October 20th 2020

Today, I started a book I’ve been waiting ten years to read. For years I’ve been dying to read Arsene Wenger’s autobiography. The only reason I was in favour of him leaving Arsenal was because it would have meant that the inevitable autobiography was coming soon. And here it is.

As Arsenal manager, I could listen to Wenger talk about anything: food, life, philosophy, music, and even sometimes football. He was a professor, an artist, and a poet in the way he spoke. His curiously imperfect sentence construction gave everything he said an accent of intelligence, and rhythm.

I’ve only read the prologue to the book so far, and all I can say is… I wish he’d written it in English.

So far, it being an English translation of his original French means it loses all of the little Wengerisms that I’d come to love. It doesn’t sound completely like him, which I guess is understandable, considering I never knew what he sounded like when he spoke French.

The book will still be revealing, and enjoyable, and insightful, but it immediately loses some magic in its translation, which is a shame.

Also, sidenote, I find it somewhat hilarious that the first footballer mentioned in the book is Olivier Giroud.

Until tomorrow, look, I believe we played a little bit with the handbrake on.


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