The past week has been an inglorious slough of despond, but yesterday I hatched another series of virtuous resolves, and today I've been inordinately cheerful. Or perhaps it's simply that I've become used to the monotonous gloom of clouded Novemberish days.
As far as jobs, studies, etc. go, I've determined not to worry any more. I'll look for jobs on the Internet for about 15 minutes every day, with conscientious carefulness, and I think that's as much as anyone can expect. I've searched out lectures at the FU, and concerts at the UdK, and whenever the mood strikes, I will attend them. In time I hope I'll find some aim or purpose that will help me do these things, because the strongest motive I presently have to do anything is the fear of doing nothing.
Lately I've done nothing truly constructive, except finishing a journal of our trip to Hawaii in 2004, and writing two satires. The sad truth is that I find that I know so little of reality, especially present-day reality, that I can't write anything set in the present day. Perhaps I could have done so a year ago, but, since I've been keeping to our apartment nearly as devotedly as the Lady of Shalott kept to her tower, it won't work now. So I write satires of the online novels that I read, which gain some acerbity from the fact that I've become rather bored of them because of their lack of verisimilitude. But that brings to mind a passage in Patronage, where Alfred Percy (a lawyer) and others are discussing the actress Mlle. Clairon. She, having been criticized for having too much art and not enough naturalness, exclaimed, "De l'art! et que voudroit-on donc que j'eusse? Etois-je Andromaque? Etois-je Phèdre?" In short, I guess that fiction, however realistic it may be, is still fiction, and as such one cannot expect too much of it.
*
Here is an excerpt from "A Gothic Heroine," my riff on the Gothic genre:
At that moment the stepmother came in. She had very white skin with startlingly carmine lips, and she wore a pointed black hat upon her raven tresses. Her age was a hundred and forty-two, but she looked thirty-five. In her hand she carried a goblet of pewter adorned with blood-red rubies, containing a bubbling green liquid that gave off an acrid odour and unearthly glow. “Take this, my dear,” she urged, “it is wine fresh from the cellar.”
“I am very sorry, dear mother,” returned the heroine mildly, “but you are aware that I only take wine with dinner.”
*
An excerpt from "Lawson Granger: A Tale of the West," which is a satire on Westerns.
When he entered the parlour and had made himself known to the hostess [. . .], he espied “Betty Blank” (as he had been calling her to himself in his cogitations about her during the past eventful hours), and a joyous gleam illumined his lapis lazuli optics.
She caught sight of him too, as he made his way toward her, and smiled in return. She was just talking to one of Jake Butler’s ranchhands. When Granger reached her, the ranchhand took his leave, and she turned to the newcomer with excitement sparkling in her eyes.
“There are so many friendly people in this town!” she said. “And I’ve heard the most fascinating tales about a bad, powerful man who lives near here.”
“Mr. Butler?”
“I think that was the name. They say he will even come here this evening. Oh, I do wonder who he might be.” Suddenly she gave a little shriek and involuntarily gripped Granger’s arm, her eyes fixed on the doorway to the dining room. There stood a plump little man in a vile assortment of clothing, raven-black hair, a long drooping mustache that looked like the tail of an old horse that has been in a vicious fight with one of his kindred, glittering beady eyes, and a horribly forbidding scar slashed across his rubicund face. “Good heavens, he’s hideous!” she exclaimed.
“Ah don’t mean ter contradict you, ma’am, but that’s Jolly George, the lawyer an’ philanthr’pist. He’s the heart’n’soul of Amblesburgh’s church congregation, an’the most pop’lar man in the county.”
“Dear me,” said Betty in a fluttered voice.
“There’s Butler,” Granger told her after a few awkward moments.
Betty gaped in the direction of his gaze. The target of it was a well-dressed man of medium size, with mild brown eyes and a delightfully fuzzy, neatly trimmed brown beard, and pleasantly protruding ears that gave him a boyish air. “Surely you don’t mean him? Why, he’s so . . . civilized. He talked to me just now, and he was simply a dear!”
“Well, that’s him. ‘Black-heart Butler’ -- that’s what we call ’im. But Mrs. Buckworth and others ask’im to their parties an’ such ‘cause they like that he’s rich and distinguished-like.”
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
At the Graves of the Ancestors
This afternoon Mama, my siblings and I went to the Jewish cemetery at the Schönhauser Allee (in Prenzlauer Berg) to attend the unveiling of the restored grave plot of our ancestors. Joseph Mendelssohn (1770-1848), the son of Moses Mendelssohn, was the founder of the Mendelssohn Bank; Henriette was his wife. Alexander (his son) and Marianne were my great-great-great-great grandparents.
It was a fine summery day, not too cold. When we stepped out of the U-Bahn station Senefelder Platz, the wall of the cemetery was already visible to the right. We entered by the small, old brick gateway. A man who resembled an agreeable Ehud Barak handed out black kippot to Gi., Ge., and J.; then we walked through to the wall at the back of the enclosure. The cemetery was incredibly picturesque: a sea of dark green ivy with clumps of fern, shaded over by thin, soaring leafy trees with vine-draped trunks and sun-illumined crowns. Everywhere there were tall, sombre, simple grave markers in solid black or crumblier, weathered grey stone. The Hebrew characters that were engraved in many of the grave markers had the mysterious, ancient effect of runes. It seemed as if the graveyard had been forgotten since the nineteenth century.
Soon we reached the crowd, a mass of long wintry coats and hats, that had gathered around the gravesite of the Mendelssohns, on a cobblestone path flecked with the lovely red and yellow and green leaves of a maple. Two police officers in olive-coloured uniforms stood on guard further down the path. A representative of Berlin's Landesdenkmalamt (government agency for the preservation of heritage sites) spoke in well-enunciated tones and dignified phraseology, which had a nice but stilted effect, of the considerable damage that had been done to the graveyard during World War II, and of the restoration efforts even under the East German regime. Then he listed the damage to the Mendelssohn graves, and the means by which it had been restored. At the end he thanked the Staatssekretär for starting the initiative, those who had worked on the restoration, etc.
Then a rabbi intoned prayers, singing softly in Hebrew and repeating the words without singing in German. A "choir invisible" sang to the accompaniment of an equally invisible small organ (or keyboard masquerading as an organ), with a few wrong notes; but the pathos was so effective that it seemed as if Joseph and Henriette, Alexander and Marianne Mendelssohn had died yesterday instead of over a hundred and twenty years ago. The rabbi also read out a poem. Then, or perhaps later, the four pink granite (?) grave markers were unveiled; in the cemetery wall behind it, a white marble plate bears, in freshly gilded letters, the name "Mendelssohn." Two or three people (grown-ups again! -- the children were very well-behaved) in the back of the crowd strode through the ivy on another grave to get a better view, which I found rather questionable.
The second round of prayer ended in the wish that prosperity and a long life might descend on those who were present, which I found rather nice. Then the ceremony came to a close, and two toddlers who had considerately kept silence during the prayer broke into a brief wail. After meeting briefly with Uncle Pu and K., we went off for a walk around the cemetery before going home. At a corner we instantly spotted the graves of the artist Max Liebermann, his wife, and his parents. But there were also countless "Cohn," "Schlesinger," "Meyer," etc., markers, inscribed with names and dates in German or Hebrew; the oldest ones I saw came from the 1870s. Some used the Jewish calendar, so there were a few fifty-sixth century graves, which I found amusingly futuristic. The Hebrew often looked very much like Mesopotamian cuneiform, which I find a visually fascinating script. Often, unfortunately, the tombstones were decrepit, toppled, or even wholly overgrown. One gravesite that particularly captured my imagination contained two grey-speckled white stone blocks that were decorated with carved leaves and a hollow, which held flowers then and translucent green weeds now. Near it a white headstone had fallen back against a tree; the bark has grown around it and swallowed the top, and formed ripply dark lines that looked like the trails of tears in the stone.
Close by there is a narrow brick shaft that drops into the ground, perhaps leading into an underground passage. It is covered with a grille; a sign affixed to it recounts that members of the resistance had hidden there in 1944, only to be found, hanged, and buried on the spot by the SS.
After this tour, we returned the kippot, left the graveyard, and went home.
It was a fine summery day, not too cold. When we stepped out of the U-Bahn station Senefelder Platz, the wall of the cemetery was already visible to the right. We entered by the small, old brick gateway. A man who resembled an agreeable Ehud Barak handed out black kippot to Gi., Ge., and J.; then we walked through to the wall at the back of the enclosure. The cemetery was incredibly picturesque: a sea of dark green ivy with clumps of fern, shaded over by thin, soaring leafy trees with vine-draped trunks and sun-illumined crowns. Everywhere there were tall, sombre, simple grave markers in solid black or crumblier, weathered grey stone. The Hebrew characters that were engraved in many of the grave markers had the mysterious, ancient effect of runes. It seemed as if the graveyard had been forgotten since the nineteenth century.
Soon we reached the crowd, a mass of long wintry coats and hats, that had gathered around the gravesite of the Mendelssohns, on a cobblestone path flecked with the lovely red and yellow and green leaves of a maple. Two police officers in olive-coloured uniforms stood on guard further down the path. A representative of Berlin's Landesdenkmalamt (government agency for the preservation of heritage sites) spoke in well-enunciated tones and dignified phraseology, which had a nice but stilted effect, of the considerable damage that had been done to the graveyard during World War II, and of the restoration efforts even under the East German regime. Then he listed the damage to the Mendelssohn graves, and the means by which it had been restored. At the end he thanked the Staatssekretär for starting the initiative, those who had worked on the restoration, etc.
Then a rabbi intoned prayers, singing softly in Hebrew and repeating the words without singing in German. A "choir invisible" sang to the accompaniment of an equally invisible small organ (or keyboard masquerading as an organ), with a few wrong notes; but the pathos was so effective that it seemed as if Joseph and Henriette, Alexander and Marianne Mendelssohn had died yesterday instead of over a hundred and twenty years ago. The rabbi also read out a poem. Then, or perhaps later, the four pink granite (?) grave markers were unveiled; in the cemetery wall behind it, a white marble plate bears, in freshly gilded letters, the name "Mendelssohn." Two or three people (grown-ups again! -- the children were very well-behaved) in the back of the crowd strode through the ivy on another grave to get a better view, which I found rather questionable.
The second round of prayer ended in the wish that prosperity and a long life might descend on those who were present, which I found rather nice. Then the ceremony came to a close, and two toddlers who had considerately kept silence during the prayer broke into a brief wail. After meeting briefly with Uncle Pu and K., we went off for a walk around the cemetery before going home. At a corner we instantly spotted the graves of the artist Max Liebermann, his wife, and his parents. But there were also countless "Cohn," "Schlesinger," "Meyer," etc., markers, inscribed with names and dates in German or Hebrew; the oldest ones I saw came from the 1870s. Some used the Jewish calendar, so there were a few fifty-sixth century graves, which I found amusingly futuristic. The Hebrew often looked very much like Mesopotamian cuneiform, which I find a visually fascinating script. Often, unfortunately, the tombstones were decrepit, toppled, or even wholly overgrown. One gravesite that particularly captured my imagination contained two grey-speckled white stone blocks that were decorated with carved leaves and a hollow, which held flowers then and translucent green weeds now. Near it a white headstone had fallen back against a tree; the bark has grown around it and swallowed the top, and formed ripply dark lines that looked like the trails of tears in the stone.
Close by there is a narrow brick shaft that drops into the ground, perhaps leading into an underground passage. It is covered with a grille; a sign affixed to it recounts that members of the resistance had hidden there in 1944, only to be found, hanged, and buried on the spot by the SS.
After this tour, we returned the kippot, left the graveyard, and went home.
Friday, October 12, 2007
An Evening on the Town
Beginning yesterday, the Descendants of Moses Mendelssohn are celebrating a week-long family gathering that has been organized by the City of Berlin. The occasion is the renovation of Mendelssohn graves at the Jüdisches Friedhof (Jewish Cemetery) in the Schönhauser Allee. Since our great-grandmother was a von Mendelssohn, we were one of the hundreds of descendants worldwide who were invited to attend the events. This evening the City hosted a dinner at the Rathaus (City Hall), which about 270 of us attended.
While Papa and Mama dressed quite quickly for the dinner, the rest of us attired ourselves and made our toilette with much ceremony. When it was nearly dark, we took the bus to the Rathaus, a large, ornate red brick edifice (built in the 1860s and much repaired in the 1950s) in a medieval/Renaissance style, with a distinctive clock tower. The front portals were open, though a sign said, "Für Besucher geschlossen."* We passed through to the inner doors, where we showed our invitations, which were printed on white cardboard and bore the embossed crest of the City, and then ascended the velvety red-orange carpet that flows down the stairs.
* "Closed to visitors."
The room at the top has a dark grey and dark red marbled floor, a high vaulted ceiling, and a large chandelier. There were two or three tables with brochures and programmes; a row of vitrines contained Mendelssohnian artifacts, including a copy of Moses Mendelssohn's Phädon, an aquarell painting by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, and the "Adelsbrief" that made our ancestor Franz a "von" in 1888. The "Adelsbrief" was not really a letter, but a booklet covered in dark red velvet that contains, in festive calligraphy with an illustration of the family coat-of-arms, a formal pronouncement of the title; attached to it by a silvery, tassled cord is a round silvery box, as large as a saucer, which held the family seal. Behind the vitrines there was a security person, and behind him there was a large dark green map of Berlin.
Scattered around this room and around the antechamber to the "Wappensaal," there were our distant relatives, mostly clad in black and surprisingly diverse in age and appearance. Among these, waiters circulated with silvery trays of glasses containing wine, orange juice, and water. We children knew Uncle Pu and Aunt K., of course, but no one else, though we were introduced to three other people. But over two hundred and sixty people were in the same situation, so I didn't mind it at all. Besides, I'm too self-absorbed now to have much interest in meeting people for the sake of meeting people; I only feel the urge to get to know people who are congenial, or have interesting and admirable qualities, and even then I'm quite shy about it.
At length we were summoned into the antechamber. There the "Staatssekretär" André Schmitz and the president of Berlin's Abgeordnetenhaus* Walter Momper held brief speeches from a black podium, honouring the past contributions of the Mendelssohn family -- in terms of music, learning, and finance -- to the city. The speeches, when I paid attention, were refreshingly free of ego-stroking, though I was also quite touched that the speakers (or their assistants) had gone to the trouble of reading up on our history.
* house of representatives
The speeches also reassured me that the dinner was not an unwarranted use of taxpayer money, as I had feared. Though, to be quite honest, I still think that I have nothing to do with the achievements of my forebears, it is true that those forebears were very important to the history, cultural and otherwise, of Berlin, so one might as well celebrate them in this manner. And it is rather flattering to be an indirect Mendelssohn even if I have none of the family attributes: profound learning, knowledge of philosophy, musical genius, social brilliance, wealth, drawing talent, skill in business matters, or even a particle of illustriousness.
To return to the speeches, it surprised me again how ill-mannered grown-ups can be, since the room was humming with conversation as Mr. Momper spoke. I'll admit that his voice had an unintentionally bored intonation, but still! Appreciative laughter did break out at the end, when Mr. Momper quipped, with reference to the symbolical crane lifting a stone in one claw on the von Mendelssohn family crest, that he wished that senators would also be equipped with such a stone to keep them awake.
Then we were let into the Wappensaal, a large salmon-pink hall with old bubbly-glassed windows looking out onto the street, two great chandeliers, and a light parquet floor in a big checkerboard design. To the left there hangs a huge painting of the Berlin Congress of 1878 by Anton von Werner, in a simple gilt frame. The human figures, among them Benjamin Disraeli and a rather burly Otto von Bismarck, fairly leapt from the canvas, and I liked the detail in the background of the transparent white lace curtains showing the faint brown outlines of trees or houses. T. and I briefly debated whether the officers wearing the red fezes were Turkish or not; it turns out that they were, even though their faces didn't look it. The room was full of round tables draped in white cloths, with a clear tealight and a stem of greenery surrounded with red petals adorning each, and signs in long holders bearing the names of different families. We spotted our table immediately, but there were only four chairs (beige plastic) there. So Mama, T., Ge., J., and I wandered off to a high table at the corner where the Chagall Quartet was playing:
Fanny Hensel, "String quartet in E flat major" (1834), Mvt. 1+2
Arnold Mendelssohn, "String quartet in D major," Op. 67 (1915),
Mvt. 1+3
Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy,
"String quartet in D major," Op. 44 No. 1 (1838), Mvt. 2
"String quartet in f minor," Op. 80 (1847), Mvt. 1
After a while, there were three speeches: one by the founder of the Mendelssohn Gesellschaft; another by the director-general of the Staatsbibliothek (State Library), which has an extensive Mendelssohn archive; and a third by the head of the Mendelssohn Archive, who explained a new CD of the Mendelssohn genealogy. By the third speech, T., Gi., J., and I pulled up velvety blue chairs to the "von Bismarck" table, where no one had showed up, and sat down in good time for the "flying buffet." Promptly after the speech, the waiters came around with silvery platters full of appetizers:
Seafood wrapped in crispy noodle, in spicy oriental sauce
Porcini soup (excellent, said T. and Ge.)
Baguette slices (e.g. with smoked salmon, frilly green lettuce, a white sauce, dill, a pistachio, a sliver of black olive, and a small square of red bell pepper)
Spinach-and-potato quiche with shrimp and gorgonzola sauce, dill
Roast beef (served, rolled, on an arugula leaf tip in a spoon whose handle was oddly curved)
Antipasti: green stuffed olive and sundried tomato on a silver plastic sword, with two small cubes of feta in an olive oil and parsley dressing
Raspberry tarts (lined with chocolate, filled with vanilla foam and dusted with powdered sugar)
Chocolate-covered pineapple skewers (tremendously juicy)
Fruit skewers: pineapple, melon, red grape, Cape gooseberry (orange-coloured, tastes like kiwi), and green grape, drizzled with chocolate
Gingered rice ball with oriental-style beef and vegetable sauce
I enjoyed this dinner very much. Firstly, I had only had a small lunch and was very hungry; secondly, it was delicious; and, thirdly, it feels splendid to eat something that someone else has had the (paid) trouble of cooking. Also, I've become so used to being economical with everything that fine art, books, music, architecture, clothing, and (in this case) food are a great indulgence. This isn't a complaint, either; I appreciate things much better this way than I would otherwise.
Finally A. von Mendelssohn, my grandfather's cousin, stepped to the podium and thanked the city of Berlin, as well as the individuals and groups who had helped restore the Mendelssohn monuments, on our behalf. Then, at last, we filed out of the warm Rathaus into the chilly October air, and went home on the bus with two or three girls chattering away and continually saying "krass" in the background.
While Papa and Mama dressed quite quickly for the dinner, the rest of us attired ourselves and made our toilette with much ceremony. When it was nearly dark, we took the bus to the Rathaus, a large, ornate red brick edifice (built in the 1860s and much repaired in the 1950s) in a medieval/Renaissance style, with a distinctive clock tower. The front portals were open, though a sign said, "Für Besucher geschlossen."* We passed through to the inner doors, where we showed our invitations, which were printed on white cardboard and bore the embossed crest of the City, and then ascended the velvety red-orange carpet that flows down the stairs.
* "Closed to visitors."
The room at the top has a dark grey and dark red marbled floor, a high vaulted ceiling, and a large chandelier. There were two or three tables with brochures and programmes; a row of vitrines contained Mendelssohnian artifacts, including a copy of Moses Mendelssohn's Phädon, an aquarell painting by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, and the "Adelsbrief" that made our ancestor Franz a "von" in 1888. The "Adelsbrief" was not really a letter, but a booklet covered in dark red velvet that contains, in festive calligraphy with an illustration of the family coat-of-arms, a formal pronouncement of the title; attached to it by a silvery, tassled cord is a round silvery box, as large as a saucer, which held the family seal. Behind the vitrines there was a security person, and behind him there was a large dark green map of Berlin.
Scattered around this room and around the antechamber to the "Wappensaal," there were our distant relatives, mostly clad in black and surprisingly diverse in age and appearance. Among these, waiters circulated with silvery trays of glasses containing wine, orange juice, and water. We children knew Uncle Pu and Aunt K., of course, but no one else, though we were introduced to three other people. But over two hundred and sixty people were in the same situation, so I didn't mind it at all. Besides, I'm too self-absorbed now to have much interest in meeting people for the sake of meeting people; I only feel the urge to get to know people who are congenial, or have interesting and admirable qualities, and even then I'm quite shy about it.
At length we were summoned into the antechamber. There the "Staatssekretär" André Schmitz and the president of Berlin's Abgeordnetenhaus* Walter Momper held brief speeches from a black podium, honouring the past contributions of the Mendelssohn family -- in terms of music, learning, and finance -- to the city. The speeches, when I paid attention, were refreshingly free of ego-stroking, though I was also quite touched that the speakers (or their assistants) had gone to the trouble of reading up on our history.
* house of representatives
The speeches also reassured me that the dinner was not an unwarranted use of taxpayer money, as I had feared. Though, to be quite honest, I still think that I have nothing to do with the achievements of my forebears, it is true that those forebears were very important to the history, cultural and otherwise, of Berlin, so one might as well celebrate them in this manner. And it is rather flattering to be an indirect Mendelssohn even if I have none of the family attributes: profound learning, knowledge of philosophy, musical genius, social brilliance, wealth, drawing talent, skill in business matters, or even a particle of illustriousness.
To return to the speeches, it surprised me again how ill-mannered grown-ups can be, since the room was humming with conversation as Mr. Momper spoke. I'll admit that his voice had an unintentionally bored intonation, but still! Appreciative laughter did break out at the end, when Mr. Momper quipped, with reference to the symbolical crane lifting a stone in one claw on the von Mendelssohn family crest, that he wished that senators would also be equipped with such a stone to keep them awake.
Then we were let into the Wappensaal, a large salmon-pink hall with old bubbly-glassed windows looking out onto the street, two great chandeliers, and a light parquet floor in a big checkerboard design. To the left there hangs a huge painting of the Berlin Congress of 1878 by Anton von Werner, in a simple gilt frame. The human figures, among them Benjamin Disraeli and a rather burly Otto von Bismarck, fairly leapt from the canvas, and I liked the detail in the background of the transparent white lace curtains showing the faint brown outlines of trees or houses. T. and I briefly debated whether the officers wearing the red fezes were Turkish or not; it turns out that they were, even though their faces didn't look it. The room was full of round tables draped in white cloths, with a clear tealight and a stem of greenery surrounded with red petals adorning each, and signs in long holders bearing the names of different families. We spotted our table immediately, but there were only four chairs (beige plastic) there. So Mama, T., Ge., J., and I wandered off to a high table at the corner where the Chagall Quartet was playing:
Fanny Hensel, "String quartet in E flat major" (1834), Mvt. 1+2
Arnold Mendelssohn, "String quartet in D major," Op. 67 (1915),
Mvt. 1+3
Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy,
"String quartet in D major," Op. 44 No. 1 (1838), Mvt. 2
"String quartet in f minor," Op. 80 (1847), Mvt. 1
After a while, there were three speeches: one by the founder of the Mendelssohn Gesellschaft; another by the director-general of the Staatsbibliothek (State Library), which has an extensive Mendelssohn archive; and a third by the head of the Mendelssohn Archive, who explained a new CD of the Mendelssohn genealogy. By the third speech, T., Gi., J., and I pulled up velvety blue chairs to the "von Bismarck" table, where no one had showed up, and sat down in good time for the "flying buffet." Promptly after the speech, the waiters came around with silvery platters full of appetizers:
Seafood wrapped in crispy noodle, in spicy oriental sauce
Porcini soup (excellent, said T. and Ge.)
Baguette slices (e.g. with smoked salmon, frilly green lettuce, a white sauce, dill, a pistachio, a sliver of black olive, and a small square of red bell pepper)
Spinach-and-potato quiche with shrimp and gorgonzola sauce, dill
Roast beef (served, rolled, on an arugula leaf tip in a spoon whose handle was oddly curved)
Antipasti: green stuffed olive and sundried tomato on a silver plastic sword, with two small cubes of feta in an olive oil and parsley dressing
Raspberry tarts (lined with chocolate, filled with vanilla foam and dusted with powdered sugar)
Chocolate-covered pineapple skewers (tremendously juicy)
Fruit skewers: pineapple, melon, red grape, Cape gooseberry (orange-coloured, tastes like kiwi), and green grape, drizzled with chocolate
Gingered rice ball with oriental-style beef and vegetable sauce
I enjoyed this dinner very much. Firstly, I had only had a small lunch and was very hungry; secondly, it was delicious; and, thirdly, it feels splendid to eat something that someone else has had the (paid) trouble of cooking. Also, I've become so used to being economical with everything that fine art, books, music, architecture, clothing, and (in this case) food are a great indulgence. This isn't a complaint, either; I appreciate things much better this way than I would otherwise.
Finally A. von Mendelssohn, my grandfather's cousin, stepped to the podium and thanked the city of Berlin, as well as the individuals and groups who had helped restore the Mendelssohn monuments, on our behalf. Then, at last, we filed out of the warm Rathaus into the chilly October air, and went home on the bus with two or three girls chattering away and continually saying "krass" in the background.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
A Letter of De-Acceptance
This morning T. woke me up with the remark that there was a letter lying on the box beside my bed, probably from the FU. So I trundled off to the kitchen, opened it, and found inside a notice that I haven't been accepted to a minor's (Modulangebot) programme in History. Having read dozens of times that if one is not accepted to both the major and minor, one cannot study that year, I knew what this means instantly: most likely, another year of waiting until I can study.
Oddly enough, I am notcrestfallen. I am most amused at the absurdity of having been accepted only to be de-accepted by a letter that was rendered anticlimactic by its very tardiness. The website said that the FU will reply to applications by the end of the September; today is October 9th, and the deadline for immatriculation is October 16th. And, in another sign of the non-user-friendliness of the whole admissions process, the letter that told me that I was accepted to study English did not mention any separate acceptance letter for my chosen minor, and merely gave detailed directions for the immatriculation process. I might have immatriculated myself already by this time, and then what would have happened! For heaven's sake, admitting people to a university and keeping them properly informed about the process is not rocket science!
I admit that my first reaction was even relief, because the prospect of clearing up my English qualifications with Applications and Admissions hasn't much appealed to me. But, of course, that small effort cannot outweigh the likely benefits of studying again, and I shouldn't be an indolent wimp.
Another reason why I'm not in the least inclined to weep is that, due to unhappy experience, I have adopted this philosophy: "expect nothing and you won't be disappointed." It has made me a terrible wet-blanket, but here it pays off; I've always been thinking, even after the first letter of acceptance, of my studying as an uncertain contingency, subject to cancellation if the immatriculation doesn't go through properly. This doesn't mean that I didn't want to study at the FU very badly, but I can accept obstacles with equanimity.
At any rate -- one article of hope remains; I am, the letter helpfully informs me, on a waiting list of 29 students, and I am number 14. If I still don't get in, I have been mentally prepared for months to search for an apprenticeship or other job instead, and to get a "Gasthörer," or auditing, card so that I can listen to lectures at the university either way. Nil desperandum!
P.S.: I did phone the Barmer health insurance company yesterday, and papers to get student insurance are underway.
Oddly enough, I am notcrestfallen. I am most amused at the absurdity of having been accepted only to be de-accepted by a letter that was rendered anticlimactic by its very tardiness. The website said that the FU will reply to applications by the end of the September; today is October 9th, and the deadline for immatriculation is October 16th. And, in another sign of the non-user-friendliness of the whole admissions process, the letter that told me that I was accepted to study English did not mention any separate acceptance letter for my chosen minor, and merely gave detailed directions for the immatriculation process. I might have immatriculated myself already by this time, and then what would have happened! For heaven's sake, admitting people to a university and keeping them properly informed about the process is not rocket science!
I admit that my first reaction was even relief, because the prospect of clearing up my English qualifications with Applications and Admissions hasn't much appealed to me. But, of course, that small effort cannot outweigh the likely benefits of studying again, and I shouldn't be an indolent wimp.
Another reason why I'm not in the least inclined to weep is that, due to unhappy experience, I have adopted this philosophy: "expect nothing and you won't be disappointed." It has made me a terrible wet-blanket, but here it pays off; I've always been thinking, even after the first letter of acceptance, of my studying as an uncertain contingency, subject to cancellation if the immatriculation doesn't go through properly. This doesn't mean that I didn't want to study at the FU very badly, but I can accept obstacles with equanimity.
At any rate -- one article of hope remains; I am, the letter helpfully informs me, on a waiting list of 29 students, and I am number 14. If I still don't get in, I have been mentally prepared for months to search for an apprenticeship or other job instead, and to get a "Gasthörer," or auditing, card so that I can listen to lectures at the university either way. Nil desperandum!
P.S.: I did phone the Barmer health insurance company yesterday, and papers to get student insurance are underway.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Rest for the Weary
Today was an excellent Sunday, tranquil and comfortable and a little dreamy. I woke up well-rested after 1 pm, having stayed up late reading online books and listening to music clips that were mostly from Maria Callas. Soon T. or Ge. put the fish sticks for lunch into the oven, while I cooked cauliflower and added butter as well as freshly grated nutmeg, grated carrot for a salad, and prepared tartar sauce with T.'s help. Altogether it was a prodigiously healthy meal, which is unusual in our household -- (c: -- but, I must admit, not wholly filling.
Then I had a leisurely shower, and emerged in good time for "The Daily Show: Global Edition." This week's interview was with Bolivian president Evo Morales, who was more sympathetic than I had expected; I agree in principle with his nationalization of Bolivia's resources, but I'm always wary of the means employed to achieve such an objective, and from what I've read in other cases I fully agree with the truism that power corrupts. As for the "moment of Zen" at the end of the show, it was a clip from a news report on the Blackwater security firm (which is in the news because some of its employees -- mercenaries, as it were -- have shot at unarmed civilians in Iraq). The reporter and the Blackwater executive have just entered a company building; the reporter pauses and looks back at the door handles.
"Are those gun barrels?" he asks, in a tone of hesitant inquiry.
"Yes, they are."
"Nice touch," remarks the reporter, without a trace of irony.
"Yeah, it's part of the Blackwater tradition," responds the businessman.*
After the show Papa (who is back from what was a most agreeable trip to Heidelberg) and I played duets for the cello and piano: Camille Saint-Saëns's "The Swan," Beethoven's variations, Haydn's cello concerto in D major transcribed for cello and piano, and Mendelssohn's "Lied ohne Worte" Op. 109. My part didn't go so badly, but I haven't been playing the piano much lately. And the Beethoven variations are, I find, incredibly difficult.
After the piano session, I went for a walk to the Kleistpark. As I crossed the odorous intersection at the BVG building, I saw a street fair on the Grunewaldstraße; it was the same one, I think, where we went last year. The sun was setting, and a peachy glow illumined the grey clouds in the wan blue canopy and even cast a glamour on the tall whitish-grey building beside the Königskolonnaden. There is construction going on at the colonnades, so the field to the left where runners of darkly crimson roses used to leap from the grasses has been cleared of the turf and become an expanse of mud, the cobblestones in the centre have been ploughed up, and white-and-red-striped tape bars entry except into the colonnade itself. The grand trees beyond are as leafy and green as ever, except for the two rust-hued chestnut trees, a plum species, and an oak bright with reddish-brown and yellow and green that looked, I thought, like the Biblical "burning bush" beside its neighbour. The red berries are out on the holly and yew trees, the snowberries speckle the brush, and the rosebushes are full of hips. I also spotted two purple autumn crocuses and one spire of Canada goldenrod, and the bush with the frilly yellow flowers that I already saw in January(?) still has a flower on it.
Back at home I played the piano on my own: Mozart variations, short pieces by Schumann, etc. There is a hymn that begins, "O God, our hope in ages past," that I knew from Charlotte Brontë's Shirley, and I looked that up and found it in the dark green book out of which Mama, T. and I used to sing when we still went to church every Sunday, over ten years ago. I don't think we ever sang it, but I don't know for sure because I always had trouble remembering hymns if they did not have striking melodies (one that did have a striking melody is "A Mighty Fortress," which much resembles the German Christmas carol "Vom Himmel hoch").
In the back of my mind has been the unfortunate mishap on Friday: after double- and triple-checking the date and time and place of the language test at the FU, I turned up at Habelschwerdter Allee 45 at 19:30, only to find out that the test had already taken place at 09:30. I do have the sense that everything will turn out all right, but it's still a rather humiliating error. There is also plenty to do besides my intended trip to the Applications and Admissions office in the Iltisstraße, for instance calling the Barmer health insurance company to figure out how to get student health insurance or a waiver. I don't like running errands or doing paperwork (but, then, who does?), so we'll see if I'll shirk these tasks.
And now, since I am freezing at the "Wray Times" computer, due to the draft from Gi.'s Siberian room (he has a phenomenal endurance of cold, and had his window open earlier today), and despite my blanket and scarf, I'll call it a day.
* Loosely quoted.
Then I had a leisurely shower, and emerged in good time for "The Daily Show: Global Edition." This week's interview was with Bolivian president Evo Morales, who was more sympathetic than I had expected; I agree in principle with his nationalization of Bolivia's resources, but I'm always wary of the means employed to achieve such an objective, and from what I've read in other cases I fully agree with the truism that power corrupts. As for the "moment of Zen" at the end of the show, it was a clip from a news report on the Blackwater security firm (which is in the news because some of its employees -- mercenaries, as it were -- have shot at unarmed civilians in Iraq). The reporter and the Blackwater executive have just entered a company building; the reporter pauses and looks back at the door handles.
"Are those gun barrels?" he asks, in a tone of hesitant inquiry.
"Yes, they are."
"Nice touch," remarks the reporter, without a trace of irony.
"Yeah, it's part of the Blackwater tradition," responds the businessman.*
After the show Papa (who is back from what was a most agreeable trip to Heidelberg) and I played duets for the cello and piano: Camille Saint-Saëns's "The Swan," Beethoven's variations, Haydn's cello concerto in D major transcribed for cello and piano, and Mendelssohn's "Lied ohne Worte" Op. 109. My part didn't go so badly, but I haven't been playing the piano much lately. And the Beethoven variations are, I find, incredibly difficult.
After the piano session, I went for a walk to the Kleistpark. As I crossed the odorous intersection at the BVG building, I saw a street fair on the Grunewaldstraße; it was the same one, I think, where we went last year. The sun was setting, and a peachy glow illumined the grey clouds in the wan blue canopy and even cast a glamour on the tall whitish-grey building beside the Königskolonnaden. There is construction going on at the colonnades, so the field to the left where runners of darkly crimson roses used to leap from the grasses has been cleared of the turf and become an expanse of mud, the cobblestones in the centre have been ploughed up, and white-and-red-striped tape bars entry except into the colonnade itself. The grand trees beyond are as leafy and green as ever, except for the two rust-hued chestnut trees, a plum species, and an oak bright with reddish-brown and yellow and green that looked, I thought, like the Biblical "burning bush" beside its neighbour. The red berries are out on the holly and yew trees, the snowberries speckle the brush, and the rosebushes are full of hips. I also spotted two purple autumn crocuses and one spire of Canada goldenrod, and the bush with the frilly yellow flowers that I already saw in January(?) still has a flower on it.
Back at home I played the piano on my own: Mozart variations, short pieces by Schumann, etc. There is a hymn that begins, "O God, our hope in ages past," that I knew from Charlotte Brontë's Shirley, and I looked that up and found it in the dark green book out of which Mama, T. and I used to sing when we still went to church every Sunday, over ten years ago. I don't think we ever sang it, but I don't know for sure because I always had trouble remembering hymns if they did not have striking melodies (one that did have a striking melody is "A Mighty Fortress," which much resembles the German Christmas carol "Vom Himmel hoch").
In the back of my mind has been the unfortunate mishap on Friday: after double- and triple-checking the date and time and place of the language test at the FU, I turned up at Habelschwerdter Allee 45 at 19:30, only to find out that the test had already taken place at 09:30. I do have the sense that everything will turn out all right, but it's still a rather humiliating error. There is also plenty to do besides my intended trip to the Applications and Admissions office in the Iltisstraße, for instance calling the Barmer health insurance company to figure out how to get student health insurance or a waiver. I don't like running errands or doing paperwork (but, then, who does?), so we'll see if I'll shirk these tasks.
And now, since I am freezing at the "Wray Times" computer, due to the draft from Gi.'s Siberian room (he has a phenomenal endurance of cold, and had his window open earlier today), and despite my blanket and scarf, I'll call it a day.
* Loosely quoted.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Tag der Deutschen Einheit: A Sketch
Tag der Deutschen Einheit = Day of German Unity
(commemorates the formal reunification of West and East Germany in 1990)*
- walking up the "Potse" (Potsdamer Straße)
- beautiful blue sky, crisscrossed with broad jet trails and with grey mass of cloud coming from the north
- long queues to get to the French Impressionist exhibition (now in its last week) at Neue Nationalgallerie
- St. Matthäi Kirche - unusually beautiful, with beige-and-red banded bricks, translucent windows, dusty turquoise bronze roof, brown door, and dark green Italianate acacias with their symmetrical leaves and twisting shadowed trunks and branches before it
- "Die Welt" balloon aloft to right of Sony Centre, and the Deutsche Bank glass skyscraper; person walking at top of New-York-esque dark red building with gleaming gold tips
- "North American" scene behind Kulturforum: birds flying above the leafy "wilderness" of the Tiergarten, an odd solitude between a plane tree in the foreground and the golden glow of the Philharmonie
- huge banners at Kulturforum; one for Piranesi's views of Rome, a sketch of St. Peter's (?) that rippled in the wind and came alive, with the needle in the centre of the plaza quivering; Q: Are bright pink signs "Uli Richter" advertising an exhibition really that tasteful?
- black crow with smoky grey ruffle around throat
- passerby astutely explaining to companion at Philharmonie, "Concerts are sometimes given here."
- crossing through the Tiergarten behind the Philharmonie
- a soldier without visible arms; two security people in olive-coloured uniforms with a German shepherd (?) wearing a shiny muzzle; orange-uniformed personnel at gates barring entry in one direction; green and white police cars and vans scattered about
- people piddling into the bushes, not nearly inconspicuous enough
- illumined row of dark-green-stemmed snowdrop lanterns along path, with stream of people in one direction; white cloud art installation
- emerging out into the street; check-point where one had to quickly open any bags to let the orange-clad security people glance at their contents; masses of people, mostly over 19
- big black screens showing music performances, pounding sound, rather inert crowd with a few jumping fans with enough energy to scream and lift their arms, camera-man who looked puzzled and disturbed when a colleague included him in a shot of the lead singer and he evidently saw himself on one of the huge screens
- very few German flags visible, reflecting refreshing lack of nationalistic overtones
- crane bungy-jumping; ferris wheel; booths for grilled bratwurst, crêpes, jewellry, Chinese food, waffles, clothing, roasted almonds and chocolate-covered fruit and gingerbread, etc.
- grey stone marker "Den Opfern der Mauer, 13. August 1961"** with white paper garbage piled on top, photographed by at least three people who probably also perceived the irony
- refreshments: crêpe with apple sauce, Thuringian bratwurst (2 Euros)
- watched crêpe-maker ladle out batter onto a round black heating-plate, then take T-shaped device with a rounded bar to smoothly and evenly distribute the batter, flip the browned crêpe neatly onto another heating-plate with the help of a long metal spatula, then drizzle the interior with Nutella or apple sauce (other options: Cointreau, cinnamon-sugar, strawberry, apricot, etc.), and fold the crêpe into an envelope with the help of the spatula before placing it on a rectangular paper plate and handing it over with a serviette (2 Euro 50 with apple sauce topping)
- Reichstag and Kanzleramt (?) each with small grey-lined cloud overhead, which seemed a trifle ominous; Reichstag bathed in nice golden light; fresh air that was cool enough that I could see my breath for the first time this year; people spiralling up into the Reichstagsdom; people in the queue into the dome facing out toward the lawn instead of the door for once; young men throwing green frisbee and spinning a dark brown beer bottle to each other; rows of hedges (dusky purple, wine red, yellow, dark green), huge green lawn out of an eighteenth-century architectural engraving, long shadows across it, people ambling around the perimeters
- incredible sunset behind the Victory statue on the Siegessäule, with wispy white jet-trails, light and ripply golden clouds, faint sky, and glowing pearl of red-pink sun at the vanishing-point of the line of trees that ran along the road
- wearying walk home through the dark back down the Potse (refused to take bus, to T.'s heroically patient dismay); back home ca. 7:30
* According to the Wikipedia article, the "Tag der Deutschen Einheit" is held now and not on Nov. 9th, the anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, because the Kristallnacht also occurred on Nov. 9th.
** "To the victims of the Wall"
(commemorates the formal reunification of West and East Germany in 1990)*
- walking up the "Potse" (Potsdamer Straße)
- beautiful blue sky, crisscrossed with broad jet trails and with grey mass of cloud coming from the north
- long queues to get to the French Impressionist exhibition (now in its last week) at Neue Nationalgallerie
- St. Matthäi Kirche - unusually beautiful, with beige-and-red banded bricks, translucent windows, dusty turquoise bronze roof, brown door, and dark green Italianate acacias with their symmetrical leaves and twisting shadowed trunks and branches before it
- "Die Welt" balloon aloft to right of Sony Centre, and the Deutsche Bank glass skyscraper; person walking at top of New-York-esque dark red building with gleaming gold tips
- "North American" scene behind Kulturforum: birds flying above the leafy "wilderness" of the Tiergarten, an odd solitude between a plane tree in the foreground and the golden glow of the Philharmonie
- huge banners at Kulturforum; one for Piranesi's views of Rome, a sketch of St. Peter's (?) that rippled in the wind and came alive, with the needle in the centre of the plaza quivering; Q: Are bright pink signs "Uli Richter" advertising an exhibition really that tasteful?
- black crow with smoky grey ruffle around throat
- passerby astutely explaining to companion at Philharmonie, "Concerts are sometimes given here."
- crossing through the Tiergarten behind the Philharmonie
- a soldier without visible arms; two security people in olive-coloured uniforms with a German shepherd (?) wearing a shiny muzzle; orange-uniformed personnel at gates barring entry in one direction; green and white police cars and vans scattered about
- people piddling into the bushes, not nearly inconspicuous enough
- illumined row of dark-green-stemmed snowdrop lanterns along path, with stream of people in one direction; white cloud art installation
- emerging out into the street; check-point where one had to quickly open any bags to let the orange-clad security people glance at their contents; masses of people, mostly over 19
- big black screens showing music performances, pounding sound, rather inert crowd with a few jumping fans with enough energy to scream and lift their arms, camera-man who looked puzzled and disturbed when a colleague included him in a shot of the lead singer and he evidently saw himself on one of the huge screens
- very few German flags visible, reflecting refreshing lack of nationalistic overtones
- crane bungy-jumping; ferris wheel; booths for grilled bratwurst, crêpes, jewellry, Chinese food, waffles, clothing, roasted almonds and chocolate-covered fruit and gingerbread, etc.
- grey stone marker "Den Opfern der Mauer, 13. August 1961"** with white paper garbage piled on top, photographed by at least three people who probably also perceived the irony
- refreshments: crêpe with apple sauce, Thuringian bratwurst (2 Euros)
- watched crêpe-maker ladle out batter onto a round black heating-plate, then take T-shaped device with a rounded bar to smoothly and evenly distribute the batter, flip the browned crêpe neatly onto another heating-plate with the help of a long metal spatula, then drizzle the interior with Nutella or apple sauce (other options: Cointreau, cinnamon-sugar, strawberry, apricot, etc.), and fold the crêpe into an envelope with the help of the spatula before placing it on a rectangular paper plate and handing it over with a serviette (2 Euro 50 with apple sauce topping)
- Reichstag and Kanzleramt (?) each with small grey-lined cloud overhead, which seemed a trifle ominous; Reichstag bathed in nice golden light; fresh air that was cool enough that I could see my breath for the first time this year; people spiralling up into the Reichstagsdom; people in the queue into the dome facing out toward the lawn instead of the door for once; young men throwing green frisbee and spinning a dark brown beer bottle to each other; rows of hedges (dusky purple, wine red, yellow, dark green), huge green lawn out of an eighteenth-century architectural engraving, long shadows across it, people ambling around the perimeters
- incredible sunset behind the Victory statue on the Siegessäule, with wispy white jet-trails, light and ripply golden clouds, faint sky, and glowing pearl of red-pink sun at the vanishing-point of the line of trees that ran along the road
- wearying walk home through the dark back down the Potse (refused to take bus, to T.'s heroically patient dismay); back home ca. 7:30
* According to the Wikipedia article, the "Tag der Deutschen Einheit" is held now and not on Nov. 9th, the anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, because the Kristallnacht also occurred on Nov. 9th.
** "To the victims of the Wall"
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