The Moonstone

We had the paperback 月亮寶石, when I was a child. I didn't even know the

original English title. I still remembered the name of Gaberiel Betteredge,

one of the narrators, as 伽百裏爾 貝特裏奇, a transliteration that made no sense

in Chinese except for invoking a fascination toward a remote alien world. It

took me a few tries to finish reading.

 

A plover-egg-sized Indian diamond, dedicated to a Hindu deity, was looted by the

British and passed down with its curse to an innocent girl. It was then lost for

a second time for a new generation of human weaknesses and, after the dust

settled, dramatically returned to the forehead of the statue of the moon god. It

was a mystery as well as love story. Like Greek and Roman mythologies, to me,

the Moonstone was a call of the wild as well as an escape from the daily drudery

to survive and get ahead. It invoked a longing to go overseas and see.

 

30 years later, I chanced upon the word "moonstone" one day and memories flooded

back. This time, I learned the name of the author, Wilkie Collins, and the

significance of the story as an early detective novel, and I wondered, into the

21 century, where the yellow diamond resided and if three Brahmins were still

watching day and night. Next, I borrowed the Everyman's Library edition.

 

The 1868 novel showed some age but was nonetheless the same page-turner which it

must be back then and which I couldn't say of some of the modern books I read of

the same genre. (I heard Taleb whispering: "I told you. Read nothing from the

past 100 years!" and "No skill to understand it; mastery to write it.") The

settings were given enough attention with few rare words that I had to look up

in the dictionary. Through the accounts of several narrators, the story

proceeded at a good pace and suspenses were never drawn-out. Humor fills the

volume, especially in Betteredge's and Miss Clack's accounts. Here is a

paragraph on page 14 to give a taste of the language.

 

    If I had had a hat in my hand, nothing but respect would have prevented me

    from throwing that hat up to the ceiling. I had not seen Mr. Franklin since

    he was a boy, living along with us in this house. He was, out of all sight

    (as I remembered him), the nicest boy that ever spun a top or broke a

    window. Miss Rachel, who was present, and to whom I made that remark,

    observed, in return, that SHE remembered him as the most atrocious tyrant

    that ever tortured a doll, and the hardest driver of an exhausted little

    girl in string harness that England could produce. 'I burn with indignation,

    and I ache with fatigue,' was the way Miss Rachel summed it up, 'when I

    think of Franklin Blake.'

 

Upon finishing the Moonstone, I was impressed enough to borrow the author's

magna opus, the 1860 novel The Woman In White.

[7grizzly]

回複 '暖冬cool夏' 的評論 : Thank you, 暖冬, for reading and your comment.
I totally agree that "there must be a reason that classics last centuries." But I think that reason itself is not as important as the fact that these works have lasted. The results have spoken.

And to us who wish to learn the craft, classics are the safest bet for the simple reason that they don't waste our time. Even if we cannot create stuff as great, at least we learn to appreciate outstanding writings.

The idea is not new. 2000 years ago, Seneca advised his friend to limit his reading to a few well-known authors.

[暖冬cool夏]

Nice write-up!
So does that mean the older the novel/literature is, the better? I know you read classics, like Shakespeare. I guess there must be a reason that classics last centuries.