Ramblings About the Day and University

By now I'm well rested from the History project; it turns out that Gi. and Ge. got a 3 on it. Which is good -- I suppose. (c:

Today I woke up before eleven o'clock, read the first section of the newspaper, made my bed, cleaned the gas oven, did a load of dishes, went grocery-shopping and to the bank, and made dinner. Besides, I started reading the biography of Niccolò Macchiavelli in Project Gutenberg's The Prince, much to my own surprise. Then I read two articles in the online New Yorker, including a nice one about the jazz pianist Hank Jones (I'm not really interested in jazz, and have barely listened to any, but it was still a pleasant read). In the evening I played bits of Beethoven and Schubert sonatas, then waltzes and mazurkas and nocturnes by Chopin.

Papa bought the Studienhandbuch from the Freie Uni today -- one copy each for T. and me. I started reading in it, but it's reading that tends to discourage more than encourage. I much prefer the straightforwardness and welcoming air of UBC's course schedule. The most agreeable student publication of the FU is, for me, the Vorlesungsverzeichnis, which does have tempting course descriptions and doesn't have totalitarian rules (for example, against taking classes outside one's programme of study).

But I've also been considering going to another university -- say the one at Heidelberg. I want to go to a very good university (on the principle that I will be a better student there), but also to one that doesn't have a very high number of applicants. I liked UBC very much, for example, but I wasn't working there as well as I wished -- I didn't learn thoroughly enough, and I had to write essays on broad topics with what I found to be too little information. I tended (but this was entirely my fault) to read the sources within the last day or two, if I handed the essay in on time; but in one case I even worked on an essay (about humanitarian intervention, for Political Science 260) for five weeks after the deadline and then neither finished it nor handed it in.

The largest problem is that I have no real idea what I want. Perhaps it's still a relict of school that I don't think very highly of grades; they're arbitrary and often give no real indication of how much I've learned. In some courses, for example, my mark was abysmal because I spoke rarely -- only two or three times per semester -- during class discussions. In English 220 I got two "A"s on my essays, and a lower mark on my final exam, but I ended up with 73%. The reason why I didn't participate more is that I'm still used to being as quiet as possible from school; an unwritten law (which can be transgressed only by very self-secure people) is to be quiet if there is the risk of saying anything that could be criticized and despised. Besides, to return to UBC, I prefer to speak only if I have something truly worth saying. At any rate, I also didn't have any direct practical reason to get good grades, like wanting to get into an Honours programme, or into another more prestigious university, or into a particular job.

Even the classes themselves sometimes didn't feel so important. I missed tons of French 221 classes just because I preferred to sleep in. I never planned to miss the class; I just went to sleep somewhere around twelve, then woke up too late. At the same time I did all of the readings, and understood them without the aid of a dictionary. But not only did I miss classes, I also missed the midterm and the day where the second essay details were handed out, and never did my first essay, so I ended up with 22% and an F. What I told myself is that I was at UBC primarily to learn; I certainly did that, but getting better grades couldn't have hurt either.

So, the question is whether to wait until I do feel ready to do proper work in university, or to plunge into university and hope that the motivation comes as I go along. I don't think I can wait. If I had something else I really wanted to do, it would work; if I had the clear-mindedness and determination and confidence, I probably could learn and develop on my own. But what's happening now is that my mind is degenerating. I thought at least ten times more clearly a year ago than I do now. And when my mind is not fit, everything else goes downhill too. I can't learn or appreciate things as well, I can't play the piano as well (though I can play anxious and miserable songs better if I am anxious and miserable), I can't write as well, and I become self-conscious and awkward. Besides, I get into a discouraged mood. Perhaps if I had developed habits of concentrated mental effort and ordered thinking when I was little, everything would work better now, but the truth is that I am naturally very lazy and that I am used to acting based on instinct and inclination more than on reason. So -- university it probably is.

Homework and Warfare, Part II

Here is the introduction to Gi.'s and Ge.'s presentation about the relations between Germany and Austria. It's probably expressed in inelegant German, but some of it must be excused on the grounds that we haven't gotten Mama or Papa to proofread it yet.

Die Geschichte von Österreich und Deutschland, und von den geopolitischen Vorfahren von diesen Staaten, ist sehr vom Krieg geprägt. Es gab viel Krieg, dass die zwei Länder zusammen gegen ein oder mehrere Drittländer führten, aber auch viel Krieg, dass sie gegeneinander führten.

Eine zentrale Charakteristik der Beziehungen zwischen den "Deutschen" und "Österreichern" ist, dass sie vieles in gemeinsam haben (zum Beispiel die Sprache), aber sich immer noch durchaus als verschiedene Völker sehen. Eigentlich kann man dies auch verstehen, weil es die Deutschen und Österreicher in dem Sinne nicht bis zum neunzehnten Jahrhundert gab. Sogar unter den "Deutschen" gab es lange keine Einheit. Zum Beispiel empfanden sich Hannover und Preußen, oder Böhmen und Württemberg, als sehr unterschiedlich.

Und obwohl die Region, die später Deutschland wurde, und das Österreichische Reich, beide im Heiligen Römischen Reich lagen, gab es politische Rivalitäten, die besonders in den siebzehnten bis neunzehnten Jahrhundert zu Krieg führten.

Three Scholastic Labour-Monkeys

Today has been one long work session, with a few breaks for eating, as we finish Gi.'s and Ge.'s presentation. Gi. is the most avid worker (very conscientious); I've worked a lot too but demanded lots of five- and ten-minute breaks; Ge. helps periodically but spent much of his time with his nose in the sources, calmly remarking now and then that he had reached exactly the same point Gi. and I were at. We collaborated on a summary of Germany and Austria's history from the time of Charlemagne through the Thirty Years' War and the Silesian Wars to World War I; we continued with a short review of World War II and the after-war years. I feel a little guilty because our knowledge of most events is wholly superficial. We have dispatched the Thirty Years' War and World War II in a handful of not-so-comprehensive sentences each; but in forty-five minutes one probably can't discuss them much more anyway. But Gi. has also printed out lots of maps, and now he and Ge. are reading the presentation out loud and finding (and correcting) quite a few errors.

J. had his share of labour, too. For much of the day he alternately moped, did homework, and read a Winnie the Pooh tale (his reading list is most eclectic) with a decidedly cheerful face. Papa worked away on a mathematical formula, I gather, when he wasn't helping J.; Mama, among other things, read Gaudy Nights by Dorothy L. Sayers. T., who prepared dinner, is now sitting at the computer and listening to Baroque music.

It was cloudy today; when it was dark a lightning storm began. There was impressive thunder twice or thrice, and for at least half an hour lightning was nearly constantly flickering in the sky. There was another flash just now; this is the longest lightning storm that I can remember. It has also rained heavily, and somewhere streets and cellars have probably flooded.

Anyway, I think it will be lovely when, tomorrow afternoon, we will no longer be thinking, eating and sleeping German and Austrian history.

Homework and Warfare

Today was a nice, quiet, cloudy day with two flashes of lightning, three rounds of thunder (one of them very impressive, the first proper "thunderclap" I've heard, loud and long-rumbling). I like thunderstorms very much, except for the fact that the lightning can be deadly. Anyway, I cooked rhubarb compote, read a delightful end-of-nineteenth-century girly online novel which any masculine reader would most likely find harmless but disgustingly saccharine, and played the piano. Pudel came for a visit, and we conversed and ate cookies as well as orange-liqueur-filled chocolate sticks.

Lately I've felt perfectly natural and happy, and not in a frivolous or overdone way either. The day after tomorrow I will most likely peregrinate to Dahlem and get the Freie Uni Studienhandbuch at Schleicher's. The day before yesterday I began to plan an essay on Machiavelli's ideas and Oliver Cromwell; I had intended to do it for my first-term History 120 essay at the university, but I ended up never doing it (hence my low mark in History). An impediment to this latest plan for self-improvement is that The Prince has gone missing; I will probably be reduced to perusing its Project-Gutenbergian counterpart.

But today I am helping Gi. and Ge. with their school history presentation about the historical relations between Austria and Germany. We are focusing on World War I and the Anschluss. The beginning of WWI is perhaps one of the absurdest chain of events I've ever heard of. Austria-Hungary's archduke, not even emperor, is killed by a vigilante in Serbia. The German Emperor declares his support for Austria-Hungary with reckless prodigality. Perhaps emboldened by this support, Austria-Hungary presents Serbia with a rigorous 48-hour ultimatum consisting of ten demands. Serbia is willing to accede to nine of them fully, and the tenth (Demand #6) partially. It's not enough. Serbia mobilizes; Austria-Hungary declares war. Russia is Serbia's ally, so Russia mobilizes. Germany declares war on Russia, in order to support Austria-Hungary; a day or so later it extends the declaration to France, because that country is in turn an ally of Russia. And, in order to get at France, Germany invades Belgium, which in turn provokes the British to join the war. It's a highly unreasonable chain effect. The obvious, sensible course of action would have been to have an independent investigation of the assassination, and to leave it at that.

Of course I know that the causes of World War I were much more involved, and that the European nations were, so to speak, "spoiling for a fight." I do hope we won't be so stupid again, but I guess we are. I think that the reaction to September 11th was the wrong one, too; it should have been responded to by (true) improvements in border control and policing, rather than by invading two countries and making a terrible counterproductive hash of it, where many times more people were killed than there were in the trigger event. Though the proportion is not as crazy as the proportion of millions of dead soldiers and civilians to one dead member of a royal family. I'm not a pacifist, but I do believe in keeping warfare small and precise where it is or seems inevitable, and I certainly don't believe in dead civilians. Which reminds me that (according to Wikipedia) about 4,200,000 civilians were killed during World War I in the Ottoman Empire. I wonder why I hadn't heard of this before. That death toll was about a hundred times as large as that of Germany, or of Austria-Hungary.

People may say that counting and comparing the number of corpses is not the way to do things, but it seems to me that even numbers with many zeroes fail to attract much attention after a few years have gone by. One of the things that I found shocking when I read the Gulag Archipelago two or three years ago is how the terrible experiences and deaths of millions of people can (apparently) be so entirely forgotten, even within living memory. It was hard for me to understand how anyone could go on after that.

Anyway, I may not be helping with the homework kicking and screaming, but certainly I am doing it murmuring and reluctantly. Much as I like correcting mistakes of spelling and grammar, and giving advice (regarding phrasing, etc.) that is followed, I can quickly tire of it in a school context, especially in the context of a project about a very broad subject. At least T. is still awake in these wee hours, too, listening to a Mozart symphony that manages not to clash with Gi.'s equally cheerful though less intellectually involved Japanese pop/rock. Everyone else is, to my knowledge, sleeping soundly.

Brassai/Rondeau/Soupault

This afternoon Mama and I went to the Martin-Gropius-Bau to see three photo exhibitions. It was very hot, especially in the bus. But when we got out and walked across Potsdamer Platz, there was a slight breeze already, and once we were inside the Bau it was pleasantly cool.

We started with the exhibition of Jacques Brassaï's art. It didn't start at the entrance, but at the other end. And, beginning at this end, there were rooms full of black and white photos that Brassaï had taken at nighttime in Paris in the 1930s and 40s. He photographed everything from the Pont de Neuf (with its lights glowing through the fog) through the intricate ironwork on a fence, members of a street gang, a clockmaker, and a statue of the Maréchal Ney, to graffiti that had been scratched into walls. His photos are all lovely, evocative, and wholly efficient. One gets the sense that he has noticed every detail of his scenes, and in his photos each scene is beautifully ordered (but not at all regimented) and neat. The photos are often witty; for example, in one of his photos of the statue (the Maréchal with sabre dramatically extended into the air) the modest small neon sign "Hotel" glows anticlimactically out of the shadowy background. Where he photographs couples in clubs, he uses their mirror images often to comical effect. Then there are photos -- quite frank but not distasteful photos -- "Chez Suzy," which, as far as I could tell, seems to have been a brothel. Then there are a few nudes; I wondered as I looked at them if it wasn't boring for the subjects to lie around arching their back, etc., for a photographer who liked the shape of their posterior.

These photos were followed by a roomful of photos of coral and one large seashell. One crest of coral looked, Mama poetically remarked, like an eye with large intricate lashes spreading out from it. I less poetically remarked that the spiralling coral branches reminded me of rotini. Finally, (besides some sketches of nudes), there were glass cases with stones that had been hewn into figures, most often of stylized female bodies with exaggeratedly broad hips and narrow chests, as well as birds and heads, for example, of Venus. I was amused that anyone would look at a rock and think of the human body. Especially given my Geology lab course in university, the thing that I think about when I see rocks is usually whether they are igneous, metamorphic, or sedimentary. The greatest leap of imagination I've thus far been capable of is to think that a boulder (one that was near my grandfather's seaside apartment) looks like the head of a triceratops. The last room had the remaining photos of graffiti -- lots of skulls or skull-like faces, which painted a disturbing picture of the average mental state of the time.

So much for Monsieur Brassaï. The next exhibition, with the photos of Gérard Rondeau, was less crowded with people. First we looked at the photos of famous people. The photos felt very untidy after the previous exhibition, though the people in them were interesting (all edgy or gloomy or both). It was also unsettling to come from the 1930s and 40s to the present, especially since the photos were still black and white. There was Susan Sonntag, Jürgen Habermas, fashion celebrities like Jean-Paul Gaultier and Christian Lacroix, the director Jim Jarmusch, Maria Vargas Llosa, Iggy Pop, the actor Daniel Auteuil, and many others -- no glossy photos of the lesser personalities who are more popularly photographed. Some photo-portraits that appeared in newspapers are displayed here, too, photographed as they are printed in smooth beige newspapers with weathered edges. Mama said that it reminded her of the trompe l'oeil art where collages (e.g. of newspaper clippings) are painted against particular backgrounds.

Both Mama and I preferred the photos that had been taken in a museum where the exhibitions were being set up. Each photo (or nearly each one) featured a particular exhibit that somehow interacted with the formal but slightly chaotic surroundings. There was a sculpture, perhaps of Buddha, with a clear plastic cover like a veil making the serene face with its topknot look like a calm, happy bride. Then there was the sculpture of a horse, tied up to prevent it from moving, so that it looked as if it had a bridle and halter. And a sculpture of Mary tenderly holding her baby, as one of the museum workers held on to the sculpture to hold it steady or move it, and embraced them both. And so on and so forth.

Finally, we went up to the second floor to see photos (mostly) by Ré Soupault. I'd never heard of her before (neither, I might add, had I heard of the two other artists before), but I've gathered that she was born in Germany, became fluent in French, a Surrealist, pacifist, interested in fashion, travelled a lot, rather unhappy, and the fond wife of Philippe Soupault, who was French, wrote poetry, also Surrealist and pacifist, fond of children and of his wife, also travelled a lot, and not particularly chipper either. The photos were mostly from the inter-war years. They start out with the time of the Locarno Pact in 1925, and move on to Germany and Spain just before the Spanish Revolution. Some of the Spanish villagers are shown giving what appears to be a worker's salute, with raised fist, a little stage-y. There are nice rural photos and equally nice urban photos, giving a swift overview of the country. The rural ones seem, at least to me, fairly remote. The urban ones are crowded with detail, bright, with a little edge of dirt and neglect.

M. Soupault is definitely a favourite subject of his wife. In the photos in which she appears she is usually a little artist-y in her look, whereas he is always in full suit, even later on when the two are in a desert and both are for some reason wearing dark formal clothing and, to their credit, look perfectly cool though one would expect that they would be perspiring like the proverbial pig. His expression is never, I would say, particularly open, or particularly happy, except with the cheerful faces of loveable urchins around him. But at least his expression is never insincere; neither is that of his wife. I was wondering if a marriage could be particularly good if one's spouse never smiles in a photograph, but it seems that both were exceptionally earnest -- I should guess tormented -- souls. I don't know if the torment is Weltschmerz or something more personal.

There were further photos taken among the nomads in Tunisia, then a series about pilgrims on their way to Mecca, a series of photographic self-portraits; there were also glass cases along the way with correspondence, articles, and two cameras like the ones that Philippe and Ré Soupault used. When we were inside the last room, with sobering photos from the "quartier reservé" (the quarter that was reserved to prostitution) in Tunis, we heard something like a mixture of rain and rumbling. At first I thought it was something like the ventilation system, but after we had all slightly turned around, the woman who was in the room with us remarked, "Ich glaube, das dürfte das Wetter sein." And, indeed, I became aware that the sound of trickling water that had puzzled me when I was looking at a Spanish fortress was probably rain flowing down a pipe, and that the thunder-and-lightning-storm forecast for the evening had probably proved more accurate than on previous occasions. Mama and I were both nervous about venturing out into the rain, but we finished the exhibition either way.

Then we descended the stairs to the gift shop, where Mama looked in vain for Brassaï postcards. There seemed to be postcards and books featuring the works of nearly every major artist, though. I didn't spot a Hermann Nitsch postcard anywhere, and I did wonder if there is any sort of acquaintance to whom one might send a picture of a tunic adorned in dried blood without making the recipient uneasy.

When we left the museum -- without having filled its coffers any more, alas -- the sky was one expanse of grey, it was appreciably cooler, and lightning flickered soundlessly from behind the buildings to the right. Mama paused to take a photo, then we passed along the wet sidewalk strewn with fallen plane-tree leaves and the occasional branch. There was one bright lightning flash in front of us, soon followed with a loud thunder that resonated from the ground and made me slightly trembly. But, as we crossed Potsdamer Platz, I reflected that it was exciting and nice to be inside a thunderstorm in summer clothing, without being wet or particularly cold. Then, without further incident, we caught the bus back home.

P.S.: I wrote a long time ago that the balusters of the staircase inside had acanthus leaves on them; today I checked again and they are not necessarily acanthus.

Summary of a Clouded Day

This morning I woke up before nine o'clock of my own free will; I estimate that the last time this happened was (by coincidence) some nine months ago. It was delightfully cloudy and cool outside.

I read part of the newspaper, completed the Sudoku puzzle, read online news articles, went grocery-shopping, listened to J. read "Rapunzel" and watched him do his Math homework (algebra), proofread two pages for Project Gutenberg (an academic work on Spanish poetry, and a book of old French law), played the piano, and so on. J.'s homework unexpectedly made me realize that I did like working through Math questions in school, even after, in Grade 9, I started understanding only a fraction of what was going on. I am a dunce in matters mathematical (or, let's just say very slow), but I did unconsciously derive satisfaction from working through repetitive questions (when I was not too tired and confused).

Today I also continued internally debating about how to be ready for university -- and, above all, ready to do good work at the university.

Homework in the Sauna, etc.

Today was an odd day. It was very warm, up to 28 degrees, in Berlin; it was also very humid. There was supposed to be a thunderstorm later on, but the day is now technically over and it still hasn't materialized. Everyone complained about the heat, and felt sluggish. Papa had, I think, a headache, and J. had a stomach ache. In the morning I constantly had the feeling that I was doing something wrong.

After I got up I read the Berliner Zeitung for the first time in weeks, but I didn't even finish the first section. The main national news is that the SPD party leader, Kurt Beck, has just appointed three deputies, down from the previous number of five. This change is apparently an expression of the more streamlined and strong party that the SPD is to become . . . Anyway, I also did the dishes and the grocery-shopping.

Later on our relative and his friend dropped by to pick up his belongings, and then Uncle Pu came. He had a cigar, and Mama a pipe, and we all talked. J. went shopping and brought back, inter alia, amaretto truffles, which were soft with the heat and strongly alcohol-flavoured; I liked them, but Pudel found them far too sweet. And, in the evening, uncle W. came. He and Mama and Papa talked, as usual, but we also had dinner (rotini with ground beef and tomatoes, rapunzel salad, a cheese that W. had brought along, and assorted candies) together.

Today was a very social day even aside from the guests. Gi., Ge. and I chatted when they came home from school and had their small after-school-meal, T. and I chatted before and after, and we all gathered in the living room when Pudel was there (we usually don't, for anyone). But Papa had to be away at a work meeting in the evening.

There was a lot of homework to help with today. Gi. wanted his corrections of an English test checked, and he also needed help figuring out a math assignment, which was about a statistics problem that required the use of Microsoft Excel. That worthy programme insisted that the sum of (0, 0, 3, 4, 4, 2, 2, 0) is 0, and the assignment itself was difficult to understand; fortunately Papa helped Gi. and (later) Ge. with it. Then J. had Spanish homework: first he had to complete two paragraphs with phrases in the perfect tense (e.g. hemos alquilado, we rented), and then he had to write two sentences about geographic locations (e.g. Buenos Aires es la capital de la República de Argentina.) Doing this work with him was like pulling teeth, but I can't complain because he was far more miserable than I was. Besides that he had Math, Biology and English homework; none of it much appealed to him and he was tired, so he moped about for a while and then went to bed.

As for my story, I intend to describe the trial year (from the heroine's point of view) after all. Otherwise I'd feel that all the momentum is lost, and that the story is too thin. The Leonardo da Vinci reference will stay out, since it does sound lame, but I will keep it in the back of my mind. Da Vinci's faces are, I think, the ones that best express my ideal of beauty. Ginevra de Benci doesn't look that friendly; I rather mean his Cecilia (not as beautiful, but certainly with a very charming and friendly face) and Madonnas. Last week Mama, our American relative and I went to the Gemäldegallerie; I mention this because there was a sketch or painting by Il Guercino there, and the face of one of the figures also much resembled my ideal (if I remember correctly, it also much resembles a face in one of da Vinci's cartoons in the National Gallery).

I also played the piano today, mostly Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert, and I can't tell if I did it well or not. Today when I played it was mostly about getting into the mood of the piece, and preserving a decent tempo and bringing out the melody better. The technique is as terrible as ever; I still slur the notes and play unclearly in general, and altogether my playing is yet another indication that my mind has vegetated. But the unwonted heat of the weather may be more to blame. Anyway, hopefully the trend will be reversed in the next year.

May 21: A Schedule

1. I wake up.
2. Breakfast. We also discuss Mama's letter to the editor about a pro-military-presence-in-Afghanistan opinion article in the newspaper, and university.
3. Shower.
4. Story. I wrote until it began to be light again outside yesterday evening, and have decidedly gotten to the sentimental part of the story. The hero and heroine have parted for the present. But they will find their way together again after a year of trial, in which the heroine is adopted by the hero's aunt and develops into an unusually nice and un-ignorant specimen of the upper class. I don't know yet whether I will describe this year or just leave a hiatus in the story; that will probably be determined when I take up the pen again this evening. I wonder this morning whether the heroine should have a "face that Leonardo da Vinci would have liked to paint."
5. Article on The Lives of Others in the New York Review of Books; game of Freecell.
5. Grocery-shopping.
6. Lunch; the brothers and parents return home.
7. Playing badminton with J. in Kleistpark. We improve each time. (c:
8. Making the bed.
9. Playing the piano (Beethoven sonatas, Schumann's Kinderszenen).
9. Making and consuming dinner (fish sticks, iceberg lettuce with vinaigrette, and white asparagus; leftover ice cream for dessert).
10. Discussing school and university years with T.; reading online news articles (e.g. about the Cutty Sark; I thought it was touching that it made the top news story on Guardian Unlimited, but surely there are more important events going on)

Notes: It is hot and humid outside; to step out of the door is like entering a moderately hot, moist oven, and to step into the door is like entering a delightfully cool cellar. Today I'm in a cheerful mood, as I was for much of yesterday, and I don't feel like complaining any more. I also looked up "anachronistic" in Wikipedia; it turns out that an anachronism is more specifically called a "parachronism" if it belongs in a previous time, whereas it is called a "prochronism" if it belongs in a future time. I nearly felt my brain growing as I read about it. (c:

Delving into the Ur-Thingies

The major events of today were waking up (an event which was, after all, indispensable to all the others), writing on my story, playing the piano, going to the Kleistpark, and helping prepare a Greek-style dinner. I also tried to help J. with his History homework; this might qualify rather as a non-event or even as a negative event.

The story I'm working on is still the one that is set in the time of Bloody Mary, and based on a fairy tale (namely The Beauty and the Beast). I find the original fairy tale disturbing in parts, but intriguing. The moral of the tale is essentially lost on me, though. I'm willing to disregard the riches and titles of people, and I think I'm not picky about appearances, but I don't think I'd want to marry anyone, even if he were a paragon of virtue, if the rest of his personality isn't attractive or interesting (or both). The original French tale emphasized that the prince was not only enchanted so that his outer appearance was ugly, but also commanded not to let his wit ("esprit") appear in his conversation. Admittedly it is quite touching when, in the garb of the beast, he remarks mournfully that he has no wit; La Belle wisely answers that he who says that he is witless cannot be entirely so. I suppose that the point is that wit is most admirable if it is informed by a good heart and a modest soul; it cannot stand on its own. (By the way, I think it would be nice if "esprit" and refinement became fashionable virtues again.)

Anyway, in my version of the story, the heroine is Margaret, the daughter of a merchant (like in the fairy tale). She is well-educated because, as a child, she lived with a comparatively learned aunt. But when the story begins, she has returned to live with her father, two sisters, and two brothers. The brothers are away at sea as much as possible, and the unpleasant sisters rule the roost, while Margaret and the housekeeper do the actual work, and while their merchant father struggles with the finances. The mother died in childbirth.

One day the merchant receives bad news about his ships. He travels to London to sort things out. There he falls ill, and Margaret must go to him (dressed as a man and accompanied by the family dog Achates for safety). On the way back, as they are passing through a forest, it is stormy, one of the horses bolts, and they get lost until they find a mansion surrounded by a high wall. There seems to be no one at home, and they trespass. The owner of the mansion is, however, very much present. He catches them red-handed, and, because he has enemies who would do him harm if they heard of his whereabouts, he harshly orders them to stay in his house indefinitely so that they can't betray him. In the morning Margaret explains that the father must go back home, because he is the breadwinner of the family and her two sisters are dependent on him. The owner of the mansion, the younger son of a Sir Armitage, agrees to let the father go (with two chests of silver and gold), but keeps Margaret as a guarantee of secrecy.

Fortunately the owner is a principled soul, and there is an old housekeeper to act as chaperone. At any rate, Master Armitage is much embittered by the betrayals of friends and family; he is at loggerheads with his parents and his elder brother, has few friends, and confides only in his aunt (to whom the mansion belongs). He is also not used to being confined to the countryside, and besides growing an ogreish beard as a disguise, he grows a rough and unpleasant manner. He regards Margaret with suspicion (though she does seem trustworthy), though this does not prevent him from making the library and music room available to her. The story at this point is decidedly unromantic, and I'm glad to have it so. The heroine passes her days with books and the lute, and in the garden, and, though she feels homesick, rather likes the feeling of temporarily having no responsibility for anyone else, and of finally being able to satisfy her thirst for knowledge and music.

Anyway, after some two weeks, a supposed friend alerts (by pigeon post) Armitage -- who is an influential Protestant -- that Queen Mary's adherents are onto him. And, within an hour (yes, I know: quite some coincidence), soldiers come tearing down the gate. Armitage, Margaret, and the two servants escape by means of an underground passage. The existence of this passage has been betrayed, too, but fortunately there is another connecting passage whose existence was previously known to no one except the lord of the manor. So the four of them escape out into the forest, and then must spend an uncomfortable night in a cave carved into the bank of a ravine, before journeying further.

That's as far as I've gotten. I add to the story every evening, and a little during the day. The ending will be the predictable one -- they marry and live happily ever after -- but everything else that will happen in between is still a mystery to me. The literary, historical, and intellectual value of the tale are low, and the dialogue is in eighteenth-century language at the earliest (I plan to make it properly sixteenth-century with the assistance of Shakespeare later), but it's great fun to write. I usually find it difficult to think up plots and to keep the momentum going, so this is a nice exception for me. Above all, I hope that the story will end up not being typically romantic. I think much of Plato's (or Pausanius's, I suppose) ideas on the subject of love:

"[. . .] The common or vulgar lover [is] in love with the body rather than the soul; he is not constant because what he loves is not constant; as soon as the flower of physical beauty, which is what he loves, begins to fade, he is gone 'even as a dream,' and all his professions and promises are as nothing. But the lover of a noble nature remains its lover for life, because the thing to which he cleaves is constant."*

Shakespeare's Sonnet CXVI works too (though I find it a little hyperbolical):

Let me not the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov'd,
I never write, nor no man ever lov'd.**

On the other hand I am sure that I am fairly indifferent to appearances because my own appearance is hardly smashing, not because of any high-mindedness. I suppose that one could "cheat" with make-up, but (though I am by no means a Puritan) I think that if I did wear make-up I would feel like a painted woman of ill repute. That's how I felt when my friends tried out eye glitter on me in Grade 8 . . . I don't like the idea of presenting a pretty face to the world and then look like a comparative hag if I happen not to be wearing it. And I don't like being focused on my appearance. The virtues of showering and of having a nice skin I fully understand, but I'm sure that lipstick and rouge and so on don't suit my personality. In Canada I was basically the only girl not to wear make-up in my high school, which I didn't mind so much, but it does feel nicer to live somewhere where more people also see it as a marginal issue.

I suppose I could exercise more so that I am no longer plump, too, but I also don't see weight as such an important matter unless I am unhealthy -- besides, thinking about my figure has always been counterproductive. If other people just think about that, then I think they're not being particularly sensible. And, even though I'm weak where many other things are concerned, I am strong-minded where this is concerned.

At any rate, I did write another blog post today, but then I deleted it because I was ashamed of it. Today was another one of those days where I doubt that I am going anywhere, and doubt that I ever will. But I seek consolation where I can. I don't know if it's true, but in an online novel (of all places!) I found the saying that "If you can't see the way ahead, it means that you're about to turn a corner." Using this metaphor, I certainly hope I am about to turn a corner, because it would certainly be difficult to see the way ahead less well. There is university, though.

* From The Symposium, trans. by Walter Hamilton
** From The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, W.J. Craig, Ed., Clarendon Press

Spring Poem

(Written March 4, 2006)

An uncompromising grey contingent of clouds
spreads over and along the frail light blue
of the skies, that seem to be frozen still
in the vigorous passing winter.
The cool winds are gentle.
Flocks of snowdrops are beginning to fade
To figments of brown on their staunch dark green leaves
while violets still shyly peer forth
in their equivocal colour
from the flourishing golden green of the moss.
The wild plum and cherry are scattered with blossoms,
an airiness seeming to float from the earth,
still solid, and the tree branches, still bare,
to the more congenial element of heaven.
More solidly flower the deep yellow and purple crocuses;
the delicate, frilly-leaved clusters of primroses;
daffodils rise up, their unopened petals,
a spear-blade of the warrior of spring in the soil.
Small fragments of sunshine, forsythia blooms cluster
and burst forth from the inverted cup of the branches
that hang down and weave to the ground
and sweep over the dying yellow winter aconites
that huddle in isolation underneath their domain.
And, welcome, a small host of quick brownish birds
hop for their harvest of that teeming life
that is reemerging from their tiny burrows
in the unpromising, wet, and heavy dirt,
or singing their greeting to day and to me
from their perch in the bushes and the still-sleeping trees.

One Tiny Step for Man . . .

This sunny morning I woke up early for two reasons: the visit of an American relative, and a job interview. The relative, the cousin of my grandfather, arrived shortly before I had to leave, and now he is resting in the corner room to shake off the usual transatlantic crossing strain.

Shortly after nine I left, took the U-Bahn, and set off for the Einstein Coffee Shop offices in the Franklinstraße. It's at least two long blocks away from Ernst Reuter Platz, so I had a long walk down the Marchstraße into the Franklinstraße, carefully looking at all the street numbers. It's mostly an industrial area, except for two or so buildings of the Technische Uni (TU). For 15 there was simply a sign on a fence beside a cobblestone driveway that sloped down to the Spree River. I took the plunge and navigated (with the help of inquiries) through the old brick building complex -- which must have been a factory at one point, but now presents a clean and respectable aspect -- until I found the office for the coffee shops. Soon the interview began in a small office, white and airy but with a comfortable amount of clutter, with a woman who reminded me of one of my aunts -- refined and a little reserved, with rather nice eyes. She asked me first for a resumé, so I was very glad that I had the common sense to prepare and bring one. Then she asked me a few questions based on it, for example what I planned to study here. And she also informed me about what my job would entail, e.g. the pay, the hours (any time between 6 am and 1 am, I think), and the strong contrast in workload between rainy and sunny days. Then I had to fill out a form, with my address, bank account and health insurance, etc. Here, again, I was glad that I had thought to bring my health insurance card along. Then it was finished, and the interviewer repeated that I would know whether I have the job on Friday.

As I regained the street, there was someone coming in the opposite direction, who then paused and asked two passersby about the street number 15. I was quite sure that she was coming for the next job interview, also because she was dressed up and student-age. The passersby waved her in the right direction, but gave no further details. She walked on, as I debated internally whether to guide her through the labyrinth to the office or not. I felt that it would be embarrassing to turn back and accost her, and said to myself that she'd find the place anyway. So I just kept on going to the U-Bahn station. But I felt very guilty then and still feel guilty now. Besides being lazy and displaying false shame, my intent on a certain level possibly was to sabotage the other candidate's chances by making her late. There are many ways I could argue that I was simply acting naturally and logically, or that it was a rushed situation, but I would know that it would be sophistry. Anyway, if I am in that kind of situation again I'll hopefully remember this incident and do differently.

On the whole, at any rate, I am glad that the job interview is over. I was nervous about it, but I forgot about it as much as I could until it came down to the wire, so that I would be relaxed today, and that approach worked.

A True Night Owl

Yesterday was not particularly exciting. I worked on a story based on a fairy tale (by "based on" I mean "ripping off the plot of"), set in England during the reign of Bloody Mary. It's a considerably lousy story, and it is not being helped by the fact that I keep on wishing I could quote or otherwise refer to Shakespeare, and keep on remembering that he really came later. But the main purpose of it is to write for my own amusement. Then I spent an unconscionable amount of time reading "Notes & Queries" on the Guardian website. I just discovered the rubric yesterday and it went to my head. And, last but not least, I watched clips of the British television series Blackadder on YouTube, which, in between the really low jokes, is excellent entertainment.

Then, however, I began to help my brothers with their homework. J. came first with his Spanish homework. He was supposed to sketch a country with its rivers and mountains, and list a national dance, dish, and the national language. After wavering over Nepal, he decided to take Lesotho (because, so his reasoning went, he would only have to put down "South Africa" as its neighbouring country). We ended up googling and trawling Wikipedia for ages. The national language (Sesotho) was easy; at considerable length we came across behobe bread, so the national dish was taken care of. But then came the search for a dance. We finally came across a dito-something-or-other dance. Then I did a search on the dance, and the paper where we had read about it was the only site where that was mentioned on the whole world wide web, according to Google. Anyway, this has proven yet again that internet research is far more trouble than it's worth. Sites are lousy and don't have nearly enough information. But homework has often made me search for the oddest trivia (if I remember correctly, here is another example: the mealtimes of British soldiers during World War One).

Then I helped Ge. research Portuguese geography and its relation to tourism. As Ge. went slowly off to bed because he had to in order to be awake in class this morning, I translated the notes into German. Then I helped Gi. with his notes and overheads about the Portuguese climate . . . The process confirmed my theory that doing homework late at night, half-heartedly, is a potent soporific, worthy of investigation by the medical establishment. Reading online books is (for some reason) ten times as enlivening. At one point I just gazed and read everything on the website -- anything to avoid having to think. But I did soon have a second wind; there were, after all, two or more flashes of lightning outside, wind gusts, and the occasional car rushing down the street. Still, one or two all-night work sessions during my own school years returned to haunt me, for example the peculiar one when T. and I alternately worked on a Spanish project, and I read portions of the Bible (including, appropriately, the Book of Job) whenever it was T.'s turn.

In this work session things began to go badly when I tried to use the pencil tool on a map in Adobe Photoshop. I tried and tried to use it, and to adjust the settings, to no avail; I was on the verge of tears when Papa came and figured out that I was only on the wrong layer. Then I used Microsoft Office Word 2003, in a very limited sense of the word "use." Apparently, after you insert a picture, there is no way to move it except by using the tab and enter keys as if it were a block of text. It seems that the software developers had implemented a Bushian policy: do the opposite of everything that works. But in the end, I felt cheerful again.

Anyway, the others eventually woke up (surprisingly well rested in the case of my brothers) and everything was finished and printed out. So now the question is to sleep or not to sleep.

Country Leisure and City Toils

This day began between six and six thirty a.m. for me. My automatic alarm clock had been activated because Uncle Pu and Aunt K. had asked me to house-sit for them in their home in the countryside southeast of Berlin. So I sat around in my nightie for a few hours, waiting for the laundry to be done, reading news articles online. Then, after showering and assuming diurnal apparel, I set off to the U-Bahn at around 9:20. I arrived in Halbe (a town that is sadly famous as an right-wing extremist rendezvous) on time, having finished Der Schuß von der Kanzel.

As I house-sat I played the piano, and lots of it. Chopin waltzes, mazurkas, polonaises, and nocturnes; short pieces by Mozart; little preludes by Bach; I played all with as much or as little volume as I wanted, as long as I wanted. I also read a delightful children's book by Enid Blyton, where six children and a dog uncover an evil scheme involving secret stone passageways, a gloomy marsh, and smuggling. Then I walked around outside; the copper beeches, regular beeches, oaks, and horse chestnuts are all splendidly opulent with leaves now, and rustled vigorously in the wind. Below them, the occasional lily-of-the-valley, clumps of pansies, dove nettles, yellow celandine(?), daisies, and dandelions in the tender grass. K. has a large kitchen-garden, with herbs like mint and lavender, rows of radishes, and a cluster of columbines, as well as a row of raspberries.

In the evening I went back home. J. was in the midst of doing his homework. He finished his English and Math homework with minimal help. Then he had to write a ballad for German, or rather not a ballad but something like Heinrich Heine's poem about the Loreley. After a while he decided to write a poem in six four-line stanzas in an ABAB rhyme scheme, about a man who falls off his horse. He began the poem in English (to be translated into German later) more or less as follows:

A man went riding through the wood
When he fell off his horse.
Rubbing his bottom as he stood,
He said something rather coarse.

Anyway, there was much more of this. In the meantime Uncle Pu (who had driven me back home) and the others were having a lively conversation over cigars, which made the whole homework process much less tedious. Then Mama took over with J.'s work, which was good because my German isn't up to snuff. But then I helped Ge. with an assignment about Mark Twain, which was not too bad, except that it made me feel about five times as tired as I would be if I were doing something less constructive. It's amazing how difficult, for example, it is to find an online photo with a decent side view of a Mississippi River steamboat of Twain's day. At any rate, I enjoy helping with some kinds of homework because it's a good opportunity to show off; but, for example, in the case of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer it's a risky pleasure because I haven't read the book in years.

P.S.: I'm not going to write anything about the French elections because I barely followed them.

Brief Devotion and a Brief Masterclass

Today I woke up at 10 a.m. The church bells were ringing and I felt like going to church. So I got dressed and went to the one at the Winterfeldplatz; and, though, when I arrived, the service was over and the residual congregation was chatting outside the door, I went into the church as unobtrusively as I could and read a portion of the baptismal service.

At around noon I went to a master class with a Prof. Klaus Hellwig in the Kammersaal at the UdK (Fasanenstraße). So I took the U-Bahn there, starting Conrad Ferdinand Meyer's Schuß von der Kanzel along the way (Aristotle's Poetics have been returned to the bookshelf as part of our great book rearrangement). When I arrived, A. I. was playing the first movement of Schumann's sonata in f# minor -- as she had at the last piano masterclass I attended. She played "schön" again, in a coherent interpretation that was fine in its way, tasteful and fluent and sympathetic, but not that nuanced. The professor (whose appearance vaguely reminded me of Bill Gates) pointed out where phrases should be played like a "question and answer," where she was playing optimistically instead of restlessly with a hint of stubbornness, where she was emphasizing the wrong note, etc. What he evidently wanted to attain was a well-rounded understanding of the piece, on its various levels -- technical, structural, and emotional --, using the details of Schumann's score as a guide. For this purpose he also read out a poem by Justinus Kerner, which Schumann had used for an earlier song "For Anna"; that song, if I remember correctly, included a motif that came up in this sonata. The verse was about a dying soldier who remembers his beloved, and the scenario did come to mind again when the student continued playing the sonata after that. One remark of the professor's that also stuck with me is that, with Schumann, emotions are rarely or never unmixed. So, to take as an example the end of the sonata, there is melancholy but also hope.

Either way, I was thinking that Prof. Hellwig's approach to music must resemble the one of my great-aunt, who was a piano teacher too. With him I don't know how he would handle freer interpretations of music (in the style of Casals, let's say); but his detailed corrections and his grasp of the intellectual (cross-disciplinary, too, one might say) dimensions of music were agreeable and, as I said, reminiscent of Aunt N.

At home again, I spent time doing J.'s homework with him. It was for Spanish again. He had to write a set of questions that he would ask an imaginary buddy to answer about an imaginary trip to Latin America. Then he had to write a set of answers to the same questions that his imaginary buddy would ask him. This is one of the stupidest assignments I've ever heard of. If it had been done in class, in partners, it would have made sense. But as a homework assignment it doesn't make any sense. Instead of writing one whole dialogue, the student has to write two halves of two dialogues. Anyway, by the end poor J. was deeply tired and I was highly disgruntled. Then I translated notes on the olive tree into German for Ge. That was a good learning experience, too; even if I don't dream of Plato's Republic, I can dream of Spanish past participles and Oleo europaea statistics now.

P.S.: To provide an update on my mutineer story, I've written an outline of the plot now. Also, I came across George Farquhar's play The Beaux-Stratagem on gutenberg.org today; it was first performed in 1707, but the language seems very modern (or the nineteenth-century editor had updated it), and I made careful notes on it that should help me establish the setting of my story. It also reminded me that I should pick up my French Revolution research again.

Notes on a Slow Saturday

Today my pursuits were a trifle more substantial. While I did spend much of my day at the computer, I finally read international news articles again. For example, I learned of Hugo Chávez's threat to nationalize Venezuela's banks, the criminal charges against former Zimbabwean leader Frederick Chiluba, etc. If I keep this up I may even start thinking about people other than myself. (c:

In the afternoon I worked on an e-mail applying for a job in the kitchen of a daycare centre ("Kita," short for "Kindertagesstätte," in German). I sent the e-mail; it came back because the recipient e-mail address wasn't working any more. Oh, well. There will be other jobs. As for music masterclasses or recitals, there weren't any that interested me today.

As far as online books go, I'm still working through William MacLeod Raine's western novels, finding them increasingly uneven. I just finished Steve Yeager. Here the satire -- especially at the beginning -- is sometimes not very well done. As I read these books I keep on thinking how wrong it is for violence to be whitewashed and made into an entertainment. This perhaps sounds extremely moralistic, but I've more or less decided not to write murder mysteries or other violent books because it makes terrible things seem much less terrible than they are.

To change the subject completely, my parents and siblings are enjoying the weekend. J. has a cold and occasionally lost his voice again today, but he caught up on his internet forum(s), drew sketches of Sir Peter Wimsey, and kept his nose in yet another Dorothy L. Sayers book (The Busman's Honeymoon, probably) whenever he could. Per his request, Mama made lentil soup for lunch; in the evening Papa made lamb with garlic and sage, and Mama made bulgur wheat with figs, and we had yoghurt and olives on the side, as well as chocolate mousse (from the dairy section of Plus) and assorted candy for dessert.

T. is working on the outlines of stories, sketching the head of a crested crow or raven, and being cheerful with a subtle tinge of restlessness, as usual. Gi. and Ge. have an assignment for German which involves preparing material on Mark Twain and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but they have evidently postponed work on it to tomorrow. Mama has still been busy, rearranging books, for example. We have one perfectly beautiful bookcase now, like the kind that I picture myself as having in my home when (and if) I am grown up and have written my Great Novel, with old hardcover sets of classics in beautiful dark or gold colours. Papa was vacuum-cleaning one of the computers today, and is generally busy reading up in learned scientific books and papers, living up to the family motto (much neglected among our generation) of "Labor vincit omnia."

Tales from the Hall of Mirrors

This morning I woke up fairly late, and soon went off to do the grocery-shopping. For lunch we had tomato slices with mozzarella and basil, feta cheese (terribly salty, but delicious) baked over with paprika (mozzarella too, but since that turned out a nondescript puddle that swiftly became rubbery as it cooled, I don't really count it as part of the meal), bread, figs and baklava. Uncle Pu came over; soon he and I went to a café as usual, he smoking a Guantanamera cigar and both of us sipping a café latte. We talked about contemporary politics and history and group dynamics (he and his wife have run programmes for groups of jobless people, in which they had to deal with much gossiping and backbiting). It was sunny but not too warm, and the walk was agreeable. The flowering horse chestnuts and leafy trees in general really do a lot for the appearance of the streets hereabouts.

When we came back, most of us tried an intensely dark, pleasantly pungent Spanish organic red wine, and talked more. Then Uncle Pu, Papa and I played Haydn Trios in C, D and G major; it went quite well, and my timing was better than usual because I wasn't flustered and I did try to tap the time with my foot. Things go so much better in "zombie mode" (i.e. when I'm concentrated, and just let my fingers and motor-parts-of-the-brain take over). None of us had, I think, played these pieces for months, but one couldn't really tell that. Then Papa and Uncle Pu played Stamitz duos -- a nice set, not too serious; in one piece Pudel went off, as usual, into an elaborate cadence with a satirical flair, which this time involved much intentional squeaking on the E string.

Yesterday I stayed up until it was light watching America's Next Top Model and reading Westerns. I've been revolving the idea of spending at least a month without any sort of entertainment other than reading literary classics, studying the sciences and philosophy, and reading the newspapers all the way through. I've always detested the idea of being fluff-brained, and feeding the mind on a sugary and insubstantial diet of girly television and other things, but my mind has been going to seed for so long that my vague plans of intellectual asceticism are a rank impossibility.

I'm going to blame my empty-brainedness on my underwhelming school experience, though normal teenage brain chemistry probably played a large role as well. Perhaps, for example, it's all due to my traumatic year in a German school, where the Hindenburg-sized balloon that was my self-confidence was pricked and never quite recovered. Since then I've mostly been a sad, supine specimen of humanity; I'm too afraid of being hurt to befriend people (my friends are all from before Grade 6) or even to interact with anyone naturally, and too afraid of being obnoxious and show-offish to participate much in my classes. During the annus horribilis (one of three, really; Grade 8 and Grade 11 being the others) my classmates were not that cruel, but it was an absolute nightmare for me because my previous schools left me rather vulnerable and soft, and because I had such a high opinion of myself going in. And it's at least partly due to when, in Grade 8, I began to feel that I was learning less and less each year, and that only a fraction of what I learned on my own would ever come up in school. Besides, my aim was to learn things, not to finish homework; in some classes both aims were answered, and in others they weren't, so I decided that since most teachers would only approve of me if I did things that seemed nonsense to me, it wasn't worthwhile to try to gain their approval any more. So by this point I was thrown back on my un-self-confident self (and on delightful French classes after school) to learn things properly; but I spent most of my time outside of school trying to numb my mind (with television, for instance), in order to forget my school day and to forget my homework.

Anyway, these, as far as I can tell, are the reasons why I spent last night watching girls my age bickering and putting on make-up and posing for photos and weeping, instead of spending the night sleeping sweetly and dreaming of Plato's Republic or the Kyoto Protocol or the theory of relativity. As for the Western novels, I think I might have read them even if I were more intellectual; it's corking stuff, even if it describes sordid events (a gruesome murder, for instance).

But I do believe that we are "the artificers of our own fortunes," so I don't mean to say that I am not to blame for my present sad state of affairs as far as a job, university, social life, and pastimes go.