A Thriller That Is Not So Thrilling

Today it is a sunny but cool day, where I can be lazy in a more comfortable fashion. I've played the violin (ignoring my many mistakes), read some more Abenteuer des starken Wanja with my littlest brother, fetched the mail, had a little breakfast, written in my diary, and watered plants in the garden.

I also wrote another page or so of a spy story that I began to write perhaps in January. I've been able to be really absorbed in it as I write -- as a matter of fact I missed a German lecture because I lost track of time. But it isn't that exciting because I try to make it as truthful as possible, and I've only written some five single-spaced pages thus far. The story is about a British physics professor whose student tells him that, due to a breakdown in the six-party negotiations, the leader of North Korea is planning to defiantly fire a missile into the sea just off Japan. The professor must then travel to London and thence to rural Hertfordshire to tell the government about it.

I've already written a chase scene in the British Museum and a car chase through the streets around Chorleywood Station, but I may have to excise the latter because I still need to figure out a lot of plot points. For instance, was the professor already in the secret service, and would he therefore have contacts already? Also, why would he have to travel to London in person? And why would the driver of the car that picks up the professor at Chorleywood mind being followed? Other things to do are to make the characters more interesting, to make sure I've properly described the scenery, and to decide once and for all if I do want the professor to fly to London in a two-seater biplane in the dead of night. The one thing that does not bother me is that I don't know how British intelligence operates; I just try to use my reason and I don't mind making things up as far as it is concerned.

P.S.: I don't know exactly what "excise" means.

A Night at the Cathedral of Notre Dame

Source: http://www.greatbuildings.com/buildings/Notre_Dame_Cathedral.html

Yesterday evening, after a delightful day of relaxation, my sister and two of my brothers and I stayed up late watching old films on television. These included Ghosts -- Italian Style (which I found first funny, then disturbing), H.M. Pulham, Esq., Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House with Cary Grant and Myrna Loy, one most sentimental tale of two sisters who become nurses (we only saw the end), and The Hunchback of Notre Dame with Charles Laughton and Maureen O'Hara.

I was most impressed with The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It isn't too morbid or unhealthy, I think, and the characters, the scenes, and the setting had a great richness about them. Perhaps it was simply the late hour, but the Gothic sculpture on the cathedral, the grand views, and the shot of the light filtering through into the nave had a strong effect on me -- particularly when a church choir was singing in the background. I wish that there would have been time to develop the relations between the characters at a more believable pace, but that is really my only quibble. One other thing that particularly resonated with me is the way that Quasimodo and his situation embodied the self-hatred and and loneliness and awkwardness and sorrow that I've felt throughout the years (particularly as a relative outcast in school). But there was something indescribably comforting in the film: the unfolding of the inner beauty of Quasimodo, and the final resolution of the tumult of emotions into the quieter waters of a dignified melancholy. Also, of course, the film puts things into perspective.

One Day in the Life of a Miserable Labourer

(Please excuse the probably excessive frivolity of the following entry; I think it is somewhat redeemed by the fact that it may be a coping mechanism or it may be the result of high caffeine and sugar intake.)

Today was the glorious last full day where we could load stuff into the container, which had already been filling for two days beforehand. I woke up after highly insufficient sleep due to sleeping on the sofa (in lieu of my bedclothes-less bed) under a chilly synthetic blanket and to the unwanted attentions of a mosquito (which, however, did not bite me).

It turns out that every minute I was awake was of use. I had to sort through hundreds of papers, dismantle my bed (Mama did most of the work on that), pack up clothing and papers and books and electronics (including a very dusty and insect-corpsy monitor-computer-printer ensemble), dispose of chains of berries and mosses that seemed delightful up to the moment that they were in the way,* and pack up earthenware for the common good. I received at least three paper cuts, and there is still coagulated blood decorating one fingernail.

I was in pyjamas until an aunt and uncle came for a pleasant, relaxed visit, at which point I saw that any decent person would get into proper clothing and trot forth to welcome the visitors. I also took several other breaks, involving a certain fizzy brown drink and most refreshing popsicles and a fan. It was very hot today, hence the overwhelming need for coolness. At present my hair has become curly, I sense dried perspiration all over me (including a cool dampness at the back of my neck), and my back hurts a little. This may be too much information for the reader, but the trials of moving should not be whitewashed.

I also ventured into our toolshed in search of snowchains and a snow-plowing blade for a tractor. I discovered the snowchains but the blade, if not left behind in Kelowna by my grandfather, would have been under a pile of rat-nibbled canvas and mysterious items enshrouded in black garbage bags, to the right of a freezer. This freezer is topped by an intriguing landscape of dust with highlights in mouse droppings. Since neither strength, space, nor trust in my immune system sufficed, I decided to discontinue the search.

When it began to become dark I panicked and really hurried. Five years ago I had unfortunately decided to print out the news of the day, every day, particularly as it pertains to the Middle East. The result is a huge binder overflowing with news articles in ten-point type, which I sped through with considerable anxiety. At the same time the pressure was really beginning to get to me. When it began to be hinted that the 40-ft. container with an extra high ceiling was verging on the bulging with plenitude, I simply had enough. Unfortunately this hint was broadened by dint of at least ten repetitions, and when I attended the second-last carload of possessions to the container I was provided the discouraging "ocular proof" I hadn't needed.

Mama and Papa are also under a lot of pressure, part of which transfers to me. But at present I feel sorry mostly for myself. It was the same way when my sister was disgruntledly washing the dishes and quite harshly put me in my place when I wanted to show her something. I admit that both parents look pretty miserable, but since I achieved the feat of being close to tears, which I considerately choked down (which heroic action I am now undermining by my prattle about it), I am still overwhelmed by the sense that no one was as miserable as I am. But Papa must deal with the logistics of putting a box into a space that is at least five cm too small for it, so in all seriousness I think I mustn't be selfish any longer.

* The pragmatic view of my mother is that they are mere dust-collectors, hence a careful but firm entreaty that I wouldn't take the things along to Germany.
(I hope I have used the word "pragmatic" properly.)

Football and Reminiscences

I've just finished following the World Cup soccer match between Argentina and Mexico (2-1). It was quite close, with half an hour of overtime and everything, though I'd read that the Argentinian team was favoured to win from the outset. Before that I followed the game between Germany and Sweden (2-0). There were minute-by-minute reports at www.guardian.co.uk and www.nytimes.com; the former were livelier but the latter were in better taste.

In between the clicks of the reload button, I sorted out old papers from kindergarten through Grade 6. It's a nice, thoughtful activity, and there are nice finds here and there. But most of all I'm struck by my monumental conceit, particularly concerning my knowledge and talents. I apparently even gave lots of suggestions to the teachers for running the class, which they took with perfect good humour as far as I remember.

This morning I woke up before 6:00 to help unpack the last truckload of belongings into the container to be shipped to Germany. It didn't take long and I didn't have to wait long for my refreshing morning shower. As for the hard work of yesterday, that's the subject of another post . . .

Complainings, Which the Reader is Invited to Skip

Today I feel decidedly like complaining, which activity is one of my weaknesses. Lately I've been feeling really discouraged. While I enjoyed my university year greatly, my marks were lacklustre and I still think that my abilities could and should be developed far more. And now I don't have enough energy to develop them on my own -- many textbooks, etc., have already been packed up anyway. I have no ambition left, except the vague one of writing a really good book whenever inspiration strikes -- which could be tomorrow or in ten years --, though I suspect that I won't be able to do anything as good as I would like before I gather much more experience.

I also worry about being dreadfully immature and unintelligent and unsocial by European standards. The horrible year I had when I went to German school in Grades 5 and 6 is still present in my consciousness. It seemed like an endless nightmare while I was in it; I could not be myself for a moment, and everything seemed unreal. My trip to Europe in 2003 was also disorienting and tiring, as was my trip to Kingston, and the travelling made me ill-tempered and depressed. I dread not being able to think clearly or to behave decently. Based on empirical evidence, there is only a slight possibility of the move to Germany going as beautifully as my sister's and my trip to England last summer. I hope, though, that people at university and elsewhere will respect my wishes to remain fairly quiet and independent until I feel safe and curious enough to explore the world more on my own. This worked magnificently at UBC, and when people don't do this (e.g. in Grade 8), the situation just becomes much worse.

Another thing is that I have a bad conscience about two letters I've been putting off writing. I suppose I should just to forget about myself and take care of them, but I'm so far gone in the quicksand of egotism that I don't think I've managed to forget myself for years and years.

Anyway, this could all be a chemical thing. Certainly I've been very moody lately. The day before yesterday a quarter of an hour of a TV documentary about Stonehenge made me feel decidedly cheerful, even though before that I didn't feel like even talking to anyone. I try to use music and other things to equalize my moods, but other than that I respect them. It's just when I'm bearish to my family and neglectful of my duties that I feel torn up and more moody than ever.

Two Wildean Quotations

Here are two quotes that, while not convincing, are certainly cheering to a delinquent student who worries about the future:

"Ambition is the last refuge of the failure."

"In examinations the foolish ask questions that the wise cannot answer."

-- Oscar Wilde, Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young

A Proverbial Hodgepodge

(Title courtesy of my sister's quirky wit)

Today I've been out of sorts again . . . I suppose it's very teenage-ish to feel that one isn't oneself. Or the problem may be that I'm myself too much. If so, my self is not a pleasant creature.

Anyway, I browsed the Internet a little. I finished re-reading Maria Edgeworth's Patronage, which contrasts two English families. One family, the Falconers, is determined to have their sons shine in their careers and to have their daughters shine in their marriages -- by means of patronage (I suppose it would be called "connections" nowadays), guile, etc. The other family, the Percys, is determined to act on principle; the sons rise to eminence due to their sound ethics and knowledge and skill, while the daughters make good marriages in every sense due to their virtues, learning, and accomplishments as well as their beauty. This sounds very moralistic, but I always enjoy reading the book. I wonder, though, if it is moral to pretend that people repay good deeds, because that doesn't always happen in reality (especially not in the neat way it is portrayed in Maria Edgeworth's books and stories). But Miss Edgeworth's morality is far nicer than most kinds I have met in my foragings among the fiction in gutenberg.org, and I don't find it too obtrusive. The characters are vivid (except the protagonists, really), the plot is interesting, the insight into society considerable, and some scenes are, I think, excellently witty (like the theatrical performance at the Falconer's household).

I was also thinking about how devoid Jane Austen's novels are of hints of the European wars of her time. I think it's actually part of her Englishness -- one of the great charms of England is, I believe, how it represents a peaceful microcosm; wars may touch its borders but they never pass beyond nor grow from within, and within there persists a tranquil order based on centuries of tradition, reinforced by the calm and beauty of the landscape. Of course there is the rampant imperialism and there has always been turmoil, but I like generalizing.

I also read articles on nytimes.com, including one travel article about St. Petersburg and another about Iceland. I particularly like the second, "Iceland's Ring Road; The Ultimate Road Trip," by Mark Sundeen. Here is one amusing excerpt:

As we got out of the car, a woman in Viking-period regalia — a coarsely woven tunic, hair in braids and a container like a powder horn lashed to her waist — emerged from a canvas tent where she had been sitting behind a laptop.

Later I went shopping at a small foods store off West Saanich Road. There were local fruits and vegetables, assorted organic products, ice cream, and all types of imported pickles and canned fish; I liked browsing there very much. I ended up with local strawberries, Okanagan cherries, organic bananas, wafer biscuits, one pot each of Polish cherry and blackberry jam and a third of Italian honey, organic lemonade, and a bunch of small local carrots with the green still on them (which I really like). Delicious!

Before that I accompanied my parents on an errand trip (which included bringing one of my brothers to the airport for his flight lesson). When I went shopping, that was also part of my mother's second errand trip. We picked up my photo film from a store. I think all of my photos were perfectly beautiful and captured what I wanted them to capture. I have no modesty where they are concerned! Some were taken at UBC, and more at home. Maybe I'll post one or two in this blog, or dedicate a Flickr account to them.

And now, off to make amends for my laziness this afternoon . . .

Teutonic Interlude

Denk- und Trostspruechlein

's geschieht wohl, daß man an einem Tag
Weder Gott noch Menschen lieben mag,
Dringt nichts dir nach dem Herzen ein.
Sollt's in der Kunst wohl anders sein?
Drum hetz' dich nicht zur schlimmen Zeit,
Denn Fuell' und Kraft ist nimmer weit.
Hast in der schlappen Stund geruht,
Ist dir die gute doppelt gut.

-- Goethe

Twenty-Six Straight Hours of Leisure

Much to my surprise, I did not feel at all sleepy last night. My room was too warm and I was excited from the bit of packing that I had done. So I edited my profile on my new blog at Xanga, knitted, wrote in my diary, and read news as well as the end of the introduction to Penguin's edition of Giorgio Vasari's Lives of the Artists. Most illuminating. I think it's interesting how hard it is to honestly remember or even discover what one's likes and dislikes are; for instance, I'm sure I have a favourite film but I haven't been able to think of one. Later I watched some television, particularly a show about travelling to Italy; the House of the Vestal Virgins and Florence (which I saw in November 2003) were both given due attention.

The knitting was exciting because I had only learned the plain stitch before yesterday. Yesterday I plunged giddily into the realm of purling, then tried to do the knotted stitch properly. Approximately fifteen minutes ago my first two rows of what I believe to be successful knot-stitches were finished. I took my instructions from Beeton's Book of Needlework. It was fortunate that the sock patterns in the book didn't appeal to me, because I already have an impressive mound of socks accumulating in my room as new ones are purchased and old ones are mended (some by me!).

Yesterday evening my sister and I watched parts of Amadeus. I particularly like the scene where Antonio Salieri has composed a march in honour of the presentation of Mozart at the court of the Emperor. The part where the emperor painstakingly plays his way through the composition while trying to ignore the irritating promptings of Salieri is an excellent satire of music lessons in general, I think. I also like the figure of the Emperor very much because he is so understated and realistic and quietly humorous. Then I like, too, the fact that this film is about more than the costumes and relentless frivolity; normally I find period films highly off-putting.

Anyway, I already became very tired at around eleven, and the only thing that prevents me from being so at present is the carbonated caffeinated drink (whose brand shall remain nameless) that I just consumed.

Thoughts on Satire (and Society)

Since my last post I've done quite a lot of bedtime reading.

After I'd finished An Equal Music I decided to read more modern literature. I read Henry James's The Europeans in its entirety, and I started Aldous Huxley's Point Counterpoint but I haven't continued reading it yet. I liked The Europeans, though I definitely see how his writing is still a little immature (i.e. he takes more time on satisfactorily developing his characters in The Portrait of a Lady, as far as I remember). The reason why I don't absolutely love Henry James is that, in my view, there is always a certain reserve in his writing, and a certain cynicism about human nature and circumstance. While he has sympathy with his characters while they are unhappy and disillusioned, he never really allows them to be happy. But I'm willing to concede that in high society the true nature of people may really be hardened to the point of emotional and moral apathy, and that they may really exploit others whenever they can, so that it is by no means a cheering environment.

Anyway, I'm also about one-third of the way through The Pickwick Papers, and I've been re-reading bits of Ovid's Metamorphoses as well as Die schönsten Sagen des klassischen Altertums by Gustav Schwab. The reason I'm reading up on Greek and Roman legends is that I've found it frustrating to be in a European gallery and not to know what the stories being depicted in the paintings are about. For this same reason I plan to read up on the saints.

Yesterday I wrote two short satires. The first, entitled "The Romance of a Paddlewheeler" is about a lady who falls off a steamship into the Missouri River in pursuit of her parasol, to be rescued by another passenger. The second, entitled "The Duel of the Gondolas" is about a young count, en route to the Doge's palace in Venice, who rescues a lovely maiden from the clutches of the villainous Don Luigi by fighting him with a gondola-pole. It tends to be problematic to write satires about stories that few people have read, but I think the two tales are more or less archetypal anyway. With the Venetian story I had Ann Radcliffe's Mysteries of Udolpho in mind, as well as a story written by Jo in Little Women. I think that Edgar Allan Poe and Oscar Wilde have also written dark romances set in Italy, though not necessarily Venice -- the Duchess of Padua for instance.

But I find that writing satire is draining; it requires a considerable effort to keep up the tone, and it is difficult to write satirically and sympathetically at the same time so as not to be drily derisory. I think that satire is not always funny, and I prefer the funny kind except in serious cases, like the situation to which A Modest Proposal responded. Reading satire -- especially of the subtle variety -- can be draining, too. The last time I reread Pride and Prejudice I found it wearying to find some little thrust in (nearly) every sentence, because it absorbed so much of my attention and prevented me from fully enjoying the other aspects. In that way Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility, and Persuasion are gentler. But in moderation I am very fond of wit.

P.S.: I apologize for the broad title; evidently my wits are rusty and have been so for several weeks.

Music and Moving

I'm presently listening to a recording of the Cortot-Thibaud-Casals trio playing Schubert's Trio No. 1 in B flat major (I managed to read all this information from the spinning record label, hence the tiny headache I am now enjoying). On Side 1 there was Haydn's Zigeunertrio, which my great-aunt, uncle (a violinist) and father used to play together often until we moved to Germany when I was 10, and of which I had especially enjoyed the fastest movement. I play the piano part sometimes. Anyway, it was really a pleasure to listen to the recording; I kept on exclaiming internally how good it is.

As for my own humble musickings, they were definitely more interesting when I felt out of sorts during the last few days. I didn't find anything new in the pieces I played, but, for instance, I had a fit of impatience that enabled me to tackle the recalcitrant sextuplets in Mendelssohn's "song without words" for cello and piano. But when I played on the grand piano it felt as if I were wrestling with it and losing. My fingers seem to lack the strength to properly depress the keys, arm weight barely helps, and I quickly become tense and annoyed, especially because I'm playing so badly. This doesn't always happen, however; perhaps if I never played out of boredom or not knowing what else to do, I would have the willpower to play as I would like.

Anyway, I should give an update on our upcoming migration. The apartment we wanted in Berlin Schöneberg has felicitously fallen to our lot. It's 180 m squared and it has, I think, five rooms besides the bathroom (not quite Ritz-y, but large -- according to the photo -- and well-lit). The rooms are large, with white walls and parquet floors. They do mostly run into each other, which means that our bedrooms will not be all that private, but my mother plans to do wonders with our many bookcases. Anyway, the view down the doorways, with the large white folding doors, is reminiscent of a ballroom scene from a Jane Austen film (though the building comes from 1900). So evidently my expectations for the apartment are high, despite the possibility of disappointment.

In further relocation news, our grey minivan has been endowed with a "For Sale" sign, and an advertisement has been put in the local paper. The effects of my efforts at cleaning the car are still visible, though dust has resettled on it with discouraging rapidity. I went over each part of it at least twice, and spent many frustrating minutes trying to dislodge the grime from the nooks and crannies of the wheel hubs. For some reason the rear wheel hubs are squeakily clean whereas patches of rusty-tinted dirtiness spread out defiantly from the sheltered curves of the front wheel hubs. As for the packing, boxes and crates full of belongings have accumulated, and the little house has an unwonted airy aspect. A few minutes ago Papa discovered a box full of childhood possessions (like a self-made radio), and he happily unpacked it and showed the contents to Mama, as my two oldest brothers looked curiously on.

A Spot of Reading

This is the second cloudy day in a row, the cloudiness being a nice change from the recent sunniness. Yesterday, however, I was considerably out of sorts; today I am most cheerful.

Last evening I stayed up late reading An Equal Music by Vikram Seth, a present from my aunt. I found it most engrossing and kept on reading a little bit more until I really was too tired. It's about a London-based musician; his interactions with fellow musicians and his parents; and especially his interactions with a fellow musician whom he loved and lost a decade earlier, only to find her again, married. I like the fact that the style is relatively unadorned, and that the interactions between characters and the characters themselves are natural, and that one can sympathize with the protagonist. Lastly, I like the frequent mention of some aspect of London geography, for instance the Serpentine, too.

It annoys me in modern literature when one gets the sense that the author is taking out his frustrations in life on his hapless protagonist, while pretending that this approach is realism or worldly wisdom rather than revenge. So it was a great relief not to find a hint of that in the book.

My other bedtime reading, The Pickwick Papers, is getting along well, too. The plot is much less desultory than I had expected. (This is the first time I've used "desultory" -- hehehe.) And I find it most amusing, and an excellently satirical source of broad information about English society -- and refreshingly free of colourless heroines.

A Glimpse of Berlin-Schöneberg

City Hall ("Rathaus")



I think I remember going past this building during my trip to Europe in November 2003 with Mama.







Source: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/25/Rathaus_Sch%C3%B6neberg_Park.JPG

Last evening I went to sleep at somewhere after midnight after having watched the Daily Show with Jon Stewart and the Colbert Report, then reading a chapter or two of the Pickwick Papers. The reason I'm reading the Pickwick Papers for my bedtime reading is that I think I should read it at some point. While I got through Little Dorrit excellently the second time I read it (when my stock of patience had begun to wax and my rabid interest in romantic plotlines had begun to wane), the Pickwick Papers is, I think, on another plane of circumlocution. So I'm reading it late in the evening, when my mind is too tired to wander from the matter at hand. This puts me in the awkward position of noticing that something is funny but being unable to laugh because I'm too fatigued, but other than that the reading is pleasant.

But I think I'm incapable of fully appreciating Dickens, because while I can see his greatness in terms of literary skill, some aspects of his writing are simply not to my taste. First of all, after the first hundred or so pages of voluble social and personal caricature I tend to have had quite enough. Secondly, I find (unoriginally) that his sentimentality is sickly. Thirdly, the female characters annoy me. I'm not sure if I would feel the same if I reread A Tale of Two Cities and David Copperfield, but I do still presently have a strong antipathy against Lucie Manette and Agnes Wickfield. Their constant, unnatural passivity and the apparent lack of intelligence (which is not to say that they are stupid, just that they don't seem to be actively intelligent) are exactly the traits that I see as the opposite of ideal in women (or anyone, for that matter). Selfless, pious airheads are airheads all the same.

Anyway, this morning I woke up at about 10:30 to a thoroughly overcast day. I ate breakfast, then peregrinated up the gravel path to the little house (or studio) as usual. Papa and I played one of Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words," then Beethoven's variations on a theme from Handel's "Judas Maccabeus." Papa recorded the pieces, because we have a delightful set of two microphones with their own stands, as well as two other microphones that are simply lain down near an instrument, attachable to a mixing board thingy that I lack the technical knowledge to describe. In the "Song Without Words" the cello sounded beautiful. My accompaniment was, as usual, not legato enough; the slightly awkward, often staccato chords had a decidedly childish sound to them. Also, I barely even attempted the part where the piano has to play sextuplets. As for the variations, they went fairly well. There's still a lot of work to do, however.

I also played the beginnings of many movements from Beethoven's piano sonatas, and found something new in quite a few of them. In this case "finding something new" means that sometimes when I play a piece I suddenly play a part of it in a different way than I usually do, often in a way that sounds better (sometimes, for instance, I find out that I've been playing the wrong note for years). The piece suddenly makes more sense. Anyway, then I played most of the first two Mozart sonatas, and then a piece that I first played through in its entirety yesterday -- Preludio VII in E flat major from Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, Vol. II -- and of which I am presently very fond.

My sister and I also looked through photos that she and my oldest brother had taken. Many of them were really good. Many of them we'll mostly keep for the memories -- for instance of the shed in the very back of our yard on whose roof we set up camp when we were little, and whose bare mention prompts a floodtide of reminiscence.

Anyway, after that my sister went down to watch television, and I eventually joined her. She watched the Bourne Identity (which I rather like) until she found the bleakness too much for her, then we watched bits of a "Night at the Metropolitan Opera." I, generally speaking, can't stand singing -- particularly where the singers overexercise their eyebrows, have a constant self-satisfied smirk on their faces, find it terribly amusing to overact their comedic roles, and above all sing what I consider as fake-ly. This time, however, I found the tenor unintentionally amusing, as well as the black-clad choir that was arranged evenly across the stage in two superposed rows in a manner strongly evocative of Hitchcock's birds. On a less superficial level, I also enjoyed Plácido Domingo's appearance. His movement of eyebrow was kept within bounds, his face was free from contortion and gravely composed, and his gestures did not distract from his actual singing, which was impassioned and earnest but not exaggeratedly so. After he was done we switched to another channel, and Papa (who had just returned from a shopping expedition with Mama) soon watched part of the News Hour with Jim Lehrer, specifically an interview about the new immigrant worker legislation in the US.

So, on the whole, this is probably the best day I've had since the wonderful day on which I wrote my Macroeconomics exam and was done with the course forever -- and could go home for the rest of the semester. Hehehehehe!