That’s it, the Professor is truly the King of Sass
The letter didn’t come from the Nazi party, but from the publishing house which had expressed an interest in the German translation of The Hobbit. Tolkien’s response really is a thing of beauty, though, so it deserves to be quoted in its entirety:
25 July 1938 20 Northmoor Road, Oxford
Dear Sirs,
Thank you for your letter. … I regret that I am not clear as to what you intend by arisch. I am not of Aryan extraction: that is Indo-iranian; as far as I am aware none of my ancestors spoke Hindustani, Persian, Gypsy, or any related dialects. But if I am to understand that you are enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people. My great-great-grandfather came to England in the eighteenth century from Germany: the main part of my descent is therefore purely English, and I am an English subject - which should be sufficient. I have been accustomed, nonetheless, to regard my German name with pride, and continued to do so throughout the period of the late regrettable war, in which I served in the English army. I cannot, however, forbear to comment that if impertinent and irrelevant inquiries of this sort are to become the rule in matters of literature, then the time is not far distant when a German name will no longer be a source of pride.
Your enquiry is doubtless made in order to comply with the laws of your own country, but that this should be held to apply to the subjects of another state would be improper, even if it had (as it has not) any bearings whatsoever on the merits of my work or its suitability for publication, of which you appear to have satisfied yourselves without reference to my Abstammung.
I trust you will find this reply satisfactory, and remain yours faithfully
My boyfriend just woke up, mostly still asleep and told me “don’t worry, it’s getting better” in a heavy, American accent, which is unusual for an Australian man.
“Why are you American?” I asked, to which I got:
“Sorry, it’s getting better” in a stereotypical posh English accent.
“Why are you English?” I asked, amused.
“What is he normally?” He managed to ask.
“He? You’re not anyone else, you’re you.”
“Ugh, me” was the last thing he said, in a right proper Aussie accent before he fell back into proper sleep.
Bitch just thwarted a ghost possession by judging his accents
My boyfriend would be gettin’ hit with the baseball bat beside our bed if he ever woke up and said, “What is he normally?” about himself.
Then you would NOT have liked the time he pointed to a corner of our room while he was sleeping and said “they share a dimension with Earth and they take cats to eat them”.
“It happened so quickly. I’d just quit my job at an after school program. I’d been unemployed for three days. I was waiting for my train at the 125th Street Station, and I noticed so much animosity. It didn’t feel like a sharing and caring kind of place. So I said to myself: ‘I’m going to help change the pace.’ I went to visit my high school chorus teacher, Mr. Williams, and I told him: ‘I want to sing on 125th Street.’ He thought it was great idea. He said that he’d done the same thing when he was my age. Together we found a cheap amp and microphone, and I gave it a try. My first day was a Tuesday. I stood on the downtown platform. I’d never sung in public before. I was so nervous that I couldn’t find my voice. I wasn’t exactly mute, but I wasn’t fully singing either. Then an old lady came up to me. I’m pretty sure she was an angel. She told me: ‘Sing Whitney Houston.’ Then she stood there, and kept saying: ‘Louder, louder, louder,’ until I was singing full volume. I made $60 that day. And I got so much positive feedback. Now I’m singing four days a week and making enough to provide for me and my daughter. And I get so much love. So much love. So, so much love.“
