In the Critics this week

Pullman on fairy tales, Englund on war and Clee on an ebook Christmas.

In the Critics section of this week's double issue New Statesman, author Philip Pullman takes on our guest-editor Richard Dawkins and muses over why fairy tales are good for children. Pullman addresses Dawkins's worry that reading fairy tales to children "might lead to an anti-scientific cast of mind, in which people were prepared to believe that things could change into other things". Pullman writes: "Stories of every kind, from the most realistic to the most fanciful, have nourished their imagination and helped shape their moral understanding... Children whose parents take the trouble to sit and read with them will grow up to be more fluent and confident not only with language but with pretty well any kind of intellectual activity, including science. And children who are deprived of... the world of stories are not likely to flourish at all."

In the Books Interview, Jonathan Derbyshire talks to Peter Englund about his new book, The Beauty and the Sorrow, which is about the First World War. According to Englund, "The form and the language used will remind readers more of those used by a novelist rather than the kind used by a historian writing a textbook." He says that his book is about more than just the Western Front; for example, "the impact of the war in Africa showed for the first time the cracks in the monolith of colonialism."

Former editor of the Bookseller Nicholas Clee laments that "one thing is for sure: it will not be a print-book Christmas" due to the dominance of ebooks. Clee poses the question: "Should we, as readers, be delighted that books, already widely discounted, are getting cheaper still as the digital revolution spreads?" He observes that "in place of the social experience of browsing in bookshops, we will have the social media experience of sharing our tastes through Facebook and Twitter."

Also in Critics: Kate Atkinson offers an exclusive short story, Darktime and Richard J Evans praises Peter Longerich's scholarly biography of Heinrich Himmler. Ryan Gibley is left looking for answers after watching Carol Morley's film Dreams of a Life and Rachel Cooke rounds up Christmas TV. Plus: Andrew Billen on The Ladykillers, Will Self's Real Meals, Antonia Quirke on the best Christmas radio and a poem by the late Christopher Logue.

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt