Monday 27 April 2020

The Horse, the Wheel, and Language

by David W. Anthony

It took me, what, well under a year to read this book. Not being either a linguist or an archaeologist, I found it interesting — in more than one sense of the word — rather than good. Now Guns, Germs and Steel is jolly damn good. The Horse, the Wheel, and Language is merely interesting. Feel the difference.

It starts well enough. In general, the first part, Language and Archaeology, reads much better (and is much shorter) than the second one, The Opening of the Eurasian Steppes. This latter appears to be a collection of recycled academic papers by Anthony et al., maybe slightly reformatted and given pop-sciencey titles but otherwise left intact. Which is a shame, because the author’s indubitably fascinating discoveries and insights are buried among grave inventories and tables of carbon dating so one has to be a kind of archaeologist themself to unearth them. Why not consign all these tedious trees to the endnotes or appendices so we can finally see the forest?

And vice versa: not trusting the author, I took the effort to go through the “small print”. (In a hardcopy, I would read the endnotes as I go along, which is nearly impossible on Kindle.) I think the Author’s Note on Radiocarbon Dates is not just illuminating but worthy of inclusion in the main text, and there are a few pearls in the notes, for instance, a curious discovery of

the Potapovka horse skull lying above the shoulders of the decapitated Poltavka human. Before dates were obtained on both the horse and the skeleton this deposit was interpreted as a “centaur”— a decapitated human with his head replaced by the head of a horse, an important combination in Indo-Iranian mythology. But Nerissa Russell and Eileen Murphy found that both the horse and the human were female, and the dates show that they were buried a thousand years apart.

There is a suspiciously detailed and non-critical Wikipedia article, most likely written by the fans of the book. Still, could be a good idea to check it first before embarking on a 500-plus-page monograph.

Sunday 19 April 2020

Kung Fu Panda

a film by John Stevenson and Mark Osborne

Seeing Kung Fu Panda in the movies for the first time was a revelation. The kids fell in love with it. Me too. Many a rewatch only made it better. We even watched it in Spanish on the telly — very decent translation, by the way. “¡Que subidita!” is now part of our language.

Yesterday, after a few years’ break, Timur chose this DVD for our relaxing Saturday night in. (Just a figure of speech, you understand. All our nights are “in” lately.) Not only is it as enjoyable now as it was in 2008: it is a masterpiece of pure awesomeness. From the very beginning (“Legend tells of a legendary warrior whose Kung Fu skills were the stuff of legend”) to that Master Shifu’s “Yeah”.

Speaking of which. In Mandarin Chinese, 師父 (shīfu) means “master” or “teacher”, especially for martial arts. So “Master Shifu” is like “Master Master”. Good to remember if you learn Chinese.

Saturday 11 April 2020

Soul Music

by Terry Pratchett

After reading Reaper Man, a decent enough but ultimately disappointing sequel to excellent Mort, it took me another 20 years, a quarantine and lousy internet connection to get to the last part of our well-thumbed copy of Death Trilogy. (Yes yes I know there are more Death novels, they’re just not in this volume.) I liked the story, was not impressed by the ending — and that’s given that the book starts from the end: “Where to finish?”.

OK, where to finish? I wish there was a bit more development with Imp Buddy and less jokes like “We’re on a mission from Glod” but hey, that’s what Soul Music is — a work of master, not necessarily a masterpiece, but a great book anyway in all its glorious wabi-sabiness. I like the idea of Music being the most powerful kind of magic in the world, or at least Discworld. Buddy opening the final show of The Band With Rocks In without even playing Music with Rocks In is a moment of such magic.

In my head, The Band With Rocks In sounds like one of the rockier incarnations of Ozric Tentacles.

Susan swung the scythe. The line snapped.
‘What happened?’ said Volf. He looked down. ‘That’s me down there, isn’t it?’ he said. He turned slowly. ‘And down there. And over there. And . . .’
He looked at the horned female warrior and brightened up.
‘By Io!’ he said. ‘It’s true? Valkyries will carry me off to the hall of Blind Io where there is perpetual feasting and drinking?’
‘Don’t, I mean don’t ask me,’ said Susan.
The Valkyrie reached down and hauled the warrior across her saddle.
‘Just keep quiet, there’s a good chap,’ she said.
She stared thoughtfully at Susan.
‘Are you a soprano?’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Can you sing at all, gel? Only we could do with another soprano. Far too many mezzo-sopranos around these days.”
‘I’m not very musical, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, well. Just a thought. Must be going.’ She threw back her head. The mighty breastplate heaved. ‘Hi-jo-to! Ho!’