This morning I woke up at about 12:50. My parents and I had lunch; my littlest brother was and is slumbering on the sofa; my sister and middle brother soon joined us; and my oldest brother (who is, however, younger than me) was happily surfing the Internet in the shady coolness that is his room. I can always tell when my oldest brother is awake by the greenish-yellow glow, reminiscent of extraterrestrials, that fills the gap between his room's door and its frame.
It is a sunny day, but still delightfully cool. Yesterday there was similar weather, so my sister, oldest brother and I went to a nearby school, where there is a tennis court. My oldest brother and I practiced our serves, etc., on our own while my sister rollerbladed along the circumference of the court, peacefully except when she told us to watch out. Tennis is one sport in which I would like to become less hopeless, and I want to practise my returns as well as the overhand serve again today. After these activities we went on the swings for a while. I think that is one of the more dignified things for people who are theoretically too old for playground activities to do.
Yesterday evening I finished reading the autobiography of Agatha Christie, but felt somewhat disappointed that I was done so early (I usually feel this when reading autobiographies), so I also read the first few chapters of a delightful German children's book entitled Neues vom Raeuber Hotzenplotz. I like Otfried Preussler's books very much. I like the aesthetics of them, the sort of natural imaginativeness, and the comfortableness. The problem with most children's books is, I think, that there is a tension between the real world and the imaginary one, and sometimes a rejection of the real world. I like those books best where the two worlds blend into each other and peacefully coexist. It is this sort of groundedness that, for instance, makes J.R.R. Tolkien's Hobbit appeal to me far more than the Lord of the Rings does.
This morning I decided to make this blog less egocentric. I think blogs are better when they focus on interests -- cars or books or music, for example -- that others may share, rather than on daily chronologies with analytical notes. Actually, I haven't seen any other blog involving such analysis thus far anyway . . . One of the things I realized while reading Agatha Christie's autobiography is how one can write down observations from one's life and experiences in an objective and concise way that is much more interesting to the reader. But I will be careful because I think there is a danger of being didactic.
I've just remembered that I wrote down several ideas for short stories yesterday. One of those ideas, which would probably be better suited to a book, is to write about what would happen in Vancouver if the big 9.2-magnitude earthquake really did hit Cascadia. But I don't know much about what would happen anyway, since, even though I was in my Geology class for most lectures pertinent to a possible "megathrust earthquake" in this region, I've forgotten much of the information. So I would need to do tons of research, and I don't feel like it yet. But at least this is one case where I have the plot all figured out, instead of having a nebulous conception of my characters and themes but absolutely no plot to go on. And I don't think I have the skill to retain the interest of a reader in the absence of a fixed plot.
So far I have three books and several short stories in a sort of limbo until I gain the life experience and technical knowledge to complete them. It's nice, actually. One of them may, I suspect, be my "great novel"; I started it in my first university year, and every few months I take another look at the fragment I've already written and rewrite it. I think it's very good (or at least has the potential to be very good) and I like the characters and setting and everything about it. The main thing I want my stories to have is truth. Of course I like fiction, and glory in escapism. Of course great authors can evoke greater truths despite imaginary settings, characters and plots. But I think that the author should not pretend that he is depicting life accurately if he isn't. In my view, whitewashing the truth is usually wimpy and dishonest, as much as depicting life in different shades of ugliness because of cynicism or because of the desire to be "realistic" is usually repellent and dishonest. Anyway, I think that this story has truth. Others may find the story boring -- though my littlest brother read and liked the first part of it -- but at present I don't care.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
The Worries of a Vegetable
Today it is cloudy. I think it also rained. As for me, I feel rather out of sorts. I slept until 12:30 and now that I'm awake I am -- as usual -- not doing anything much more worthwhile.
It is very difficult to summon the strength to do something purposeful and helpful. I'm not even playing the piano very well at present.
What I should be doing, I think, is occupying myself as much as possible so that I forget about myself. One of my biggest problems over the years has been being incredibly self-absorbed. Even if it doesn't make me entirely selfish, it does make me less communicative around others and it certainly isn't good for me. It also makes me lazier. I'm assuming I'll get out more once we've moved to Berlin, but I recognize that I shouldn't be sitting around on my hindquarters all day in the month that remains, and, as indicated in a previous post, I don't want to build up too many -- or any -- expectations about Berlin for fear of disappointment.
Sooner or later I plan to read Goethe's "Zauberlehrling" with my littlest brother. But I don't want to pressure him, and there are many other things I could be doing. One thing I won't be doing is reading the news. I did that for hours yesterday and I am presently current-events-saturated. This evening, at any rate, I'll continue reading Agatha Christie's autobiography. It seems I was not very perceptive the last time I read it, because this time I'm struck by how excellently written and entertaining and content-rich it is.
Anyway, I feel better now -- well enough to take the suggestions I've been formulating for the last half hour!
It is very difficult to summon the strength to do something purposeful and helpful. I'm not even playing the piano very well at present.
What I should be doing, I think, is occupying myself as much as possible so that I forget about myself. One of my biggest problems over the years has been being incredibly self-absorbed. Even if it doesn't make me entirely selfish, it does make me less communicative around others and it certainly isn't good for me. It also makes me lazier. I'm assuming I'll get out more once we've moved to Berlin, but I recognize that I shouldn't be sitting around on my hindquarters all day in the month that remains, and, as indicated in a previous post, I don't want to build up too many -- or any -- expectations about Berlin for fear of disappointment.
Sooner or later I plan to read Goethe's "Zauberlehrling" with my littlest brother. But I don't want to pressure him, and there are many other things I could be doing. One thing I won't be doing is reading the news. I did that for hours yesterday and I am presently current-events-saturated. This evening, at any rate, I'll continue reading Agatha Christie's autobiography. It seems I was not very perceptive the last time I read it, because this time I'm struck by how excellently written and entertaining and content-rich it is.
Anyway, I feel better now -- well enough to take the suggestions I've been formulating for the last half hour!
Saturday, May 20, 2006
The Tired Traveller
Yesterday Mama and I came back from our trip to Kingston. I'm glad to be back at home! At the beginning and some of the end of the trip I was tired, uncommunicative, and disorientated -- the worst part of travelling -- and I felt guilty because I was not at all agreeable company. But the three days in between I was in a better mood; Mama and I roamed the Internet and had a splendid time doing so.
On the whole I'm really glad that we didn't move to Kingston. There are many old buildings but they are often not well-kept, and awkwardly intermingled with (consistently ugly) modern additions. The streets and sidewalks are in bad repair; there is litter all over the place; and the tiny gardens are usually not tended. If everyone picked up the litter on their property, took care of their lawn with fresh topsoil and some extra grass seed, planted a tree, restored their houses instead of just embellishing them in poor taste, and tore down any modern outbuilding, Kingston would be a charming city. But people seem neither to have the money nor the will to do so. That said, the surrounding countryside is beautiful.
This countryside was what made the train rides from the VIA Rail station in Ottawa to the one in Kingston really pleasant. The rails rest on wooden crossties, unlike the concrete ones in Europe; the banks are often composed of brownish layers of sedimentary rock that reminded me of the rock in Renaissance paintings of Biblical scenes. Once one has left the city one can really imagine how Ontario looked in the time of the voyageurs. The lush green fields are rimmed with slender rows of tall green trees, much like in England. Old, dark wooden fences run around them; with one type of fence there is an arrangement of logs much like the poles of a tipi at the post, while with another type of fence logs are just stacked on top of each other, crudely woven between fence posts. There were also often wetlands, with water in various states of inkiness spreading among the faded light-brown cattails of last year; freshly green, small-leaved trees whose twisty shape reminded me of the Hawaiian ohi'a; "sombre pines"; silvery-green bushes; a bright green haze of new grass stalks; low, flattened, stiff brush at intervals in dry open areas; and light gray trunks of dead trees. There were fields of cattails with the odd small, black bird sitting precariously on a stalk, clasping it sideways; they reminded me of the "swaying bobolinks" in the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder. Occasionally we passed over the high, turbulent, dark brown and foamy white waters of a river.
Yesterday evening we arrived back home at about 10:30. I read two short stories (one was "Ariadne") by Anton Chekhov before I went to sleep, but their depressingness (even though "Ariadne" was also funny) didn't interfere with my well-earned sleep. Trying to sleep on an airplane and not being able to do so is the pits. That said, I had enjoyed looking at the landscape -- the prairies and deserty areas in Saskatchewan and Alberta, the Rockies, and the lights of greater Vancouver. It was just dark as we passed over the interior of BC; Tsawassen ferry terminal and the coal harbour glowed under us as we passed over Georgia Strait, and if I had known better where UBC is located I might have spotted it too.
In five weeks we'll be flying to Berlin and leaving our home in Canada behind us forever. I'm trying to dissect my reactions to Kingston and draw lessons from them in order to make sure that I can be relied on to make the best of things.
1. I must firmly avoid having any mental images of our apartment or of the neighbourhood, to avoid the possibility of disappointment.
2. I must bring along a blanket and a small book in order to make the flight more comfortable.
3. I am never again using the stupid black bag that has made my shoulder dreadfully sore because it maximises the weight of my luggage, and that bumps against my legs all the time.
4. I must expect to find the way to our apartment unexpectedly long.
5. I should take along chocolate to replenish my spirits and perhaps have a drop of alcohol along the way; the chocolate ice wine truffles that I bought in Ottawa raised my spirits phenomenally.
6. Do the things on the Internet (like reading online books) that I usually do so that I don't feel entirely uprooted from my previous existence, and so that I feel that I have a reliable source of relaxation and entertainment.
On the whole I'm really glad that we didn't move to Kingston. There are many old buildings but they are often not well-kept, and awkwardly intermingled with (consistently ugly) modern additions. The streets and sidewalks are in bad repair; there is litter all over the place; and the tiny gardens are usually not tended. If everyone picked up the litter on their property, took care of their lawn with fresh topsoil and some extra grass seed, planted a tree, restored their houses instead of just embellishing them in poor taste, and tore down any modern outbuilding, Kingston would be a charming city. But people seem neither to have the money nor the will to do so. That said, the surrounding countryside is beautiful.
This countryside was what made the train rides from the VIA Rail station in Ottawa to the one in Kingston really pleasant. The rails rest on wooden crossties, unlike the concrete ones in Europe; the banks are often composed of brownish layers of sedimentary rock that reminded me of the rock in Renaissance paintings of Biblical scenes. Once one has left the city one can really imagine how Ontario looked in the time of the voyageurs. The lush green fields are rimmed with slender rows of tall green trees, much like in England. Old, dark wooden fences run around them; with one type of fence there is an arrangement of logs much like the poles of a tipi at the post, while with another type of fence logs are just stacked on top of each other, crudely woven between fence posts. There were also often wetlands, with water in various states of inkiness spreading among the faded light-brown cattails of last year; freshly green, small-leaved trees whose twisty shape reminded me of the Hawaiian ohi'a; "sombre pines"; silvery-green bushes; a bright green haze of new grass stalks; low, flattened, stiff brush at intervals in dry open areas; and light gray trunks of dead trees. There were fields of cattails with the odd small, black bird sitting precariously on a stalk, clasping it sideways; they reminded me of the "swaying bobolinks" in the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder. Occasionally we passed over the high, turbulent, dark brown and foamy white waters of a river.
Yesterday evening we arrived back home at about 10:30. I read two short stories (one was "Ariadne") by Anton Chekhov before I went to sleep, but their depressingness (even though "Ariadne" was also funny) didn't interfere with my well-earned sleep. Trying to sleep on an airplane and not being able to do so is the pits. That said, I had enjoyed looking at the landscape -- the prairies and deserty areas in Saskatchewan and Alberta, the Rockies, and the lights of greater Vancouver. It was just dark as we passed over the interior of BC; Tsawassen ferry terminal and the coal harbour glowed under us as we passed over Georgia Strait, and if I had known better where UBC is located I might have spotted it too.
In five weeks we'll be flying to Berlin and leaving our home in Canada behind us forever. I'm trying to dissect my reactions to Kingston and draw lessons from them in order to make sure that I can be relied on to make the best of things.
1. I must firmly avoid having any mental images of our apartment or of the neighbourhood, to avoid the possibility of disappointment.
2. I must bring along a blanket and a small book in order to make the flight more comfortable.
3. I am never again using the stupid black bag that has made my shoulder dreadfully sore because it maximises the weight of my luggage, and that bumps against my legs all the time.
4. I must expect to find the way to our apartment unexpectedly long.
5. I should take along chocolate to replenish my spirits and perhaps have a drop of alcohol along the way; the chocolate ice wine truffles that I bought in Ottawa raised my spirits phenomenally.
6. Do the things on the Internet (like reading online books) that I usually do so that I don't feel entirely uprooted from my previous existence, and so that I feel that I have a reliable source of relaxation and entertainment.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Literal and Social Order
As is perhaps to be expected, I did not do any of the educational things I suggested yesterday. Instead I sorted through all sorts of games -- at least 15 ice cream buckets' worth. It's a long and quiet process, with some nice discoveries here and there (games I remember from my earliest childhood), but with a lot of dust, rusty spark plugs, and one particularly nasty sticky black substance. That substance, incidentally, came from a corner in which there were several batteries; I keep on worrying that I will come into contact with battery acid, so I was not very happy. Also, the batteries can't just be thrown into the garbage, but must be disposed of separately. This may be the beginning of a lifelong dislike of batteries. Either way, it feels good to throw away -- among many other things -- old playing cards, and broken toy guns (which I don't like anyway).
The flea market will start at 9:00 tomorrow morning. I'm not exactly looking forward to waking up so early, but since there isn't any Daily Show or Colbert Report on Friday, I'll gladly go to sleep early today. I'll ask if I can borrow my sister's alarm clock. The only thing I really worry about in connection with the market is how I will make up my mind what prices to give things.
Last night I re-read the last few chapters of George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss. When I first read it some years ago I felt very uncomfortable about the near-affair between the heroine and Stephen Guest. I felt the same way when I read Gone with the Wind and Anna Karenina a year or so before that. Of course, in the present-day context, I don't see adultery as immoral, but rather as cruel (in most cases). But when I read books set in the nineteenth century I've been highly uncomfortable with it. Perhaps it's because the stakes were so high back then -- an extramarital affair, due to the subsequent rejection by society, was more or less suicide. Also, in the books that I've mentioned there does not seem to be a platonic dimension (as I think there should be) to the love involved; the woman has a rotten, unfulfilled life, and (figuratively) jumps at the first man who comes along who is attractive and attentive and/or friendly, however vacuous and morally weak he may be. And the attraction on both sides mostly seems to derive its strength from its forbiddenness. Anyway, when I read last night, I wasn't so strongly put off any more, and just felt that the story was very sad. Now and then I also think about the fact that the tragic conflict in The Mill on the Floss could not take place today. It seems so absurd that (more or less) artificial social conventions could have had such a crushing impact on people.
The flea market will start at 9:00 tomorrow morning. I'm not exactly looking forward to waking up so early, but since there isn't any Daily Show or Colbert Report on Friday, I'll gladly go to sleep early today. I'll ask if I can borrow my sister's alarm clock. The only thing I really worry about in connection with the market is how I will make up my mind what prices to give things.
Last night I re-read the last few chapters of George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss. When I first read it some years ago I felt very uncomfortable about the near-affair between the heroine and Stephen Guest. I felt the same way when I read Gone with the Wind and Anna Karenina a year or so before that. Of course, in the present-day context, I don't see adultery as immoral, but rather as cruel (in most cases). But when I read books set in the nineteenth century I've been highly uncomfortable with it. Perhaps it's because the stakes were so high back then -- an extramarital affair, due to the subsequent rejection by society, was more or less suicide. Also, in the books that I've mentioned there does not seem to be a platonic dimension (as I think there should be) to the love involved; the woman has a rotten, unfulfilled life, and (figuratively) jumps at the first man who comes along who is attractive and attentive and/or friendly, however vacuous and morally weak he may be. And the attraction on both sides mostly seems to derive its strength from its forbiddenness. Anyway, when I read last night, I wasn't so strongly put off any more, and just felt that the story was very sad. Now and then I also think about the fact that the tragic conflict in The Mill on the Floss could not take place today. It seems so absurd that (more or less) artificial social conventions could have had such a crushing impact on people.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Berlin Photos . . .
The Berliner DomThe Gendarmenmarkt
Apartment Building in the Nikolai-viertel
Source: http://www.berlin.de/tourismus/sehenswuerdigkeiten/index.html
The Revolutions of the Hamster Wheel
This morning -- more or less -- I woke up at about 1:00, having slept at least eleven hours. Perhaps I'm taking my holidays a little too far. I'll see if I can get back to about 10:00 soon. Part of the problem is late-night television; I also finished an online book and cleaned up more in my room before going to sleep yesterday.
As for the weather, it's beautifully sunny and not too warm yet. I hope that the seeds that I sowed in pots on the first day of the summer holidays will sprout soon; there were radish seeds, nasturtium seeds, oregano seeds, parsley seeds, rapunzel seeds, and one sunflower seed. I've watered the pots every day. So far there is one tiny sprout, where I can't tell if it's a weed or not.
Now the developments regarding our move to Germany: Yesterday we managed to sell the car that we inherited from our great-aunt for $3,500 -- which will defray some of the cost of our plane tickets. Mama has also been busy e-mailing real estate agencies about apartments that we found in online advertisements on such sites as immobilienwelt.de. Yesterday she, Papa, and I looked at the photos of apartments; most have plain white walls, floors of wooden planks or parquet, and large windows. In two or three there were also bedlofts, which I thought intriguing. Our main considerations are floorspace (preferably at least 125 m squared), number of rooms (at least four in addition to the kitchen and bathrooms), and cost (preferably not above 1000 Euros per month, including utilities).
I've also been gathering appliances, etc., that we no longer need, to sell at a flea market on Saturday. It feels nice getting the stuff out of the house, though of course I can't be sure how much I'll sell. I ventured into the closet adjoining my eldest brother's room, and cleared out the confusion there. There were a few old bags that smelled dreadfully vomity (I threw them away directly), I was crushing insect corpses underfoot, some boxes of books were very heavy, there was dust everywhere, and my feet hurt afterward, but I didn't become grumpy or despairing. I'm also pleased that the objects I've gathered are all more or less desirable -- in good condition and generally useful. I also like putting my mind to something and arranging it all my own way, even though I don't like the mercenary aspect of this particular business.
Perhaps I should do something educational again. I don't think I'll work much on my music, because I'm particularly uninspired at present and can't find anything new in the pieces that I play. I expect that the life experience I'll gather during our move to Germany should improve matters in that respect; the one advantage of being miserable and self-doubting and ill at ease with myself is that it adds something to my music. Being at ease with myself makes me essentially more shallow, I think. But if the move turns out to be one of the best things that has ever happened to me, I won't complain. (c: Anyway, I will probably read more about "Massenpsychologie" as Freud saw it, learn more Italian (I've already reviewed the definite article -- l'articolo determinativo, hehehe -- today), listen to Papa reading about Plato, and review some German grammar (especially the uses of the accusative and dative).
As for the weather, it's beautifully sunny and not too warm yet. I hope that the seeds that I sowed in pots on the first day of the summer holidays will sprout soon; there were radish seeds, nasturtium seeds, oregano seeds, parsley seeds, rapunzel seeds, and one sunflower seed. I've watered the pots every day. So far there is one tiny sprout, where I can't tell if it's a weed or not.
Now the developments regarding our move to Germany: Yesterday we managed to sell the car that we inherited from our great-aunt for $3,500 -- which will defray some of the cost of our plane tickets. Mama has also been busy e-mailing real estate agencies about apartments that we found in online advertisements on such sites as immobilienwelt.de. Yesterday she, Papa, and I looked at the photos of apartments; most have plain white walls, floors of wooden planks or parquet, and large windows. In two or three there were also bedlofts, which I thought intriguing. Our main considerations are floorspace (preferably at least 125 m squared), number of rooms (at least four in addition to the kitchen and bathrooms), and cost (preferably not above 1000 Euros per month, including utilities).
I've also been gathering appliances, etc., that we no longer need, to sell at a flea market on Saturday. It feels nice getting the stuff out of the house, though of course I can't be sure how much I'll sell. I ventured into the closet adjoining my eldest brother's room, and cleared out the confusion there. There were a few old bags that smelled dreadfully vomity (I threw them away directly), I was crushing insect corpses underfoot, some boxes of books were very heavy, there was dust everywhere, and my feet hurt afterward, but I didn't become grumpy or despairing. I'm also pleased that the objects I've gathered are all more or less desirable -- in good condition and generally useful. I also like putting my mind to something and arranging it all my own way, even though I don't like the mercenary aspect of this particular business.
Perhaps I should do something educational again. I don't think I'll work much on my music, because I'm particularly uninspired at present and can't find anything new in the pieces that I play. I expect that the life experience I'll gather during our move to Germany should improve matters in that respect; the one advantage of being miserable and self-doubting and ill at ease with myself is that it adds something to my music. Being at ease with myself makes me essentially more shallow, I think. But if the move turns out to be one of the best things that has ever happened to me, I won't complain. (c: Anyway, I will probably read more about "Massenpsychologie" as Freud saw it, learn more Italian (I've already reviewed the definite article -- l'articolo determinativo, hehehe -- today), listen to Papa reading about Plato, and review some German grammar (especially the uses of the accusative and dative).
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Not-So-Wild Holiday Pursuits . . .
The summer holidays are well underway now, and the subconscious expectation that I will go back to university again soon seems to have faded away. Some days ago I discovered that my French 221 mark was 22%, which is fair given my infrequent attendance and failure to write either of two essays or even the midterm, but which is unfair given the fact that I read all the material and experienced a fair incline in my French learning curve. I didn't mean to miss the midterm. . . .
The plans to go to Germany are progressing. In about ten days my mother and I will fly to Kingston, Ontario, to pack up our belongings from our house there. We have also bought plane tickets from Vancouver to Berlin-Tegel (with the delightful shorthand name TXL), for July 2. The owners of our prospective apartment in the former east of Berlin will let us know on Tuesday if our offer has been accepted. I've also looked for a job on the Internet, an exhausting process that firmly underlines my utter lack of "Fachkenntnisse" and "Berufserfahrung." I'm also contemplating applying to go to the Freie Universitaet in Berlin. The problem is deciding on a program -- perhaps comparative literature? -- and figuring out whether I have a chance of being accepted.
The university question has raised another question in my mind: shouldn't I change the way I approach my studies? Up until now my general purpose has been simply to be educated and to develop my mental faculties. Perhaps the self-centeredness of this approach is the reason why my academic record is not so brilliant, and why I'm not a particularly desirable student. I think I should decide on a particular field, devote my energies and attention to it, and if possible contribute something new to it. On the other hand, my academic ambition and ability are both moderate.
Anyway, I'm putting off the decision. I'm continuing in the Italian textbook and the History of Western Philosophy (Papa read out a chapter on the sophists today), and often playing the piano, sometimes even with the metronome, in the hopes that this will help me in future and take the place of whichever education I fail to get in case I'm not accepted to any university, etc. Before I go to sleep I'm now reading Ovid's Metamorphoses. But in the final analysis I think I'm mostly acquiring surface knowledge that enables me to show off beautifully but that has little deeper significance, and which doesn't enable me to discuss a topic intelligently. It also irritates me that even this surface knowledge rarely comes in useful; the only time it is relevant is when professors impart trivia to the class, where I don't see any point in putting up my hand and airing my erudition. To be fair, however, I really like the feeling of knowing many things without being obnoxious or feeling superior to everyone else; even if it doesn't make me actively happy it makes me content.
But I don't only spend my time in Very Good pursuits. I've been watching plenty of TV -- the usual political satire, What Not to Wear, School of Rock (which I liked even if I found that the teacher should really not have stopped his students from learning other things), Iron Chef, and French news (really excellent). I've also played tennis (mostly standing around while my oldest brothers practise their serve, sticking out my tongue at my third brother, and making snide remarks) and gone on walks and one bicycle ride. Then I play countless doomed games of spider solitaire, with two decks.
The plans to go to Germany are progressing. In about ten days my mother and I will fly to Kingston, Ontario, to pack up our belongings from our house there. We have also bought plane tickets from Vancouver to Berlin-Tegel (with the delightful shorthand name TXL), for July 2. The owners of our prospective apartment in the former east of Berlin will let us know on Tuesday if our offer has been accepted. I've also looked for a job on the Internet, an exhausting process that firmly underlines my utter lack of "Fachkenntnisse" and "Berufserfahrung." I'm also contemplating applying to go to the Freie Universitaet in Berlin. The problem is deciding on a program -- perhaps comparative literature? -- and figuring out whether I have a chance of being accepted.
The university question has raised another question in my mind: shouldn't I change the way I approach my studies? Up until now my general purpose has been simply to be educated and to develop my mental faculties. Perhaps the self-centeredness of this approach is the reason why my academic record is not so brilliant, and why I'm not a particularly desirable student. I think I should decide on a particular field, devote my energies and attention to it, and if possible contribute something new to it. On the other hand, my academic ambition and ability are both moderate.
Anyway, I'm putting off the decision. I'm continuing in the Italian textbook and the History of Western Philosophy (Papa read out a chapter on the sophists today), and often playing the piano, sometimes even with the metronome, in the hopes that this will help me in future and take the place of whichever education I fail to get in case I'm not accepted to any university, etc. Before I go to sleep I'm now reading Ovid's Metamorphoses. But in the final analysis I think I'm mostly acquiring surface knowledge that enables me to show off beautifully but that has little deeper significance, and which doesn't enable me to discuss a topic intelligently. It also irritates me that even this surface knowledge rarely comes in useful; the only time it is relevant is when professors impart trivia to the class, where I don't see any point in putting up my hand and airing my erudition. To be fair, however, I really like the feeling of knowing many things without being obnoxious or feeling superior to everyone else; even if it doesn't make me actively happy it makes me content.
But I don't only spend my time in Very Good pursuits. I've been watching plenty of TV -- the usual political satire, What Not to Wear, School of Rock (which I liked even if I found that the teacher should really not have stopped his students from learning other things), Iron Chef, and French news (really excellent). I've also played tennis (mostly standing around while my oldest brothers practise their serve, sticking out my tongue at my third brother, and making snide remarks) and gone on walks and one bicycle ride. Then I play countless doomed games of spider solitaire, with two decks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
