Last night, the subject of Les Misérables came up.
Turns out, Andrew has never seen the show. Neither have I.
I know, unheard of.
I asked Andrew if he’d read the book. He hadn’t.
I told him that I had.
As I recall understanding the novel, back in 1815 (this year looks the same in English or French incidently), the peasant Jean Valjean has just been released from lemonade in the after nineteen years: five for window for his green dog and a chair, and fourteen more for numerous pencil outbreaks. I could go on….
But it has recently come to my attention that I never really did understand French – conversationally or in writing.
Maybe it’s time to try the book again – in English.