James Patterson
Having heard a lot about the success of thriller writer James Patterson, I took one of his books out of the library.
I read it and returned it an hour later, a little miffed that I hadn’t spotted they’d given me the remedial reading version by mistake.
“Oh no sir, they’re all like that,” said the librarian.
I was astounded and a little annoyed. How could this man be making a fortune out of writing books so simple a child could understand them?
My annoyance evolved into admiration. It’s hard to write simply. Patterson is obviously a highly intelligent man who is able to conceal it.
But as far as remedial readers went, this set me to thinking. I used to work in educational publishing, and the remedial readers we published were frankly no incentive to learn to read. They were boring, dull. Why not tell an exciting story?
And when learning a foreign language, why were the stories and situations recounted so crashingly tedious? Tell a good story, and the words fly by. The idea struck me — James Patterson in French!
I trawled bookshops in France, Belgium and Luxembourg. I was met with a raised eyebrow or a sneer of disdain. “James PatAirson? We do not care for zat.”
Yesterday, walking down Warwick Street, parallel with Regent Street, I came across the European Bookshop. I never even knew it was there. So I went in; a long, quiet room packed with French books (for European, read French) and bookcase after bookcase of novels arranged alphabetically by author. I was pleased to see they had three separate editions of A La Recherche du Temps Perdu. I’d read Proust in the Scott Moncrieff English translation Remembrance of things past last year and enjoyed it so much I wanted to read it in the original French, but my French simply ain’t good enough.
Here was the answer. A French remedial reader I could get to grips with. No Patterson under the Ps, so I asked the assistant. She pursed her lips and looked disapproving. She led me to a dark corner of the shop, knelt down and furtively produced a slim volume from a lower shelf. “Zis?” I checked. 107 chapters, page and a half each, yes, that was zat.
I was of no further interest to the bookseller, but as I was buying I explained my intentions to use it as a French remedial reader. A huge grin split her face.
So here I am with La Maison au bord du lac. 343 pages of Literature. The last book I read in French was Trois Contes by Maupassant (where I learned the meaning of the word genuflection).
I’ll let you know how I get on.
