Truth about Fox firing Tucker Carlson 🦊📰

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘸𝘰 𝘔𝘦𝘯 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢 “𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘵” 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘜𝘚 𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘮 [Main logotype Expert Modern Advice](       Tucker Carlson’s firing from Fox is [part of a much bigger story](. It’s the latest development in a war to destroy free speech, dissent from the establishment narrative, and protect the interests of the elites. A war on America. [𝑇𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ]( [In this nеw documentary]( you’ll discover who’s really pulling the puppet strings, and why Biden, Kamala, and every other Democrat is impotent in the face of these powerful men. It’s not the deep state, CIA, NSA, or any other alphabet agency… As you’ll see it’s the men ([that I nаmе hеrе]( who are really setting the agenda for America’s future. It’s their vision that’s shaping our national agenda, driving the political divide, and turning our nation into a socialist hellhole. And what they have planned next will shock you… To get all the details, [go hеrе nоw](.   WAS with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in favour of the present undertaking what had long been a favourite project: that of a edition of Shelton’s “Don Quixote,” which has become a somewhat scarce book. T are some- and I confess myself to be one- for whom Shelton’s racy old version, with its defects, has a charm that no modern translation, however skilful or correct, could possess. Shelton had the inestimable advantage of belonging to the same generation as Cervantes; “Don Quixote” had to him a vitality that a contemporary could feel; it him no dramatic effort to see things as Cervantes saw them; t is no anachronism in his language; he put the Spanish of Cervantes into the English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself most likely k the book; he may have carried it with him in his saddle-bags to Stratford on o of his last journeys, and under the mulberry tree at Place joined hands with a kindred genius in its pages. But it was made plain to me that to hope for even a mode popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old crusted English would, no doubt, be relished by a minority, but it would be by a minority. His warmest admirers must admit that he is not a satisfory representative of Cervantes. His translation of the First Part was very hastily made and was revised by him. It has the freshness and vigour, but also a full measure of the faults, of a hasty production. It is often very literal- barbarously literal frequently- but just as often very loose. He had evidently a good colloquial kledge of Spanish, but apparently not much more. It seems to occur to him that the same translation of a word will not suit in every case. It is often said that we have no satisfory translation of “Don Quixote.” To those who are familiar with the original, it savours of truism or platitude to say so, for in truth t can be no thoroughly satisfory translation of “Don Quixote” into English or any other language. It is not that the Spanish idioms are so utterly unmanageable, or that the untranslatable words, numerous enough no doubt, are so superabundant, but rather that the sententious terseness to which the humour of the book owes its flavour is peculiar to Spanish, and can at best be distantly imitated in any other tongue. The history of our English translations of “Don Quixote” is instructive. Shelton’s, the first in any language, was made, apparently, about 1608, but not published till 1612. This of course was the First Part. It has been asserted that the Second, published in 1620, is not the work of Shelton, but t is nothing to support the assertion the f that it has less spirit, less of what we genery understand by “go,” about it than the first, which would be natural if the first were the work of a young man writing currente calamo, and the second that of a middle-aged man writing for a bookseller. On the other hand, it is closer and more literal, the style is the same, the very same translations, or mistranslations, occur in it, and it is extremely unlikely that a translator would, by suppressing his , have owed Shelton to carry the . In 1687 John Phillips, Milton’s nephew, produced a “Don Quixote” “made English,” he says, “according to the humour of our modern language.” His “Quixote” is not so much a translation as a travesty, and a travesty that for coarseness, vulgarity, and buffoonery is almost unexampled even in the literature of that day. Ned Ward’s “ and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote, merrily translated into Hudibrastic Verse” (1700), can scarcely be reckoned a translation, but it serves to show the light in which “Don Quixote” was regarded at the time. A further illustration may be found in the version published in 1712 by Peter Motteux, who had then recently combined tea-ing with literature. It is described as “translated from the original by several hands,” but if so Spanish flavour has entirely evapod under the manipulation of the several hands. The flavour that it has, on the other hand, is distinctly Franco-cockney. Anyone who compares it carefully with the original will have little doubt that it is a concoction from Shelton and the French of Filleau de Saint Martin, eked out by borrogs from Phillips, whose mode of treatment it adopts. It is, to be sure, more decent and decorous, but it treats “Don Quixote” in the same fashion as a comic book that cannot be made too comic. To attempt to improve the humour of “Don Quixote” by an infusion of cockney flippancy and facetiousness, as Motteux’s operators did, is not merely an impertinence like larding a sirloin of beef, but an absolute falsification of the spirit of the book, and it is a proof of the uncritical way in which “Don Quixote” is genery read that this worse than worthless translation -worthless as failing to represent, worse than worthless as misrepresenting- should have been favoured as it has been. It had the effect, however, of bringing out a translation undertaken and executed in a very different spirit, that of Charles Jervas, the portrait painter, and of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Gay. Jervas has been owed little for his work, indeed it may be said none, for it is kn to the world in general as Jarvis’s. It was not published until after his death, and the printers gave the according to the current pronunciation of the day. It has been the most ly used and the most ly abused of the translations. It has seen far more editions than any other, it is admitted on hands to be by far the most faithful, and yet nobody seems to have a good word to say for it or for its author. Jervas no doubt prejudiced readers against himself in his preface, w among many true words about Shelton, Stevens, and Motteux, he rashly and unjustly charges Shelton with having translated not from the Spanish, but from the Italian version of Franciosini, which did not appear until ten years after Shelton’s first volume. A suspicion of incompetence, too, seems to have attached to him because he was by profession a painter and a mediocre one (though he has given us portrait we have of Swift), and this may have been strengthened by Pope’s remark that he “translated ‘Don Quixote’ without understanding Spanish.” He has been also charged with borrog from Shelton, whom he disparaged. It is true that in a few difficult or obscure passages he has followed Shelton, and gone astray with him; but for one case of this sort, t are fifty w he is right and Shelton wrong. As for Pope’s dictum, anyone who examines Jervas’s version carefully, side by side with the original, will see that he was a sound Spanish scholar, incomparably a better one than Shelton, except perhaps in mere colloquial Spanish. He was, in f, an honest, faithful, and painstaking translator, and he has left a version which, whatever its shortcomings may be, is singularly from errors and mistranslations. The charge against it is that it is stiff, dry- “wooden” in a word,- and no one can deny that t is a foundation for it. But it may be pleaded for Jervas that a good of this rigidity is due to his abhorrence of the light, flippant, jocose style of his predecessors. He was one of the few, very few, translators that have shown any apprehension of the unsmiling gravity which is the essence of Quixotic humour; it seemed to him a crime to bring Cervantes forward smirking and grinning at his own good things, and to this may be attributed in a measure the ascetic abstinence from everything savouring of liveliness which is the chareristic of his translation. In most modern editions, it should be observed, his style has been smoothed and smartened, but without any reference to the original Spanish, so that if he has been made to read more agreeably he has also been robbed of his chief merit of fidelity. Smollett’s version, published in 1755, may be almost counted as one of these. At any it is plain that in its construction Jervas’s translation was very ly drawn upon, and very little or probably no heed given to the original Spanish. The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. George Kelly’s, which appeared in 1769, “printed for the Translator,” was an impudent imposture, being nothing more than Motteux’s version with a few of the words, and t, artfully transposed; Charles Wilmot’s (1774) was an abridgment like Florian’s, but not so skilfully executed; and the version published by Miss Smirke in 1818, to accompany her brother’s plates, was merely a patchwork production made out of er translations. On the latest, Mr. A. J. Duffield’s, it would be in every sense of the word impertinent in me to er an opinion . I had not even seen it when the present undertaking was proposed to me, and since then I may say vidi tantum, having for obvious reasons resisted the temptation which Mr. Duffield’s reputation and comely volumes hold out to every lover of Cervantes. From the foregoing history of our translations of “Don Quixote,” it will be seen that t are a good many people who, provided they the mere narrative with its full complement of fs, incidents, and adventures served up to them in a that amuses them, care very little whether that is the one in which Cervantes originy shaped his ideas. On the other hand, it is clear that t are many who desire to have not merely the story he tells, but the story as he tells it, so far at least as differences of idiom and circumstances permit, and who will give a preference to the conscientious translator, even though he may have acquitted himself somewhat awkwardly. But after t is no real antagonism between the two classes; t is no reason why what s the one should not the other, or why a translator who makes it his aim to treat “Don Quixote” with the respect due to a classic, should not be as acceptable even to the careless reader as the one who treats it as a famous old jest-book. It is not a question of caviare to the general, or, if it is, the fault rests with him who makes so. The method by which Cervantes the ear of the Spanish people ought, mutatis mutandis, to be equy effective with the majority of English readers. At any , even if t are readers to whom it is a matter of indifference, fidelity to the method is as much a part of the translator’s duty as fidelity to the matter. If he can parties, so much the better; but his first duty is to those who look to him for as faithful a representation of his author as it is in his power to give them, faithful to the letter so long as fidelity is pricable, faithful to the spirit so far as he can make it. My purpose is not to dogmatise on the rules of translation, but to indicate those I have followed, or at least tried to of my ability to follow, in the present instance. One which, it seems to me, cannot be too rigidly followed in translating “Don Quixote,” is to everything that savours of affectation. The book itself is, indeed, in one sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more than Cervantes. For this reason, I think, any temptation to use antiquated or obsolete language should be resisted. It is after an affectation, and one for which t is no warrant or excuse. Spanish has probably undergone less change since the seventeenth century than any language in Europe, and by far the er and certainly part of “Don Quixote” differs but little in language from the colloquial Spanish of the present day. Except in the tales and Don Quixote’s speeches, the translator who uses the simplest and plainest everyday language will almost always be the one who approaches nearest to the original. Seeing that the story of “Don Quixote” and its charers and incidents have been for more than two centuries and a half familiar as household words in English mouths, it seems to me that the old familiar s and phrases should not be changed without good reason. Of course a translator who holds that “Don Quixote” should receive the treatment a classic deserves, will feel himself bound by the injunction laid upon the Morisco in Chap. IX not to omit or add anything.   From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to have been haunted by the fear that t might be more Avellanedas in the field, and putting everything else aside, he set himself to finish his task and protect Don Quixote in the way he could, by killing him. The conclusion is no doubt a hasty and in some places clumsy piece of work and the frequent repetition of the scolding administered to Avellaneda becomes in the end rather wearisome; but it is, at any , a conclusion and for that we must thank Avellaneda. The volume was ready for the press in February, but was not printed till the very end of 1615, and during the interval Cervantes put toher the comedies and interludes he had written within the last few years, and, as he adds plaintively, found no demand for among the managers, and published them with a preface, worth the book it introduces tenfold, in which he gives an account of the early Spanish stage, and of his own attempts as a dramatist. It is needless to say they were put forward by Cervantes in good faith and full confidence in their merits. The reader, however, was not to suppose they were his last word or final effort in the drama, for he had in hand a comedy ed “Engano a los ojos,” about which, if he mistook not, t would be no question. Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has no of judging; his health had been failing for some time, and he died, apparently of dropsy, on the 23rd of April, 1616, the day on which England lost Shakespeare, nominy at least, for the English calendar had not yet been reed. He died as he had lived, accepting his lot bravely and cheerfully. Was it an unhappy , that of Cervantes? His biographers tell us that it was; but I must say I doubt it. It was a hard , a of poverty, of incessant struggle, of toil ill paid, of disappointment, but Cervantes carried within himself the antidote to these evils. His was not one of those light natures that rise above adversity merely by virtue of their own buoyancy; it was in the fortitude of a high spirit that he was proof against it. It is impossible to conceive Cervantes giving way to despondency or prostd by dejection. As for poverty, it was with him a thing to be laughed over, and the sigh he ever ows to escape him is when he says, “Happy he to whom Heaven has given a piece of bread for which he is not bound to give thanks to any but Heaven itself.” Add to this his vital energy and mental ivity, his restless invention and his sanguine temperament, and t will be reason enough to doubt whether his could have been a very unhappy . He who could take Cervantes’ distresses toher with his apparatus for enduring them would not make so bad a , perhaps, as far as happiness in is concerned. Of his burial-place nothing is kn except that he was buried, in accordance with his will, in the neighbouring convent of Trinitarian nuns, of which it is supposed his daughter, Isabel de Saavedra, was an inmate, and that a few years afterwards the nuns removed to another convent, carrying their dead with them. But whether the remains of Cervantes were included in the or not no one ks, and the clue to their resting-place is lost beyond hope. This furnishes perhaps the least defensible of the items in the charge of neglect brought against his contemporaries. In some of the others t is a good of exaggeration. To listen to most of his biographers one would suppose that Spain was in league not against the man but against his memory, or at least that it was insensible to his merits, and left him to live in misery and die of want. To talk of his hard and unworthy employments in Andalusia is absurd. What had he done to distinguish him from of other struggling men earning a precarious livelihood? True, he was a gant soldier, who had been wounded and had undergone captivity and suffering in his country’s cause, but t were hundreds of others in the same case. He had written a mediocre specimen of an insipid class of romance, and some plays which manifestly did not comply with the primary condition of pleasing: were the playgoers to patronise plays that did not amuse them, because the author was to produce “Don Quixote” twenty years afterwards? The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed on the appearance of the book, does not look like general insensibility to its merits. No doubt it was received coldly by some, but if a man writes a book in ridicule of periwigs he must make his account with being coldly received by the periwig wearers and hated by the whole tribe of wigmakers. If Cervantes had the chivalryromance readers, the sentimentalists, the dramatists, and the poets of the period against him, it was because “Don Quixote” was what it was; and if the general public did not come forward to make him comfortable for the rest of his days, it is no more to be charged with neglect and ingratitude than the English-speaking public that did not pay Scott’s liabilities. It did it could; it read his book and liked it and bought it, and encouraged the bookseller to pay him well for others. It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has erected no monument to the man she is proudest of; no monument, that is to say, of him; for the bronze statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las Cortes, a fair work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it been set up to the local poet in the market-place of some provincial town, is not worthy of Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has Cervantes of “such weak witness of his ;” or what could a monument do in his case except testify to the self-glorification of those who had put it up? Si monumentum quoeris, circumspice. The nearest bookseller’s shop will show what bathos t would be in a monument to the author of “Don Quixote.” Nine editions of the First Part of “Don Quixote” had already appeared before Cervantes died, thirty thousand copies in , according to his own estimate, and a tenth was printed at Barcelona the year after his death. So large a number natury supplied the demand for some time, but by 1634 it appears to have been exhausted; and from that time down to the present day the stream of editions has continued to flow rapidly and regularly. The translations show still more clearly in what the book has been from the very outset. In seven years from the completion of the work it had been translated into the four leading languages of Europe. Except the Bible, in f, no book has been so widely diffused as “Don Quixote.” The “Imitatio Christi” may have been translated into as many different languages, and perhaps “Robinson Crusoe” and the “Vicar of Wakefield” into nearly as many, but in multiplicity of translations and editions “Don Quixote” s them far behind. Still more remarkable is the charer of this wide diffusion. “Don Quixote” has been thoroughly naturalised among people whose ideas about knight-errantry, if they had any at , were of the vaguest, who had seen or heard of a book of chivalry, who could not possibly feel the humour of the burlesque or sympathise with the author’s purpose. Another curious f is that this, the most cosmo- politan book in the world, is one of the most intensely national. “Manon Lescaut” is not more thoroughly French, “Tom Jones” not more English, “Rob Roy” not more Scotch, than “Don Quixote” is Spanish, in charer, in ideas, in sentiment, in local colour, in everything. What, then, is the secret of this unpareled popularity, increasing year by year for well-nigh three centuries? One explanation, no doubt, is that of the books in the world, “Don Quixote” is the most catholic. T is something in it for every sort of reader, young or old, sage or simple, high or low. As Cervantes himself says with a touch of pride, “It is thumbed and read and got by heart by people of sorts; the children turn its s, the young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise it.” But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient which, more than its humour, or its wisdom, or the fertility of invention or kledge of nature it displays, has insured its with the multitude, is the vein of farce that runs through it. It was the attack upon the sheep, the battle with the e-skins, Mambrino’s helmet, the balsam of Fierabras, Don Quixote knocked over by the sails of the dmill, Sancho tossed in the blanket, the mishaps and misadventures of master and man, that were originy the attrion, and perhaps are so still to some extent with the majority of readers. It is plain that “Don Quixote” was genery regarded at first, and indeed in Spain for a long time, as little more than a queer droll book, full of laughable incidents and absurd situations, very amusing, but not entitled to much consideration or care. the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to 1771, when the famous printer Ibarra took it up, were mere trade editions, badly and carelessly printed on vile paper and got up in the style of chap-books intended for popular use, with, in most instances, uncouth illustrations and clap-trap additions by the publisher. To England belongs the of having been the first country to recognise the right of “Don Quixote” to better treatment than this. The London edition of 1738, comm ed Lord Carteret’s from having been suggested by him, was not a mere edition de luxe. It produced “Don Quixote” in becoming as regards paper and type, and embellished with plates which, if not particularly happy as illustrations, were at least well intentioned and well executed, but it also aimed at correctness of text, a matter to which nobody except the editors of the Valencia and Brussels editions had given even a passing thought; and for a first attempt it was fairly ful, for though some of its emendations are inadmissible, a good many of them have been adopted by subsequent editors. The zeal of publishers, editors, and annotators brought about a remarkable change of sentiment with regard to “Don Quixote.” A vast number of its admirers began to grow ashamed of laughing over it. It became almost a crime to treat it as a humorous book. The humour was not entirely denied, but, according to the view, it was d as an altoher secondary quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than the stalking-horse under the presentation of which Cervantes shot his philosophy or his satire, or whatever it was he meant to shoot; for on this point opinions varied. were agreed, however, that the object he aimed at was not the books of chivalry. He said emphatiy in the preface to the First Part and in the last sentence of the Second, that he had no other object in view than to dis these books, and this, to advanced criticism, made it clear that his object must have been something else. One theory was that the book was a kind of egory, setting forth the eternal struggle between the i and the real, between the spirit of poetry and the spirit of prose; and perhaps German philosophy evolved a more ungainly or unlikely camel out of the depths of its inner consciousness. Something of the antagonism, no doubt, is to be found in “Don Quixote,” because it is to be found everyw in , and Cervantes drew from . It is difficult to imagine a community in which the -ceasing game of cross-purposes between Sancho Panza and Don Quixote would not be recognized as true to nature. In the stone age, among the lake dwellers, among the cave men, t were Don Quixotes and Sancho Panzas; t must have been the troglodyte who could see the fs before his eyes, and the troglodyte who could see nothing else. But to suppose Cervantes delibely setting himself to expound any such idea in two stout quarto volumes is to suppose something not very unlike the age in which he lived, but altoher unlike Cervantes himself, who would have been the first to laugh at an attempt of the sort made by anyone else. The extraordinary influence of the romances of chivalry in his day is quite enough to account for the genesis of the book. Some idea of the prodigious development of this branch of literature in the sixteenth century may be obtained from the scrutiny of Chapter VII, if the reader bears in mind that a portion of the romances belonging to by far the largest group are enumed. As to its effect upon the nation, t is abundant evidence. From the time when the Amadises and Palmerins began to grow popular down to the very end of the century, t is a steady stream of invective, from men whose charer and position lend weight to their words, against the romances of chivalry and the infatuation of their readers. Ridicule was the besom to sweep away that dust. That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he had ample provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently clear to those who look into the evidence; as it will be also that it was not chivalry itself that he attacked and swept away. Of the absurdities that, thanks to poetry, will be repeated to the end of time, t is no er one than saying that “Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away.” In the first place t was no chivalry for him to smile away. Spain’s chivalry had been dead for more than a century. Its work was done when Granada fell, and as chivalry was essentiy republican in its nature, it could not live under the rule that Ferdinand substituted for the institutions of mediaeval Spain. What he did smile away was not chivalry but a degrading mockery of it. The true nature of the “right arm” and the “bright array,” before which, according to the poet, “the world gave ground,” and which Cervantes’ single laugh demolished, may be gatd from the words of one of his own countrymen, Don Felix Pacheco, as reported by Captain George Carleton, in his “Military Memoirs from 1672 to 1713.” “Before the appearance in the world of that labour of Cervantes,” he said, “it was next to an impossibility for a man to walk the streets with any delight or without danger. T were seen so many cavaliers prancing and curvetting before the dows of their mistresses, that a stranger would have imagined the whole nation to have been nothing less than a race of knight-errants. But after the world became a little acquainted with that notable history, the man that was seen in that once celebd drapery was pointed at as a Don Quixote, and found himself the jest of high and low. And I verily believe that to this, and this , we owe that dampness and poverty of spirit which has run through our councils for a century past, so little agreeable to those nobler ions of our famous ancestors.” To “Don Quixote” a sad book, preaching a pessimist view of , argues a total misconception of its drift. It would be so if its moral were that, in this world, true enthusiasm natury leads to ridicule and discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of the sort; its moral, so far as it can be said to have one, is that the spurious enthusiasm that is born of vanity and self-conceit, that is made an end in itself, not a means to an end, that s on mere impulse, regardless of circumstances and consequences, is mischievous to its owner, and a very considerable nuisance to the community at large. To those who cannot distinguish between the one kind and the other, no doubt “Don Quixote” is a sad book; no doubt to some minds it is very sad that a man who had just uttered so beautiful a sentiment as that “it is a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and Nature made ,” should be ungfully pelted by the scoundrels his crazy philanthropy had let loose on society; but to others of a more judicial cast it will be a matter of regret that reckless self-sufficient enthusiasm is not oftener requited in some such way for the mischief it does in the world.   ExpertModernAdvice.com brought to you by Inception Media Group. This editorial email with educational news was sent to {EMAIL}. IMG appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media Group are not permitted to provide individualized financial аdvіsе. This email is not financial advice and any investment decіsіоn you make is solely your responsibility. Feel frее to contact us toll frее Domestic/International: +17072979173 Mon–Fri, 9am–5pm ET, or email us support@expertmodernadvice.com. [Unsubscrіbe]( to stop receiving marketing communication from us. 312 W 2nd St Casper, WY 82601 2023 IMG Group. AІІ rights reserved