Tag: From my diary

One of the possible translators I’ve been swapping emails with has balked a bit at some of my terms and conditions.  No, not the ones specifying the transfer of his immortal soul and 10cc of blood; most academic contracts contain such terms these days, or so I gather.  No, it’s the ones about how the contract runs.  He suggested that I ask what people think. 

So … what would YOU put in as a condition of getting the job done?  Here’s a set that I sent out recently, slightly amended since I forgot an important bit!

I have to put a few conditions on this commission, as I have had some awkward experiences with people in Lebanon offering translations. These are negotiable, of course, and designed merely to avoid some awkward situations that would not arise with a reputable person like yourself.

Money: I offer 10 cents US.  Do you have a Paypal account?  That is easily my easiest method of payment, you see. 

1.  First, would you do a translation the first page of the material as a sample? I will then get the result checked by another scholar. If it is of academic standard, then I will pay for it then and there, and we will continue; if for any reason it is unsuitable then we will cancel the commission and nothing will be owing.

2.  I would like to receive chunks of the translation at regular intervals (say once a week?), so that I can see that progress is happening.  I will pay for these as they arrive.  If there is a long period of no progress or no contact, of course I reserve the right to cancel and put the work elsewhere.

3.  Delivery to be in electronic form, in Word .doc or .rtf format.

4.  Copyright of each chunk passes to me on payment.  [I then intend to place it in the public domain.  However you get a non-exclusive right to do whatever you like with the results; if you want to revise it further and publish yourself with extra notes etc, then please do.]

The last bit in brackets applies to those commissions where I don’t intend to sell a book form of it.

Anything to add?  Objections to the tone?  Anything to subtract?  All thoughts will be welcome!

On check-in to the Oxford Patristics Conference in 2007 all attendees were given distinctive plastic bags to carry all the literature in.  As a result, here and there in the streets of Oxford delegates were visible at some distance by the bag.  This led to awkward situations, where you would suddenly realise that the person stood next to you was also carrying The Bag.  An awkward cough, and a nod, usually resulted.

The conference started with a garden party in Christ Church College.  I was making my way down St. Aldates, when out of a side-road right next to me, carrying The Bag, popped none other than Rowan Williams, currently Archbishop of Canterbury, evidently heading the same way.  Tableau!  Neither of us could well avoid or ignore the other without overt impoliteness, and so we made the sort of polite conversation that strangers do when placed suddenly in a situation where they must be polite. 

Down to Tom Tower we went in this fashion, through Tom Quad and under the stairs to the hall and out towards the back into a courtyard which in turn opened into the garden.  In the centre of the yard was a dozen or so men dressed all in black uniforms with clerical collars.  All these looked as if they lived in these uniforms every day. 

As we came out into the yard, a single voice was raised with a polished, clerical joy; “Ah here he is! The main event!”  I cannot convey to you the tone of that voice.  Not a single note of sincerity was present in it.  No tinge of genuine emotion was present.  In short, it was a piece of gross flattery.

Astonished, I looked at the archbishop; but his face did not change.  I remember thinking how like a mask his face was.  Without speaking he approached the gathering of sycophants — for such they plainly were — and perforce, not wishing to simply stalk off, I followed.  After all, I would not drop someone without a word, even an archbishop; my mother brought me up better than that.  So I stood there for a minute or so, ignored by both, until I suddenly realised that I had been dropped, as I had thought rude to drop another.  I did not exist, and was being ignored as unimportant.

At that, I chuckled to myself, at the absurdity of it all, and carried on, past the sycophants into the garden, and into cleaner air.  The last I saw of the archbishop was of the man and his court moving towards a side-building for some purpose of doubtless ineffable import, at least to their own welfare and advantage. 

All these clerics were of junior rank.  None of them, we may be certain, had any parishes to attend, or funerals to conduct.  No, these southern middle class boys were the “upwardly mobile” clerics, above such tedious duties, engaged in ingratiating themselves.  Imagine such a life; one of constant court, constant flattery.  Yet… can anyone doubt that the bishoprics of the Church of England are filled from these people?  Indeed is there much doubt that none will achieve high office in the CofE, unless they are of this type?  For who else is known to those who make appointments? 

This small group, this narrow system of people, all self-serving … is this really the Church of England as it really is?  The parishes full of ordinary people merely sheep, to be fleeced for the benefit of the few?  The sheep may wonder why the bishops are always of such a poor standard, so often self-serving atheists in all but name, so harsh on anyone who presumes to query whether the church is really fulfilling the commands of Christ, so generous to adulterous clergy and those caught in worse vices.  But the sheep count for nothing, if appointments are made like this.  The hard-working parish clergyman counts for nothing.  I recall one bishop who paid his chauffeur more than the parish clergy received, thereby causing resentment among the latter; but of course he cared not at all for that.  The diocese had been earned by ceaseless flattery and court, no doubt, and was his in law and in fact, to use or abuse as he chose.  Judging from the works of puritans like Richard Baxter, it has never been different since the reformation.  Perhaps longer…

Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence.

After yesterday’s photograph, I happened to see today on the TV that new archaeological digging is to begin at Caistor St Edmund.  The Norfolk Archaeological Trust own the site and have a website with some (not very useful) information on it.

After WW1, when former war pilots were at a loose-end, many of them turned to other things.  In the summers that followed, strange markings were visible in the crops in some places, and the photographs revealed ancient buried ruins.  One of the most spectacular images was from Caistor St Edmund, taken in 1929 (image from here, click on image to see larger image offsite).

We’re all getting older, and earning a living is what we tend to do.  Every week much the same as the rest, often doing things we don’t especially like or dislike, month after month, year after year… and suddenly we’re old, tired, ready to retire, and wondering why “life” was something that happened to someone else.

With the recession, some of us will be forced to spend months at home, living off our savings.  Some of the time will be spent looking for work, but that’s often only a small part of it.  But … what could we do? 

I’ve been wondering about this myself.  Is there any way one could simply go off for six months, or a year, and work in some scholarly environment in Rome, or the US, or somewhere, doing something completely different, mixing with people — which in my case is something that normally happens infrequently — perhaps doing some teaching, or whatever?

Surely it should be possible, particularly if we pay our own way and don’t ask for much money?

Does anyone have any ideas?  What could be done?

It has been ten years since an old man named Tony Martin awoke in his remote Norfolk farmhouse and realised that a gang of professional thieves were breaking into his farmhouse.  Old, sick, alone but valiant, Martin reached for his only weapon, an old shotgun, and discharged it at the thieves.  By pure luck he injured one of them fatally and the others fled. 

Martin had been burgled repeatedly, and the police had done nothing.  That night Norfolk Constabulary were busy elsewhere, nicking motorists for minor traffic offences on the King’s Lynn bypass. When at last they did arrive, they promptly arrested Tony Martin and charged him with murder.  He was put on trial, and the liberal establishment threw the book at him.  But a public outcry ensured that he was convicted only of manslaughter. 

But the spite did not end there.  Most criminals would be released after serving half their sentence.  But Martin, brave to the last, refused to play the system and pretend remorse that he did not feel and that most of the country did not consider appropriate.  Meanwhile the media ran a campaign to blacken his name.  He was released after serving two-thirds of his sentence, when criminals are automatically released.

His assailants, of course, had been released long since and had committed a series of further crimes.

Martin has since been forgotten, but his case epitomises the feeling of most ordinary Britons, that the police, the courts, the law and the prison system are unjust and unfair and biased against them.  Tender and generous to a fault towards the villain, especially if coloured or otherwise favoured by the establishment, these institutions showed no mercy to a confused old man defending himself.

Today is the anniversary of this event, and the Daily Mail has an interview with Tony Martin.  He has never been able to go home, or to disclose his whereabouts.  As he remarks, “nothing has changed.”  The same events could happen today.

This is not a political blog, and will not become one.  But I see myself in Tony Martin, as so many ordinary people do.  While he remains unpardoned, and uncompensated, none of us can have any confidence in the criminal justice system.