I read this in A SUBTREASURY OF AMERICAN HUMOR by the Whites when I was a kid. There was another piece in the same section with some relevance to your overall theme, title and author forgotten, which maintained (facetiously) that Edgar Rice Burroughs was the world’s greatest author by a considerable margin because his appeal was so broad-based, and gave the reasons for same. Given that the movies are the most profit-driven art form, the juxtaposition of these two essays may have some relevance. I don’t know if I ever actually read any of the Leatherstocking Saga, but I certainly read a lot of Burroughs as a youngster. (I added this, and it's not there, so here it is again: the other piece is "How to Be a Great Writer," by Alva Johnstone."
James Fenimore Cooper was an atrocious writer. The only reason I read the entire Leatherstocking Tales was after the BBC Masterpiece Theatre adopted THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS, I became interested in reading the books. I think I kept waiting for them to get better. Twain is right about Deerslayer's accent ebbing and flowing. Here is a sample:
"“Tis our main ar'n'd, Sarpent, as you know, this battling for the castle and old Hutter's darters, coming in as a sort of accident. Yes—yes—I'll be actyve in helping little Hist, who's not only one of the best and handsomest maidens of the tribe, but the very best and handsomest. I've always encouraged you, chief, in that liking, and it's proper, too, that a great and ancient race like your'n shouldn't come to an end. If a woman of red skin and red gifts could get to be near enough to me to wish her for a wife, I'd s'arch for just such another, but that can never be; no, that can never be. I'm glad Hetty has met with Hist, howsever, for though the first is a little short of wit and understanding, the last has enough for both. Yes, Sarpent,” laughing heartily—“put 'em together, and two smarter gals isn't to be found in all York Colony!”
“I will go to the Iroquois camp,” returned the Delaware, gravely. “No one knows Chingachgook but Wah, and a treaty for lives and scalps should be made by a chief. Give me the strange beasts, and let me take a canoe.”
I read this in A SUBTREASURY OF AMERICAN HUMOR by the Whites when I was a kid. There was another piece in the same section with some relevance to your overall theme, title and author forgotten, which maintained (facetiously) that Edgar Rice Burroughs was the world’s greatest author by a considerable margin because his appeal was so broad-based, and gave the reasons for same. Given that the movies are the most profit-driven art form, the juxtaposition of these two essays may have some relevance. I don’t know if I ever actually read any of the Leatherstocking Saga, but I certainly read a lot of Burroughs as a youngster. (I added this, and it's not there, so here it is again: the other piece is "How to Be a Great Writer," by Alva Johnstone."
James Fenimore Cooper was an atrocious writer. The only reason I read the entire Leatherstocking Tales was after the BBC Masterpiece Theatre adopted THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS, I became interested in reading the books. I think I kept waiting for them to get better. Twain is right about Deerslayer's accent ebbing and flowing. Here is a sample:
"“Tis our main ar'n'd, Sarpent, as you know, this battling for the castle and old Hutter's darters, coming in as a sort of accident. Yes—yes—I'll be actyve in helping little Hist, who's not only one of the best and handsomest maidens of the tribe, but the very best and handsomest. I've always encouraged you, chief, in that liking, and it's proper, too, that a great and ancient race like your'n shouldn't come to an end. If a woman of red skin and red gifts could get to be near enough to me to wish her for a wife, I'd s'arch for just such another, but that can never be; no, that can never be. I'm glad Hetty has met with Hist, howsever, for though the first is a little short of wit and understanding, the last has enough for both. Yes, Sarpent,” laughing heartily—“put 'em together, and two smarter gals isn't to be found in all York Colony!”
“I will go to the Iroquois camp,” returned the Delaware, gravely. “No one knows Chingachgook but Wah, and a treaty for lives and scalps should be made by a chief. Give me the strange beasts, and let me take a canoe.”
At least Chingachgook speaks prooper English.
You know, I'm amused by spectacular bad writing, but this is just unhinged in a bad way.
Even Tarzan didn't change from Johnny Weissmuller to P.G. Wodehouse in the same paragraph.