"The Course of French History" by Pierre Goubert

Retail therapy + impending return trip to Paris = reading material.

Last week it was "The Course of French History," by Pierre Goubert. I practically stole this hardback version from Half.com for less than ten bucks, shipped (whilst even the electronic edition was over thirty bucks at Amazon (and everywhere else)!). I have read all of three pages of it, and am already in relieved love with the writing style.

I own several books on (among other things) French history, and so far they've all been written so cryptically that there is no such thing as a casual read. Sentences so thick and tangled, they are a Gordian Knot of dates and activities. I had to do push ups and cardio just to pick the things up and read them.

Then, along comes Monsieur Goubert's book (and Monsieur Ultee's translation), with simple, direct sentences that say who did what, when, and why. Oh, what an enjoyable three pages! Swimming against the current with these other heavy tomes, I feel like a bird in flight, I read with such minimal effort. It shouldn't be that hard.

I might just get some reading done.

Shouting across the gulf

Everything is going along just fine, but then I turn around and see the distance between us. I turn and move to close the distance. I look, and she's there, waiting. I open a channel of communication as I do so, and start to explain the view from my side of the gulf.

With a harsh word, she hacks at the bond that connects us and the line clouds with an intolerable static. Although she muddies the line, it's me who severs it. The bridge looked sturdy, but it slackens. The ground at my feet cracks and gives and inspires worry.

Should I beg to simply be heard? "Pride goeth before a fall," yes, but is a little dignity too much to ask, especially when you've anted up enough already? Maybe it's hubris, but at the moment my answer is no. Maybe it's an excess of ego. On the other hand maybe it's been not nearly enough.

That's the risk of wearing your heart on your sleeve: every once in a while, someone slugs you in the arm. The trouble with being Mr. Nice Guy: people routinely mistake it for a kind of weakness, instead of what it is: a kind of strength. It's an investment, and all investments involve risk. They don't all involve a payoff.