“I will eviscerate you in fiction.”
Imagine being Chaucer before The Canterbury Tales . Nobody you know writes poetry in English . Certainly nobody you know writes poetry in English in iambic pentameter. For centuries, the literati have written in Latin (or French), but you, Chaucer, have the idea of writing in English. (Middle English, for you literary types.) Great literature. High symbolism. Various characters in all their embarrassing and heroic complexity. Except you do it in English. Even worse, you do it in rhyming, metered verse. Your first effort involves an animal allegory — a parliament of birds . Nobody reads it. (Well, not as many as you’d hoped!) So you seek adventure in other ways. And lose all your clothes gambling. Which means you end up on a road somewhere in France, naked, trudging. When a not-knight comes along with his fellow servants and rescues you, if you will forge for him patents of nobility. You spend the next year writing heraldic introductions for him and proofs that he is of the nobili...