Ring out the Old, Ring in the New

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

-- Tennyson, "In Memoriam", CVI

(Source: The Works of Alfred Lord Tennyson, London: MacMillan and Co., 1898)

N.B.: I, personally, neither think the old year was terrible, nor am I eager for the Rapture. (c:

Spirits of the Past, Present, and Future

Yesterday was a very nice Christmas Day, and today was an equally nice Boxing Day. I woke up after one in the afternoon, which is, of course, not so good, but it was a very deep, perfectly restful sleep, and I will go to sleep at a reasonable time today (I think), so I don't regret it.

I showered, had some of Papa's delicious coq au vin from yesterday, browsed through a volume of Encyclopaedia Britannica (I only wanted to see when the sculptor Houdon flourished, for the purposes of my French Revolution story, but my curiosity took me from one article to the next), watched television, and continued re-reading Fanny Burney's Cecilia online. The television programming is uncommonly good just now. Today there was a documentary about the ancient kingdom of Saba, in present-day Yemen, interesting though filled with stupid clichés (historical reenactments, slow motion, and dramatic music); a Karl May film; and El Dorado (a western with John Wayne). The Karl May film was about Winnetou and Old Shatterhand helping a woman, the daughter of an old friend of Winnetou, in her quest to find the gold that her father had hidden in the Valley of the Dead. A despicable band of gold-greedy men and a belligerent Sioux chief complicate the matter, but with the help of the Osages all ends well. The scenery (Yugoslavian, as my parents pointed out) was lovely, and the rockscapes reminded me of my first-year Geology course, while the sulphur emanations in the Valley reminded me of my family's trip to Hawaii in 2004. The rattlesnake-infested valley was fascinating too, and the "rattlesnakes" were just unconvincing enough not to be really horrifying. I liked El Dorado too.

As for Cecilia, it is about an orphaned heiress who is left to the tender mercies of three guardians: Mr. Harrel, Mr. Briggs, and Mr. Delvile (I feel awfully tempted to add another "l"). Mr. Harrel, after ruining himself through his extravagance, and almost ruining Cecilia because she has loaned him so much money, commits suicide. Mr. Briggs is a hopeless miser with little tact or taste. Mr. Delvile is a complete and utter snob. Of course, Cecilia, despite these undesirable acquaintances, is a paragon of virtue and wit. The inevitable hero of the story is Mr. Delvile's much more agreeable son, Mortimer. The real obstacles in the path of true love have not yet arisen, but the heroine has already been reported engaged to three men, and been suspected of being engaged to a fourth. The plot aside, the book is nice to read, lively, with a fairly good portrait of the society of the time, which is why I think reading it will prove useful for my French Revolution story. I doubt if I can get into the mindset of the late 1700s easily, but this is about the best way I can try. And the interest with which I read the book is not diminished by its intermittent rambling, repetitiveness and unsubtle didactism.

I would write more about Christmas Day, and the Midnight Mass that Mama and I attended, but after seeing my original description vanish into cyberspace (I'm beginning to detest the rainbow pinwheel that informs me when my browser is busy not responding), I don't have the patience to do so.

But I will add some thoughts about where I'm going in my life. Lately I've been relaxed enough to take a step back and look at my plans for the future, without wanting to push the topic away from me because I feel too much pressure. On the other hand, this means that while on a good day I'm prepared to do another round of obnoxious internet research, on a bad day I'm completely despondent. I have worked out a schedule of what I want to do throughout the week, like going to museums on Mondays and walking to the Kleistpark on Wednesdays, and I haven't given up hope on studying by myself. But I'm still vacillating between depression and cheerfulness. Perhaps the weather plays a role in this too. I often feel terribly lonely and without any sort of grip on the outside world. The attempts that I make to go out seem fruitless, because when I go for a walk or to a museum or to a concert I am still alone, and I only carry with me my own observation and knowledge and energy, which are too little.

It depresses me each time another remark is made about how the family doesn't get out enough. I can't say we do much to contradict this assessment, but the repeated iteration, direct or indirect, of this patent fact is a negative reinforcement that I definitely do not need. Each time someone mentions it I really feel pained, and more and more insecure. I think what I need is for someone besides my parents to say, "I hear you will apply to a university in spring. I hope it goes well, and if that doesn't, there are many other nice possibilities here too. What you study, and what job you will have, is your decision, and I trust you and I'm sure that you will make a good decision. If you like, I will keep my eye out for a small job as a translator or tutor, which would give you experience in the work you're good at and wouldn't require a large commitment. Also, I would be happy to take you to museums and other things so that you can get to know Berlin properly, and learn nice things in the meantime." But so far the chorus is, "You aren't doing anything right now, you lazy and negligent and incompetent person -- and I'm speaking in this way to you because I care and because I know I would do a much better job of running your life than you are -- and you're throwing your life away. So is all of your family. I'm giving you this advice so you can at least save yourself." And this is said not only once, but repeatedly.

I gave up my thoughts about doing journalism or medicine or law or writing in high school because I wasn't getting the experience I'd need to know what these jobs are like, how to get into them, and whether I would be good at them. Also, I had no idea who I really was and what I really wanted. In Grade 5 I had learned a lot, and I think everyone considered me as the best student in the class, so I confidently day-dreamt about passing successfully through university and becoming a teacher or humanitarian worker. In Grade 8 it no longer mattered how much I knew. The main thing was handing in homework. Also, it was, I think, important to adopt a certain way of thinking. I was really bad at both of these things. So I was usually not considered as one of the best students. The school also thought it was more important to be good at sports. Beginning in that year I didn't learn what I wanted to, and as much as I wanted to. My grades were so-so, and I doubted whether I was really the least bit intelligent. As a social hierarchy developed among the students I ended up being in the bottom stratum, so I felt even worse about myself. It wasn't that the students were mean, but rather that I was passively ostracized, and therefore felt inferior and weird. In Grade 11 everything came to a head. I simply couldn't picture the world outside my high school and home, or being at a university, or having a job. I thought I was literally going crazy, and I worried that I would end up being mentally retarded. But during my two years at university I began to understand again what I can do, and how well, and I didn't worry any more about being insane. At the same time I still don't fully understand what I can do, and what I'm best at. So I think it's unkind and unreasonable to condemn me for not being in the middle of a splendid academic and equally splendid financial career.

The relatives who put pressure on me to do something with my life are sure that they understand me. But I think that they really don't, because they don't know about what I've just written. They don't make allowances, and they don't seem to think it necessary to spare my feelings. And they don't think highly of me enough to trust me. So they say things that give me a lot of pain, and increase my anxiety about the future with their own, without seeing what kind of help (sympathy, at least) I need and giving it.

This is, I hope, a fair and honest assessment of the situation. And I must clarify that it's only a few of our relatives who are worrying me and us so much.

Headlessness in Idomeneo

The discussion over the depiction of the severed heads of, among others, the Prophet Muhammad in a new production of the opera Idomeneo at the Deutsche Oper has, I think, gone wholly out of proportion. However, I will still add my two cents.

Here is a translated paragraph from an article by Maximilian Kuball in today's Berliner Zeitung, which expresses my opinion exactly:

"The Islamic Council (Islamrat) will also not send a representative to Berlin. 'It is not clear to me why I should go there," said Ali Kizilkaya, chair (Vorsitzender) of the Islamic Council. 'While I am for freedom in art, that does not mean that you have to take a look at everything.' Besides, the Idomeneo production, he says, is a tasteless performance that fosters a disrespectful treatment of religion. 'I would wish for a debate about the responsible treatment of our various freedoms, in order to create, through sensible balancing, a culture of respect,' remarked Kizilkaya."

A Visit, Advent, and Virtue

Today I woke up before ten, as far as I know, very well rested. This is especially surprising because I had stayed up the whole previous night, then slept for about two hours in the middle of the day yesterday. And I only went to sleep at around one in the evening.

The main reason I woke up was because we had a guest, the son of friends of a relative, from America. After breakfast with crêpes prepared by T. (and mixed by the master hand of Gi.), and some conversation before and during that, the guest went off with T., Gi., and J. to Schloss Charlottenburg. They had an audio tour and walked around the grounds, and Gi. took photos. I had decided to stay at home, so I played the piano a little, looked at the Sartorialist blog, and talked with Ge. about his ground school reading about "Menschliches Leistungsvermögen" (to translate roughly, human performance capability). When everyone was back (including Mama, from work, and at first excluding Papa and T., who were at a Physics lecture at the FU), we had Döner kebabs, pistachios, and After Eights while talking much more, about subjects like music and languages and the Punic Wars and US politics. It was very nice, and I talked much more than I usually do (except to my immediate family) but not (unlike when I was little) too much.

Then I played more piano. I'm sightreading the Goldberg Variations at present, which is going splendidly because I skip the hardest variations and because I listened to Glenn Gould's (later) rendition of them throughout the last university semester. It also went splendidly because I really like the variations, and (to descend to the mundane) because my playing happens to be undergoing a good period again. Beside that I played pieces from the Well-Tempered Clavier, Vol. I, parts of Mozart sonatas, and (in the morning) a nocturne from Chopin of which I am particularly fond.

I've just remembered that today is December 1st! This is a great day for me as a part-German, because the Advent calendar countdown begins today. This year I don't have a calendar with chocolate in it, but at the head of my bed I hung one conventional calendar for December, with lovely illustrations, and on the shelf below it I put up one Advent calendar, with equally lovely illustrations, of the type where you see pictures when you open the doors. Also, this glorious day means that my self-imposed embargo on singing German Christmas carols is lifted. I'm glad that I'm enjoying the season this year, because I find the rampant commercialism and gaudiness surrounding it so distasteful. Also, I'd prefer if people were more openly but truly considerate of others during the whole year instead of going through the motions for a month, but devoting a large part of their generosity to bloated corporations, in order to buy useless things that have exacted a large cost on the environment. Giving money to a charity seems to be the modern equivalent of purchasing pardons from the Church in Chaucer's time -- but, I admit, more useful, unless 80% of the money is going into a bureaucracy and publicity . . .

I'll end with my reading yesterday evening. I read Dove in an Eagle's Nest by Charlotte Yonge, which I hadn't read before because I find historical novels with period dialogue frequently nauseating, even more so if the novel is set in Germany and the maledicted author thinks that it would be quite corking to make their characters say "thee" and "thou." But the book was bearable in this respect, though in terms of characters and insight and originality it had little to offer, and the heroine was not so sympathetic (she was more effete* than Fanny Price in Mansfield Park, and that is saying a lot). The plot: a saintly burgher's daughter is married by a wild baron, baron apparently dies (the moment the "death" was described I foretold his future resurrection), twin sons are born and raised saintly-ly by mother, Emperor Maximilian (idealized, of course) pops up a couple of times, one son as a young man is treacherously killed but family forgives as Christians, supposedly defunct baron ransomed from Ottoman slavery and returns to family (Christian), all live happily ever after. Then I skimmed through parts of Countess Kate and Heartsease and The Young Stepmother. I read almost all of Miss Yonge's books on gutenberg.org one time, but I find her books tiresome in their depiction of wrongdoing, painfully drawn out and poorly paced, and expressive of an unhappy Christianity. The Heir of Redclyffe was mentioned in Little Women, but I don't see why Louisa May Alcott, who does have a sense of humour, saw anything in it (if she did). Reading how some unhappy individual manages to do an unrealistic wealth of damage through pride, impetuosity, etc., undergoes severe suffering, and then is finally admitted -- miserable and downtrodden, with a great fear of wrongdoing but not the smallest comfortable vice left -- to the ranks of Christianity (or directly to the ranks of Heaven, having repented just before his decease), seems to me to be an achingly pointless sort of vicarious self-flagellation.

*if I've used the word correctly