In Which We Discuss Puppies, Envy, Writing and the British

I confess - I have Brit envy.

I'm a dyed in the wool Anglophile, with a lifelong fascination with British culture, most especially literature and history. Most of my favorite authors, both living and dead, are British. Britian looms hugely in the several historical eras that I enjoy. Many blogs on my favorites list are written by Brits.

The British all seem to have this inborn art for language used wittily, sharply, and eruditely, an art that I swear seeps right out of them - some special language sense that must be bred into them.

Although envious, I don't want to actually be a Brit, as I have enough English ancestry from my father to qualify sharing in the highly diluted gene pool. I don't necessarily want to sleep with any of them, as I've already done that and found the experience, while memorable in the abstract, not compelling enough to repeat.

What I really want is to write like them - use the English language to probe, to parry; to delight, to exort; to spring up and sink its delicate yet lethal talons into the throat; to leave its reader astonished, confounded, forever changed. To be able to use language akin to raising an eyebrow sardonically, looking down the nose and intoning "Indeed", without ever truly moving the lips.

Even though Brits have been called a nation of shopkeepers, what I think is more accurate, at least for those who write, is they are a nation of storytellers. And what raucous, wonderful, and often eccentric stories they have to tell.

For every sentence I write that I believe is as warm, heart-tugging and achingly perfect as a basketful of warm puppies, I read some blisteringly sublime paragraph written by a Brit on the same subject that dissolves me in helpless laughter, shaking my head with profound admiration at how neatly and concisely it's been done.

And then I pound my fist with rage. Oh, the unfairness of it all!

But for all this envy I've not visited Britain. In one way I long to see the places that through books or films have ignited my imagination in myriad ways and for so many years.

In another way I'm afraid the places I would visit won't ring with the resonance I so dreamily expect; that the buildings of the past won't appear to me as towers of history or knowledge or even places infused with the conciousness of hundreds of lives, but be merely poky old piles of timber and stone, devoid of inspiration and more thrilling in the abstract.

Or, most contrary and frightening of all - my expectations and the reality will match up according to a recipe of unknown fiery combustion and I'll never be able to leave.

So, for the time being, I'm content to view my Britain from afar. I'll get there, eventually, but for now, even with my envy, it can remain a romantic destination seen comfortably from an illusionist's armchair.

One of my heroes, William Shakespeare, definitely set the bar very high with the following passage:

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,--
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

William Shakespeare, "King Richard II", Act 2 scene 1

Now that's a basketful of warm puppies!