Taking a cue from The Mumpsimus:
THE OFFICER: Now hear this. You are mountain people. You hear me? Your language is dead. It is forbidden. It is not permitted to speak your mountain language in this place. You cannot speak your language to your men. It is not permitted. Do you understand? You may not speak it. It is outlawed. You may only speak the language of the capital. This is the only language permitted in this place. You will be badly punished if you attempt to speak your mountain language in this place. This is a military decree. It is the law. Your language is forbidden. It is dead. No one is allowed to speak your language. Your language no longer exists. Any questions?
YOUNG WOMAN: I do not speak the mountain language.
Silence. The OFFICER and SERGEANT slowly circle her. The SERGEANT puts his hand on her bottom.
SERGEANT: What language do you speak? What language do you speak with your arse?
OFFICER: These women, Sergeant, have as yet committed no crime. Remember that.
SERGEANT: Sir! But you’re not saying they’re without sin?
OFFICER: Oh, no. Oh, no, I’m not saying that.
SERGEANT: This one’s full of it. She bounces with it.
OFFICER: She doesn’t speak the mountain language.
The WOMAN moves away from SERGEANT‘s hand and turns to face the two men.
YOUNG WOMAN: My name is Sara Johnson. I have come to see my husband. It is my right. Where is he?
OFFICER: Show me your papers.
She gives him a piece of paper. He examines it, turns to SERGEANT.
He doesn’t come from the mountains. He’s in the wrong batch.
SERGEANT: So is she. She looks like a fucking intellectual to me.
OFFICER: But you said her arse wobbled.
SERGEANT: Intellectual arses wobble the best.
From Harold Pinter’s Mountain Language.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (