The Twiddling of Thumbs

Today was another bright sunny day where I could have gone out but didn't. Instead I started reading books (including my paternal grandmother's memoirs), played the piano (at first unsuccessfully, but then well), and made vanilla pudding out of the package in the evening. And yesterday I watched an unconscionable amount of non-educational YouTube television, which numbed my brain considerably. The next interesting event at the UdK or elsewhere is on May 2nd, which means that I'll have to think of something else to tempt me out of the apartment. Yesterday I was reduced to passing a badminton birdie back and forth with Ge. in the hallway, then trying to smash the birdie into the corner of the living room sofa. The exercise was effective enough to make the lower arm painful, but, as that is the usual result of attempting tennis or badminton after a long hiatus, it didn't bother me. I wish that my siblings would feel like going out-of-doors, so that I won't be reduced to bouncing a pink birdie on a badminton racquet as I walk around and around and around the Kleistpark, or bouncing tennis balls off the Kammergericht wall to practice my returns until irate officers of the law stalk out the doors to arrest me.

Anyway, Mama was busy today rearranging our books. By request, the English literature ("up to and including Oscar Wilde," I said, but I suspect that there will be more) will be lodged by my bed. The classics and German literature (including many lovely old sets) are already quartered in the corner room; the reference books are in the computer room. A selection of our duplicate copies of Reclam books is above my bed now too, silently encouraging me to make another excursion into the realm of Teutonic letters. Papa is reading a lot for his university studies, but, as with most mornings, he played the cello today too. As for T., Gi., Ge., and J., there is not much to report . . . except, perhaps, that Ge. briefly played the ukulele as usual, and that Gi. played a piece or two on the piano.

As for my pirate story, I was able to continue it today. I have temporarily christened the ship the "Argyllshire." The problem with it is that I think that's already the name of a military regiment. Having begun the tale at dawn, I am also having trouble figuring out how to pass the time until the sail of the distressed ship appears on the horizon in the afternoon. Perhaps that's a stupid problem, but, then, I don't have much experience writing stories beyond the point where I've exhausted my poetic skills by writing a few lyrical paragraphs about the setting. The expedient I decided to adopt is that of introducing the crew of the ship as it awakens and appears on deck. The captain's history and character will probably be left until later to be elucidated, but I've already written a paragraph on the skipper. I did summarize his character, which would probably horrify my English 11 teacher and many others ("Show, don't tell!"), but if it really is unnecessary I can just change it later. Well, I still have to see which crew members there are. From Treasure Island and other nautical reading, I gather that there is a captain, a first and second mate, a steward, a skipper, perhaps a doctor, a cook, and then the rest of crew, with cabin boys at the bottom of the hierarchy. But I still don't know whether these positions all existed on navy ships in the mid-eighteenth century, and I still can't place the midshipmen and the boatswain (or bo'sun). One convenient thing about the mutiny is that any gaps in the crew can be explained by it; of course I'll still do the research, but even before that's done my ignorance won't impede my writing too much.

Some day I'll write about what I know . . . it just feels at present that I don't know enough. But I think that, given the type of literature that I intend to write, it isn't to be expected that I should be able to do it now. The thing is that I want my stories to be as true-to-life as possible, which means that I must have a good command of detail. Besides, I want my books to be written with a good, precise vocabulary, dense and original language, well-rounded characters, natural and characteristic dialogue, broad perspective, and, above all, I want them to seem as if they might be describing events that actually took place. The reason for this last criterion is that I think that books should help people to see and understand the world, and, through understanding it, to come to terms with it. Optimistic literature, I find, mostly makes life endurable because it raises hopes and expectations that are never fulfilled, or because it temporarily lets one escape from real life. It's a sedative and very rarely a cure. Pessimistic literature is worse, I think, because it makes good things ugly, and because it also does not provide any means of improving one's life. Comedy and satire are a good middle ground, particularly if done well. And so are books like War and Peace. Which is why realism and comedy are what I prefer -- now that optimistic literature has rather let me down. Anyway, I won't pretend that I'm not retreading very well-worn paths; I just need to formulate my theories once in a while.