Ring out the Old, Ring in the New

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-- Tennyson, "In Memoriam", CVI

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

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

Spirits of the Past, Present, and Future

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Headlessness in Idomeneo

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

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

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

A Visit, Advent, and Virtue

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

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

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

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

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

*if I've used the word correctly

The Frater's Birthday

Today is Ge.'s birthday! We celebrated it by having a small feast of pretzel sticks, espresso chocolate, marzipan, and After Eights, followed by two chocolate-covered cakes baked by Papa and decorated by T. and me. There were also several phone calls for the birthday personage. My present was two marzipan piglets, which disappeared with a surprising rapidity.

Altogether it was a nice day, though overcast (I think), with a lovely pink sunset that I photographed with my recovered camera, and that Gi. also photographed with his digital camera. I didn't study, but played a lot of piano. The Chopin waltzes went particularly well, which was puzzling because elegance and confidence and a sense of rhythm is precisely what I tend to lack when I play. I also played two games of Age of Empires, at the hardest level of difficulty, both ending in defeat. When will I ever learn? (c:

Tragedy, Music, and Piety

Today is decidedly a grumpy day for me, though I think that I haven't inflicted my grumpiness on others by any means other than a slightly overcast mien. The weather was clear but not so very bright, and since I woke up at perhaps 12:30 I only experienced perhaps half of the daylight.

I did read Le Cid today, from start to finish. To be more exact, I skimmed, though I didn't skip large parts the way I usually have with other plays to find out what happens at the end and who the main characters on whom the plot hinges are. I must say it was a nice surprise that the end was not the tragic bloodbath I'd expected. I've gotten used to the idea of reading books and plays with unhappy endings, but I still dislike the negative anticipation I feel in the process. Besides, to exaggerate a little, it particularly annoys me in tragedies how no one has any common sense except perhaps minor characters in whom I'm barely (if at all) interested, and how the main characters, deficient of brain and deficient of humour, wallow in two or three unnaturally intense conflicting emotions until one of the idiots runs his sword through the other. It all seems so useless.

Then I played the piano: Schumann's Kinderszenen and some of his Waldszenen and pieces from Album für die Jugend, Bach's Preludium and Fugue in C major from the first volume of the Well-Tempered Clavier, the C major/minor scales, three beginners' studies by Czerny, some of Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte, a few mazurkas, waltzes and nocturnes by Chopin, the beginning of Händel's Largo from Xerxes as arranged for the piano and cello, and the beginning of Schubert's B flat major sonata. Then Terese (on the recorder) and I played an old dance, perhaps five American folk songs ("Yankee Doodle," "We Gather Together," etc.), and English Christmas carols. We've been singing and playing carols a lot lately, but still only the English ones.

By the way, these are currently my favourite English carols:
Joy to the World
Once in Royal David's City
O Come, All Ye Faithful
Good King Wenceslas
While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks

In the meantime Papa built a broad, sturdy shelf, which is now the base for a bookcase at the head of my bed. Mama filled the shelves with the piles of books I had lying around. These piled-up books are highly impressive, from an English translation of Don Quixote through Diderot: Oeuvres Romanesques to Plutarch's Lives, but I'll probably never read them. I do have my old favourites among them, too, like French fairy tales and Tales from Shakespeare and the autobiography of Agatha Christie.

Right now I am mainly reading, at gutenberg.org, the nineteenth-century book Queechy by Susan Warner. This book is about a beautiful and high-minded but rather impecunious young girl who is early an orphan, then lives in rural New England with her high-souled grandfather until he dies. After his death she goes to live with her uncle and aunt and two cousins in Paris and New York, then returns to her ancestral farm when this uncle is financially ruined and selflessly keeps the family from starving by growing flowers and vegetables and doing much of the housework. Remaining "unspotted by the world," she finally marries an Englishman of noble birth and a similarly high mind. I do enjoy reading the book, but I don't particularly like the Christianity in it. The authoress, though fairly subtly, equates official Christians with good and everyone else with bad. The hero is also hard to take, for, once the heroine has gotten him to see the light, the authoress depicts him as immeasurably superior, only to be partially understood by his fellow man, infinitely wise and noble, and one to be obeyed by the heroine without question or comment -- his only troublesome tendency being that of becoming very angry, but always in a good cause. First of all, it strikes me that the authoress seems to be presenting a second God here; secondly, the hero may mean well but he is despotic and clearly considers himself superior to everyone else, including the heroine. He doesn't ask his beloved's opinion on anything except when he asks her an essentially rhetorical question on some ethical point to probe her character; other than that he only asks her about her life or her tears (frequent, alas), or he tells her to do something. Besides, I can't believe that one ever could satisfactorily feed a family of five (including the servant) through the ladylike means of selling roses and strawberries and beans, and, occasionally, a lovely little gem of a poem.

On the other hand, the ideals of high-mindedness, profound learning and thought, and goodness do appeal to me, as do the pictures of rural New England life. Also, I don't only find the plot and characters fairly interesting, but also the underlying question of how one can cope with poverty and living in an isolated area, and what the emotional and intellectual effects of these problems are. And the style is quite good.

And now I think this post is quite long enough!

Vue de la Bastille en juillet 1789

Source: http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b77437038

(The source for the Walpole quotation below was the letter to Richard West, Esq., 21st April 1739, as presented at http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12073/12073-8.txt)

Tales of My Weekend

Before I go to my studies today, I want to summarize the events of the weekend.

On Saturday evening Mama, T. and I took the M48 bus down to the Kulturforum for a concert. The Studiosi Cantandi Berlin were singing two masses and the Prague Symphony by Mozart, in the St. Matthäus Kirche. We arrived reasonably early, bought our tickets just inside for $12 each (we could have gotten a student price but we're not studying now, of course) from one of the choir members. Outside the smallish church where the concert was held seems to be in an Italian, Renaissance style, of stone in alternating bands of muted ochre and terra cotta, with a simple tall tower reminiscent in this very simplicity and tallness, as well as squareness, of the towers in San Gimignano. At least, that's the way it appears to me in retrospect. Inside it is very modern, with a severely unadorned white interior, and a broad modern balcony around three sides forming a second floor, under the light-coloured wide timbers of the ceiling. There was a small organ at the head of this balcony, and small statuettes of religious figures interspersed in the room, or it would have been hard to tell that it is a church from the inside. But it is true that the shapes of the windows -- trios of long, narrow panes in graduated sizes that are rounded at the top -- are rather a give-away. At the top of the large staircase to the balcony there is some historical information, including a portrait of the melancholy face of Dietrich Bonhoeffer (a minister who preached against the Nazis, I think).

Anyway, we took our seats on some of the chairs on the balcony (the ground floor being too full), and then on a bench when other people made way. Slowly the choir and the musicians (only a handful) and the conductor trickled in for the Missa brevis in D minor, to appreciative applause. The very first sound of the music was already absorbing. Either I was in the right mood, or the smallness of the church made the music more immediate, or both. Once again I was surprised how great the volume of a few instruments can be, and how much depth the sort of rumbling hum of the basses (and maybe cellos) adds. The Studiosi Cantandi may not be technically very finished, but it seemed to me that at least they understood the music, and made it considerably expressive.

Then came the Prague Symphony, with the full orchestra. Here the choir could take a rest, but I was pleased to see that the majority of them listened and looked at the musicians with interest -- in different poses; for example, one looked the whole time as if his photo were being taken, sitting at a three-quarter angle or whatever it is, while another smiled the whole time with her chin resting on her hand.

Finally came the Coronation Mass (in C major) -- the only piece I really recognized. The choir was quite overpowered by the instruments, and for some reason they did not sing full, long tones when it would have been necessary. Mama says that this does require intensive training. Here, as in the symphony, a French horn (I think) was sometimes very off and squawked ignominiously, the player, however, continuing with an impressively immobile countenance. Or maybe the culprit was a trumpeter. The solo singers also sometimes sounded off-key. In addition to this, the melody didn't seem to be brought out clearly enough at times, and the ends of the movements were not gently done. My impression at the beginning was that the orchestra had been too ambitious in choosing this mass. But, again, the way they sang and played was expressive enough -- grand but not pompous, thank goodness --, and the music itself highly agreeable, so that by the end it all came together nicely, and the applause (from a very good audience) was long and genuine.

Yesterday I went to the Rathaus Schöneberg with John Locke's letter on tolerance (in German and English translations) in my hand. The way there was lovely. It was not wet or too gloomy. The trees along the way had lost most of their leaves, especially the chestnuts, but the planes and acacias still held on to some of theirs. A grey mist mingled with the various browns of the tangled branches and the yellow remaining leaves. Yellow leaves still littered the sidewalks, as I thought cliché-edly, like ghosts of the past year (though they weren't really pale enough to be ghosts, as I thought immediately afterward). At the corner of the Vorbergstrasse and Eisenacher Strasse the great red cathedral-like brick building of the Riesengebirgsoberschule looked more splendid than ever with the sparse golden-leafed birches in front of it. In the graveyard further up the street the red brick wall glowed agreeably, no longer covered by the large green leaves of the overhanging vines, and the trees there, too, were settling into their winter bareness. As I looked down the path in the middle of the graveyard there was something very peaceful and Christmas-like about the small, well-tended evergreens at the graves, still sheltered by the trees. As I approached the Rathaus itself, I looked toward the Rudolph-Wilde-Park, where the browns of tree branches blended harmoniously with the orange and brown and yellow foliage, and at last I understood the merits of the overly bright golden stag in the park (though I still detest the bare grey column under it) as I saw it gleaming through this woodland scene.

At the Rathaus I sat down and read two introductions to the Locke's letter. I must say I didn't absorb much of the information. All I remember is that one problem with Locke is balancing the rights of man with the observance of religion, and that Locke fled to the Netherlands as the debate over a certain James as the successor of I-don't-know-whom (though I would know if I thought carefully) grew more heated. This reminds me that I was surprised to read in a novel about William Pitt the Younger (which I'm reading for my French Revolution story, of course) that there were virulent anti-Catholic riots in London in the year 1780, though only for five days. I think it's in Charlotte Bronte's Shirley where there are still hints of strong anti-"Popery" feeling, but I didn't know the problem was so intense.

Yesterday I also began to read the letters of Horace Walpole. I must say that, when he is not admiring, he does a lot of sneering. For instance, he laughs at the French for thinking that it is honourable to be in the army, and not dishonourable to own a "gambling-house," then remarks how certain aged princesses who even condescend to own banks are slathered in rouge, then says that, in essence, Louis XIV was a big baby ("great child"), and that the gardens of Versailles prove it. He also describes, with considerable disgust, the funeral procession of an important personage -- lots of flambeaux and friars, not at all to his taste. He adds the following:

"By the bye, some of these choice monks, who watched the body while it lay in state, fell asleep one night, and let the tapers catch fire of the rich velvet mantle lined with ermine and powdered with gold flower-de-luces, which melted the lead coffin, and burnt off the feet of the deceased before it wakened them." He concludes, "The French love show; but there is a meanness reigns through it all," then complains about having to eat puff pastry and so on in lieu of more substantial items at dinner. !

Still, the depth of information Mr. Walpole gives is fine. He mentions a church of the Celestins in Paris. I looked this up on the internet and, as I partly suspected, it has been sacked and destroyed (the most important church of that name is now the one in Avignon). Then I looked up the church of Saint Denis. I really felt my gorge rise when I read how the bones were exhumed during the French Revolution and tossed into a general grave. One of the underlying elements even in the most primitive civilizations is respect for the dead. Besides, how can one possibly blame the earliest kings and queens of France, representatives of a long and interesting history, for conditions in the present day? And, having guillotined Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, the very least one can do is to let their bodies rest in peace. Really. But I think that respect for the dead is among the usual casualties of war, so I'm not trying to make the revolutionaries out to be worse than any other group.

Well, that was, more or less, my weekend; it sounds much more content-filled than it felt, though I enjoyed it.

Ramblings of a Disgruntled Cook

Having finished a dinner of deep-fried cod ("Kabeljau" in German), boiled potatoes, broccoli, and ice cream, I now have time to ramble pleasantly about my day. First, however, I would like to say that I detest deep-frying things. The spitting oil, the air permeated with grease, the uncertainty whether the fish is done or not, and the gradual change of the colour of the fat from a nice golden pine colour to a dark murky walnut one, are all things I could do without. But the ice cream considerably sweetened my mood, and since it was in creamsicle form it didn't create more dishes. Also, everyone else was quite content.

This morning I woke up a little before twelve. I tried to wake up J. based on a prior pact for the mutual improvement of our schedules, but he had gone to sleep very late the preceding night, so that didn't work. Then I went shopping. At around one o'clock I began to memorize the short poem "La Grenouille qui veut se faire aussi grosse que le Boeuf," one of Jean de la Fontaine's fables. The day before yesterday I memorized "La Cigale et la Fourmi" and yesterday I memorized the parts of "Le Corbeau et le Renard" that I didn't know yet.

Then I began to read Le Cid by Corneille -- only about the first page, then I explored the introduction, a chronology of Corneille's life, and photos of stage representations of the play. On gutenberg.org I recently found an old book for college students which had tips about learning on one's own, which included reading about the author of a work before you read the work itself. So yesterday I had already read up Corneille on Wikipedia. The 17th-century debate about Le Cid seems so absurd; could it really have been solely about the fact that Corneille didn't have all the events take place in the same day, in the same setting, and as part of the same central conflict? If men were really that slavishly devoted to the words of Aristotle, I wonder why Classicism didn't die out earlier. Anyway, the play sounds most interesting.

After that I did exercises with German reflexive verbs, trying to remember which ones take the accusative and which the dative. While I was engaged in this wholesome activity, Papa and T. left to go to a Physics lecture at the FU. So, basically alone (the others were gently napping), I read out loud a few pages from Conrad Ferdinand Meyer's Das Amulett, a historical novel set at the turn of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, that is sometimes humorous and sad at the same time. The young narrator has just taken fencing lessons from a shifty-eyed, cringing Bohemian man, whom he only tolerates because he wanted training before taking to the wars. Then a letter comes asking about a Bohemian man who committed murder out of jealousy. The uncle and guardian of the narrator shows the letter and confers with the narrator outside (both instinctively know that their Bohemian is the culprit); the Bohemian is sharpening his sword at the window of his room; the narrator holds the letter so that the red seal is visible from the window (this seems to be done with subconscious intent to warn the Bohemian); then, having decided on how to perform the arrest, the narrator and his uncle enter the house and climb the stairs with pistols cocked, only to find their ex-employee's room empty. The man has stolen the horse of the messenger and ridden off into the sunset.

At ten to four I looked at photos of Germany taken in between the World Wars; there are views of Dresden, for instance, which are now probably long vanished. What I really wanted was to find photos of the Moselle region, which is where I want to set part of my French Revolution story. The story, incidentally, is going well. In an old Merian issue I've already found a castle, Burg Braubach, that will be the blueprint for the residence of my aristocratic family, but I do want to know the region better. As for the name of my family, I'm wavering; "Eules" and "Aumarne" (both my inventions) are two options. But the head of the family will definitely be a Comte Henri X. There will be two daughters and one son, and the mother's father. The mother's eldest brother has died fighting the British, if this is chronologically reasonable, leaving his sole surviving parent embittered. The family will also have lodgings in a fashionable area of Paris, where at least the father will stay while he is the delegate to the Estates-General. Occasionally I have splendid ambitious ideas about the different characters I'll represent. I do want to include the predictable aristocratic snobs as well as a mob of commoners, but there are many other people I'd like to depict.

Most of all I want to present in my story a well-rounded world, where one can see the same events and places from many different perspectives. Here my biggest problem is failing to understand why anyone thinks of the French Revolution as glorious. But this afternoon the idea came to me that perhaps the real triumph of the revolution is the fact that people could come together and overthrow something in a few months that had the weight of centuries of tradition behind it. In concrete human terms, however, it still seems a senseless bloodbath. I can't stand the idealism where the life and well-being of the individual is seen as worthless, even where this idealism purports to be in favour of the "general good." In the Bible it is written (more or less) that God is "infinitely small as well as infinitely great"; this quotation represents to me the idea, in which I strongly believe, that every individual has worth as an individual, and not only as a part of a whole.

Besides, one can't consciously ensure the common good. Taking Communist Russia as an example: as much as officials might pretend that they were acting for the general good, it was clear that, through corruption and unnecessary brutality and so on, not only were they not acting for the general good, they were not acting for the good of any individual except themselves (and perhaps their family and friends). One cannot entrust a single person, individually or in a group, with the task of deciding what is for the good of both himself and everyone else. What is good for one person is not good for the other. For instance, the Russian people may all have had jobs, and mostly enough to eat, which made many of them contented. But, as I understand it, the minds and souls of many others were chronically repressed and starved, and with some people this is worse than any material deprivation. If one regards the human only as a labouring entity that must be fed, one is doing exactly what Marx was criticizing (even though it's true that most industrialists probably didn't care about the feeding part). Anyway . . .

To continue with my lessons, I was going to read about the French Revolution after my German. However, I sang Christmas songs instead, which made me cheerful, and played the piano. I tried the Presto movement of the G-major Haydn trio with a metronome; I should do that more often, because I'm terribly off. Then I played Schumann's Kinderszenen with the metronome; this went well, and I see that it is true that if one plays pieces properly but slowly, one is indeed already able to play them more quickly too. I finished my session with ragtime pieces by Scott Joplin and a rather bad rendition of Clair de lune by Débussy. Then I put on a CD of Christmas carols as sung by Dame Kiri te Kanawa, which we all know more or less by heart, down to the smallest flourish.

So, together with the cooking, that brings me up to date. I'll be more brief in my next post. (c:

Sankt Martin, and Arrears

Today is, as far as Catholics are concerned, is the feast of St. Martin. This saint was a Roman soldier who found God, eventually gave up his sword, and became the (Arch?)Bishop of Tours. His most renowned feat is that of dividing his cloak with a sword in order to clothe a freezing beggar. Where my mother grew up there are processions with a person dressed as Sankt Martin riding a white horse, with families carrying colourful lanterns behind him. In Canada we were really the only ones we knew who celebrated it, so we made lanterns, had a small procession with them in front of our relatives, and sang Sankt Martin's songs.

So this afternoon we had nine people (mostly relatives) over; ate Pöfferkes, Pfeffernüsse, Lebkuchen, Stollen, nuts, oranges, and Spekulatius; drank hot chocolate and Glühwein and orange juice; played; and conversed. Admittedly neither I nor my siblings did much conversing, though the conversation did turn to us; specifically, the conversation turned to the idea that we're sitting around too much at home, which idea was actually expressed so as not to be annoying or hurtful. Beginning last evening I've felt nauseated off and on, so I ate very carefully, but everything has gone well (except my sleep last night, which was not good). After the guests left we sang St. Martin's songs and English Christmas carols (German Christmas songs had, I think, better be left for a week or so for the benefit of the neighbours).

In other news, almost all of us have had colds. It was also quite chilly in our apartment before the wood coal briquets arrived yesterday; we spent several days wearing scarfs and blankets, and burrowing under sleeping bags. In my case, at least, I'm not exaggerating.

To refer to my last post, I have not weaned myself from gutenberg.org after all. Perhaps this was predictable. I don't think I've given print fiction enough of a chance, but sometimes I do simply need an "intravenous" shot of fiction. But I have done more cooking; yesterday I made potato soup and boiled broccoli (mmm . . . ), to which Mama added braised chicken and turkey nuggets as well as cucumber salad. That said, my interest in cooking has waned, and I find it too time- and attention-absorbing anyway; my modus operandi is painfully slow, and interrupts my self-assigned studies.

Yesterday I did review Geoffrey Chaucer's biography and rapidly read "The Clerk's Tale" as translated into modern English by Neville Coghill (unnatural parents!). It's amusing that even in the late fourteenth century the heroine Griselda was seen as irritatingly masochistic. That said, I did find the tale highly readable. In my light literature on gutenberg.org, I have reached the authors beginning with T again, and decided just yesterday evening to abridge my progress through the works of Louis Tracy (exciting but doesn't leave one contented). I stayed up one night and slept through the next day, and this has completely thrown me off, so that I feel chronologically adrift. Hopefully I'll snap out of it soon. This morning I woke up quite wired (or, if you will, hyperactive), and this feeling has lasted into the evening. I played the piano fluently, but too fluently. I managed to calm down enough to play Andantes by Mozart decently, but my violin playing was automatically presto (by my usual standards, probably a weak allegro by professional standards).

As for the elections in the US, I am quite content, but intend to reserve my final judgment until the next two years are over.

1789, Cooking, and an Evening Promenade

Today I woke up at quarter to twelve. I had intended to wake up earlier, but I began to sleep really deeply at perhaps nine and couldn't stop until I did. This profound slumber is, I believe, the result of the nice warm temperature of the late morning. Yesterday evening I finished the last book by Edward P. Roe that is available at gutenberg.org, and it made me feel ready to wean myself from the exciting but pointless world of the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century popular novel. From now on I intend to spend my evenings over non-virtual books, periodicals, perhaps drawing or sewing, and music.

At perhaps twelve I set off down the street to the bank, and thence to the fish shop. At least four other customers were waiting, but the two men behind the counter were working concentratedly and yet not hastily. The men scraped the scales off fishes, disembowelled them, and beheaded them, then ranged the gleaming grey unfortunates onto white butcher's paper, rolled them up, weighed them, and put them in striped blue and white plastic bags. Then, of course, one of the men accepted money and paid out the change. One or two people who were waiting for the bus outside peered in through the windows. I also spent some time looking at the array of fish in the counter, some deeply embedded in ice, from salmon steaks to sardines (fresh, of course), mackerel and trout, mussels and octopus and calamari, bonito, and prawns. Above the counter the German, scientific, and Turkish names of the fish were given, so I looked at those too.

After the fish shop I crossed the road to the big grocery store. The fruit looked particularly tempting, so I bought pears and clementines (with leaves attached) and bananas and grapes on impulse -- as well as a box of more or less authentic Turkish cotton candy, which, it turns out, tastes rather floury (for the highly logical reason that there is flour in it). I had forgotten to bring along the shopping basket, so it took a long time to pack everything up. Further down the street I bought lemons and flatbread at another store. Then I went home, though after a while I did go to Plus across the street again.

So, after the shopping whirlwind, I spent a quiet quarter of an hour with the Propyläen Weltgeschichte. I am now reading about the formation of the National Assembly; the Tennis Court Oath has already taken place, and Mirabeau has declared his and the assembly's defiance of the King to the point of the point of a soldier's lance. Louis XVI, as far as I understand goaded to the step by fearful courtiers, has stationed troops around Versailles (from distant regions, so that they are more trustworthy), and given a negative answer to an appeal from the National Assembly that they be withdrawn. I decided while reading this that I would really like to write a historical novel about an aristocratic delegate to the Meeting of the Three Estates, and his family. I don't know whether the delegate should be a sympathizer with the National Assembly or not. Either way, he and his family would end up fleeing to England. I'm already wondering what books would be in fashion at the time, and what philosophical questions, and how far an aristocrat would share the ideals of John Locke or Jean-Jacques Rousseau, for instance.

Anyway, after my short studies, I wandered into the kitchen and prepared to do the dishes. Somehow I cut my finger in the process, so I stopped washing the dishes and asked others to do it instead. To my surprise, Gi. and Ge. did wash the dishes, and T. dried them. I carefully set the table, using the appropriate white and blue soup plates with the fish motif. Then I prepared tomatoes, a cucumber salad, quark with dill and green onions, and boiled potatoes, with Ge.'s help. Papa made the salmon steaks. All of this wasn't quite done when Mama came home from work, but I think that she enjoyed the anticipation (and perhaps the fact that it's the weekend made her happy anyway). At the last moment I tried to make "Zitronenschaum" (lemon foam), which was a signal failure despite the fact that I had not "improvised" it.

Finally, having eaten a generous amount and feeling quite content, I was ready to go on a bike trip to the Viktoriapark in Kreuzberg, which contains in it the peak of the hill from which the area Kreuzberg takes its name. Gi. and Ge. were willing to come along, so (after some preparations) we set off, with Ge. striding at the front (on foot), and Gi. and me following on Gi.'s and J.'s bikes respectively. It's good that I didn't go alone, because I would have very confidently gone the wrong way. It was turning dark already. When we reached the bridge on the Monumentenstrasse the view was arresting. Below the bridge run many railroad tracks, bordered and interspersed by a lake of light leafy trees that are now yellow and light green and orange. A bank runs up the other side, and apartment buildings, generally white, with dark red tile roofs, cluster along it. Looking down the tracks in the middle of the bridge I saw the glowing white dome (which resembles a tent, or, in my opinion, a flattened badminton birdie) of the Sony Centre, as well as a clump of surrounding buildings, and the isolated grey spire of the Radiofunkturm to the right.

By the time we had reached the top of Kreuzberg it was already quite dark. The horizon glowed orange as dark-grey stratocumulus clouds moved across it. The crescent moon was unusually bright. In a nearly perfect 360-degree view we saw the lights of the city, including Potsdamer Platz and the revolving spotlight of Tempelhof Airport, contrasting with the solid bluish-black of the buildings. There was the occasional gust of wind. As we returned home the sounds of the wind and of the cars passing in the distance were a perpetual subconscious undercurrent. Ge.'s shoes plodded firmly on the pavement. Occasionally the wind swept the leaves, still dimly visible because of their bright yellow colour, up from the pavement, or whirled it along the side. The buildings were in half-shadow, but many windows were lit, so it was cheerful. There were few neon signs along the way, so there was something very classic and picturesque about the scene. Perhaps ten people passed us, some with the air of preparing for an evening out in a leisurely way and others giving the impression that they were hurrying home. A photographer was adjusting his tripod on the bridge. There was something pleasantly chaotic and fleeting about the trip (perhaps the swiftness of the falling of night contributed to it), and it was agreeable especially because it was still early and because therefore the darkness did not seem menacing.

Tomorrow I might go out with my or Gi.'s camera and take photos before the leaves disappear from the trees. Even the foliage of the oaks in front of our apartment is wonderful: intensely yellow with rich reddish-brown edges. Autumn is, after all, my favourite time of year.

Das Fräulein von Scuderi

Yesterday I started and today I finished a short novel by E.T.A. Hoffmann entitled Das Fräulein von Scuderi. It is about a serial murderer and jewel thief in Paris at the time of Louis XIV, a tormented young man who is privy to his secret, and about the title character, a good, refined, witty and well-respected lady of seventy-three. Mademoiselle de Scuderi is a beloved figure at the court, commanding the attention and affection of Madame de Maintenon and even of the king himself. Initially unknown to her, the young man who first brings her a mysterious box of jewels,then dashes up to her carriage and hands her a note begging her to return the jewels to the goldsmith who made them, is the son of her adopted daughter. When Cardillac, the goldsmith, is killed, this young man is believed to have murdered him. Mademoiselle de Scuderi, interested in the young man for himself and for the young girl whom he wishes to marry, and still more for the sake of his mother, must clear him and save him from torture and execution.

I don't think I've read a historical novel (perhaps other than War and Peace) that drops so quietly and naturally into the past time in question. There is no evident effort at setting a scene, and there are no elaborate anachronisms of speech, manner, and dress in the characters. The nineteenth century shapes the language and narrative and, to a certain extent, the characters, but it does not overwhelm the consciousness that the events take place in 1680. Someone has said about Sir Walter Scott's historical novels that his Middle Ages are a sort of play-Middle Ages, an unserious world primarily of the imagination. In Das Fräulein von Scuderi there is seriousness. Even though the events described have taken place in the past, the author does not distance himself from their horrible nature -- also, they could really have taken place at any time. At the same time I think I would be much more concerned about the violence described in the book if it were set in the present time.

The book is altogether highly readable, and as interesting as, but more healthy than, Die Richterin. The mood is dark and fairly light by turns, the characters are convincing, and altogether I found it hard to tell where historical fact left off and fictional invention began -- though I don't know if anyone would have been quite as good as Mademoiselle de Scuderi was, or if King Louis XIV would really have acted as he did in the end.

Studies, Present and Prospective

This morning I surprisingly woke up before 9:00. So I took advantage of the time until lunch by "hitting the books." I started by finishing Die Richterin. It is the tale of a female judge, Stemma, who rules a region in Switzerland in the time of Charlemagne, her daughter Palma, and her stepson Wulfrin. The writing is rich and the mood turbulent, contrasting with the clear, stern, superhuman knowledge and wisdom of the main character, and the turbulence is reflected in the rugged and violent scenery. Charlemagne is portrayed as a benign arbitrator of great mental stature and nobility, and yet human. Wulfrin is a conflicted, somewhat harshly mannered warrior. As for Palma, she is obviously a figment of a masculine imagination, being an unlikely idealized compound of naivete and truth and vulnerable affectionateness. A good read, also funny to read nowadays because of its occasionally very stilted language.

After that -- much to my surprise -- I spent fifty minutes over the first chapter in my Macroeconomics textbook (fortified by Glühwein, this time with orange and lemon juice added). In the course itself we began at Chapter 19, but considering that I understood about 1/50 of everything that followed, it seems wisest to begin again at the beginning. So I took notes on market vs. command economy and the definition of "resources." Then, for the next fifty or so minutes, I tried to understand Proposition I of Book III of Euclid well enough to be able to carry out the proof myself. When I finally understood the proof some forty minutes in (some time was taken up in searching for a ruler), I discovered in the footnotes that a certain De Morgan has come up with another, much better proof, which was recorded underneath. #$%?!

During the lunch break I went grocery shopping. I intended to make potato soup, Greek salad, and a pear soufflé with a meringue topping. Once I was back I first of all heated up the last of the mushroom soup, then polished it off with my spoon in one hand and The Carolingian Empire by Heinrich Fichtenau (a translation) in the other. But then my studies had to end, and I did the dishes, which took a really long time for some reason.

Then T. said that she wanted to go to the Studienberatung at the Freie Universität. So we took the U-Bahn to Thielplatz and eventually found Brümmerstraße 50. We had to wait a few minutes because both people in the office were busy with other worried students. Then we were able to say that we came from Canada and wanted to know how to get into the FU. The person at the desk said with a smile and, in the kind voice generally reserved for children when they do something where they're too young to know any better, said that we should do our own research. I had done research already, but T. was less comfortable with her preparation. Anyway, he took pity on us and sent us on to a small office on the second floor of a wing of the same building. We did have to wait an hour for our appointment, but I took out Der goldne Topf by E.T.A. Hoffmann and had a good time reading it while T. perused a map of Berlin. The friendly person who spoke with us then told us a few things worth knowing. For one thing, even if our marks are too low to get into the FU right away, we'll be put on a waiting list, and it may take up to five years but we'll get in eventually. But he did recommend that we try finding a university in a location where the universities aren't as overrun with applications as Berlin. When T. and I came home we were both tired, and T. took refuge in YouTube while I talked with Papa and Mama and then played movements of sonatas by Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart (quite well).

Somehow today I was in a good doing-work mood and a good piano-playing mood but not in a very good interacting-with-people mood. It's very silly, but I don't know where to look in the U-Bahn, for example. That's what made me less chirpy than I would otherwise have been. By chirpy I mean genuinely cheerful, and not in the half-hearted surface cheeriness (or, really, frivolity) that has occasionally surfaced in the past few days.

P.S.: I am considering that I should try to apply to the Universität der Künste after all.

Note on Adversity

By the way, in posting the lines from Shakespeare I was suggesting that, in my case, I can see that there is a silver lining to every cloud, but I was not suggesting that suffering is good because people learn from it. First of all, they often don't; secondly, that idea is a convenient excuse for people to behave meanly; thirdly, there are other ways to learn, and perhaps not much need to learn to begin with. And, if other people suffer too while one is learning a lesson, it would be heartless to feel glad about that learning opportunity.

I'm not speaking strongly out of any particular provocation, but sometimes I am very irritated when I think how callously everyone (myself clearly included) can see the miseries of others -- whether in the First or Third World -- and entertain the idea that this has a net beneficial effect. As an example, I need only take my History text, which calmly stated that the wiping out of a third of Europe's population by the Black Plague was actually a positive thing because the continent was becoming overcrowded. ! The superiority that each generation assumes over the preceding ones is little different from the superiority that one part of the world assumes over another today, and I think that this cruel mentality in dealing with the past is identical to the cruel mentality that informs foreign policy now (vide 650,000 Iraqi deaths).

It's the same thing with World Wars I and II. Up to a certain age I thought it was a glorious thing, where Allied soldiers killed the evil Nazis (the two wars were conflated in my mind), and that was that. And the general idea is that "all's well that ends well." But the more I read, the more I found out that the Axis soldiers were not always evil (certainly not all Nazis) and that the Allied soldiers were not always good, and that, to put the soldiers aside completely, it was mostly civilians who died. Tens of millions of people were killed, and many more wounded. But people play computer games based on this in their living rooms today. It would, of course, be unhealthy and unreasonable not to put the past behind us, but this should not be done before ensuring that the past will not be repeated, and understanding that the past should not be banalized.

Anyway, I'm sure that Shakespeare was not thinking of adversity of this general scope, but I did need to rant a little.

Edithorian Cuisine

Today I woke up after one o'clock, feeling too seriously drowsy to get up any earlier (though I must say that I hadn't any idea of the time). In the Berliner Zeitung , in the weather section, it was recently written that the weather at present is conducive to very good sleep, and I must say it has proven true in my case. It was a very cheerful day, too, with sunlight pouring down the street without being hot or intense.

Once I was dressed I set off to a nearby grocery store, then to Plus, for ingredients for dinner. I found everything except "Backöl Zitrone" (lemon extract), so I bought a bottle of lemon liquor instead. Also, I resisted the temptation to buy a pomegranate just to see how it tastes. When I was at home again I prepared the cream of mushroom soup, with the help of Ge. and Gi. If I make it again I'll double the butter and flour for the thickening, because the soup looked quite watery, though the creme fraiche that Papa added really helped. The flavour was fine, though. Then Papa prepared the chicken, with bread stuffing, and put it into the oven. I washed the rapunzel, cut up cherry tomatoes to go with it, and made a light dressing for it, and, after that, made the apple cake, with T.'s help. The rapunzel tasted delicious -- sweet and fragrant and crunchy -- which rather surprised me. The chicken was excellent, as always. As for the apple cake, it was my best one yet. This probably sounds very Martha-Stewart-y, but since it's so unusual for me not to be disgruntled while cooking, or to mess up, I can't really help feeling self-satisfied. And, at the end, Gi. and Ge. washed and dried all of the dishes that Mama hadn't already washed. (c:

The other things I've done today are reading a forum, doing a load of laundry, and reading another pious online book. Also, T. got out her high school chemistry notes and briefly explained to me what "significant digits" in measurements are, and what a "mole" is. I feel much enlightened. (c: Yesterday evening I finished the first act of Zaire, and because of the interest of the plot (though I know how it all ends) it was hard to break off there. I'm trying to read through it slowly, so that I can appreciate it better (and actually remember some of it).

Tomorrow I plan to read more of Two Gentlemen of Verona, do some Latin exercises out of Ludus Latinum, continue reading about France just before the Revolution, and maybe look at a German book and read poetry by Tennyson. Perhaps I should take up Conrad Ferdinand Meyer's Die Richterin again, because it impressed me when I started it perhaps two weeks ago. I don't know if these plans sound tempting to anyone else, but I nearly wish that it were tomorrow already (well, technically it is, but still . . .).

I do wish that I felt more like playing the piano, but somehow I don't find much pleasure in it at present; perhaps I am temporarily "stale." I guess that's a bad sign, and that I should bestir myself in other parts of my life so that I have energy and new thoughts and so on again. It's not that I'm doing badly "plodding my weary way" (well, not that weary), but on the whole I am impatient to undertake something, even though at the same time I'm cautious about what it is that I will undertake. There are two possible frames of mind that I would like to attain. The first is one where I am completely at peace, where I feel no pressure and no restraint and no fear, where I find out what I want to do with life without worrying about not finding anything, and where I lose the restlessness that makes it difficult for me to read or listen or learn with concentration and at greater length. The second is one where I have the energy and hope and self-confidence to learn and plan and grow. With age I will probably reach one or both of these states anyway, but at this point a little of them would be useful, too.

The Pierian Spring

Today was somehow a happy and eventful day, without anything really happening. The one exception is that my youngest uncle (also godfather) returned to Kevelaer today after visiting us over the weekend. I woke up early (before ten!!) in order to say goodbye.

After breakfast I browsed YouTube. In between video clips I tried to make Glühwein (mulled wine) for a second time because the weather is becoming very cold. Since I hadn't accidentally dumped tons of powdered cinnamon into the wine this time, it was not gruesomely bitter. Invigorated (and with slightly flushed cheeks), I then took up my studies, still in the format where I pretend that I'm still at university and learn things for fifty-minute segments until five o'clock, with a lunch break from noon to one o'clock.

First of all, I listened as Papa read out a chapter from Bertrand Russell's History of Western Philosophy on Spinoza. Some of Spinoza's opinions I admired (for the simple reason that I share them), while others seemed completely bizarre to me -- for instance that no one can change the future. I fear that not much of the information about Spinoza is sticking, and that I did not think about any of Spinoza's ideas in any depth, but I'm hoping that I will make more of the ideas when I'm older and that some previous knowledge will help then. A very amusing sentence described how irate religious authorities showered Spinoza with select Biblical curses, in spite of which, Russell informs us, that much-maligned philosopher was not eaten up by She-Bears. Anyway, then I read part of Two Gentlemen of Verona before dozing off for about twenty minutes. After that it was time for lunch, so I went for a walk to the Kleistpark.

Then I resumed my studies rather irregularly. For about half an hourI read about France up to the meeting of the Estates General on May 5, 1789, and perused a map of Europe at that time, in the Propyläen Weltgeschichte (1929 edition).
Some thoughts:
1. It was interesting to note the effect that the reforms under Louis XVI had -- quite adverse.Once I find a more detailed source, I will try to answer this question: is making concessions to rebellious parties merely ceding to the inevitable, or actually hastening the inevitable, or even enabling events that are not inevitable?
2. It's interesting how, even before the French Revolution truly began, the Wheel of Fate was already remorselessly turning to crush those who had once been at its top, and who had themselves done what they could to facilitate the crushing of others. For instance, the discontented actions of the aristocrats and of the clergy against the king set in motion a tide of rebellion that soon turned against them.
3. There is something deeply pitiful in the ill-starred French government's bottomless spending and borrowing, appointment of minister after minister, formulation of strict edicts that could not be enforced, and hard-won concessions that in the end helped nothing. At the same time,
4. I was surprised that the point of view of the French peasants was not represented, except that it was clearly shown that they had to bear an obscene tax burden that was intensified by corruption.

Then, for perhaps another half hour, I read gardening tips. If only I had been more interested and willing to learn when I had a garden at my disposal! But it was nice either way. And that is the sum of my official learning today. After my studies I

- made lunch (beef bouillon with sliced onions and noodles and egg and a dash of wine; boiled potatoes; and a universally acclaimed mixture of yoghurt, whipped cream, cherries, vanilla sugar, and a dash of sherry)
- played pieces from Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, Book II
- watched more video clips on YouTube
- read a letter from a relative
- read An Illumined Face and From Jest to Earnest by Edward Payson Roe (I don't know whether its literary worth is particularly great, but it's the kind of book that leaves a nice feeling behind after you -- or at least I -- read it)
- planned dinner for tomorrow (cream of mushroom soup from scratch, chicken prepared by Papa, rapunzel salad, and an apple cake)
- accompanied J. on the piano while he sang German folksongs admirably in a hilarious high-pitched imitation of professional lady singers (we collapsed into giggles frequently)

The abovementioned books of questionable literary merit have again raised thoughts of religion that have been stirred up by the other pious works that I've come across in Project Gutenberg. It's pleasant to speculate that a beneficent omnipotent and omniscient entity may be out there. What if goodness is not in vain, and people always find happiness in the end? At the same time these thoughts of religiousness prompt the question whether I shouldn't be doing something useful for other people. I can feel intense sympathy for people, but I think that my only real contribution to humanity (i.e. my work with Amnesty International) has been mostly motivated by a desire to feel good about myself, and that I don't understand the reality of the people whom I'm trying to help. I don't know if I can step out of my own self-centred preoccupations thoroughly enough to give others genuine understanding and sympathy and help.

P.S.: Out of the books mentioned yesterday, so far I have read the first scene of Zaire.
P.P.S.: Disclaimer: Regarding the post title, while I do know the quotation "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing . . .", plus the fact that it comes from Alexander Pope's Essay on Criticism, I haven't the least idea what a "Pierian spring" is.

Philosophy of Life

Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

- William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II, Scene 1

* * *

Perhaps it is impossible to be as philosophical as this. I try and fail. But I think that my paternal grandfather came quite close.

Labora omnia vincit

Some ten minutes ago I finished browsing through the bookshelves behind my father's desk. I was looking for books on the French Revolution, since I intend to write a story based on William Shakespeare's Twelfth Night -- and, perhaps, something else -- set in that bloody time. Our books are in a sad disorder; for instance, beside Studien zur Friedensforschung* I found Mrs. Piggle Wiggle. In the end I came away with:

CDs:
1. Bach's Violin Concertos, with Kolja Blacher, Christine Pichlmeier, Lisa Stewart, and the Cologne Chamber Orchestra directed by Helmut Müller-Brühl
2. Mozart's Flute Concertos, with Jean-Pierre Rampal and the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Zubin Mehta

Books (in order of size):
1. Historia von D. Johann Fausten (chosen because "history" is what I was looking for)
2. Sketching by John Mills (I want to become better at drawing)
3. Zaire by Voltaire (it was mentioned in Maria Edgeworth's Patronage, and I'm assuming that people still read Voltaire during the French Revolution)
4. Doctor Dolittle's Circus by Hugh Lofting (self-explanatory)
5. Trois Contes by Gustave Flaubert (my mother recommended that I read Flaubert's works, and I'm going to try to start with something that isn't about adultery, because that depresses me)
6. Die Grüne Schule by Wilhelm Matthießen (a peculiar but pleasant German children's book, see item 4)
7. Venedig by Sergio Bettini (it has lots of black and white photos -- and I find Venice interesting)

If I finish any of these books I'll be greatly surprised.

* (Studies on Peace Research)

Alt Tegel

[Photo replaced due to copyright and bandwith concerns. Photo by JCornelius. From Wikimedia Commons, Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.]

When T. and I were hopelessly wandering around the park containing Schloss Tegel (also known as the Humboldtschloss) yesterday, we saw a fine yellow mansion rising through the trees on the other side of the bay. This mansion is the Villa Borsig, and it turns out that it is presently the property of the German Auswärtiges Amt (foreign office), which intends to use it as a lodging for its guests. It's interesting to see in this photo that only one end of it is yellow, but at least the yellowness of that end is surprisingly tasteful.

North Korea

Is the apparent testing of a nuclear bomb in North Korea a week ago threatening or not?

I am inclined to say not. In an article in the Berliner Zeitung an expert says that the explosion was most likely a failed one of a large nuclear device. So, first of all, the test seems to have been unsuccessful. Secondly, as Stephen Colbert half-seriously pointed out on the Colbert Report, Kim Jong-Il has only so much plutonium at his disposal. The more he gets rid of through testing, the less likelihood there is that South Korea and Japan need fear a nuclear attack. Thirdly, North Korea has no effective means of delivering a nuclear bomb. North Korean scientists do not have the technology to make a nuclear warhead. A conventional bomber plane, the mode of delivery for the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs, is easy to detect by radar and to shoot down.

The other threat people mention is that radioactive material and weaponry will end up being sold to and used by terrorists. I don't know if this is really possible or not. But it seems very far-fetched.

I'd say that the biggest concrete (not theoretical) problem is still the poverty in North Korea. It is on solving this problem that the energy of foreign governments should be concentrated. At the same time, I believe it is best for the six-party diplomatic negotiations to continue, because communication is better than nothing.

Finally, the governments of the United States and of the European Union should not see or treat Kim Jong-Il as an inferior, morally depraved being. Whatever may be his faults, statesmen who start or are complicit in devastating wars out of greed have neither the right nor the credibility to pretend to be superior to anyone. It is deeds, not words, that matter; the deeds of the Bush administration and others prove that theirs is a false morality, and false morality is as deadly as no morality at all.

Making the Best of Things

I tend to have a revelation once per month; its effects tend to last two or three days, and after that their influence may continue, but only on some deep subconscious level. And, if modern psychology (as I understand it) is correct, thought and feeling are merely the interaction of hormones and nerves, and objective reason is impossible, so these revelations probably have no lasting significance anyway. At any rate, I had a revelation yesterday. It was the afternoon; I was sitting at my laptop in my pyjamas, with a white and dark green blanket over my shoulders, hair dishevelled, reading Mrs. Radcliffe's Sicilian Romance (which bears a funny resemblance to the sort of stories T. and I came up with when we were little), and listening to Telemann's Violin Concerto in D major. This violin concerto is one that I've heard ever since I can remember. When I was very little (three or four) and I listened to it, I was generally in a dark room and therefore could more easily picture in my mind Enlightenment-era paintings of airy trees and elaborately dressed people and stately grey buildings that I'd seen on record covers, and photos of cembali. I didn't know that all of these things come from the eighteenth century as a historical fact, but I associated them nonetheless. So while I was listening to this music I thought about being in Berlin as a baby, and other things.

Altogether I'm beginning to connect the Berlin of 2006 to my home in Berlin when I was a baby, and to feel that I was always meant to live here. Of course I was more or less happy in Canada, but I think that I do have a slightly different way of looking at things from the people in my school (for instance), and that I would never be able to develop as much as a person there as I can here, though I would probably be a lot less complex and mature if I'd always stayed in Berlin.

Anyway, the revelation was that I have basically everything that I need and want here, and that I should take advantage of it. I can easily meet interesting people, travel anywhere I like, take music lessons, learn languages, see old buildings, and read books on every subject. The problem in the past has been that, though these possibilities (if more limited) have always been there, I've always felt that I had other things to do (e.g. homework), and in the end did next to nothing. Of course this doesn't mean that I want to spend the next years having fun with someone else's money while others have to work; it means instead that I want to do the things that will make my life a happy and productive one, without feeling that they're disagreeable duties or that I don't have time for them.

Another part of the revelation was that I've been rather overambitious. I want to be knowledgeable about everything right away, and have not been making sufficient allowance for the fact that some things I will only understand and appreciate when I'm older -- some literature, for instance. This ambition has made me more snobby than I would otherwise be, too. While I'm glad that I have set my standards high for manner, morals, and knowledge, I see now that it would be more comfortable for everyone if they were slightly lower.

So, I'm not sure if this all makes sense, but the essence of it is that I think I am finally in the right surroundings to become the cheerful and reasonably well-informed individual that I was meant to be, and that I should start to work now in good earnest -- whether it's at writing, or going to university, or something else.

Siegessäule

Source:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Berlin_siegessaeule_1603.jpg

Treading the Tourist Paths

Today T., J. and I decided to take a tour of Berlin, guided by particular landmarks. At first we had the idea of splitting up and making the tour into a race. But in the end we decided to simply go together. So we took the bus and the U-Bahn to the main sights of Berlin and took photos of specific places with Gi.'s digital camera, always putting a small owl into the picture (though T. was sometimes worried about looking silly).

Here were our destinations:

* Staatsbibliothek at the Kulturforum
* Sculpture of Fighting Men at Kulturforum
* Statues of three generals of the Napoleonic Wars (Yorck, Blücher, and Gneisenau) beside the Deutsche Staatsoper, Unter den Linden

The statues were unfortunately surrounded by scaffolding for renovation, unlike the time that Joachim and I saw them, but the atmosphere in the small park was most agreeable. A wedding party was doing its photo shoot under the broad plane tree in its centre.

* Monument to Friedrich der Grosse in front of Preussische Staatsbibliothek, Unter den Linden
* Plaque to Max Planck in front of Humboldt University, Unter den Linden
* Berliner Dom
* Rotes Rathaus

The distinctive tower was hidden under white plastic, but we were intrigued by the sculptures in the big fountain in front. It consists of Neptune sitting on a giant shell supported by web-footed mermen entangled in a large net, with four naiads (?) sitting around the margins of the basin and pouring water from amphorae into it, and a turtle and a seal and a crocodile spouting water into the shell.

* Gendarmenmarkt

This square was pleasantly tranquil. I liked the buildings on it, though they are pretty massive. We sat on the steps of the Konzerthaus and took photos, and listened to two musicians play Baroque music at the foot of the building.

* Brandenburger Tor

When we approached the Tor we saw a large semicircle of people in front of it. In the middle of them there were three or four people dressed as Plains Indians, who were dancing and shaking rattles to the sound of a peculiar mixture of pop, highlands and native music. At first I thought it was funny to come across a bit of North America here in Germany, but then I was seriously annoyed at this travesty of Native American culture (also because I found the music so awful). As the annoyance mounted Terese took her time taking photos. The resultant emotions proved what I already knew; that the fiendish sides of my nature come to the fore when cooking or when travelling.

* Reichstag

When we approached the Reichstag we walked right into the fair that is being held in honour of the Tag der Deutschen Einheit (Day of German Unity), which is on October 3rd. Walking along the booths, the fragrance of grilled sausages was highly tempting, but we decided on waffles. Then we were disorientated until we found a bus station on the right side of the road and continued to

* Schloss Bellevue

Conveniently enough, it is located right at the bus stop. We gazed at it and Terese took photos, and a security guard came out of the doorway and gazed at us. Then we walked on to the

* Siegessäule

which very much impressed us. I had expected a pillar perhaps as tall as a tree in the middle of the road. Instead it has an enormous pedestal, with a deck on top where sightseers could stand, and in the large pillar itself there seems to be a winding staircase, by which one can climb to deck at the top, right under the statue of Nike (or an angel?). I also hadn't expected the richly coloured painting along the sheltered portion of the pillar.

But we decided not to approach the Siegessäule any further. There is a path leading into the Tiergarten, where a sign mentions an "Englischer Garten." I was immediately interested, so T. and J. agreed to explore. In the middle of the path there is the monument to Otto von Bismarck. That mighty personage dominates the scene.Below him to his left reclines the Sphinx; in front Atlas strains under the globe; Athena stands on guard to his right; and behind him powerful Hephaistos hammers away at a large but blunt sword. I think this takes hero-worship to a whole new level of ridiculousness.

After passing the monument we found a small enclosed garden, where boxwood and fuschias and white begonias flourished in the middle, under the cheerful gaze of a small bronze boy and his pony. Beyond the garden there is a peculiar modern black building with large office windows. As I told T. and J., it looks like a mausoleum. A policeman plus dog were patrolling outside, and security cameras were positioned at intervals along the tall, spiky black fence that enclosed the grounds. But one part of the grounds was also a grand park, which I very much wanted to enter (even though I was already in a grand park). But we contented ourselves with the roaming-grounds of the hoi polloi, and soon came across a delightful lake.

Then, however, it was already the evening, so we took the bus (or, rather, three buses) back to our apartment. We'll have to see the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, Schloss Charlottenburg, Humboldtschloss, etc., some other time.

Harpsichord Lesson

Source: http://www.harpsichord.org.uk/

Tasteninstrumenten and Psychoanalysis

Yesterday Papa, T., J. and I went to the Musikinstrumentenmuseum at Potsdamer Platz, on the invitation of friends, to attend a guided tour of the keyboard instruments (Tasteninstrumenten) in that museum. We came quite early, so we first wended our way through the display cases and past the pianos lining the walls, and I tried to overcome an absurd nervousness about meeting people by focusing on the musical instruments. There were about twenty people in the tour. It began with a short lecture by a friend of my parents that carefully reviewed the history of Tasteninstrumenten, beginning with Pythagoras's monochord as well as the organ, and ending with the modern Hammerklavier. She described how these instruments worked, too, so that even I could understand (though I was still shaky in my grasp of the concept of registers at the end).

Then we roamed about the first floor of the museum, and a Herr R. played pieces that demonstrated the various properties of the old cembali, clavichords, etc. I like the sound of the early pianos very much, because even though it is metallic it is so fine and delicate and sharp. After all, bells are metal too. There was one early piano, however, that sounded like a barely audible cross between the twanging of an elastic and a guitar; Herr R. played the Fantasia in d minor by Mozart on it, and he really had to hammer down the bottom notes with his little finger in order to even produce a sound, which made it sound still worse. There was also a clavichord or cembalo (perhaps I should have paid still more attention . . .) where the body of the piano rose up above the keyboard in an elegant harp-like shape, which -- as Papa and T. said -- sounded the best of all.

Another nice thing about the early pianos was the painting of their cases. I think that music is greatly added to by atmosphere; I'm sure I could play Mozart much better if I were in the room of a palace built in the eighteenth century, sitting on a bright stool with curvy legs, with a painting by (for instance) Watteau on the wall, and acacias visible through a Neoclassical window -- and also an audience might enjoy it more. Even though, of course, that probably only helps if one intends to give an eighteenth-century-ish interpretation to the music.

Anyway, this morning I learned Russian for fifty minutes, writing a quiz on identifying the genders of nouns (I was tripped up by the animal names; "kangaroo," for instance, is masculine, not neuter -- which is nice, I think), then learning how to write the nominative plural forms of regular singular masculine nouns. This is part of my attempt to learn at home precisely as if I were still at university. If I hadn't woken up so late today the attempt might have succeeded as well as it did yesterday.

At around noon J. and I went to the Volkspark again. It's a sunny day, and the park was quite cheerful. The "Bucheckern" trees have already scattered their funny furry, spiky seed-pods over the ground, and the horse chestnut trees, whose leaves have shrivelled on the branches and turned a rusty colour, are dropping their spiky light green fruit which in their turn open to reveal the earliest chestnuts. Autumn is my favourite time of year, but I hope that summer will continue a while longer -- oddly enough, I think I've always liked autumn especially because it's the beginning of a new school or university year. But the beginning of the academic year is the most pleasant part, I find -- it all goes downhill from there, except if I'm in a class where everyone seems strange and hostile, in which case it generally improves in the course of the year.

At any rate, after I came back I told Papa that I wanted to begin reading about psychoanalysis, because I have the impression that it helps one to think more clearly and, of course, because it's really interesting. Then I asked what I should begin reading (this because I once began Sigmund Freud's Der Witz and I barely understood anything); Papa suggested Das zurückgebliebene Kind und seine Mutter by Maud Mannoni, and Selbsterfahrung in der Therapie: Theorie und Praxis by M. Masud R. Khan (both books being translations). I read the first chapter of the former book, which is about how mothers cope with having children with Down's syndrome (or, perhaps, rather don't cope). It was quite disturbing, because the author describes the deep crisis that the mothers experience, and how this translates into destructive behaviour towards the children and towards themselves. The author also states that a mother goes through her pregnancy expecting her child either to compensate for her own childhood, or to live out a similar childhood. When this child is born with a serious disability, this hope crumbles, and the burden of the mother's past unexpectedly returns in full force at the very time when she must also deal with many other things.

After reading this I wonder if it is possible to have children without seriously harming them because of one's insecurities. If I had children I think I would try to let them live their own lives as much as possible, and try not to emotionally exploit them, but I think that my habit of wallowing in insecurity, and my irregularly developed consciousness, would really make that difficult. But I imagine that an important rule when reading psychoanalysis is not to anticipate a problem, but simply to be able to identify it when it comes up, or else that problem or a similar one may artificially develop.

Sunday, As It Should Be

Today was a delightful, relaxing and happy day. I showered, browsed parts of the newspaper, watched an unusually funny clip from The Daily Show on YouTube, charged our videocamera (which we haven't used in over ten years, I think), printed out short story fragments, looked at old photos, and played the piano. J. and I also walked to the Kleistpark; it was sunny but not too warm. Dinner was gulasch (beef and vegetable soup; with rotini in our case), with ice cream, Dominosteine and Lebkuchenherzen (the latter two being delectable Christmas confections that have just begun to appear on the shelves of Plus). Uncle Pu also phoned and invited us to his birthday party, which will take place next Sunday.

Among my works that I printed out today there was a play (which I started to write perhaps a year ago) based on Beowulf. It's rather light-hearted, considering that people are being killed, but I prefer to think of it as a children's version rather than a callous version.

Anyway, this morning my parents and I, sitting in the living room, heard a continuous drumming sound coming from further down the street. We were quite annoyed. When Joachim and I went to the Kleistpark later there were still police vehicles and officers standing around, and an orange city works vehicle was sweeping up plastic cups from the road. Yesterday, at the same location, there had been refreshment stands for participants in a roller-skating race. It turns out, on consulting the Berliner Zeitung website, that the Berlin Marathon took place today; this was probably the source of the ruckus.

The Berlin Marathon is only one big local event that I've basically missed; there were also the elections. To summarize the elections, they were for the Berlin parliament, and coincided with the elections for the Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (a separate German state) parliament. In the Berlin elections the SPD (a left-wing party) candidate for mayor, Klaus Wowereit, was re-elected. Without knowing much of the party platforms I lean toward the SPD anyway, so I'm content. In the Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, the neo-Nazi party NPD received over 7% of the vote; about twice as much as the Green Party. This result made me considerably angry, for evident reasons. I don't want to condemn people whom I do not know, and I certainly don't want to callously pass over the misery of unemployment, but voting for a neo-Nazi party not only implies support for despicable morality, but it also implies monumental stupidity. I'd as soon vote for dinosaurs to come back to roam the Earth. But I don't think that these election results prove anything of larger importance. It is amazing to think that sixty-five years ago Berlin was "all white," and then to look out the window and see Turkish families walking by, or the African man in tribal costume, and to feel that it's completely normal and unremarkable. I don't think that people are better now than they were then, I'm just happy that the circumstances are different and that skin colour is no real issue to most people at present. I felt similarly contented when I saw the photo of a jubilant Klaus Wowereit embracing his same-sex "partner" (I use the quotation marks because I personally would prefer to use another, less bland term) on the front page of the post-election Berliner Zeitung. My faith in progress as a historical concept has been shaky for many years now, but this is one of the rare times where I admit that there is some basis for it.

But now T. would like to go on the laptop . . .

Another Attempt at Rest and Relaxation

Today is a splendid sunny weekend day. The mid-day break is just coming to a close, so I will be able to play the piano soon.

I haven't done much the past few days. I've decided to simply forget about doing things for my future and to stop worrying. So far it's working; I already feel much better, and I haven't been feeling so sorry for myself or navel-gazing much any more. In October, I hear, the lectures will begin at the university, so I've decided to end my holiday on that occasion. If I ever had any doubts, the past few years have shown that true happiness arises from a proper mix of work and pleasure, so I don't fear that I will degenerate into mindless laziness.

Anyway, until October I'm reading online books and real books, and playing the piano, and watching videos at youtube.com. These videos have thus far included three Japanese animé films: Howl's Moving Castle (very peculiar), Spirited Away, and Nausicaa. I watched the films with my critical thinking dormant, and they were very relaxing. Other than these films I've also watched episodes of the Colbert Report and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Maybe a week ago T. and I also watched clips from classical music performances on YouTube. There was, for instance, one where Glenn Gould was recording Bach's Italian Concerto in New York; different takes and commentary were interspersed with aerial views of the streets of the city. But there were also Brahms's Hungarian Dances as played by Yehudi Menuhin, etc.

My Russian is progressing nicely. I've already learned the names of professions, nouns and adjectives of nationality, nominative personal pronouns, and rules for recognizing masculine nouns, and my mind is retaining much of the information. So far there has been at least one error in the textbook, so I've become wary, but the density and conciseness of the information in it are decent.

Finally, this morning I also browsed the New York Times and Guardian websites, as is my wont, and found, among others, an interesting article about an early copy of the Mona Lisa.

Woe is Me: An Essay

Today has been another nice day -- quite sunny, not too hot, and, in my case, marked by a good mood. I can't say I did much. I woke up early (before ten), read books by a certain Harold McGrath (with a steadily decreasing opinion of their literary value, though they are entertaining nonetheless -- for me, at least) at gutenberg.org, showered, copied out Russian vocabulary and completed some exercises, and did the dishes. Then Uncle Pu came and we all sat in the living room and talked. After that I shopped for groceries, and prepared a potato soup and a salad for dinner (there was going to be roast chicken too, but I ended up not having time for it). I've been thinking lately that I should accustom myself to executing housework as speedily as possible, and I like cooking unless I happen to be in a bad mood; hence the dishwashing and culinary enterprise. When Papa and Ge. came home from Ge.'s flight school we had ice cream, too.

The learning of Russian is going fairly well. I would prefer to be motivated in learning it by a love for the language, but presently I think that I am learning it just to become more knowledgeable, which makes it less fun. On the other hand, I am genuinely interested in comparing Russian to the other languages I've taken a look at. It is rather depressing that I keep on starting languages (ancient Greek, Italian, etc.) and not continuing them. French is the glowing exception; I've discovered that I'm quite at home in the language now.

As for my future plans, I haven't done any more research yet. My latest plan is to find a piano teacher, and then to find a part-time job. That way my mind won't stagnate, and I'll have a distraction from my job if I need it. Today I decided that it may be better if I also try writing and publishing commercially viable short stories.By "commercially viable" I don't mean sensationalist and low quality, but unambitious and about subjects that are probably more interesting to the average reader. I don't want to publish poetry, because, firstly, there is a lot of it out there already, and secondly, I have only managed to write three poems naturally and completely sincerely (and one of them unfortunately resembles a pre-existing poem) in my life, and I wrote those for myself. Anyway, these are short-term plans. My studies and real career are still a knotty problem.

I still have many stories written just for my own pleasure waiting to be completed. There is my story about the British spy, which I should take a look at again -- also my "Friedrich von Tautzick" story. I have a third story underway; it is about an American schoolgirl who is summoned by her imperious aunt (who looks somewhat like Madeleine Albright) to Berlin to study at a prestigious private school with her cousin. The main setting is Berlin-Dahlem. I've made the psychology of the girl similar to my own, and it feels good to be able to express and analyze a portion of my "teenage angst" in this story. I know nothing about German private schools and nothing (directly at least) about the higher socioeconomic circles in Berlin, but so far that hasn't impeded me, since I just try to be as realistic as possible, and the private school hasn't come up yet. However -- I haven't thought out a plotline for the story yet; so far it's all development, even though I guess that's all right as long as the reader isn't led to believe that a climax is coming. I wonder how far real life does conform to the introduction - rising suspense - climax (- anti-climax) - dénouement pattern. I suppose that an important part of art is to search for patterns and climaxes in life, even if the pattern is only an approximation, and the climax not recognized as such by those who experience it. Perhaps I don't believe in climaxes because my life has seemed boring -- not that I regret that fact; as someone has said (unless I misquote), "Un peuple heureux n'a pas d'histoire," and this statement can be applied just as well to my own individual story.

Anyway, I've digressed enough. It's probably because I rarely have conversations with others that I go on and on once I have a pen in hand. Not only is my sociableness repressed, but also my general conceited impulse to air my thoughts for all to see. Such are the trials of a hermit. I'm not even a real hermit anyway. It's only when I feel defensive that I am a hermit; otherwise I am a cheerful girl -- sometimes too cheerful, simply because I feel so restrained and repressed by my self-doubt most of the time. To further prove that I am no real hermit, one reason why I don't learn languages for longer periods on my own is that it makes little sense to me unless I share it with other people. There is only so far I am willing to go to secure my own self-approbation. Sometimes I think it doesn't really matter how much I grow in terms of mind and character, if no one sees it and no one is the better for it. But I keep on learning things and trying to be better because I haven't anything else to do.

It is difficult, I suppose particularly at my age, to be aware that I am waiting for something to rouse my mind, to develop the talents that I have, and to help me to be the un-self-absorbed and helpful person that I want to be. I waited in high school for the moment when I would figure out what I want to be; I waited during one long gap year for life to start again; and now that I am no longer at UBC I am waiting again. Not only am I waiting, but I constantly doubt if I should wait. Am I being lazy, or am I truly only pausing for something to fall into place before I can go on? The university year here has already begun; that must wait. But what about the college year? And what about a job? -- Altogether I prefer having time for reflection, but it is hard to reflect when I feel pressured to act. How am I supposed to know what I want to do? One thing that I do feel strongly is that there is something big missing in my life. It does not seem to be university, because I felt this thing missing there nearly as much as anywhere else. I also do not think that the missing thing is money. So at present I am not eager to go back to university or to have a job, because I don't think that doing these things will fill the void.