlied
displaying such all-too-human emotions.

Or take the stanzas in Part Three in which Sir Gawain, resting in his bed, is repeatedly tempted by Lady Bertilak. The eroticism of those pages reached up and tempted
me
. I don’t know how Sir Gawain resisted those very human feelings.

What’s fascinating to read is the conscious working-out in Gawain’s mind of what his code requires of him. We see a man trying to uphold his ideals, and lamenting his failure when he doesn’t manage it. It’s not only interesting; it’s moving. Each one of us, you and me, must struggle every day to live up to our ideals.

Sir Gawain
is a work of remarkable intimacy. That is achieved not only by the small number of characters, but also by the interiority of the drama. Despite being spread over much of the British isle, a wide geographic scale for the time, the story essentially unfolds in the close company of Sir Gawain. The reader is Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote.

The descriptions of the seasons, winter in particular, are lovely. The hunting scenes are breathtaking. And all is carried to the reader by a poetic language that is clear, vigorous and true, that truth whereby language sorts and makes sense of reality.
Such language comes from great writers, and our anonymous poet from northwestern England was surely that, a great writer.

I’ve told you nothing of the plot. Sir Gawain is at Camelot with Arthur and the other Knights of the Round Table. It is Christmas, many games are being played, and a good time is being had by all (in this story, there is much having of a good time, the comfort of it, the fun of it). Then into the hall enters a knight who is a stranger to everyone. He is a giant, but he makes a striking impression for another reason: both he and his horse are entirely green, bright emerald green. He rides in, dismounts and tells the revelers he wants to play a Christmas game: he will receive an unprotected blow from anyone in exchange for returning a blow a year and a day later. He taunts the court until Gawain steps forward. Gawain takes hold of an axe. The Green Knight stands unflinching. Gawain slices his head off. Far from falling over dead, the Green Knight leans over and reaches for his head and lifts it in the air. The head speaks:
See you in a year and a day, Sir Gawain
. The Green Knight then climbs onto his horse, head still in hand, and rides off.

A year goes by quickly when its end is dreaded. In the fall, Sir Gawain sets out to find the Green Knight and fulfill his part of the terrible bargain …

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
can be read as a Christian allegory—though one that treads lightly, aware of the weakness of the flesh—or it can be read simply as a good story. Either way, I hope it helps you prepare for the challenges, temptations and rewards of 2011.

Happy New Year.

Yours truly,

Yann Martel

J
AMES
W
INNY
taught English at Trent University, Cambridge and Leicester University, England. He translated and edited works by Geoffrey Chaucer as well as
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
, and wrote introductory texts to literature by John Donne and Shakespeare.

Dear Mr. Harper,

I have only now and then sent you non-fiction, but Alberto Manguel’s
A History of Reading
is so perfectly suited for our sort-of dialogue that I’ve chosen it for this week. It’s an engagingly erudite and cosmopolitan work that effortlessly whizzes through history and over borders, as if planet Earth were a book and Manguel had carefully read it through, noting every reference historical, literary, religious, philosophical, physiological, archaeological, sociological, biographical, commercial, geographic, technical, personal and anecdotal that had to do with reading. As it turns out, reading is everything. Not because everyone is a reader of books. That is not the case. Rather, because the world, and everything in it, is indeed a book of sorts. Manguel quotes Walt Whitman from
Leaves of Grass:

(Good stuff, Whitman. He’s a thrilling poet, one whose poetry quickens the reader’s sense for life.) The world, like a book, demands elucidation. So a paleontologist reads a fossil the way a reader reads a detective novel, wondering
What happened here?
So a lover reads the face of his or her beloved the way a reader reads a romance, finding comfort and security there. So a politician reads a poll the way a believer reads scripture, asking
What is my fate?
And just as it’s a pity when a reader finds it not worth his or her time to finish one book, and then another, and then another, and so on, until that reader becomes, ipso facto, a non-reader, so it’s a pity when a man, woman or child turns from the world, feeling it not worth the read. In both books and world there is mystery, a “cipher … infolded,” and what a joy it is to bathe, to swim, nearly to drown in that mystery. Among the many fine qualities of Manguel’s book is this one, that by dint of the abundance of curious and interesting facts, it jubilantly makes the case that we are a curious and interesting species.

Unlike a novel, which is like a long thread that must remain taut if it is good and so requires on the part of the reader an attention that is regular, if not constant,
A History of Reading
is composed of many short, colourful threads and benefits from stint reading. Manguel’s style is leisurely and elegant and it links with no apparent strain its many elements. Despite its breadth,
A History of Reading
remains a personal work, not only because Manguel’s charming, urbane
I
voice regularly slips in to share an experience or anecdote from his long and satisfying life as a reader, but because it really
is
a personal work. Note the article in the title; it’s A
History
, not The
History of Reading
. With
this choice, Manguel is merely reflecting one of the delightful powers of a reader: to select and interpret as he or she wishes. Manguel’s history of reading might be very different from yours or mine. His is rich, varied, joyful. What would yours be like?

I do believe that my next package to you, book and letter, will be my last.

Yours truly,

Yann Martel

Internationally acclaimed as an anthologist, translator, essayist, novelist and editor, A
LBERTO
M
ANGUEL
(b. 1948) is the bestselling author of several award-winning books, including
A Dictionary of Imaginary Places
and
A History of Reading
. He was born in Buenos Aires (where he served as a reader for the writer and librarian Jorge Luis Borges), moved to Canada in 1982 and now lives in France, where he was named an Officier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in 2004.

Dear Mr. Harper,

This letter, I’m quite sure, will be my last one to you. I said, over and over, that I would persist with our exclusive book club as long as you were in power. But selecting a book for you; reading or rereading it; thinking about it; writing the letter that goes with it; having the letter translated by my parents and discussing that translation with them; scanning the cover of the book; uploading the English and French letters onto their respective websites; and finally mailing book and letter so that they reach you on time every second Monday—all this takes time and effort, and while it’s been a great pleasure for me (I don’t know about you), I’ve been doing it for close to four years now and I want to move on. I have the luck of living with two pregnancies at the moment: the first is my partner Alice’s, who is carrying our second child, a girl due at the end of May, and the second is mine, a new novel gestating in my head. I’m having a small
writing studio built in my backyard so I can have a space to take care of my novel not far from where Alice and I will take care of our new baby. I’m very excited about the new novel. It will be called
The High Mountains of Portugal
and it shimmers in my mind like snow-capped mountains catching the sun. I already have lots of notes written, I’ve been gathering material I intend to read for research, and the story in my head is bursting with promise. I can’t wait to get started on it. I’m of course equally excited about the new addition to our family. Both babies will require lots of joyful work.

And it so happens that this is the hundredth letter I’ve written to you. One hundred. One, zero, zero. The same as 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1+ 1. That’s a lot of letters and books. And come to think of it, it’s the same number of chapters as in my novel
Life of Pi
. One hundred is a nice round number and a good number to end on. (The number of times you personally have written back to me is also a nice round number, by the way: 0. That’s zero, naught, nada, zilch.)

It’s true, too, that I’m tired of using books as political bullets and grenades. Books are too precious and wonderful to be used for long in such a fashion.

Now what would be your send-off book? The question preoccupied me. We started on a strong note—with
The Death of Ivan Ilych
, by Leo Tolstoy, if you remember, which I sent you on April 16, 2007—and I wanted to end on a strong note. The answer came naturally when I received an invitation from the artistic director for French theatre at the National Arts Centre, in
Ottawa, a one-minute walk from where you work. I was invited to participate in an evening event called
Mais que lit Stephen Harper?
, in which books and reading would be celebrated. I eagerly accepted and I hope that you will come, too. Take this as a personal invitation. The event is at the NAC’s nine-hundred-seat Theatre Hall at 7:30 p.m. on Friday, February 25. It’s sold out, but I’m sure two tickets can be found for you and Mrs. Harper, if you want.

The invitation, I mean
my
invitation, came from Wajdi Mouawad. There, I knew what book to send you, I had our hundredth book. Wajdi Mouawad is not only the artistic director for French theatre at the NAC, he’s also a brilliant playwright. I liked the idea of ending our book club with a play of his for a number of reasons. Firstly, because I haven’t sent you enough drama (or poetry). Secondly, because what better way to signal to you that art is partial and unfinished because its meaning is forever changing and evolving, that art demands a constant and renewed involvement on the part of the reader, listener, viewer, that art is the work and joy of a lifetime for maker and receiver, what better way to signal that than by sending you a play script, a play on the page, which is partial and unfinished because it’s unstaged? By doing so, I end our book club not with a full stop, but with suspension points. Thirdly, a play by Mouawad is an excellent choice for our final book together because he’s a multilingual Québécois of Lebanese origin, and thus a typical hybrid Canadian, and I wanted to end with a Canadian writer. Fourthly, I’m sending you
Incendies—Scorched
, in Linda Gaboriau’s lively English translation—because, as I’m sure you already know, the Quebec filmmaker Denis Villeneuve’s cinematic adaptation of the play has just received the nod of an Oscar nomination for best foreign-language film. Yet another Canadian work of art receiving international acclaim. Fifthly,
and lastly, I’m sending you a Mouawad play because, as I said, he’s brilliant. The man has got fire in his guts and bile on his tongue. He’s an Angry Young Man (do you know the movement? British, postwar, vocally dissatisfied with the status quo—I once saw their emblematic play, John Osborne’s
Look Back in Anger
, and years ago, while living in Mexico City, I had the privilege of meeting and hearing a reading by another of their lions, Arnold Wesker).