Dr. Watson and the war in Afghanistan, past and present.

In the original adventures of Sherlock Holmes, written by A. C. Doyle, Dr. Watson served in the second Afghan War.
"The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out...I...succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties." -A Study in Scarlet.  Candahar is another spelling of current Kandahar, a city in Afghanistan.

In the new BBC Sherlock series, Dr. Watson also served in Afghanistan.

So, they're just keeping it true to the book, right?

The amazing thing though is that Sherlock is set in our current times, and there currently is a war with British soldiers participating in it in Afghanistan, if this series had been produced 15 years earlier or later than it was, this statement would have been non-nonsensical. They would have had to substitute the name of a different country or set the show in the past. But they didn't, because there was a war there then, and there is a war there now.

My Museum of Memories

Memory is a funny thing. Certain things we retain, and others we forget. Mark Gungor compares men's brains to boxes and women's to ball of wire. See the video on Youtube.  BBC's Sherlock has a "Mind Palace" which is like some extra deep place he'll go to retrieve information stored there to solve cases.

I've decided that my mind is like a museum. It's not a particularly well-ordered and logically laid out one either. Additionally, it's got a lot of cluttered rooms and a few with almost nothing in them. My museum contains little movie clips I play over and over, snapshots of the past, and other artifacts of memory. Some memories I frequent more often, they're on display. Others are stuck in the back rooms, not particularly special, just tossed into a corner somewhere. Others are like precious, fragile treasures I hide away to protect and keep them alive, I can't share those moments right away and hardly dare look at them myself lest I damage them with rough handling.

Yet time tells on my memories and like the Mona Lisa, they fade. Rusty old swords lie in some corners. It doesn't matter how hard I try to preserve them, whether by sharing, secreting them away, or playing them over and over. The closer I look at my museum pieces, the more I notice the decay, the blurred detail on a picture, or the missing page in a manuscript. I cringe at the faded paint and the empty casing were a gem used to be lodged but has now tumbled out of its setting. I might find it eventually in some unexpected corner...

Some of my memories I don't like, they're the ugly paintings. In these cases, time is often my friend. With time the garish colors fade, the wine mellows, and the pain no longer stings the same. And they say hindsight is 20/20 vision. I can see the good that came from pain and I can savor triumphs without the suspense and agony of the moment. Success memories are like award plaques, medals, and trophies in my collection.

My memory paintings attempt to capture a moment
in time, but what is a picture to the moment itself? If I write them down, the actual moment slips away like sand through an hour glass. It's like pressing a leaf: some of the colors are preserved but the leaf is dry and brittle, and not as bright and glossy as it once was. Artifacts and crumbled journals help us see the past, but they can't take you there. Still, I catalogue my treasures and I write my journals, but it's not the same.

I cannot share my memory museum, I walk these halls alone. When I share a memory it's like giving someone a postcard from the gift-shop. It's a photocopied memory that I let others see. Just as my memories are removed from the actual moment, so too my attempts at sharing them with others are removed another step further from that moment.

It's part of  my personality, I think, to capture and preserve, document, and convey. I'm always writing or taking photos. As a Sensor (Myers-Briggs), I learn from my past experiences, through physical sensations. And I want to share what I experience. How do I capture golden drops of sunlight that flicker through my lashes on a balmy summer morning? I add another artifact (a sensation) to my collection like one adds a painting to a gallery wall. A painting expresses something of its subject, but it's not like being there, in the scene in my mind, experiencing it the way I felt it. So I describe, like a painter paints, I add my own interpretation, how I saw it, and I try to express just what that moment felt like to me.

The Hobbit, Would you have opened the door?

I often contemplate the beginning of The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien. How would I have responded to an Unexpected Party, comprised of strangers? Frankly, it never would have happened.  Atleast, not in this age, at this location.

I always look before I open the door, even when I am expecting someone, and if an unknown person looking taller and stronger than me is out there, the last thing I'm going to do is open the door while I'm home alone. If they stand there waiting too long, then I'd call the police. No party for anyone. 

Now Bilbo had invited Gandalf to tea and when he heard the ring of the door bell he opened it expecting Gandalf but was surprised to find a dwarf (page 7) We are told, "as soon as the door opened, he pushed inside, just as if he had been expected" (page 7). How frightening! I'm not sure what I'd do if someone pushed into my house. I'm guessing I'd ask them what they wanted. By the time the second stranger entered, however, I'd be plotting my escape from the house so as not to be murdered. It's rather sad, to think about how dark the world is, living on the edge of a crime-infested city.

And now I pose the question to you: What would you have done? 

The Hobbit, J. R. R. Tolkien. Ballentine Books, New York: 1982.

A thousand years ago feels like yesterday

I felt like they were my neighbors, my relations, my community, these Icelanders from a thousand years ago.

I think it was the style in which their sagas were written.

Many authors these days take an over-the-shoulder, inside-the-soul, point of view with their characters, telling you exactly what the character is thinking and feeling in every excruciating detail. I like that. However, the sagas were not written that way, they were written in a rather external fashion. Yet I felt close to the people.

They seemed real because the lens through which I saw them was as if I were a part of the community. I am told a bit of what they are feeling, I hear of their actions, I know who is best friends with who and how they are related. Just like in real life. In real life I don't know every thought, every pleasure, every pain that passes through my friends, let alone acquaintances that I see frequently.  And so the sagas, by being distant, seem real because I see a community functioning, like my home school co/op, like my extended family, like my Christian community. I see the major events that take place and I hear a little of the inside scoop through those more directly involved.

Additionally the descriptions of people are sometimes vivid, so it's like you can see them. I can see their face and external appearance (physique, clothing), but I can't see their mind. Like real life.

Interestingly, books written in first person or with a very over-the-shoulder view often  leave you guessing as to the person's looks.

They were so human, driven by their feelings of greed, anger, ambition, brokenheartedness and by what was acceptable in their culture.  The women were not meek sheep in the kitchen. A number had strong characters and were driving forces in the stories as they struggled for revenge. And they often manipulated/strong-armed their husbands into getting their way.

And so the sagas easily bridge the gap between then and now, despite culture and language barriers.

Icelandic Sagas - Translation: What's Lost and Gained.

Somethings are just lost in translation, we all know that. If you can't read the original, somethings are found by reading translations by different authors.

I'm now reading The Laxdoela Saga, translated by A. Margaret Arent (copyright 1964).  Some of the people in this saga also appeared in The Story of Burnt Njal, however their names are spelled differently. Hauskuld/Hoskuld. Unna/Unn. Snorri Godi/Snorri the Priest. Tongue/Tunga. "Godi" is a title for a priest/chieftain so instead of calling him "Snorri the Priest," she called him "Snorri Godi." Additionally, instead of translating the name of his home to "Tongue," she left it as "Tunga."

So, by reading both translations, the notes, and learning a little history, I learned what his name really was (Snorri Godi) and what it meant to those who heard it in his day (Snorri the Priest). "Godi" (more authentically: goði) doesn't just mean "priest," you have to understand how it was used in the days of the sagas. According to Arent in her introduction, the priests of the old Norse religion had lots of power (to be a priest was to be a chieftain). She further explains that when Iceland became a republic, the goðar (plural of goði) automatically became members of parliament, the lawmakers.

Snorri was one of those men. If you read either name by itself, it doesn't mean a whole lot. One must dig into the notes in the book and the history or Iceland itself.

Time makes a difference in  translation. The sagas were written a long time ago and culture has changed considerably since then. The translators also come from different eras, affecting their translations. Sir George Webbe Dasent lived from 1817-1896 (translator of The Story of Burnt Njal, which was first published in 1861).  We now live in a different era with different customs. Sir Dasent used archaic language in his translation (probably even archaic for his time), including English words that are no longer used but approximated the Icelandic word better than any words we have now.

For example, Dasent used the words "boun" and "busked" while Arent used more current language: "made ready, fitted out."  Instead of saying "Easterling" she informs us the person is from Norway. Dasent used the word "daysmen" which refers to an arbitrator. This word appears in the King James Bible in Job 9:33. The King James Bible is from the 1600s, which is well before Dasent's time.

So, what we've got is a story from nearly a millennium ago, translated by a man who lived two hundred years ago (during the Victorian era) who used words atleast two hundred years older than himself (from Shakespeare's time), read by people of a vastly different era (us).

For more on the archaic words themselves:
Icelandic Sagas - A Cultural Glossary and Location Illuminator

Works Cited:
Arent, A. Margaret. The Laxdoela Saga. University of Washington Press, 1964
Dasent, Sir George Webbe. The Story of Burnt Njal. J. M. Dent and Sons LTD, 1960