Apostel-Paulus-Kirche

Photo by my sister

Piano and Online Reading

Yesterday I essentially played the piano and read books at gutenberg.org. The piano playing went really well. Perhaps my favourite piece for the piano is the B flat major sonata by Schubert; I think it requires great depth and sincerity, and in my point of view the relative ease with which one can play it as far as the notes themselves go means that it is intended that one focus on the nobility and beauty of the music. At the same time I try to avoid playing too much legato and piano, because that is, I think, not true to the music either (the only recording of it I've heard is one by Clara Haskil, who, as far as I remember, plays the whole sonata with the notes detached). I've played the sonata quite often, and especially when I began playing it I felt how tragic particularly the beginning of the second movement is. Anyway, yesterday I played it close to the way I think it should be played. But I didn't really feel melancholy or anything, particularly because I was pleased with how well it was going, so the true sincerity was lacking. I'm guessing that the older I become the better I'll play it.

Anyway, my scales and studies are going splendidly. I've already played all the scales through; yesterday I played the E flat scales again (forgetting, however, the minor ones). I've also discovered that in some difficult spots in pieces I rotate my wrist toward me, which is strenuous and counterproductive; since I've been strictly rotating parallel to the keyboard things have gone much better. My arpeggios are still rubbish, but I've learned to take them in stride. Lately I've played quite a bit from the Well-Tempered Clavier, and I've also played Débussy's Claire de lune with far more ease than before. Yesterday or the day before that I played bits of Beethoven's early sonatas, and that went really well too. The sonatas are very satisfactory to browse through particularly because they cover the range of melancholy to grand and powerful to cheerful so fully.

I think it was yesterday morning that I woke up with the determination not even to try to play the piano professionally. Of course I'm probably overrating my abilities anyway; but what I was mainly thinking was that I'd be happier and better if I kept the piano playing for private occasions. That does not, however, mean that I don't want to take lessons. It may just mean that I'll end up becoming a piano teacher rather than performing.

As for my online reading, it began with the Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce. Some of the definitions I wrote down, and here they are:

ACHIEVEMENT, n. The death of endeavor and the birth of disgust.

ADMIRATION, n. Our polite recognition of another's resemblance to ourselves.

ADORE, v.t. To venerate expectantly.

AFFLICTION, n. An acclimatizing process preparing the soul for another and bitter world.

BEG, v. To ask for something with an earnestness proportioned to the belief that it will not be given.

HATRED, n. A sentiment appropriate to the occasion of another's superiority.

IMMIGRANT, n. An unenlightened person who thinks one country is better than another.

By the end of my online reading session I was wondering seriously if I hadn't better begin reading the non-fiction and more elevated fiction on the website, but I think I still don't have the self-discipline. I demand something that cheers me up, and the collected works of Edmund Burke won't do it. I reread Infelice by Augusta Jane Evans recently, becoming increasingly aware of aspects of it that I don't approve of. On the other hand, it is often unintentionally funny. For instance, the following sentence: the guardian (who will marry the heroine, of course) looks at the heroine probingly, then asks of a nun who has taught her, "Is the intellectual machinery at all consonant with the refined perfection of the external physique?" The nun answers in nearly equally elevated language -- as a matter of fact, all the characters (except the slaves) speak in language "consonant with" the highest oratory excesses of the Romantic poet.

P.S.: The photo below was taken from http://www.suedwestweb-berlin.de/struktur/v0349/s0349.html .

Spots in Schöneberg

Church at the Winterfeldtplatz















Today T., Gi.'s digital camera, and I went for a walk along the Hauptstrasse, then along the Goltz(?)strasse to the Apostel-Paulus-Kirche. T. photographed the church; a passerby stopped and talked with us a little while, then suggested that we go take a photo of the church at the Winterfeldtplatz. I must say that I prefer the Apostel-Paulus-Kirche, which is, I think, a funny mixture of Renaissance and Neogothic and so on, in unusually dark red brick, weathered green bronze, dark grey roof tile -- with a detestable high gray foundation. The low silvery-green trees around it are must have been planted on purpose, because they provide a really intriguing colour contrast with the brick and at the same time colour harmony with the bronze. According to a wikipedia article the church was built in the 1890s. But there is a charm to the church at the Winterfeldtplatz, too. In the niche between two buttresses there is one really tall tree (acacia?) with a small leafy crown only at the top. The church walls are of pale brick; there is a large "window" that has been filled in with muted white behind it, and the gloomy brown of the bare tree trunk fits in. It has a sad dignity to it, I think.

Familienfest Foto

Photo expertly taken by my eldest brother just outside of Kevelaer.

The mill is a reminder of the proximity to the Dutch border.

Grade Eleven Revisited

This was written some time in 2002, before I dropped out of school for two weeks, then decided to go back again. I found the sheet of paper on which this was written again this morning, and I'm copying it into here because it's unusually concise and deeply felt, and because it explains something of who I am now.

Feeling completely miserable, I also feel like writing down everything (as far as I can make it out) of what I am bothered by right now.

First of all, I don't think I'm clinically sick, but in a way I have symptoms instead of an illness. I feel very hot and sweaty (probably due to the interesting humidity levels in my room), and, as in the last few weeks, I am somehow detached from any plane of reality (this does not mean that I am continuously high). I feel "weepy" quite often – about every day – and though this may be "teenage hormones" it still doesn't feel good. I am continually at unease except when I am joking or playing happily with someone else. To "do" and to "exist" are absolutely meaningless to me, and I feel like I'm dreaming all the time. The only other physical symptom is a sore throat.

At school I feel all right but as if a zombie could (and sometimes does) take my place in the same setting. I haven't done anything I've wanted to do for a long time; this pronouncement is silly because I don't mind taking care of the chickens, etc. but it seems true.

I no longer seem to be able to fit any sort of capacity as a human being. I do my homework like some clone of myself (something completely detached and superficial) and I do the chores with some sort of detachment too.

I am caught in a kind of slough of doing nothing, though in school I supposedly "do" a lot (an unmitigated lie; we do little until we reach home and do our homework).

I can't see my teachers as human beings any more either because they don't seem to meet me on that plane.

In short, I feel as if I were a function and not a being. I am not feeling like I am being given the rights of a person and I no longer understand myself as one.

I don't know whether I am dramatizing the whole thing and putting myself through an experience or whether there really is a reason why I feel like it. At any rate, I feel as if I'd never grow up and stay right in between what was my experience before and what I always thought my experience would be later on; in short, become an imbecile. I feel like I have no past and, above all, no future.

Especially amusing is the fact that, after years of counter-indoctrination, the school system is actually pushing me by the shortest path towards drugs, alcohol, and suicide (the last is rather remote! but still). It is basically telling me to seek that kind of relief. Fortunately, I have neither the means nor inclination of following up that kind of suggestion.

It is also stupid that instead of proving that my homework would be useful to me (which, I am sure, they could not do anyway) they rely on telling me that it is useful and making threats in the indirect fashion enshrined in B.C. Ministry of Education policy. Besides which, I don't believe it because that particular piece of work they ask for is beneficial only to the teachers as it has no value outside of spreadsheet fodder.

Finally, I am tired of being told that, if I don't hand my work in, I could fail. Fortunately I developed a system of logic not based on school lessons which told me that as soon as I began to do homework!

Why should I care about getting good marks if it doesn't prove anything?

Familienfest: Friday

On Friday and Saturday my parents, siblings and I made our way per train or per car to the town in the Lower Rhine region where my mother was born, and where her father still lives.

The car ride there, which took more than five hours, was interesting and mostly beautiful. We reached the highway by driving along the Berliner Strasse/Potsdamer Strasse/Potsdamer Chaussee through Zehlendorf, where trees and brush grow untamed and tall along the streets, and houses peek out of them. Just before the highway Papa pointed out where the border between West Berlin and East Germany had been. When I saw an overpass that might have been built in the eighties, I felt the vague remnant of my memories of Germany from when I lived there as a very small child crystallize into a strong sense of recognition, though I'm not sure how spontaneous the feeling was. Then we turned onto the six-lane highway, and Papa made good use of the accelerator (the speed limit is 120 km/h).

Along the highway there is mostly hilly pine forest at first, then large fields. As we passed Braunschweig I was much amused because it is written "BS" for short. Since the car windows were mostly open it was very loud, but we still talked because we were all in a cheerful mood. Before we had left, T., with the assistance of Gi. and Ge. had carefully worked out a list of provisions that they had then bought back in Berlin, so we happily consumed Turkish flatbread, granola bars, licorice snails, and licorice allsorts along the way.

At length we reached the Weser Berge, a hilly region where the forests take on an unregimented and wild aspect, and where it began to rain. It was around this point that the scenery begins to be really idyllic. The fresh green landscape rolls peacefully; dark forests run along the crests of the hills and down the sides of the fields, with the subdued reddish-brown tints of roofs glowing out from them; row upon row of poplars or other trees formed delicate silhouettes against the gray sky until they were swallowed up in the soft blue land at the horizon.

Then, after the highly industrialized Rhein/Ruhr regions, we finally entered the Lower Rhine (Niederrhein) area. The scenery along the roadside becomes gradually more agricultural; the land is flat, rivers (for instance the Weser) are more frequent, cornfields appear at the roadside, the number of farmyards increases, and rows of poplars become more common. Here, too, the grass and crops and trees were flourishing green with the recent rainfall.

At last we reached Kevelaer and found our way to the house where our Opa lives. We went up and talked with Opa and with M., our youngest uncle. Then we had lunch (sausage with fries -- or "Pommes," as they are called here). After that we had time to do whatever we wanted. We each tried out the harmonium (small organ?) in the studio where we were quartered for the weekend.

Mama and I went for a walk, first to the Basilica in the centre of the town. Since Kevelaer is a pilgrimage station (the Holy Mary appeared to a couple there in perhaps the seventeenth century, and an engraving of her image is kept there), the basilica is richly decorated. The father of Opa was one of the artisans who painted the interior. Even the columns bear the portraits of saints or popes, and the flutings that run down them are painted in colourful stripes and other patterns in dark green, red, blue, and gold. Some of the stained glass windows are intricate and vibrant, others are modern and minimalist and rather boring. Beside the basilica in the central cobblestone square there is also a Kerzenkapelle, which used to be the main church of Kevelaer, and the Gnadenkapelle, where the engraving of Mary is kept. At the Kerzenkapelle there are rows of candleholders where one can light a candle, for instance for the well-being of friends and family. The sight of the long trails of melted golden wax hanging down from the holders is fascinating, particularly against the old shadowy grey of the church, also because it stirs up vague thoughts about the passage of time. Around the square the facades of the mostly old-fashioned houses are diverse in style and origin, in keeping with the changing fortunes of the town, from simple white buildings with neoclassical trimmings on the windows to the Priesterhaus with a baroque-ish false front whose walls are adorned with paint pretending to be brick (!). The shops around the square are full of Catholic-themed candles and figurines and so on; just beyond the square onyx vases, conservative clothing, shoes, sports goods, etc., fill the windows. Mama's and my walk ended with a trip along the Kreuzweg, or path of the cross. It was very tranquil and shady because of the tall leafy trees. We were intrigued by the sight of single white feathers sparsely but evenly scattered along the tiny dark red gravel of the path; could the feet of pilgrims have shuffled them into such a regular distribution?

In the evening, then, we all went to the big, vine-draped brick house where my mother, her eleven brothers, and her parents had all once lived, and where of my uncles still lives with his family. Not everyone had arrived yet, but even so the number of relatives was impressive, and the amount of hand-shaking considerable. Everyone had made himself comfortable outside or inside, and conversed tranquilly until after eleven. T., Gi., Ge., J. and I ranged ourselves first along a low brick wall and then along a bench; we discussed Omama's memoirs, Poirot, and James Bond films, too shy to mingle much. Then we walked home in the darkness and caught up on our sleep.

Bereft of a Bathroom, and Other Tales

Today is a windy, sunny, cloudy day; the restlessness of the weather is reflected in my restlessness and that of everyone else in my family.

Our bathroom is being changed so that it is more safe and comfortable, and a smaller bathroom is being added right beside it. The smell of the dust from the drilled walls always reminds me of my many visits to the dentist -- the big light shining into my face, the dentist wielding his implements to my right, and the cloth fish mobile in soothing cold colours dangling to my left. There are many events in my life that I would prefer to revisit instead. And the sink is gone, the toilet (which we, of course, can only use when the plumbers have their lunch break or are gone for the day) must be flushed by means of water from a bucket, and the bathtub is gone. But I rather look forward to improvising a shower; I have a good idea for that already . . . By the way, the long-term bothersome thing about the bathroom is that the house ordered its old and peculiar but fully functional lock replaced with a modern handle -- that has no lock at all. The logic is obscure to me. But T. and I jointly invented the device of hanging a washcloth outside if someone is in the bathroom, so that no one else will wander in. The point is, it's all very unsettling.

This morning, at any rate, we were all in a bad mood. No access to the toilet, teeth unbrushed, underarms uncleansed, etc. And we've also been using the bathroom as our changing room, since the curtains aren't up yet in our large windows. T., the most pathetic case of all, slept in and, when she had woken up, moped on the bed, not at all talkative. I was trying to stay cheery by playing the piano a little and reading the historian Felix Gilbert's memoirs, entitled A European Past. Then I did some shopping, and we had lunch in the living room, which cheered up everyone except Mama. I admit the purchases were rather horrifying -- grapes that could not be rinsed yet, a box of After Eight, peach rings, marmalade, and Waldmeister-jello, to which assortment J. added licorice allsorts, licorice snails, Nutella and chips. To be fair, I bought healthy stuff too: milk, quark (which is like sour cream), and pear juice. Mama had asked for the marmalade too.

Then I asked Papa if he would drive me to Dahlem sometime (the Freie Uni in particular). Since J. and I walked there a few days ago I've become very fond of it. It's particularly quiet since the classes are no longer in session, and there are so many trees, and the campus reminds me of UBC. I wanted to get books relevant to comparative literature there too. Anyway, Papa suggested we go nearly right away, and J. also wanted to come along. This time Papa took us to the building where he had worked as a Physics student; it's a complicatedly large, low modern building, not pretty but not outright ugly either, with many windows and well-lit hallways. First we went to the washrooms. Papa said that the washrooms had originally been forgotten when the building was constructed, so that rows of closets had to be converted into them. After that, Papa showed us where his office had been, told us that a circus had once been on the overgrown field past the parking lot, looked to see which professors he still knew (quite a few), and pointed out the big tank where he had always taken liquid nitrogen from.

After stepping back out onto the cobblestone sidewalk and peeking into the Völkerkundemuseum we continued walking to the bookstore Schleicher's. There Papa bought Boccaccio's Decameron and Eric Nolte's book about the Weimar Republic for me, and several books for himself (including a biography of the philosopher Schelling). The lady at the cash register looked very pleased.

Since then I've been shopping again for drinks, and I've played a lot of piano, which went well. Speaking of the piano, I checked yesterday what the prerequisites are for studying music at the Universität der Künste are, and it seems I might meet them. The main entry requirement is an excellent result on the entrance exams, which are outlined in detail on the website, and seem feasible. I'll try to find a teacher, and see whether it would be worthwhile to try to get in. It's exciting to imagine becoming a good pianist, but on the other hand I don't like the idea that I will no longer be playing the piano purely for the pleasure of it. Another thing is that I might be too nervous. Finally, I think that I have to learn to play a second instrument too, and that would entail a phenomenal amount of work. I still need to research the option of going to college, then a university.

Anyway, back to the restlessness. I'm not sure what to do after I finish this blog post. Yesterday evening I solemnly promised to myself that I won't read any romantic books any more. I tend to read them because they put me in a good mood, but I'm in a good mood anyway, and I'm ashamed of reading them, so dispensing with them isn't that bad. So now I will range far and wide in the field of non-fiction. I'm still reading about Madame de Pompadour, yesterday evening I read short stories in The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, and of course there are the memoirs of Felix Gilbert and of my grandfather (I've been working more on the translation).

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The photo below comes from:

http://www.kammergericht.de/

Peaceful Pastimes

A view of the Kammergericht building at the Kleistpark (nearly across the street from us)

It's the height of the lunch break (Mittagspause) here, which is why I'm not playing the piano now. When we were very little, living on our grandparents' property in Victoria, we always had to go up to the attic for at least an hour at noon, so that we wouldn't play outside and be noisy. It was dreadfully boring, though we played games, and I was highly rebellious. This same sense of boredom and of being careful not to disturb others is coming back to me now that we're living in an apartment and can't be as loud as we want any more (in university I wasn't so bothered because I either couldn't or didn't feel like doing anything noisy). But now I'm taking it more philosophically and trying to make good use of the time. I've already read all the articles I wanted to read in the Berliner Zeitung, so I'm temporarily at a loss for things to do.

This morning I already played the Haydn trio, technical exercises, and a study; the G major scales; Le Coucou (The Cuckoo) by Claude Daquin, and the Prélude, Allemande and Courante of the Händel suite. My programme is going splendidly, and I was finally able to play a lot yesterday. Among other pieces I played Schubert's accompaniments to "Das Wandern" (from the Schöne Müllerin) as well as "Das Heidenröslein." I sang along, too, because the piano accompaniments aren't that exciting and, quite honestly, because I wanted to see if I could sing the pieces decently. It turns out that I really do have a quiet voice and that I often hit the wrong note, but that made it all the more fun. I was rather horrified by the sentimentality or otherwise excessive emotion of the lyrics of some other Schubert songs.

The advantage of playing the piano is that there are so many different components to the music, which prevent it from being too unrelievedly emotional. The melody may be really simple and sentimental, and very natural, but then you have the accompaniment (sometimes with more than one voice), which is more elaborated and which usually provides an intriguing contrast to the melody. Take, for instance, the Moonlight Sonata. It can, of course, be played so that it is very boring and very sappy. But the low, rumbly Beethovenian chords in the left hand make it more than just pretty, and the equally rumbly shifting of the melody to the left hand gives it a greater variety. Also, the constant flowing broken triads can be very funny if they are played too loudly and irregularly (as I, of course, have never done . . . (c; ). Another example is the sostenuto prélude by Chopin; there, deep Beethovenian chords also prevent it from being too boring. I often like it, too, if I play the wrong notes -- as long as they don't greatly detract from the music -- because that makes the music much more interesting.

Yesterday evening I began (again) to translate the war volume of my paternal grandfather's memoirs. I'm not translating that volume out of sensational interest, but because he hadn't translated it yet himself. Today I should search for our German-English dictionaries so that my English is more accurate; I should probably even do some reading up on World War II (so that I understand what "Abteilung" means in the military, for example). The main reason I'm doing this is that I want to practise translating; I think I should only seriously translate the memoirs (if no one else has) when I'm older, at which point I'll have more life experience and can understand more things. It's also very difficult getting the proper tone in the translation, because Opapa tended to speak clearly and simply, but his writing is more complex, and so it's hard to hit the right balance of informality and formality in the English.

Before I went to sleep I decided to read in the Bible. I innocently opened it at random. First I read in the Old Testament that no one who is malformed should bring food to the altar of God; thenI flipped to the New Testament, and read how someone (perhaps Jesus) was threatening to lay waste to a city so as to make the destruction of Sodom pale in comparison. ! Not wanting to go to sleep on that note, I turned to the poems of Tennyson (which embodied the Christian ideals much better), where I browsed through "In Memoriam" and, as usual, the more sentimental narrative poetry. This time the calibre of the poetry (not necessarily the sentimental poetry) really struck me, and made me feel very humble. Anyway, I eventually went to sleep comforted.

My brother Ge. and my father are at the airport, where Ge. is having another flight lesson. My mother is unpacking boxes and generally clearing things up. My eldest brother Gi. and youngest brother J. are at their computers, and my sister T. is playing the flute -- the Telemann suite in A major, I think -- to the accompaniment of Mama's whistling.

Anyway, I'll just finish with an update on my considerations regarding a job, piano lessons, university, etc. I did a lot of research a few days ago, but came up essentially empty-handed. At least I have a better idea now what kinds of jobs are available. As for the piano lessons, I've decided only to look for a teacher in the last week of August or even September, when the holidays are over. I should still research college admissions guidelines, but I especially want to look into the possibility of studying music at the Universität der Künste. In my ideal next year I would have a nice part-time job (pay doesn't matter -- perhaps translating, or carrying papers), attend a college, and have music lessons. The year after that I would still have a job, and go to the Freie Universität to study comparative literature or to the Universität der Künste to study the piano. In the meantime I would go on long bike excursions, go to museums and art galleries, and go to concerts; in the holidays I would alternately travel and just relax at home.

My Profound Studies, and Plaints

I've just come back from a ride on my littlest brother's bike to the Volkspark and around Rathaus Schöneberg. It was cloudy -- some clouds were even sooty grey -- and drops of rain fell every now and then. I wasn't so sure if I was allowed to ride the bike on the nice, broad sidewalks (or on which parts thereof), so I followed the example of others as much as I could and also walked beside the bike for a while. J.'s bike is not at all a city one and a bit too small for me, and I was wearing a helmet, and I was going slowly (probably with the wrong gear) so I felt rather rustic but also rather amused.

I woke up quite late this morning -- perhaps even around eleven o'clock. I attribute this fact to the weather, because I probably rely on the sun to wake me up at the appropriate early hour. Breakfast was nice, though I did have to stir a pot of milk when Ge. grew tired of it, with Gi. looking on and making pleasant conversation but not helping!

Then I read bits of a Knight of Spain by Marjorie Bowen. I didn't read it all the way through, because in the course of my broad reading in sentimental literature at gutenberg.org, I've discovered that sentimental books are as likely as any other to make one feel dissatisfied and uneasy, if one gets into them too much. A nice, sane beginning can be followed by two decent chapters, then be overwhelmed by some unpleasant subjective mood of the author, so that the rest of the book drags one down into a weird, depressing, aimless place where one doesn't want to be. So, if in doubt, I skip ahead to the end. It isn't just about happy endings. There are sad endings that fit, too -- like the death of Prince Andrei in War and Peace, or Rebecca not being married to the "eponymous hero" (who doesn't seem good enough for her anyway, not being particularly intelligent or independent-minded) of Ivanhoe. There was one gutenberg book about a Scottish nobleman who falls in love with an English actress, where she mutates from a nice woman into a she-devil by the end of the book, and he ends up kidnapping her and forcing her to sink with him in a boat out in a storm. And the woman, according to the author, deserved this. All I got out of it was that the author had serious issues with women (especially actresses), partly because he didn't understand them at all, and that he was a vindictive and humourless man. Anyway, the Knight of Spain was decent. It was based on the life of Don Juan, half-brother of King Felipe of Spain, and at one point governor of the Spanish Netherlands. It was nice to encounter Anne of Austria and other well-known figures again, though I was disgusted by the unflattering portrait of Queen Marguerite (wife of Henri IV; much more nicely represented in Alexandre Dumas's book La Reine Margot, as far as I read it).

This book also tied into Nancy Mitford's Madame de Pompadour, which I am also reading. I think it must be awfully difficult to figure out what people were like based on written evidence. Up until about a year ago I thought that one can easily discern and describe the characters of others. Now I've had too many surprises to trust at least my own insight any more; also, taking myself for an example, people can be, so to speak, different people at different times, and one can't reconcile them into one central vision. Anyway, I admire the authoritative tone of Nancy Mitford's representations of what people were like, did, and said, even though I would prefer to know that everything that she writes is the absolute truth. This book also ties in to my History course last year, while giving a completely different perspective, which I also like.

Yesterday I also read Merde Encore, a funny compilation of French argot. I did find bits of it somewhat shocking (being the uptight Anglo-Saxon that I am), and I don't absolutely believe in the summaries of the French character given in it, but it greatly lightened my mood and it also served as a warning to be very careful what I say in French.

Now it is the lunch break, or I would probably be playing the piano now. I've worked out a new system. First of all I play the piano part of the Haydn Trio Hob. XV: 25, because the Presto movement makes my fingers work very hard, and serves as an excellent warm-up, and because it sounds like a morning song and I like it very much. Then I play finger exercises (actually intended for beginners), followed by scales (tonic scales, arpeggios, dominant seventh chords and arpeggios, diminished seventh chords and arpeggios, formula pattern scales, and chromatic scales; one key -- like C major -- per day). After that I sightread something. Lately it's been Händel's Suite No. 5 in E major. It's not too difficult, though I haven't figured out where the melody lies in the confusing parts yet, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover the Harmonious Blacksmith and its variations in the Andante with variations at the end of it. I also play masses of other music including Schumann's Kinderszenen every evening, a handful of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, Mozart and Beethoven sonatas (always the first page or so, until I'm too lazy to continue), short children's pieces by Prokofieff, Chopin mazurkas, some funny sonatinas by a Charles Dennée, Brahms waltzes, short pieces by Bach, and the repertoire albums for RCM grades 5 to 8. If I'm in the right frame of mind I get into the mood and sometimes even the times in which these pieces were written, and it's a lovely sort of escapism.

But, in spite of all this, I often worry about what I will do in future. At first the coming of the grand piano made me feel better, but my doubts remain. At present I have a low opinion of my abilities as an author, particularly because I still can't reconcile the books I most like to read and the world view that most appeals to me with the present times. This is probably because I am stodgy and in some ways snobby. I can't write about the past with authority because I don't know what it was like to live then, though I can form conjectures based on the piles of old fiction I've read, and I can't write about the present with authority because I refuse to understand it, and because I haven't the energy or the self-confidence to go out and live it. As for fantasy, I've never really liked it without an anchor to reality, and I don't feel like writing things for young people because I don't understand them either. Altogether I think I'm too unformed to write something worthwhile publishing. Of course all these doubts will vanish the moment I have inspiration in some form or other, but this inspiration can take weeks or months to appear.

I wonder how good my piano playing is according to objective criteria. I'm not sure if I could play in public, because I always play badly when nervous, but I've sometimes found that if someone does come and listen, I don't lose concentration at all, whereas I often lose concentration if I think someone might be listening. It's all wrapped up with my large unsteady ego. Anyway, I could study music if I really am good, and with proper practising and many technical exercises I could much reduce the likelihood of a meltdown, and increase the lowest common denominator in my playing.

As for university, that's a whole other kettle of fish. I read recently that six students apply for every available position at the Freie Universität, which caused me to despair, and also to wonder whether, if I did get in, I would be excluding someone else who needs or wants to get in more. My marks would also, I think, exclude me from most other universities. The Berlin Kolleg apparently requires that one have worked for at least three years. I saw an advertisement in the newspaper for people to volunteer in Africa after six months' training, and I've been thinking of doing that. I just need to look up the websites.

Anyway, this is all so confusing, and I feel ashamed of my laziness, and I feel awfully under pressure to do something or be a failure for the rest of my life. And whenever I have time to think, I always explore new and wondrous lands in self-doubt, making everything worse. To clarify, I'm not sad or depressed, just anxious and bothered and fearful and unsure of myself.

But I think my thoroughly teenager-ish outbreak can profitably end here. : ) How delightful it is to vent without boring an unfortunate listener nearly to tears! I hope the readers of my blog are aware of the scrolling-down option . . .