Stories and Statesmen

This morning I slept from about eight to noon, because I had stayed up the whole preceding night for no particular reason. Mama came home shortly after 6 a.m., and didn't seem too tired despite her long nighttime train ride, though she went to sleep soon enough. The reunion was, it seems, most agreeable.

She brought along a present from my godfather, namely a Moleskine notebook, which will hopefully inspire another story. I'm still continuing my England-in-the-time-of-Bloody-Mary story, and I've regained momentum with the introduction of a new character, the worldly courtier William Lamington -- astute of mind, interesting, and not entirely unsympathetic. The story is still rubbishy, though. Besides writing on this story, I am taking many notes on names and places and situations that I might use. There is an old classmate whose picture I recently saw in the newspaper; I might write a story about someone resembling her, because she was so fascinating. She could be genuinely friendly at some times but at other times seemed immoral -- treacherous and scheming, and a potential "belle dame sans merci," though I don't remember her actually doing anything to justify these impressions. We didn't much like each other. The photo itself reminded me of Shelley's "Ozymandias" --

". . . a shatter'd visage [. . .], whose frown
And wrinkled lips and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read . . ."

But I think she was and probably still is perfectly capable of becoming a nice girl, even though she evidently calls forth my moralizing instincts.

Anyway, most of my story ideas tend to be about historical times; yesterday, reading a book review, I thought of writing a story set in the Spanish Inquisition, though I'll read up about it beforehand. The worst thing for me to do is to try to write anything remotely autobiographical -- at least right now. It gives rise to the most boring and subjective tripe. And that's part of the reason why it's difficult for me to "write about what I know." Besides, I've realized more than ever that I haven't found my real personal writing style yet -- at least not in fiction -- though my story "Out of Heaven," set in the Canadian prairies, comes close. The solution is, of course, to write and grow (or grow and write).

In the evening I watched the end of an interview with Richard von Weizsäcker and Helmut Schmidt, ex-President and ex-Chancellor of Germany respectively; Papa and Mama had, I think, watched most of it. I found Helmut Schmidt particularly interesting, because his manner of speaking and his bearing were so trenchant and intelligent and dryly humorous -- quite French, in this respect; but perhaps a little too acerbic -- and also mildly anachronistic. He could have been a statesman in the fifties or twenties or perhaps even earlier and not seemed out of place. I couldn't really tell if I would find him an agreeable acquaintance or not. But, regardless of personality, I admire anyone who is in their seventies or older who still has a clear mind. Where I did not agree with him was that he said that he did not rely on God any more because God allowed things like the Holocaust to occur. Mama's thought was that the Holocaust was a result of human and not divine action, and that's the first thought that came to my mind, too. As for Richard von Weizsäcker, it was more difficult to get an idea of his character; perhaps his public and private selves are divergent anyway.

As for my paperwork, I copied my passport and high school diploma today; I did not go to the Rathaus yet, nor did I go to the bank. Mañana, I suppose!