A Stroll in Mansfield Park

A few nights ago, I finally finished a German translation of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. It was my favourite book when I was ten or eleven; probably I understood it better than Austen's other books because one doesn't lose as much if one reads it with no understanding of irony. Besides, I would picture the scenes as I read: the stairs where Edmund comforts Fanny as a little girl, the mansion of Mansfield Park, the shrubbery, Sotherton and the "ha-ha" (I still don't know what that means), and then the chaotic house in Portsmouth and the seaside. Though much of the action takes place indoors, certainly not all of it does, and one could profitably illustrate the book with a bountiful range of decorous English landscape (or seascape) paintings.

Now what strikes me most is the incredible nuance with which Jane Austen depicts a sensitive character with whom she doesn't seem to have much in common. Of course this nuance is precisely the quality that is commonly identified with the author, but she probably surpasses herself here. I recognize a good deal of my own hypersensitive feelings, especially with regard to the twinges of pain, the tiredness and the constant undermining caused by the perfectly horrid character of Mrs. Norris, who, to use a Harry Potter analogy, is a cross between Dolores Umbridge and a Dementor. There is a truth she brings out well, which is that supposedly good people of even a petty level of villainy can make life a living hell for others. The Portsmouth scenes are also excellent, about the depressing effect of one's surroundings if they are shabby and disorganized.

I've never subscribed to the view that Fanny is merely a "passive victim" or weak. She comes out much better than anyone else in the book, because, though she may not be innately more gifted or intelligent than those around her, she simply uses what she has better. She refuses to be blinded to the world around her, and she is steadfast in adhering to her principles, unlike any of the other characters. "Peer pressure" is a force that, I'd say, ninety-nine people out of a hundred can't resist, so she is definitely not weak. What I dislike in her is the hard judgmental streak, which comes out even before she returns home and finds her mother a "slattern," etc., and which (I think) reflects an underlying humourlessness of the author herself. If one looks at Jane Austen's villains, they firmly meet retribution; in Mansfield Park, she is abominably prim when she writes, first of Henry Crawford and Maria Bertram, and then of Mrs. Norris and Maria, that they are "their mutual punishment."

So I had more sympathy with the Crawfords for a while than with Edmund Bertram or even Fanny. Edmund is altogether a pitifully weak character. He is friendly enough, and when I was eleven I only saw that; but now his principles seem to me to be more a passive rigidity, even prejudices, than anything finer or more spontaneous. The way he talks to Fanny is also dreadfully patronizing. I'm guessing that in real life Fanny would have the upper hand of things once they were married, and also that he'd have to treat her as an intellectual equal, instead of continuing to be her "preceptor." It is unfair to expect a husband to be an outright superior to his wife, instead of an equal partner or even a mild inferior, but he shouldn't assume superiority if he hasn't any. In Sense and Sensibility, for instance, Edward Ferrars openly sees that Elinor is superior and he bows with a good grace to the feminine yoke; besides, he faces Mrs. Ferrars with splendid courage when she disowns him for his engagement with Lucy Steele. So I prefer him to Edmund.

But I do still love many things about Jane Austen: her fluent style, decisiveness and incisiveness in reading character (except where I find it too harsh), sympathy for her heroines, sense that there is a "rightness" in the world, refinement, emphasis on intelligence and self-knowledge, etc. I think she fits squarely into the Enlightenment tradition (though not into the tradition of the artificial, saccharine sensibility that passed as fiction) because she dissects feelings so clearly and emphasizes self-control, self-analysis, and rationality so persistently. For many years I've found other writers more congenial — Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, Leo Tolstoy (in War and Peace), and Thomas Hardy — but there is no denying that she has had a permanent influence on me, and that, whenever I lose the feeling of Austen-saturation, I enjoy her as much as ever.

Sonata in B Flat Major, Andante

Here is the second movement of Schubert's Sonata in B flat major, which I recorded in March. Altogether it doesn't live up to my highest conception of the music; and, like anything else I produce, whether it's a music film or photo or story, I find it terrible or admirable depending on the mood. Unfortunately, as I used a digital camera, the sound quality is also objectively deficient. Finally, for some reason the recording broke off before the piece was finished, so it's a fragment. But, all that aside, it's my best YouTube film, so up it goes. (c:

Obama in Berlin, Part I

Today the grand Obama speech took place at the Siegessäule. Ever since I heard that he would speak here, I had decided to attend. So, at around 3:15 I set off, hoping to see everything being set up, the press getting into position, etc. I came up the Hofjägerallee, one of the streets that runs out like a ray from the Säule, and saw about 23 police vans and two long black buses parked along the other side in an impressive stationary cavalcade. The street was blocked off at the roundabout that encircles the Säule, so I became one in a steady trickle of people (and pairs of policemen, with or without a sniffer dog) who made their way along a humble forest path to the entrance on the Straße des 17. Juni. The Brandenburger Tor was to the right, the Column to the left, and a modest crowd of (I'm randomly guessing) two hundred had already spread itself out, sitting or standing, at the fence where orange-shirted people stood watch.

I hadn't been seated for five minutes when the loudspeaker came on; a mildly annoyed male voice announced that we could enter, slowly, by the gates. He added that if we did not get through, which was unlikely, we could see everything on the large screens, and (in a possible touch of Berliner irony) that the sound would be audible even at Brandenburger Tor. The admonition to go slowly was redundant where I was, since our movement, crowded as we were, was the opposite of rapid. Then we had to turn to the right or left to go through security. White pavilions had been set up at the sidewalks. Each contained two grey screening portals, a long table, and two or more orange-shirted security people. An orange bin stood in front, apparently to receive water bottles, which plunked in steadily. The waiting period took forever, and then the portal or who knows what failed at the tent where I was at, and we all had to go to the end of another line.

As I waited for the security checks, I took notes on the scene. People were using their digital cameras or even videocameras to scan the crowd; some called friends; more stood around and talked. Energetic individuals strode up and down through the masses shouting, "Are you American?", "Are you an American citizen?", etc., to find eligible voters who still had to register. The people around me were divided between German and American, with Australians thrown in for good measure, but the Americans appeared to me to preponderate. The overwhelming majority of the people regardless of nationality were, I think, male students; it was like being at university again. They dropped references to Taft, Reagan, and Ross Perot, and were quite well-informed.

One photographer created a photo opportunity by grouping a trio of girls, smiling, in line with the Siegessäule; then he borrowed the Obama pin from a tall supporter (who adamantly though cheerfully refused to be part of the picture) and the girls held it out toward the camera and did their best to grin for him. Others complained about the sluggishness of the line's pace. A helicopter flew overhead. Glaciers formed and melted. I noted that someone was wearing a navy-blue T-shirt bearing the logo, "Global Tsunami of Change," and also noted that this was a trifle insensitive. Music played. Someone remarked solemnly, about the long wait, "In the end, it's always worth it; it's always worth it."

Then I reached the pavilion, emptied my purse and laid it as well as my raincoat on the table, and passed through the portal. The orange-shirted person who stood in the back didn't have to double-check me with the handheld scanner, as I didn't beep. Nor did I have to turn on a digital camera to show that it works. Nor did the suited man who was standing behind him stop me (I surmised that he was U.S. Secret Service, and admittedly thought "cool!"; anyway, at least he and the colleague standing nearby looked jovial). So it was quick and easy.

At length, then, I joined the mostly sitting and rarely standing crowd in the area closest to the Siegessäule. The pavilions with refreshments were to the left, beside a black music stage; the column towered to the front; at its right corner a podium had been set up on a platform; obliquely opposite the podium, a statue of a Prussian war minister rose in his weathered bronze grandeur; and beside him there were the press bleachers. Then the long waiting began. But in the bleachers I did see Christiane Amanpour from CNN, in white shirt and short wavy dark brown hair and (I think) sunglasses. She looked nice and relaxed, talked with someone over the side of the bleacher and gazed out over the crowd. Later on I also saw a brown-suited individual whom I believe to have been (the, in my view, irritating) Richard Quest. Internally I squealed with excitement. I also looked for a Canadian news anchor, or a recognizable German one, but didn't spot any. On the podium itself there was a coming and going. But throughout it there stood a Secret Service man, in a black suit and white shirt and blue tie, the sun pouring forth behind him, flashing on his sunglasses, and lingeringly illumining the white earplug cord at his neck, as the blue sky faded ever more, smudgy long clouds softened the solar glare, and a tranquil sunset was underway.

As for my fellow hoi polloi on the ground, there was a friendly group of students from Michigan State University who had a game of cards and a genial exchange of jokes, a girl who (politely thanking me for moving aside to give her room) stretched out for a nap beneath the Zitty issue whose front cover features Obama, three newspaper-readers, a girlfriend and boyfriend who insisted on smooching even after we'd stood up and were packed like sardines (why?!), a young man wrapped in the American flag, and a pervading atmosphere of sweat. Some smoked cigarettes, too, or marijuana – someone observed, "You wouldn't find that at a McCain rally" – or listened to the music. It was so lovely to hear American English again, by the way. Then there were the "entitled pushy idiots!!!" (according to my notes) who insisted on shoving through the crowd and nearly bowled me over someone's backpack. Three people behind me talked about the TV series "24" and pictured crazy thriller scenarios that could be taking place right now, and talked about explosives ("that's always good," I sarcastically wrote in my notes) in plants (the person mentioned the "yucca palms" in front of the podium, so there was a botanical detail cleared up). Altogether, after we stood up, I became very well acquainted with those around me, if having them nudging my back and arms and making bored or friendly eye contact, for an hour or two, is any criterion.

Then a helicopter began descending, and we were wondering if Barack Obama was making a grand entrance in it, perchance even bailing out of it in an enormous red-white-and-blue parachute. But he wasn't. A person fainted in the crowd behind us, and left a ca. five-foot long gap in the crowd, fringed with the worried/interested faces of the people around the casualty. They shouted and waved for a paramedic, and after a very long time one came. I was wondering whether to help, but First Aid learned in Grade 8 seemed an insufficient qualification.

Obama in Berlin, Part II

Finally, after a false alarm or two, a loudspeaker announced Barack Obama, and he came out. Everyone (even the tall people) rose and stood on tip-toe, brandishing their cell phones and digital cameras, so I saw nothing. But I clapped.

The speech began, and I was disappointed. It sounded too rehearsed, too brief, and (to borrow from the Guardian reporter who live-blogged the event) too platitudinous. In hindsight, reading Obama's speech in transcript, I may have done the part about Berlin a disservice. But there were terrible lines, full of the personification and metaphors I'd expect of Bush: "flame of freedom," "retreat would have allowed Communism to march across America," "dry up the well of extremism," etc. And he retreaded, horribly retreaded, everything I never want to hear again, about fighting terrorism, Taliban and al Qaeda, "needing" German soldiers in Afghanistan, stopping Iran's nuclear ambitions, etc. – even Communism on the march. [It's not that I object to stopping terrorism, it's just that, de facto, it is a tiny problem in the world compared to war, human rights abuses, and poverty. It should be dealt with quietly and competently within the bounds of the law, not made into a major political issue that feeds into paranoia and a disproportionate concern with one's own real or putative welfare.] Besides, I didn't think there was much original or clever analysis.

As for the crowd, it appeared to be moderately skeptical. We were not in a frenzy of enthusiasm, but favourably inclined, with some reservations. What unexpectedly met with a roar of approval was Obama's remark about Zimbabwe. What met with even stronger approval was his unequivocal support of nuclear disarmament. That was incredibly surprising and a high point of his speech, I thought; the kind of firm and reasonable stance one would hope of him as President. I also liked his amicable reference to Russia, which was surprising, too. When, however, he talked about Afghanistan and its drugs being sold in our streets, I felt that the reaction of those around me was, "Is that supposed to be a bad thing?" A few also laughed derisively when he said, "I know my country has not perfected itself."

But for a while I was distracted, because behind me there was a group of environmental activists who wanted to perform some action. I suspected at first that they wanted to burst onto the stage and disrupt the speech, so I asked, with a displeased mien, what they were planning to do. But it turns out that they were only holding up T-shirts that spelled out, "Stop CO2." So they waveringly sat on the shoulders of people and hoisted the shirts in the air. Possibly they had the order wrong; at any rate, one nearby person asked another what the message was, and he, having looked over his shoulder, replied, "Stop U2." Hilarious! So the activists were friendly after all; one held onto my shoulder as she rose into the air, and another later asked pardon for the shirt that was drooping onto my head. No security people came to haul them off to jail, either. Still, I am sick and tired of the global warming stuff, was annoyed by the World Wildlife Fund T-shirts saying, "I want you to tackle climate change" that part of the audience wore, and think (as I said above) that war, human rights, and poverty are the truly important issues.

When the speech had ended, one or two people expressed disappointment that it had been so short. I felt the same way; I had expected not to hear a word through bad acoustics, but the acoustics were superb, so I heard clearly, and I found the speech itself accessible. We very, very slowly flocked through the gap in the fence, only to have to practically crawl along a good portion of the Straße des 17. Juni, as the announcer told us again to walk slowly and that the gates were wide open, and we internally laughed at the bitter, bitter irony. Then I was free to walk home.

But before I reached the gap in the fence, I heard as one person, bearing a beige banner that I couldn't read, was asked about Obama. He said, more or less, "I love the guy, but I want him to be himself and not some centrist that he thinks people want him to be." Exactly. Honestly, until two or three months ago I hadn't expected Obama to do so much pandering; the double Israeli-American flag pin at his AIPAC speech baffled me. I find him quite intelligent and able to think for himself, pleasingly capable of being natural and unselfconscious, and a good (though not great) speaker and interviewee. But I only hope that, when (and if, but McCain's sad petulance and overall air of defeat indicate that this may not be an issue) he is President, the transparent and worrisome sops to the prejudiced will stop.

War Elephant

A poem set at an indeterminate past time in India, which I unfortunately mostly know only from colonialist sources: Kipling's tales, Around the World in Eighty Days, etc. So I guess I'm mostly recycling stereotypes, which may explain why it was hard to make it less pompous and more natural. There were some factual errors (e.g. "tamarisk" instead of "tamarind") but I've hopefully weeded them out. Inspired by a poem by T., and written June 23rd, 2008.

In the rhythm of an unseen war drum
the feet fall on the rich black soil
and their deep and full reverberations
echo amid the cavernous void where tree-trunks wind
and jagged vines sweep in between them
in the shadows of the glossy leaves
which rise in unfathomed masses to the sun,
stir heavily and vastly as the sea in summer storms.

Fauna haunt its shadows in untold numbers:
snakes twine thoughtfully along cool grey bark
or undulate furtively through the leaf-strewn mire;
monkeys wheel and blot out gaps of sky
scattered far above, like stray high windows
in an ancient and far-reaching fortress
letting through remote and starry glimpses of freedom,
clambering along their infinite woody perches
and holding their tails erect in graceful curl;
brilliant birds in a lightly sprawling congress,
glaucous and crimson and golden,
twirling in the airs or singing in the tamarind
or pecking with scimitar-beaks at a tiny feast.

Over the jungle burns the fierce white orb:
the force that desiccates the red soils
and steals the brightness in grass and leaf;
leaves nothing, only the bone-like beige of death,
out in the mercilessly open plains.

It is bound for this realm that the procession
tramples and pounds and jingles and slashes
a path through the strange peace of jungle.
A juggernaut has come and the forest is under its wheels:
men clad in bright tints of peacock and marigold and rose
turbans wound tightly, plumes nodding lightly,
embroidered and bedizened with rich motifs and jewels,
swords in their scabbards in glittering polish,
— in a pomp weirdly fit for a day of the dead.

Grimly they march, and the elephants' plodding
is the beat to the battle, the tolling of the bell,
at once a foreboding and an admission
of inevitability. Their leader, of choice;
the followers, by the force that precipitates water
over the fall and leads it to thunderous destruction
at its rocky foot, embowered in ferocious wilderness.

One mountainous charger after another,
swaying a great grey hide and the howdah above,
irritating trappings of the alien mask and armour,
drooping tusks, swinging heavily side to side
in an aimless, blundering brandishing,
and eye passive in the graven wrinkles
ruminating in a fatalist stupor,
ears flapping limply as the sails on a crippled mast;
the blunt round feet, so mighty and so helpless,
sink ungently in the dark-crushed leaves, the shattered twigs,
and the earth to which their invincible bulk
may yet be forced to bow and return.

A Long Disquisition Upon (Classical) Music

Today I went on a quest for new YouTube clips, and I found them in plenty. Above is the Adagio of Haydn's Cello Concerto No. 1 in C major, as played by Jacqueline du Pré. It's one of the pieces I grew up hearing, so I am especially fond of it. I think that listening to so much music when I was little, impressionable and sensitive to atmosphere, really did deepen and beautify my life. It wasn't only our records and tapes that I liked, but also Papa's live music. The Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven piano sonatas that he often played (I'm guessing when he wanted to relax) when we were little made me feel sheltered and content.

Besides, particularly in those sonatas Papa doesn't superimpose anything on the music, but lets it come out naturally. The way one plays does say something about one's character, and if one is vain, bored, unsympathetic, emotionally shallow, or who knows what, it'll come out, and most likely get in the way of the music. So if the playing is unimpeded by these things, limpid as a mountain brook and even indicative of goodness of character, it is extremely nice to hear apart from its musical loveliness.

I think that Schubert's Sonata in B flat major is one of the most demanding pieces in this respect. If one is superficial, pompous, insincere, harsh, etc., — or, I guess, if Schubert simply isn't one's cup of tea — it is terribly evident. As it's my favourite piece, I probably hugely overidealize it, but I think that it is the epitome of modest sincerity, sympathy, depth, and nobility. The first movement reminds me of a church (me and many other people; the stately chords and moderate tempo may be responsible for that). In the second movement the minor chords seem to me like the rending of heartstrings, corrosive in its sadness, followed by a low melody of consolation. Depending on my mood, I feel a corresponding ache when I play it; and for a year or two it was my sanctum sanctorum, which I would only play if I felt that I'd do so in the right spirit. It's similar with the second movement of the previous sonata (A major). In this case it is apparently not wrong to believe that Schubert was thinking of his approaching death as he composed the music, and I often think of him as I play, and admire how he seems to have reached a form of tranquillity.

One thing I like in Glenn Gould's music, by the way, is how his personality played a role. The hint of pedantry, the love of experimentation, the way he was intrigued by the music, intermittent impatience, etc., come out quite transparently. Even where I do not agree with his interpretation, it is invariably interesting, and I always think that it was a station on his way to understanding the piece. In this respect, too, he was refreshingly modest; he didn't pretend that his version was the be-all and end-all. I think he was a genius, too, in the way he found quirky and authentic atmospheres in his music (as he could not have, had he superimposed too much on it). His later Goldberg Variations recordings, to me, have medieval touches despite the modern sound, whereas his Mozart is the essence of classicism, etc. Of course I wasn't alive during the Middle Ages or the Enlightenment; but I think one can intuit the Zeitgeist, and that Gould did this perfectly.

Anyway, another discovery was the "Jewel Song" from Faust (which is familiar from the Tintin comics) as sung by Nellie Melba at the Metropolitan Opera in a year that must be long distant, as the sound quality is pretty terrible. But then I came across the same soprano singing "Ave Maria" from Otello at her farewell concert, Covent Garden, 1926. There the sound quality is excellent, and her timbre comes across well. Besides, I reencountered the ancient recordings of Brahms's voice on wax cylinder, and of Joseph Joachim playing Hungarian Dances No. 1 and 2.

From there I came across Arturo Toscanini's recording of the Tannhäuser overture. I'm not well versed in Wagner, and what I do know mostly comes from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. So as I listened my mind was mostly occupied with visions of a gangly grey rabbit striding about sporting two golden braids and a Viking helmet, and Elmer Fudd solemnly intoning, "Kill the wabbit!" Very highbrow cultural references, I'm sure. (c: Anyway, I liked Toscanini's conducting. The entire orchestra is one surge of music, flowing with the moods as naturally and nearly as easily as a solo instrument, and at times it appears to be on the brink of unmanageable power. This was largely the case in Brahms's Piano Concerto No. 1, in a 1935 recording where Vladimir Horowitz was the soloist. It isn't kitschy either, I think. Only the Wagner, though I think it had intelligence and profundity, was close to a cliché. The scenic effects that the composer pioneered are still common today (e.g. flute solo for a tranquil forest setting; well, someone else probably came up with that, but it's the kind of effect I mean), and the romantic lavishness of Toscanini's interpretation is typical of the scores for black-and-white Hollywood films.

Altogether I very much like that, as in literature and architecture and so many other fields, there is so much to explore and discover in the musical repertoire. At times it's depressing because I feel like an ignoramus, but on the other hand it's relieving to know that I'll be surrounded by wealth and plenty, in the shape of new songs, buildings, books, etc., as long as I live. Besides, as long as I keep growing, I'll find new interpretations and nuances in them, even if it takes a while for a fresh perspective to emerge.

Bookstores and Tourists: The Return

This afternoon T. and I embarked on another odyssey. The first destination was the Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek at the U-Bahn station Hallesches Tor. On the bridge that spans the Landwehrkanal at this station, there are groups of classical sculptures, and one of the figures looked as if he were driving a bicycle pump into another, which gave me food for thought as we waited to cross the street to the library. There were tons of people scattered about, trees and grass and shrubs, and in the middle of the scene rose the fairly inescapable bulk of the Gedenkbibliothek, whose greyish exterior, evoking a mosaic, I even rather liked for the nostalgic reason that the University of Victoria has buildings in that style. It was peculiarly easy to enter, though a lightly uniformed security guard or two was standing around, as we didn't have to wield our library cards at the entrance or anything; and the reading space itself is airy and bright.

T. immediately knew where to go, and I followed her to the languages section. One or two shelves further there is contemporary American literature, and I found lots of books and authors that I haven't read but have heard about. Mitch Albom's Five People You Meet in Heaven, for instance, and T.C. Boyle. Spurred by guilt at being so out of it, and by curiosity, I at length picked up Primary Colors, by "Anonymous" (i.e. Joel Klein), and read the first twelve or so pages. The memory of the film with John Travolta has grown dim, but I knew what it was about. Surprisingly, especially given how annoying I've found Mr. Klein's Time magazine articles, I didn't find the writing trashy or malicious. It described Bill Clinton beautifully well, and I thought the dialogue was spot on.

Sidenote: I think that, as Klein writes, Clinton can be quite genuine in feeling and expressing things. What does bother me is his immense selfishness — not his vanity in itself, which he recognizes and can (or could) keep in decent order — which was, I think, really the problem with his extramarital affairs; also, his tendency to compromise too much. (Obama has a naturally more rigid conscience, I think; he breaks more than he bends.) Otherwise his easy-goingness, intelligence, and accessibility have often made me think that I'd like to meet him, not at an official function but within his family circle or with close friends. Besides my impression that he's a good conversationalist, it's kind of nice to see someone who feels really, really important and basks in it, almost as openly and unselfconsciously as a child.

Anyway, T. ended up not borrowing any of the books, and instead returned three of the old ones at the counters in the foyer. So we reentered the U-Bahn, and set off for KaDeWe to search for green printer ink cartridges. There were flocks of people (in KaDeWe itself I overheard German, English and French), just as there were yesterday. As we entered from Wittenbergplatz, we saw two spiralling black staircases and an enormous black urn full of purple orchids, in a species of antechamber. It was evidently to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Elle in Germany. But the effect, though lavish, was funereal — a very odd choice for a birthday celebration — and it reminded me of the dark and macabrely elegant Edward Gorey pictures that the American TV channel PBS used to introduce its murder mystery evenings. As we went further up and in, I thought snobby thoughts, among them that KaDeWe is rather like a woman given to flaunting, since it presents make-up and jewellery on the ground floor. It's a rich, glossy and exclusive floor, and I think it's meant to keep The Poors in awe. Or maybe there's a kinder explanation.

Anyway, we continued to the fifth floor, didn't find the cartridges, but had the opportunity to overhear the Teutonic English of a Telekom saleswoman who was trying to explain something to two Israeli tourists. We browsed among the stationery looking for large-gridded paper, in vain. Then we were hungry and therefore I suggested that we go up to the sixth floor. T. hadn't been there yet, so we toured the meat counters, the snack shelves, passed by the wines, glimpsed cakes and pastries, lingered over the fish, and left again without buying anything. It was rather funny when we were at the beef and lamb counter, because T. pointed to the yellowish, bumpy, rubbery sheets of calf or cow stomach, and asked carefully, "Is that . . ." — she paused to find the word — "'tripe'?" Yes, I answered. The rabbits looked very pitiful, with their bloody little tails, and I was glad to move on. Later on there was an aquarium; the live, dusky black fish looked unhappy, and they were lined up at the glass as if yearning to be let out, while a handful of dusky black eels rested sluggishly at the bottom. In retrospect, of course, it reminds me of the Doctor Dolittle books, and their expositions on the feelings and trials of animals in the human world.

So we walked over the square, buying drinks that T. pronounced overpriced, and continuing on to a large computer supplies store, where we finally found the green printer ink cartridges. Then we returned to Wittenbergplatz, and took the U-Bahn to Ernst-Reuter-Platz. There we revisited Lehmann's, saw that there were three Malteser people outside it this time, and sank gratefully into the dark red armchairs on the first floor. But there was no dictionary, so we set off again for Zoologischer Garten, to Hugendubel. We rode or walked up the escalators and stairs to the floor with the language books, and T. found a Langenscheidt Japanese-German dictionary that, however, cost over 100 Euros. But there was a cute little one that she bought instead, for just under 11 Euros.

Outside again, under a troubled, cloudy, grey sky, T. bought a bratwurst in a bun at a stand right under the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. The seller was interesting, I thought, as his reddish nose suggested bibulous tendencies, but altogether he was nice and faintly sad. In front of us there was an obnoxious, sharp-faced woman in a tight denim-ish pantsuit, whose exotic make-up had the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but he wasn't too disturbed. I must say, though, that his ideas of hygiene are rudimentary, as, for instance, he laid down a bun, unprotected by a napkin, straight on the counter of his booth. (I'm uptight about these things.) Then T. ate the bratwurst, and I indulged in people-watching. Two Russian(?) women passed by, and I liked their faces; a group of punk(?) youths stood with their sharply curved black dog at a slender tree; a photographer saw them and took their picture; then there were fairly ordinary teenage girls, made-up and dressed in form-hugging jeans, tight synthetic tops, brown jackets, and scarves, who look exactly the same whether they are German, British, American or who knows which nationality.

There was also a diamond-shaped sign underneath a gingko tree. Curiously I went over to look at the inscription, and it turns out that it was a verse on the gingko by Goethe (his name was underneath; otherwise I wouldn't have known), with the addendum "Baumpate werden."* Then there was the Euro Cup 2008 store, bursting with flags in the ground floor of a tall, grim edifice that bore advertisements for Tagesspiegel; and an abandoned handbag huddled beside a lamppost. And soon T. was done and we went home.

* "Adopt a tree"

A Pugilistic Priest

Normally I find dreams tiresome, and among my own I prefer the action-adventure ones where I run away from tidal waves or volcanic eruptions, so I am just posting this one because of its compellingness:

In my dream last night, I was a priest standing at the podium, on the stage of a darkened auditorium. I addressed the people in words I don't remember. But then a group of men came up onto the stage, and the foremost one showed a chart of numbers and signs that I had scribbled on my arm with a pen, and shouted that I was involved in something occult. I calmly explained that they were the numbers of the divisions, or rather troops, in the French army during the Revolution, and that the second two columns of the chart recorded the casualties. The accuser wasn't convinced, and he then persisted in poking his handgun into my back. I trembled a little, and he laughed and said that this was odd considering what I had preached about not being afraid of death and what lies beyond it. So I pulled myself together and patiently repeated my explanation. The other person sneered again, and then I decided to put an end to his threats by punching him in the eye. It instantly bruised. He kept on, so I punched him again and gave him another black eye, though internally worrying that this wasn't in keeping with my clerical position. Then he fell and looked quite seriously injured.

The setting had changed into the "little house" back at our home in Victoria, so I lifted the motionless body, nudged open the screen door with my foot, and carried him down to the "big house" for medical attention. A soldier was at the door and another was patrolling the verandah. They assumed that I was up to something violent, they shot me, and I died. But my perspective immediately changed into that of the priest's disembodied spirit, and I was outside the window as an autopsy was done, only seeing the tray with bits of the priest's internal organs on it, and not my body or even the forensics experts themselves. It turned out that I had taken up a manipulated handgun, placed within reach by the "bad" person, and that in using it I had somehow poisoned myself anyway.

Anyway, in dissecting the dream, I see that I dreamt of the chart because of the charts in the kanji book that T. bought yesterday, the French Revolution aspect was suggested because of the research I've done on it for my story, and the autopsy scene could come out of any of the crime shows that I used to watch fairly often. What interested me about this dream was the oddity of having a priest in his fifties or older as my dream-avatar, the seriousness and the detail, and because it seemed unusually intelligent (not my forté!) and meaningful. The evident lesson is that I shouldn't turn to anger and violence to resolve a conflict, and that vengeance does not improve anything and easily recoils on the one who indulges in it. (The manipulated handgun incident is, in hindsight, a glaringly obvious metaphor.) Of course these are not remotely novel thoughts; but, not having a choleric temperament, I've rarely been in the situation where such considerations were relevant.

Bookstores and Tourists

T. was in the mood to buy a Japanese textbook, so after conscientious internet and telephone research, she set off with J. and me. From the Bülowstraße station we went along the U2 line (which, of course, has nothing to do with the rock band) to Ernst-Reuter-Platz. It was crowded and stifling and odorous, but oddly enough I didn't mind this time. Nearby, on the Hardenbergstraße, there is Lehmann's, a spacious white bookstore. So we crossed over the street at the building pertaining to the faculty for church music at the Universität der Künste; I find the reddish hue of the building's stone delightful, and the little oriel window at the corner equally so, but the runish Art Nouveau script below that window was over the top and as a whole the building wasn't organic enough.

At the street corner, there were two people from the Maltese Order (a Catholic medical charity that is run by a Freemason-ish hierarchy culminating in a Grand Master). T. went on ahead, J. and I paused, and I decided to at least listen and find out what they wanted, volunteers or money. It was money. This, more or less, was the scintillating conversation:

Maltese person: (After briefly informing me about a learning centre in Berlin-Neukölln, she suggestively opens her binder at the donation forms.) " . . . so we'd like to have donations."
Me: "Unfortunately I don't have a large income." (Silently, to myself: "Why did you say 'not a large income'? You have no income at all! There's no need to qualify it.")
M.P.: "I don't either, but I still give 6 Euros a month." (She has mentioned this before.) "Even if you are a student, or low income, it's still feasible."
Me: "Well, once I get real work, I'll think about it." (I try not to sound as if I were implying "in a million years.")
M.P.: "Too bad then."
(Exchange of small smiles, and we go our separate ways.)

As for Lehmann's, the ground floor is full of round tables (cookbooks and travel, paperback fiction, hardback fiction, coffee table books, touristy/Berlin books), shelves running around the walls (poetry, novels, biographies), and a slender mezzanine. Jeffrey Archer's latest novel was there, Don DeLillo's Falling Man, Alice Sebold, etc. – and on a magazine I saw the smiling visage of Margaret Atwood. The selection looked better than that of the UBC Bookstore, except for the latest English bestsellers, which the Bookstore covers much more thoroughly. T. went directly up to the first floor, where the language books are – a decent assortment, and some in English. (c: She picked out a helpful Japanese textbook, whereas I was lured by a Russian basic vocabulary learning kit (a flashcard set, four audio CDs, and posters), which cost 34.90 Euros. I duly forked over the money at the cash register downstairs, and didn't feel guilty about it; I'm convinced I'll actually use it.

Then we took the U2 again to Hubendubel. We got out at Wittenbergplatz, whereas the bookstore itself is at the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. So we walked down the Tauentzienstraße for a while before we discovered it. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists, and it seriously annoyed me for the reason that I wanted to stride along at a reasonable pace whereas they were idling along in snail fashion. J. and I waited in front of the bookstore, under a plane tree. It was truly a beautiful angle from which to see the church, framed in the winding bulk of the branches, the translucent green spikes of the leaves, and the drooping globes of seeds. J. and I spent a long time admiring the great arches and the details in the bell tower, and discoursing of flying buttresses and the like. Against the dark Gothic-style opening of the tower one could also see the flocking tiny drops of rain, which looked like snow.

I also looked at the faces of the people walking in and out of the bookstore, hopefully not staring; I tried to catch a sympathetic one, but though few of them were outright unsympathetic there wasn't one that truly interested me. What I was looking for, I suppose, was a combination of individuality, intelligence, friendliness, or dignity. Anyway, one of the dramatic highlights was a woman, whose worn face and clothing spoke of the 70s, wheeling herself to the road and hailing a taxi going in the opposite direction which did not stop for her; thereafter she went into a phone booth and called for one. There was a woman with a softened Danish face who reminded me of my fifth-grade teacher, but she had a shrewish expression in her eyes that my mild teacher did not have. Later on a middle-aged American came lumbering out and called, presumably to his wife, "Hey! Want to go have a coffee? I've got a Euro." Then there were suits who stood in the entrance of the store, waiting for the rain to end, making cell phone calls, and at length disappointedly taking a plunge into the elements after all. All of this was hugely banal, I suppose, but I liked it.

After T. came out again, she and J. went off into the U-Bahn, whereas I decided to walk home. I had walked home from Wittenbergplatz once before, after taking a curious peep at the dresses in KaDeWe (which I found too unsubtle). Also, I had once ridden there and back on a bicycle, when a man (who reminds me vaguely of Günther Beckstein, a Bavarian politician whose face resembles that of an evil gnome, as his beady eyes gleam mirthlessly like coals and his ears are large and pointy) walking along the – incidentally almost deserted – sidewalk kindly remarked, "Another stupid fat cow riding on the sidewalk!" A moment afterward, though, there was a look on his face, which I've now deciphered as indicating that he felt that he'd made a gaffe. So, at any rate, the route was familiar, vide engraved in my memory. Soon I passed the Kleistpark, where the construction fencing has been removed. The lawns to the left and right and centre of the colonnades are blindingly green, the mighty fences guard the entrance, red roses cluster in the long beds, and behind that one can see, quite unimpeded, the grand façade of the Kammergericht and the trees that embower the park.

And now I'm home again, with wet socks and a raincoat dripping away on the hook, but happy that I went out. I've made up my mind to begin venturing out into the world, now that I am no longer as sensitive and insecure as I was when I first came here, and this was a good start.

The Fate of My Poems

Today I received a reply from the New Yorker about my poems, which, though it wasn't an acceptance, was nice because I hadn't expected to hear back from them at all. My first rejection! I'll just go and sob quietly in a corner . . .

Here is the quatrain-like text:

We regret that we are unable
to use the enclosed material.
Thank you for giving us the
opportunity to consider it.

The Editors

I'm not surprised, and I'm not wounded because I know my poems are good – perhaps not extremely good, but good enough that I am not at all ashamed to read them now. Besides, though the poems that are published in the New Yorker are usually admirable, I suspect that I would choose to publish different submissions. It is a matter of taste, if one has so many contributions and the wide majority are (presumably) excellent.

What would have been nice, though, is to know if they think, based on those poems, that I might come up with a poem that they would like to publish. Or if I seriously need to work on my writing, or if my style would simply fit better into another publication. But I never expected any detailed response, as I don't think that the editors have the time to provide one.

In any case, this isn't very noble, but I will always be amused to know that my verse was rejected, whereas they did accept a poem in which the writer opines that grief is like a purple monkey.