Maria Edgeworth and Her Novels

Yesterday evening I de-sacrificed my online reading, and spent nearly four very agreeable hours exploring the online oeuvre of Maria Edgeworth. I've read most of her works, and enjoyed some very much, so I'm inclined to write a little about her.

She was an Irish authoress, the daughter of the well-educated clergyman, writer, and inventor Richard Lovell Edgeworth. She lived from 1767 to 1849, and wrote her most important works after the French Revolution and during the Napoleonic era. During her lifetime she was widely celebrated; even King George III read Castle Rackrent, prominent people from Jeremy Bentham through Lord Byron to Talleyrand admired her books, and Sir Walter Scott corresponded with her for many years. I assume that she was much in fashion during Victorian times, too, and the American writer Louisa May Alcott was undoubtedly much influenced by her.

So much for her biography. Her writing is thoroughly didactic; though she does not lack imagination and a natural enjoyment of storytelling, her tales are really constructed for the purpose of "pointing a moral," which is most likely the result of her father's and her own lifelong interest in educational questions. She makes sure that no good action goes without a reward and that no bad action goes without punishment, she uses italics to emphasize her point, and she has no shyness about directly enunciating a moral. Some of her works are too long, and she stacks up illustrations of wrongdoing and its consequences ad absurdum. But in her works for adults the moralizing is sometimes more subtle, and her points of view are usually surprisingly enlightened and modern. She extremely rarely, for example, mentions religion. This modernity can probably be attributed to her father's broad acquaintance and interests, both scientific and artistic, also at a time when religious skepticism was rife in intellectual circles. In England her father knew Erasmus Darwin, and joined the Lunar Club, whose members also included James Watt and Josiah Wedgwood; she was also related to the Abbé Edgeworth, who was the confessor of King Louis XVI and a highly regarded man in French society.

It is due to this background also that her works are interspersed with literary references; she quotes Alexander Pope,Thomas Gray, John Gay, Voltaire, etc., and mentions scores of others. She also adorns her prose with a broad variety of interesting anecdotes, and she sprinkles French and Italian expressions throughout her writing. These displays of knowledge are not affected, I think, but reflect the conversational powers that were treasured in the society of her time, and give much insight into contemporary thought and literature. It is nice to read her books, to have one's mind entertained as well as the soul, and to come away not only with curiosity about the quotations, but also a wish to learn more in general (though I never do). And her books and stories are a treasure-trove of detail about daily life.

Miss Edgeworth wrote nine major novels: Belinda, The Absentee (which was originally a play), Castle Rackrent, Ennui, Ormond, Harrington, Patronage, Leonora and Helen. She also wrote many plays, comedy-dramas, mostly set in Ireland. And, aside from essays, she wrote many stories for young and old. The stories include "Murad the Unlucky," set in Haroun al-Rashid's Baghdad and very much in the style of the Arabian Nights; "Rosanna," about a simple and virtuous rural Irish family; "The Good Aunt," about a boy and his education at home and at boarding-school; "Madame de Fleury," a tale based on the real life of a lady in revolutionary France; and bleak tales about the evils of procrastination ("To-morrow") and so on, that are clearly meant for an older audience.

I read Castle Rackrent too long ago to be able to describe it, but it is probably the least idealized and most modern of her works. It has no "mushy bits." Ennui is a compromise between Castle Rackrent and The Absentee, about a young Irish nobleman who fritters away his youth in England and suffers endlessly from boredom (hence the title), until he returns to Ireland and then encounters a misfortune that rouses him to earn his own living and make something of himself. The Absentee was once much admired; it traces the fortunes of Lord Colambre, the son of an Irish absentee landlord, Lord Clonbrony. Lord Colambre has been raised in England and educated at Cambridge, and so has no real connection to Ireland at first, until he starts to rediscover his homeland for himself; the father would have no objection to returning to Ireland; the mother disclaims any Irish tendencies in favour of being as English as she possible can, and she strains to become a personage in London society. The central themes of the book are England vs. Ireland, and the problems associated with absentee landlords (stewards who exploit the peasants, etc.). Ormond is another celebration of Irish virtues mixed with a caution against Irish failings (short temper, bibulousness, etc.), and it has an intriguing change of scene to Paris.

Belinda is a conventional and long-winded tale about an innocent young lady entering a society that is largely devoid of innocence, somewhat in the vein of Fanny Burney, and Maria Edgeworth herself tired considerably of it before she finished writing it. Harrington is also conventional and one of my least favourite of her books; it was written in response to a reader's justified complaint about the unflattering caricatures of moneylending Jews in her other works. But, as far as I remember, the plot is weak and the characterization unconvincing, particularly because she probably did not know any Jew, let alone one who was fortunate enough to be wealthy (without being a money-lender) and well-educated. Helen, her final novel (published in 1834), is about a young lady who comes to stay with her friend after her guardian dies, meets an intelligent and generous young man, and then is prevented from marrying him after she is falsely suspected of having been entangled with another man -- until the inevitable happy ending. The heroine is loveable, I think, and if I knew high society I would undoubtedly be delighted with the way the authoress depicts it in the book, but I don't find the long and painfully gradual dénouement very realistic or enlivening.

Patronage, which was published in 1814, is most likely my favourite book of Maria Edgeworth's, because it has so much to offer. The heroine is Caroline Percy, an unrealistic but pleasant compound of prudence and high-mindedness and generosity, but the book closely follows the fortunes of many other characters, particularly her brothers: Godfrey Percy, a soldier; Alfred Percy, a lawyer; and Erasmus Percy, a doctor. The memorable personalities also include Lord Oldborough, an experienced politician with strong will and strong principles, but a considerable lack of the softer virtues, and a near inability to trust anyone. In this book the countless subplots are, I think, justified, because they are interesting and worthwhile elements in a broad and detailed picture.

Leonora is an epistolary novel that exemplifies the Edgeworthian morality that I find questionable. The heroine is a newly married woman who invites her friend Olivia to stay with her, in an attempt to shield Olivia from rumours about her personal life that would otherwise ruin her social life. Leonora's husband, in the meantime, takes it into his head to flirt with Olivia, first of all to amuse himself by drawing out her foibles, then to test his wife's love for him by trying to provoke jealousy, and finally because he is infatuated by Olivia. The test worked well enough, but Leonora considers that it is due to her sense of trust in her husband that she repress her jealousy and ignore the flirting, so her husband doesn't see it. Her friend and husband are convinced that she is emotionally cold (whereas she is only intensely suffering in saintly silence), and eventually run off even though the wife is expecting a child. But the married couple is reunited after Leonora's mother sends her daughter's letters to the delinquent spouse to reveal the true feelings of the wife, and a deus ex machina reveals the true perfidy of Olivia. So the themes are wifely duty, society and reputation, and the cult of sensibility that was in vogue in France at the time versus good old-fashioned English virtue.

Anyway, to speak of the morality, I've never comprehended the nineteenth-century idea, which Maria Edgeworth evidently shares, that a wife is supposed to suffer her husband to run around with other people, and that the best cure is to make the home so pleasant that he won't want to leave it. First of all, the pleasant home idea probably doesn't work; secondly, the idea implicitly places the burden of blame on the woman, whereas the husband may really be a good-for-nothing; and, thirdly, it presents a double standard since women were decidedly not permitted to philander, and so their life was even more unfairly embittered than that of a betrayed husband would be. But I guess that these objections are now self-evident, or divorce would never have become such a common institution.

"Madame de Fleury" poses another serious problem. The titular heroine, though a society lady, opens a school for poor working-men's children in Paris. One of her pupils, Victoire, displays a talent for poetry, but Madame de Fleury resolves not to notice, develop, or encourage it. There are many reasons given for this resolve, all of them highly paternalistic. Here is one reason not to encourage talented young people, which is explained in a truly Edgeworthian sentence:

Early called into public notice, probably before their moral habits are formed, they are extolled for some play of fancy or of wit, as Bacon calls it, some juggler's trick of the intellect; they immediately take an aversion to plodding labour, they feel raised above their situation; possessed by the notion that genius exempts them, not only from labour, but from vulgar rules of prudence, they soon disgrace themselves by their conduct, are deserted by their patrons, and sink into despair, or plunge into profligacy. [1]

[Footnote 1: To these observations there are honourable exceptions.]

Source: Tales and Novels, Vol. 6, "Madame de Fleury"

Maria Edgeworth goes on to tell that other pupils of Madame de Fleury have talents in music and dancing, but that their talents go equally undeveloped, for the same reasons and because theirs are "talents which in their station were more likely to be dangerous than serviceable." I understand that the opera and theatres at that time did not offer safe careers, but I think that the pupils' talents could have been developed for their own amusement. Madame de Fleury's idea essentially means consciously stunting a child's mind and soul, and I don't find that permissible.

Last of all, the style, though not brilliant, tends to flow quite clearly. It is still much tinged with eighteenth-century language -- clear grammatical structures and abstract terms. Where the Irish brogue appears, it seems natural and is certainly legible, which cannot always be said of that of other authors; the colloquialisms of the time are also well used depending on the character of the speaker. And every now and then the narration contains a good observation. For example: "A woman may always judge of the real estimation in which she is held, by the conversation which is addressed to her."

Anyway, I'll stop here; for, to quote a couplet by Alexander Pope which Maria Edgeworth also quoted in Patronage:

Words are like leaves; and where they most abound
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.

And it is 6 a.m. local time.

Sources:
http://www.online-literature.com/maria-edgeworth/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Edgeworth
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erasmus_Darwin

Waiting, and waiting, and waiting

It is now well into the middle of September, at which point, as a certain document of the Freie Universität promised the applicants for study in the higher semesters, we are supposed to hear back from the university. At the 20th of September, I firmly resolved to call an end to my dolce vita, and to go on the job search if I have not yet heard from the FU. So I have duly put an end to pajama days, looked on the web for jobs again, and even made the grand sacrifice of stopping my online reading entirely and of going to bed reasonably early. But, if I had expected any reward from fate for these sacrifices, I would have been disappointed, because the mail-box has remained yawningly empty of any university response. I've passed through the stages of anger and sadness, and have now, I believe, arrived at acceptance, though I frequently slip back. After a year of feeling guilty about not doing anything, and then taking endless pains to figure out how to apply, I am considerably tired of waiting. I don't even know if I made some error in my application, which increases the suspense considerably. Of course I can imagine how much paperwork the FU people probably have to deal with, but I think I have a right to be annoyed. I wish that I would finally have something to be happy about again -- or at least something to distract me from being unhappy for no real reason except that my future seems like a bleak and profitless void.

Pride and Prejudice on Film

Yesterday evening I discovered, to my great delight, that the 1940 version of Pride and Prejudice is available on YouTube. I had watched it at least twice (legally) on Canadian television, but I very much wanted to see it again. It is the fifth adaptation of Jane Austen's book that I've seen, aside from an overwhelmingly perky musical that was put on in my high school. By now I don't know whether watching or reading Pride and Prejudice is more pleasant or painful, since I know it inside out, line by line, and word for word; I have the same jaded feeling, and the same lack of objective distance, that an orchestra may have toward Beethoven's Fifth Symphony after performing it one hundred and fifty-two times. It is one of my favourite books, but I would much prefer it if I'd read it once instead of a million times.

BBC adapted it as a television mini-series twice, one in 1980 and the other in 1995. The second one, with Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth Bennet and Colin Firth as Fitzwilliam Darcy, is the benchmark interpretation, and perhaps my favourite. It has period music, period furniture, period costumes, and period everything, presented with excellent taste; a broad and detailed coverage of the plot and dialogue of the book; and fine, memorable acting that does bring the characters to life. It is, in itself, also a masterpiece of harmonious detail. But it has a heavy air of seriousness and an even excessive visual perfection that can get on one's nerves.

The 1980 mini-series, with Elizabeth Garvie and David Rintoul, is more uneven but also more human, and similarly but not as obviously historically accurate. The lighting is terrible; the glare strongly calls to mind 1980s television sitcoms or, even worse, soap operas, except where, mercifully, it is exchanged for natural lighting. The acting is of an odd theatrical sort; the lines are beautifully enunciated, but there is little realness about it. Sometimes I had the sense that the actor for Mr. Bennet had wandered in from a Charles Dickens play. And Mr. Rintoul mistakes the rigidity and uninterestingness of a monolith for reserved grandeur. It is odd that actors can make such a long film without being more absorbed and at ease in their roles, but I imagine that it is the inevitable consequence of the lighting, and of working in television sets instead of in real rooms. But, aside from the humanness, there are two great recommendations in favour of this version. First, the book is presented nearly word for word, and some of the enigmatic dialogue and reactions are clarified. This isn't an unmixed blessing because it makes the whole film too slow-moving, but it's something. And, secondly, the characters like Mrs. Bennet and Caroline Bingley are not treated with the severe contempt which falls to their lot in the other films. The book is, quite frankly, snobby, but I don't think that this aspect need be reproduced.

Then there is the 2005 film with Keira Knightley and Matthew McFadyen. It exemplifies my idea of films, as books with one-third of their intellectual substance; it bears the same relation to the book that a picture postcard bears to a letter. But, as such, it is quite satisfactory. It differs from every other adaptation because it is clearly an early nineteenth-century, not late eighteenth-century, interpretation. It would have been more suitable if the film had taken this approach with later works like Persuasion, because Pride and Prejudice, as an earlier work, and one full of wit and ebulliency, fits far better in the Classical than in the Romantic movement. (I think that Jane Austen's works technically belong to the Augustan Age, which is a compromise.) But the Romantic aesthetics are beautifully presented, I think, with the palette of dark greens and greys and browns, and fine wild scenery, rather than the light colours and tamed scenery of the 1995 BBC adaptation. The passage of a mighty pig through the hallway beside the kitchen may be an over-literal manifestation of the Romantic preoccupation with simple country life, but the clotheslines full of billowing linen and the duck-pond and so on are not too intrusive. And, even if I disagree with many of the interpretations of the characters, I find the acting good, and like the easy camaraderie between the Bennet sisters.

The two major faults I find in the film, are both, I believe, owing to the filmmakers' intention to aim at the demographic of young girls. Firstly, though the screenwriter has updated the dialogue very well, at least from the 21st-century perspective, it consists of repartée rather than real wit, and the screenwriter and director(s) clearly did not know enough about the manners of the time. Elizabeth and Jane Bennet put their elbows on the table at dinner; Mr. Bennet offers tea to Lady Catherine de Bourgh even though it would have been Mrs. Bennet's role; and everyone listens to private conversations through the doors. And, what is more serious, Elizabeth says in front of Mrs. Bennet that Jane "may well perish with the shame of having such a mother"; I think that the strict code of respect to one's parents would have prevented her from saying that, even if her conscience and reason didn't. Secondly, the film is really concentrated on man-chasing. In it Jane goes to London not for a change of scene because she is tired and depressed, but in order to have a chance of meeting Mr. Bingley. And Elizabeth is as interested as anyone about the advent of Mr. Bingley, etc., in the neighbourhood. But in the book, Jane Austen essentially criticizes the silly preoccupation with potential husbands, and with their wealth, rank, appearance, and even manner. She emphasizes that Elizabeth and Jane have something else in their heads, whereas, for instance, their sisters Kitty and Lydia don't. Even if, practically speaking, it was often even necessary to be married in her time, she was (I think) arguing that women need not and should not go against their true feelings and conscience, or give up their self-respect, to that end.

Anyway, the fourth adaptation is a 2004 Bollywood version, Bride and Prejudice, with Aishwarya Rai and Martin Henderson. The film is also mostly targeted to young girls. So two thirds of the intellectual substance have been removed, too, but the screenwriter and director add a little again, mostly by discussing the identity of modern India and the (pernicious) creed and influence of American business. It's a good-hearted film, with colourful and infectiously cheerful dancing scenes. One scene that I particularly liked was where Chandra Lamba (Charlotte Lucas), who is engaged to Mr. Kohli (Mr. Collins), reprimands Lalita (Elizabeth) for her dislike of Mr. Kohli, who may be greedy and conceited and unattractive in his manners, but who is also kind-hearted -- this is a worthwhile thought, and a nicer interpretation than any other. Altogether the translation to the modern day, in Amritsar, Goa, London and Los Angeles, is admirable, even if it is a very loose one.

Finally, there is the 1940 black-and-white film with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier. There are two major flaws: firstly, it verges on the superficial and frivolous much as the 2005 film does (though I think that it has less giggling); and secondly, there is nothing English and nothing early nineteenth-century (let alone late eighteenth-century) about it. The setting, costume, behaviour, and manner of speaking in the film are American of an indefinite period. The film is not a literal adaptation of Jane Austen, particularly since it is written based on a play that was based on the book, not based on the book itself. But, aside from this, it is an excellent comedy -- well-made, fresh, and very amusing. The character acting is splendid; I especially liked Melville Cooper as Mr. Collins, Edmund Gwenn as Mr. Bennet, Frieda Inescort as Caroline Bingley, and Edna May Oliver as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I think that Greer Garson's Elizabeth Bennet has little in common with the original, but she is likeable -- so is Laurence Olivier, who portrays an unusually realistic and many-sided Mr. Darcy. And Bruce Lester as Mr. Bingley is, I think, perfect for the part; only Charlotte Lucas was miscast. The direction -- camera, acting, everything -- is done with a good eye for detail. At the Assembly Ball Elizabeth remarks of Mr. Darcy, "He certainly has an air about him," -- the camera cuts to a view down the middle of the dance floor; the line of ladies drops a curtsey to the right, and the line of gentlemen bows to the left, with the exception of one, who remains upright and merely inclines his head stiffly -- that is Mr. Darcy.

The music was nice if simple, using three motifs: a conventional one for the Bennets, a stately one for the party at Netherfield and at Rosings, and a droll and very English-sounding one with the clarinet for Mr. Collins; besides, there is the English folksong "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton." The dialogue was also good, some retained from Jane Austen, and much added. For instance, Caroline Bingley remarks condescendingly at a garden party that she has thrown, "Entertaining the rustics is not as difficult as I had feared. Any simple, childish game seems to amuse them excessively."

But in the film on YouTube the dialogue was even more amusing because someone had added error-filled English subtitles. Lines gained a surreal quality: Lady Catherine's inquiry, "Are the chickens still laying satisfactorily?" became, "Are the chicken seedlings satisfactory?" and when Mrs. Bennet felt faint, and her daughters wanted to revive her by holding a burnt feather to her nose, "No broth! Where are the bird feathers?" became, "No broth with bird feathers!" But best of all was "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton," which Robert Burns would not have recognized:

Flow gently/sweet aspen/among thy green vale,
Flow gently/I'll sing thee/your song in thy praise
The green prairie stare laughing/thy screaming forebear
I charge you/this sterling morn/my slumbering fair.

And that should be enough Pride and Prejudice to last me another year.

A Day of Note

Today has been a lovely, quiet birthday. Perhaps I wouldn't have chosen a gloomy cloud-covered day to herald my twenty-third year of living (counting the first twelve months), but now there are beautiful fluffy peachy clouds pulling across a serene light blue sky, so I can still take the weather as a good omen.

I woke up shortly before noon, which is, sadly, a triumph considering my bohemian sleeping hours of the past weeks. Then I brought order to my room. In the past two days I had crammed out old papers for sorting, and had typed up the most worthwhile portion of my literary oeuvre from my school days, besides which the contents of another moving box had been scattered on the floor, including stamps which I had collected years ago and hadn't been able to fit into my albums. After I had cleaned that up, T. (on the recorder) and I (on the piano) played the usual movements from a Marcello sonata, the entirety of Telemann's Suite in A minor, and three Schubert lieder ("Das Wandern," "Heidenröslein," and "Ave Maria"). Speaking of Ave Maria, I haven't mentioned yet that T. and I recently went through an "Ave Maria" phase, where we listened to many interpretations of both Schubert's and Gounod's songs. T. knew the Gounod "Ave" from her years in the school choir, but both versions were new to me. Now the novelty has worn off, but I do not yet feel violent whenever I hear the tunes, so it's fine.

Then I went for a walk to the St. Matthäus churchyard, with a pearly grey sky above, and dog droppings of the usual brown tints to either side. I still find the sidewalks dirty. Anyway, the Saturday market at the S-Bahnhof Yorckstraße (Großgörschenstraße) was in full roar. This time the cries were "2 Euro!", "Billiger! billiger! billiger!"*, and "Bananen für 79 Cent!" Last time I passed the market, the cries were "1 Euro"; I hope that the change in price doesn't reflect a rise in the consumer price index (at last my Macroeconomics course permits me to show off!). Today there were not only fruits (pineapples, oranges, apples, etc.) and vegetables (from okra through cabbages to corn) for sale, but also bales of cloth, shoes, jewellry, fish, etc. Intermingled with the shopping crowd there were also many small suitcases with long handles and wheels attached, which people pulled behind them. I think this arrangement is abominable; one is liable to trip over the things, especially since the bags are so small anyway that only an invalid could not carry them in his hand.

In the churchyard the trees are beginning to be flecked with yellow leaves, and the chestnut trees have turned rusty. I saw the first chestnut of the year lying on the path, and I was quite excited; horse chestnuts are, I think, some of the most beautiful things in existence. In Canada I pried open the green shells when they had fallen to the ground and kept the chestnuts in my room until I found that they become dull-coloured and wrinkly. But when they are split open, they are supposedly good at keeping away spiders (I seriously doubt that this is true). As for the flowers in the graveyard, there were red begonias, impatiens, one pink hydrangea, fading pink roses, tall Canada goldenrod, black-eyed susans, calendula, and red-flowered kalanchoe (blossfeldiana; it is apparently also known by the charming name of "Flaming Katy"). It is quite comforting to know that so many flowers still bloom at this time of year; our old garden was bright with flowers throughout May and even June, and then came the inevitable decline. And the lawn was moist and green as ever, as was a nightshade-like weed of flamboyantly large growth. The alder or beech hedges had just been trimmed, so they had a small and forlorn appearance similar to that of shorn sheep.

I sat down on a dark green bench facing the church and (in one of my short-lived impulses of wishing to become more knowledgeable) read the first page of the Chanson de Roland, as well as a goodly portion of the glossary in the back of the book. I enjoyed how close the old French is to Spanish, especially since that closeness is appropriate to the story. And I like old English and old French in general; the syntax and spellings are so funny. Take, for instance, "reis" (like the Spanish "rey") for "roi," and "ki" for "qui." And I finally realized that the towncrier's call of "Oyez!" comes from the French. Anyway, small drops of rain, and the promise of more, put an end to the reading session, and I wended my way back home.

Since then, everyone has realized that it's my birthday. There was a phone call from Aunt L., many renditions of "Happy Birthday," and a shopping trip by T. that resulted in a delightfully unhealthy repast of fruit gummies, Chinese rice crackers, and "Wackelpudding" (Jell-O); the birthday cake is in the oven.

* "Cheaper! cheaper! cheaper!"

P.S.: I haven't written a blog entry for so long on the strict but helpful principle that, "If you have nothing to say, keep your mouth shut."

Nicholas Nickleby and the Approach of Autumn

Today was Gi.'s, Ge.'s and J.'s first day of school, and Mama's first day back at work. The fact that the Canadian summer holidays are two weeks longer than the ones in Berlin doesn't seem to have made much of a difference. It does feel a little unusual for me that we haven't been frolicking around outside, swimming in Elk Lake, and spending our days in sweltering heat tempered by electric fans, but since our environment is now so different, I hadn't thought about it until now. Besides, autumn has been setting in generally; the air is cool, the fragrance of woodsmoke lay on the air and hazelnut clusters have fallen from a tree in the Kleistpark, and a golden hue is beginning to glow on the green acorns of the oaks outside the window.

Speaking of autumn, I was seized by a mournful mood and by the desire to poetize three days ago, and wrote this brief and very premature farewell to the season:

Swept are the leaves by the thinning winds of winter,
The branches stripped off, leaf by leaf, of life and all that made life fair.
Spent gold glory and crimson splendour brown and wrinkle on the ground;
The fruits of a long and bountiful summer drop and sink into the soil.
Pale purple crocuses mourn the fallen beauty on its earthen tomb
Until their time to wilt and fade comes in its fateful turn.
The billowing pomp of August clouds gives way to sullen grey;
The hopping, chirping birds take wing and leave us, flying far away.

Anyway, after school J. and I walked to the Kleistpark and became deeply absorbed as I read aloud the ninth chapter of Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby. It is the chapter where the unmarried and rather desperate, frivolous Miss Squeers decides to give matrimonial chase to the eponymous hero, and invites him to tea, with her friend Matilda Price and John Browdie, the Yorkshire man to whom the friend is betrothed. The chapter begins in silly flirtation and ends in a rupture between the friends and a most violent mood on the part of Mr. Browdie. J. and I both thought that Nicholas was thoughtless, rather snobby, and even rude, but his rueful reflections at the end redeemed him. And J. remarked, and I agreed, that Dickens does make his bad characters too evil and his good characters too good. Nicholas clearly has his weaknesses, but I don't think that they improve by contrast with the Squeers' depravity. Besides, I think that Dickens is too severe on harmless vulgarity; I was left with a small sympathy for the two ladies, but the portrait of John Browdie was a highly uncharitable caricature (or so I thought) of the stereotypical loutish rural working-man. As I'm reading, I also remember how Charlotte Brontë loyally depicted Yorkshire in Shirley, and I think it a pity that Dickens should portray it as an English Siberia, in every aspect from climate to culture.

Tales of Felons and of Fairies

Today I went out twice, as befits a rainless Sunday.

At perhaps six o'clock J. and I walked to the Kleistpark, where we played badminton rather badly, and read E.T.A. Hoffmann's Das Fräulein von Scuderi. J. read out loud, and I made corrections or explanations where necessary. We are at the point where Desgrais tells Mademoiselle de Scuderi that Olivier Brusson (who was imprisoned for the murder of René Cardillac) will only speak to her about the murder, and that the authorities want her to agree to an interview with Brusson. The Mademoiselle vigorously refuses to act as a tale-bearer for the law, but agrees to the interview. In the meantime Madelon Cardillac, the betrothed of the unfortunate suspect, is still probably weeping violently in her refuge in the Mademoiselle's home. I find the dramatic descriptions of Madelon's agony rather jarring, but I suppose that the constant lamenting and despair is excusable in light of the fact that her father has just died violently and that her fiancé is incarcerated on suspicion of causing it.

I do like how well E.T.A. Hoffmann depicts the peculiarly ambiguous feelings about crime -- grief if one is its victim, fear if one may be its victim, the rise of a mob mentality against the perpetrators, pity and horror, and on the other hand a certain callous sensationalist interest. But, as far as I remember, he doesn't describe the sensationalist interest. I, as the reader, do experience it, not about the murders so much as about the resolution of the identity of the murderer. Yet I wasn't callous enough not to be quite uncomfortable when the Mademoiselle remarked, à propos of the men who feared being murdered as they brought jewels to their mistresses, "A lover who fears thieves is not worthy of love." (The whole situation seems so absurd anyway. I'd say that a mistress who cannot do without jewellry, or a lover who believes that he must supply her with it, even at the threat of his life, is a very stupid person indeed. The sensible thing would have been to give other presents, like paintings, flowers, or good books -- if the lady could read.)

The author's views on crime and justice appeal to me very much in general. He particularly stresses that one must not use excessive and indiscriminate force against crime. At the same time he makes one feel the gravity of crime unusually clearly, without a trace of ghoulish interest or prying. I think that one major flaw of murder mysteries is that the enormity of murder is not portrayed clearly enough. This doesn't mean that I want to see or read about sobbing family members. Not only is that extremely insensitive, I also think that it doesn't accurately convey their situation anyway. As I understand it, the effects of bereavement often go beyond sorrow; the loss of a friend or family member can severely change the bereaved person's relations to other people, ability to live his normal life, and even his character in general. What I do mean is that, even if the deceased was unpleasant, his death should still be shown to be a horrid event, not through dramatic depictions of it so much as through a sober tone. As for humour, it may be a coping mechanism, but if one is only reading about a crime and not experiencing it, there is nothing to cope with, so the mechanism is, in my view, superfluous.

* * *

After the trip to the Kleistpark I set off again to the St. Matthäus churchyard. Near the end of the Crellestraße, there were orange marigold blossoms scattered on the sidewalk, and there was a faint scent of roses.* In the graveyard itself there were few people, and the hush of evening had already settled on it. The mass of ivy over the gates is still flourishing green; the grass fresh and tender, with tiny white flies frolicking over it and daisies and dandelions speckling it, and mingled with clover leaves and gentle sprays of yarrow; the crowns of the trees sombre and massive; the trunks dark and strong and shadowy; the lighter grey gravestones and the church-like building offering a soft chiaroscuro effect. White impatiens, begonias in red and white, hydrangeas, and pink roses were blossoming on the graves. The sky was pale blue, and quite covered in thin, irregular whitish clouds. As I sat down, the fragrance of the grass wafted up toward me, and reminded me of Gray's elegy and his phrase, "incense-breathing Morn." When I left again, the setting sun was glowing through the trees.

*(In all other respects the sidewalks were dirty and unromantic enough; I've rarely seen as many dog droppings or encountered as many unsavoury aromas as I did during this excursion.)

* * *

Yesterday night I translated some of the Grimms' fairy tales. Many incomplete translations are floating about on my laptop, but this time I managed to complete "Der Königssohn, der sich vor nichts fürchtete," "Das Rätselmärchen," "Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot," "Die Alte im Wald," and "Jungfrau Maleen." There were, however, some words that I didn't get, like "Lorche" in "Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot," and the dialect in "Jungfrau Maleen." A few years ago, I would try to translate as literally as possible, but now I care more about the fluency of the language and the suitability of words in the context. "Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot" used to be a favourite of mine, but I find it saccharine and preachy now, though it is redeemed by the delightfully misanthropic dwarf. I find "Die Alte im Wald" very intriguing too, because I like the idea of doves bringing keys, and finding fine beds and food and wardrobes inside grand trees.

Altogether one of the greatest charms in fairy tales is the scenes that are presented to the mind's eye. Take, for instance, the dwarf struggling with the great eagle behind the boulder on the heath, or being pulled through the reeds into the rippling waters by a very big and very determined fish; the clean, picturesque, lonely hut shaded over by patriarchal trees, with two beautiful rose bushes growing in front of it; the enchanted garden enclosed in an intricate iron fence and guarded by proud, stately lions; etc. But another charm is the atmosphere. "Jungfrau Maleen" is unusually compelling and deep in that respect. The metaphorical shadow of the tower in which the maiden is immured, and the wastelands of war and the dreariness of exile, the slow and weary passage of time, and the suffering of renunciation (voluntary and involuntary), make themselves felt to the very end.

An Embarrassment of Musical Riches

After having roamed the classical music on YouTube for weeks, it is high time that I write about my favourites again.

On the oft-quoted principle that a million monkeys sitting at a million typewriters for a very long time may produce a great novel, there must be a masterpiece among the myriad films of the "Moonlight Sonata," but I haven't been curious or patient enough to search it.

Anyway, the works of Bach are particularly well represented on YouTube. Today I found Glenn Gould's rendition of the toccata of Partita No. 6. It represents the complexity and grandeur and earnestness that I like about the composer, though works like the Brandenburg Concertos are a better example. I've tried to play the partita myself, and, though I can't say that Gould's interpretation has much in common with my ideal, I admired his take on it. For the beauty of Bach, I turn to "Erbarme dich" (Yehudi Menuhin). The fugue from his violin sonata BWV 1001 is beautiful too (though I think that Henryk Szeryng's concentration is a little off in this film), but too sad, I think. I used to listen to a recording by Nathan Milstein of Bach's sonatas and partitas for the violin, but I thought its atmosphere would be more fitting after the annihilation of the whole human species. I think that Bach can be more unbearably desolate and sad and even hard than any other composer. It was, at any rate, a relief to come across Julian Breams playing the fugue with the warmer tones of the guitar.

That guitar recording led to others with the same instrument. Besides roaming recordings by Julian Bream, John Williams, and Andrés Segovia, I also listened to ones by Li Jie. Li Jie has greater tranquillity and cleaner notes than the others, I think, and though she might not contribute any striking novelty or drama to the realm of guitar-playing, I liked everything she played. Take, for instance, the Serenata Española by Joaquin Malats. Here is Segovia playing five short pieces by Purcell, including one that Mama used to play on the piano.

Then I've also listened to many recordings of Schubert. Besides the fourth movement of the piano sonata D 959, I hear D958, D960 and the rest of D959 often, as played by Alfred Brendel. His playing is nice and clever and lucid, and not unfeeling, but he sometimes seems oblivious to the emotional depths. I think that he is sensitive rather than impassioned, and that he feels uncomfortable with any feeling that is not regulated by a clear mind. So Mozart seems more suitable repertoire for him. Anyway, I've also listened to Maria Callas's "Ave Maria," and like its beautiful clarity very much.

And that brings me to singing. I started out with Joan Sutherland's clips. I can't decide whether her "Tornami a vagheggiar" from Alcina is agreeable or not -- her voice has a strong Australian twang, I think -- but T. and I both like to hum the song now. The best interpretations are, I think, the ones where the listener becomes fond of and remembers the music. Besides, I enjoy her self-caricaturing(?) grande dame presence. Apart from "Tornami," there are arias from Norma, I Puritani, etc. in plenty, but someone has also uploaded the entirety of a pleasant recording of Acis and Galatea, where she sings Galatea. A singer whose darker -- if that is the right term -- voice I like unequivocally is Janet Baker. There is, for example, "When I am laid in earth" from Purcell's Dido and Aeneas (dramatic, and the costume makes her look as if stalagmites were growing from her head). Then I've watched endless Mozart, Rossini, etc. videos with Maria Callas, Cecilia Bartoli, Anna Netrebko, Kiri te Kanawa, etc., but I'm still at the stage where one aria usually sounds much like the last, so I haven't more favourites. On the other hand, I have come to cherish a grudge against the facile flair and common catchiness that the "Habanera" from Carmen possesses, or appears to possess after one has heard it ninety-nine times too often. As for male singers, I will return from opera to Schubert lieder, and say that I like Giovanni di Stefano's rendition of Schubert's "Ständchen" (Schwanengesang No.4), though the film looks hellishly irritating.

Speaking of films that feature musicians, one of my earliest favourite clips is from a 1939 film where Jascha Heifetz plays the Mendelssohn violin concerto in e minor (3rd Mvt.). It's hilarious how much undiluted zeitgeist one can pack into 7 min. 29 sec. Another recording of Heifetz that I particularly like is his Wieniawski Polonaise No. 1, which I listen to when I feel gloomy, because the beginning is so funny that it makes me smile.

On the whole, I do make forays into modern music. But, except for isolated instances, I haven't caught up even to the twentieth century yet. My knowledge of Rachmaninoff, Debussy, Scriabin, Mussorgsky, etc., is still small. From what I have heard of Rachmaninoff's and Tchaikovsky's piano concertos, they seem "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" (though "fury" is too strong a word); I am fond of other music by them, for instance the Prelude Op. 3 No. 2 (Josef Hofmann). As for non-classical modern music, I think I will allow myself to discover it over time. But I believe that genres of music are like languages; classical music is my mother tongue, and my most natural mode of expression.

P.S.: I should note that every one of the videos I've linked to most likely violates copyright. So if you have a better conscience than I, you may not want to click on the links after all.

Gathering of the Clan, 2007

From Friday to this morning Papa, Mama, T., Gi., Ge., J. and I were in Mama's hometown Kevelaer, near the Dutch border, for a compound celebration. Uncle W. and Aunt E. had a wedding anniversary and their son T. had a birthday to mark, and friends as well as family were invited. The invitations, which had come weeks earlier, were enigmatically phrased in the Mafia terminology, and featured a dramatic photo of the Alte Weezer Straße family in suits and sunglasses, posed in front of two big cars, with a cello case and a puddle in the foreground, in an underground parking lot. (The event itself proved agreeably non-violent.)

So, on Friday morning we travelled to Kevelaer. Mama and Ge. went per train, the rest of us by car. I was in a gloomy mood and T. and J. in a gigglesome one and Gi. in his usual quiet one. We arrived at Opa's house in Kevelaer in the late afternoon, visited Uncle M.'s bookshop (formerly our grandmother's) in the shadow of the basilica, and made ourselves at temporary home in the "Halle" behind Opa's house. Then, before we went to sleep, we dropped by the Alte Weezer Straße. As we walked back through the basilica square, we heard singing, which apparently came from some of the Tamil Christian and Hindu pilgrims who filled the square with pleasant confusion on the next day. All of the rows of golden candles at the Kerzenkapelle (candle chapel) were lit.

The true Alte Weezer festivities began on Saturday at 3:00. There were tables and benches with glasses and drinks set out on the patio and the garden in the back; soon the shallow well-pond was filled with cool water and pressed into service as a refrigerator for the beer; and an assortment of edibles was laid out in delicious profusion in the garage. The garden is quite small, but flourishing with chestnuts, conifers, black elderberries, and other plants; there is a swing and a swinging rope and a merry-go-round, a little red house, a habitation for the typically plump, black-spotted white bunny, and a former sandbox in which turtles now roam. So the atmosphere was very nice.

The guests numbered about eighty, but they dispersed themselves over the yard, so the crowd didn't strike terror into one's soul. Nevertheless, T. and J. and I soon beat a retreat to a table in the garden, and stayed at that vantage point for the rest of the evening. Mama and Papa were usually perched on the edge of the ex-sandbox, where they first went to smoke an unusually long cigarillo in Mama's case and a normal cigar in Papa's case. A large table beside us was occupied by W.'s and E.'s children and their friends, the smaller fry were usually playing on the swings and elsewhere beyond us, and many of the guests clustered on the patio and in front of the garage -- including Opa, who had come out despite his doubts and cheerfully occupied a chair at the centre of everything. So we didn't feel unnecessarily shy or distant.

Throughout the afternoon a cousin of Mama (who turned out to be a teacher), two friends of E., and our uncles and their wives and partners all dropped by at our table, and we spoke German with them as well as we could. The conversation tended to be one-sided, since we are bad at finding things to talk about and since we tend to give one-sentence answers to questions, but we liked listening and we did thaw out quite well. Besides the usual topics like school, university, Canada (especially versus Germany), and Berlin, we talked about less immediate subjects like sharks and films too. Intermittently we went to the garage to fill our plates.

In the dusk the keg of beer was broken open (with minor excitement: the spigot broke off the keg, and when an auger was produced and applied, a trickle of foamy beer bubbled out of it and spiked the well) and cocktails came out. Gi. and Ge. were our guinea-pigs; Gi. tried the beer as well as the lime and strawberry cocktails, and Ge. only tried the cocktails, and they agreed that the strawberry shots were better. (I had a sip of the lime drink too.) When it became dark, tealights were put on the tables and dancing began in the living room. I was tempted to go and dance too, but not very much, because I do it terribly. So we simply heard the music (mostly the beat, really) in the background as we talked in the darkness under the stars. At 11:30 or later we went back to the Halle, and dropped off to sleep.

This morning we woke up at around eight o'clock, then breakfasted and dressed and packed and everything. We said goodbye to Opa and Uncle M., then Mama and Ge. went off to the train station as Papa and the rest of us stepped into the car and set off home, in good spirits after a most enjoyable weekend.

First we wound our way through Kevelaer and Winnekendonk, with their low rows of brick or white-painted houses, and old-fashioned air. Then, after a "pit stop" at the gas station, we were out in the open, flat terrain, roaring along the highway in our small orange-red Audi. The sun was shining, and fresh green fields and darker green leafy trees met the eye from near and far, the fields were freshly verdant where they were not yellow with remaining hay stalks or bristling with corn, and cows and horses were grazing contentedly. In the smaller roads and paths that run parallel to the highway I saw people taking their Sunday exercise, on horses or on bikes or on foot, and in one case with their dogs.


Industrial Scene, Rhein/Ruhrgebiet

It seemed that in no time, however, we had crossed the Rhine and were at the heart of the Rhein-Ruhr industrial region. The fields and woods were interspersed with landscapes in smokestacks and smelters and warehouses. There were lines of trees along the highway that seemed like ineffectual fig leaves. I'm not sure if they're supposed to be hiding the industrial buildings from the highway, or the highway from the industrial buildings. Perhaps both. Or perhaps they're there for a better reason. T. took many photos of the cooling tower of a power plant, which looms over a portion of the road.


Cooling Tower

Here, as elsewhere, the roads were walled in with sound barriers. In terms of colour and design, they are exercises in bleakness; some are even more depressing than others because they have doors in the middle of them that probably lead to nowhere. The rare exception: barriers composed of glossy transparent plexiglass that is dashingly adorned with blue crests or the like, and that permits the beauty-starved automobilist a view of the verdure beyond. But the only relief for the tedium of the non-transparent walls was vines and graffiti. The vines often looked very pathetic, straggling solitarily up the unyielding wall at long distances from each other. At one spot the plants were plumper and healthier, and full of small white blossoms, but they looked as if they were trying to creep over the wall and get away as quickly as possible. As for the graffiti, I wonder who would take the trouble to spend much time, travel and paint, and to wander out to the middle of nowhere to immortalize such profound messages as "HSR" (or "HSRocks," where space permitted) ten or so times. I suppose it testifies to the potency of teenage boredom.

Near Bielefeld, at any rate, the scene became pastoral again. Small, thickly wooded hills rose and fell, with sloping meadows and fields tucked into them. In one field, it looked as if the golden hay bales were running a race along the furrows to the bottom of the slope. The houses were idyllic though sometimes ramshackle, dark red and dark brown and white, often in a cluster with barns. There were also fields of sunflowers. Along the highway the crests of the hills were sometimes cut off, revealing the dark brown layers of rock. At last there was a beautiful long valley, which was still more like a picture-book than the past countryside, with tree-lined avenues, picturesque villages, and an open and friendly air. Nowhere were there castles or ruins, but it didn't matter. It also didn't matter that there was still the occasional wind-powered generator that, a pale white giant, rose with startling abruptness out of the scenery. Even the wayside shrines of the twin deities of Aral and McDonald's didn't matter so much (except at Irxleben, which looked like a deeply unpleasant place to live).

Valley in Wesergebirge(?)

Then the rolling terrain made way for flat terrain again, and the straggling but full-canopied beeches and oaks and other leafy trees were scattered, and then replaced, with thinner pines. The large white clouds gradually made way for a greyish cloud cover and rain. We stopped at one Raststätte ("rest station") that had a gas station and restaurant and "WC" (toilets). It was not as big as some others, and did not have vast parking lots full of trucks in limbo, nor did it have the odd angular "space-age-esque" architecture that I've come to associate with the Flintstones and Jetsons, and with American diner-restaurants of the 1950s. Anyway, our trip soon resumed and, after a long time, we were near Berlin. Then the traffic became denser. A sign setting the speed limit to 60 km/h became redundant, a police car containing a yawning officer was parked in a closed-off lane, a dark helicopter flew loudly overhead, and signs proclaimed that there was a change of route due to construction.

During the delay I looked excitedly at license plates, which was easier to do when we were no longer going up to 190 km/h. Earlier I had also tried to decode the region abbreviations on the plates (KLE stands for Kleve, B for Berlin, GE for Gelsenkirchen, etc.), and I had observed after we passed Magdeburg that most of the cars that were going the fastest and weaving in and out of the lanes were from Berlin. Now that the traffic was slower I also looked at the nationalities as indicated by the EU or other stickers. There were many Polish cars, some Dutch, one Russian and one Italian and one French, one Latvian or Lithuanian ("LT"), one from Great Britain and another from Ireland, and so on and so forth. I admit that these censuses would probably have been more profitable and more intelligent if I knew about and had been looking at the mechanics of the cars themselves, but my process was highly amusing nonetheless. By the way, I think it is quite interesting how much more one can get out of travel if one has enough knowledge. Clouds are no longer so boring if one knows meteorology, weeds and trees if one knows botany, the terrain if one knows geology, overhead passes if one knows architectural engineering, etc.

Anyway, as we reached the detour and turned off (onto the A10, I believe), we saw the construction work; chunks of highway stood in odd and funny isolation in the most random places. Unfortunately we could not drive back to Schöneberg through Zehlendorf, but drove for what seemed like ages along the A10, which runs south of Berlin through forests and fields that are eerily devoid of houses or people -- godforsaken, one might say. There were no signs indicating how to get into western Berlin by an alternate route. So we drove on towards Schönefeld up until the exit at Treptow-Köpenick, at which point we found our way back along the route which we take to visit Uncle Pu and Aunt K. in the countryside. The city did, I am afraid, appear chaotic and somewhat ugly as we drove in, by contrast to the previous scenes -- though it looked infinitely preferable to the stretches of industrial wasteland along the Teltower Kanal. As we turned into the Hauptstraße, I noticed that my size references had changed too; we passed along five or six-storey apartment buildings that I'd seen hundreds of times before, and was impressed by their height.

And now we are at home again, comfortably ensconced in front of our respective computers, and, in Papa's and Mama's case, resting in the corner room.

All photos taken Aug. 12, 2007 by me, though third may be by T. (T.'s photos are better, but she might write a blog post and use her photos for it too, so I didn't want to take them.)

Stadtmitte, Anglomania, and Dinner

Today I woke up at around noon, after dreaming that I had to write an entrance exam for History at the FU. Many of the questions were irrelevant to the field, and I didn't know the answer to any. I attempted to answer two or three questions out of ten; nearly everyone else quickly finished their exam and filed out of the classroom, while I sat there and despairingly wondered what the time limit was. This is the first dream of the sort I've ever had, which is why I mention it.

Soon after waking up, I went on an impromptu trip to the Gendarmenmarkt with my sketchbook. I sketch very badly, but I assume that I should learn to do it better -- and I have always liked the old-fashioned practice of capturing interesting buildings and scenes on paper rather than on celluloid.

Descending into the subterranean world of the U-Bahn was not pleasant; as one hurries down the stairs (usually adorned with the coagulated spill of an indeterminate dark liquid), one is often greeted with a billowing warm atmosphere laden with the fruity odour of sewage or something like it, with a heavy hint of gasoline. At least I didn't catch a wrong train, so I reached the Stadtmitte station without incident. I expected to see the Mohrenstraße, which runs along one side of the Gendarmenmarkt, right away, but I managed to reach the Markt just as well by following the Friedrichstraße to the Markgrafenstraße(?). So I approached the square by way of the temporary beer garden beside the Deutscher Dom. The open portals of the Dom beckoned, but I've become stingy in the past year and decided not to risk an entrance fee. The square itself was not too crowded; there was an impressive mass of grey-lined cloud over the Französischer Dom, which served as an emblem of the rainy aspect of the weather, and this aspect was probably what kept the tourist numbers moderate.

I climbed the steps of the Konzerthaus, where a blue carpet ran up the middle. I don't know what sort of message a blue carpet is supposed to send. "You are moderately invited," perhaps. Or, "This way for serenity of mind." But I see the reason for having a carpet there, because it helps relieve the dauntingly high appearance of the stairs. Then I quickly sat down and decided to sketch the sculptures in the centre of the square, beginning with the ornate iron railing around it. It was a slow and painful process, involving a sad travesty of the laws of proportion. But the "people-watching" was good. There were at least three tour groups that passed over the square during my session. The first was an enthusiastic tour guide whose appearance reminded me from afar of Cecilia Bartoli, and who, inter alia, recited an anecdote about Paganini to a group of interested students. She called Paganini a "Star-Geiger," at which I internally shuddered.

I do wish that English words were loved wisely, and not too well, in Germany. All my snobbish instincts are called forth by the endless "star," "power," "management," "timing," etc., and the disservice done to the English language by borrowing so overwhelmingly from the pedestrian or business-related portion of its vocabulary, and using it in pedestrian or business-related contexts. For some reason I'm deeply prejudiced against big business, especially in the German context; it seems to me to be a compound of mercenary spirit, mumbo-jumbo about "teamwörk," and endless sucking up to everything anglo. Besides, I've spoken English for sixteen years, and, much as I love it, it is, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, not more "cool" or more expressive than any other language. That said, I don't mind at all when Germans speak English with English-speaking people, or when they use individual words for a reason other than the desire to show off, be "cool," and/or be modern.

Anyway, to return to the Gendarmenmarkt, there was another tour group where the guide had a British accent. It's so nice to hear English spoken again. There were also two tourist buses that rolled by. As I drew, sparrows and pigeons hopped around me (the pigeons fortunately kept a greater distance). After I had given up trying to depict the iron railing and marble sculpture base, had passed by the sitting sculptures entirely, but had finished the figure that stands in the centre of the sculptures, I packed up and started home. I passed the Hanns Eisler music academy, and picked up a black booklet with gaudily dramatic photos of a theatre presentation, which contains in it the events of the coming season. Then I found Stadtmitte again (via the Mohrenstraße this time) without a problem.

But as I passed down a long tunnel to the U6 platforms, there was a cluster of young people trying to get others to subscribe to the Berliner Zeitung (I had already encountered this desperate species twice before). One of them put out his arm against the wall, so that I effectively couldn't pass, displaying rather more effrontery than the other two vendors. Eying the copy of the paper in his arm, I said that I already have a subscription (well, my parents do, but it's basically the same thing). "To the Berliner Zeitung?" "Yes." "Are you satisfied with it?" With the pleasant consciousness that I was about to be permitted to continue on my way, I no longer felt so victimized and uncomfortable, so I smiled a little as I answered, "Yes." And then I went on, not entirely without further irritation because another of the students asked me something that I couldn't hear. I guess that, when I have lived in the city longer, I will develop a "Noli me tangere et noli me parlare" air, or a dry and ready wit, that will more rapidly extricate me from such situations.

After I came home, I browsed the Guardian, New York Times, New Yorker, and Globe and Mail websites, reading an article or more in each. I also checked up a cooking blog (I prefer cooking in the imagination these days), the Sartorialist blog, and the Writer's Almanac. The online reading was short today, because I wisely resolved three days ago to restrict my Project Gutenberg time to four hours per day. That may still seem like a long time, but it means that I must spend well over eight hours per day with more meaningful pursuits. The day before yesterday the self-discipline required was astonishingly minimal, but yesterday the effort was considerable. Today, in local time, has thus far consisted of only two hours and thirty-five minutes (or so the computer tells me), so there has been no effort at all.

Anyway, I also cooked dinner with Ge.'s help. It was a sadly heterogeneous meal of eggs with anchovies, canned green olives with lemon paste, spaetzle, homemade plum cake, and hot chocolate. The making of the plum cake was moderately exciting because I forgot to put in the sugar until the dough was kneaded and put into a bowl to rise. I wondered why the dough looked excessively grey and bubbly, then I had a "eureka" moment as I spotted the pre-measured sugar on the table. So I kneaded in the sugar post hoc, and it was magical how quickly the dough became smooth, resilient and healthily beige. The rolling of the dough was also "interesting." The handle of the rolling-pin is a nuisance when the dough is on a cookie sheet with raised edges, and there was no plain round jar available, so I ended up using a mug for the task. The only part of the meal that I cooked in an orthodox manner was the eggs; I once read in a New York Times article that the eggs should be cooked in water that is at a simmer and not at a rolling boil, so I tried it this time with good results. The shell separated from the egg beautifully.

Music and a Mystery

Today I emerged from an absorption in online reading, piano playing, and watching opera videos on YouTube, and went for a walk in the Kleistpark with J. The weather was rainy, and the sunlight quite dimmed except for a few bursts of brightness. When we went out, the asphalt had mostly dried, and other people were venturing out. In the portion of the park beside the Kammergericht building, we spotted a plant that I didn't know; it was a hibiscus-like shrub with long shoots full of large leaves, and topped by large pink-petalled flowers with large, furry, pale yellow stamens and pistils in the centre.

I had a good piano session today, too, browsing through the Klavierbüchlein für Anna Maria Magdalena Bach, Beethoven's middle sonatas, Mozart sonatas, Schubert's sonata D 960, Chopin's waltzes and mazurkas and nocturnes (as well as the Polonaise in A major), Grade 6 and 7 pieces from the Toronto Conservatory of Music books, Claude Daquin's "Cuckoo Song," the piano part of Händel's Largo arranged for the piano and cello, and Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte. I also took a look at songs by Schubert, picking out the melodies and trying out the accompaniments. I found "Ave Maria," but I don't think I'll play it much, because I think that one can tire of it very quickly. With the Mozart my fingers were fortunately nimble enough to play with appropriate lightness and clarity, and some of his sonatas went very well indeed.

Besides this, I am re-reading The Crimson Blind, written by Fred M. White and published in 1905, at gutenberg.org. The protagonist is David Steel, a writer of crime fiction, who is summoned by a mysterious phone call and a thousand pounds to give advice to a damsel in distress at the dead of night. The advice is duly given, but when the writer returns to his home, he finds a seriously wounded man in his study. The police are called in, the injured man is brought to the hospital in critical condition, and Mr. Steel must clear himself of the suspicion of attempted murder. To do this he enlists a friend, Hatherley Bell, an excellent doctor of most astute mind. Mr. Bell soon discovers that the enemy who is responsible for the wounded man is the same enemy who blighted his own career by framing him for the theft of a Rembrandt painting. The enemy's name is Reginald Henson, a cunning scoundrel who is known to the world as a genial philanthropist. The damsel in distress is one of two sisters whose aunt is being blackmailed by their relative Mr. Henson (two thousand pounds for new hospital beds, for instance). Anyway, as I write I see that the plot is rather complicated, but it does make sense in the end, and it is a good yarn (reminiscent of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "Adventure of the Copper Beeches").

A Second Picnic in the Volkspark

Today Gi. came home from the countryside, with a vigorous tan, a formidable scrape and bruise on one shoulder from falling off his bicycle, and a happy healthy air.

Soon thereafter we all went to the Volkspark for a picnic. It's a "second" picnic because we had a first one nearly exactly a year ago. Anyway, we walked all the way along the Belziger Straße (which seems much shorter when one isn't walking alone), and crossed the street in front of the Rathaus, where tall scaffolding currently reaches up to the bell tower for the renovations. Then we wended past the fountain with the golden stag, over the pale grey Carl Zuckmayer Bridge, and along the meandering green lawns criss-crossed by paths and shaded over by grand leafy trees, which look as if they came out of an old English landscape painting. There was a hint of autumn in the yellow and crispy fallen linden leaf-petals, but everything else was flourishingly green. Between the large clouds, the sky was very blue, and when we had arrived at the grassy area in front of the large playground, the sun eventually appeared.

We started to play badminton, and then W., Si., A., and O. arrived. After despatching the edibles, we alternately passed around the soccer ball (and played "piggy-in-the-middle"), played badminton and frisbee, and rested. I didn't feel like playing soccer, but I played lots of badminton and a little frisbee. O. rode his bike through the countryside, and at one point W. and A. went off for a game of table-tennis. There were many joggers, a gaggle of Nordic walkers, young couples, families with children, and single walkers who passed by, and we fortunately hit or ran into none of them. In the peculiar playground area with three large basins (for skateboarding, perhaps?), a small drama took place as a little boy hurt himself, then cried, surrounded by worried family and affectionately petted. As for insects, only one wasp haunted our festal board, but the mosquitoes were at least three in number.

And now all of us are home again! Since my return I've already read through The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Earlier today I had finished The Angel of Terror (which I didn't much like) by the same author, and Blindfolded. I just started Ben Hur, and therefore hope to be spared any further crimes except those of taste. There is, by the way, a line in Blindfolded which I rather like, about someone "who talked about the weather with a fertility of commonplaces that excited my admiration."

As for my usual ruminations on life and career and so on, I've been thinking about learning more about people as well as books. How to go about it is a sort of conundrum: given an adolescent who is currently not in university, with no taste for bars or clubs, a fear of being formally presented to people, and no wish to enter any organization, how can said adolescent broaden her knowledge of society? Trading walks to graveyards and parks for walks to tourist hotspots, lectures and concerts is probably not enough. Maybe I should find out what kinds of organizations there are before I refuse to enter them. If all goes well, I may yet become an environmentalist scientologist freemason, with an expired membership card for a fringe political party dedicated to reestablishing the monarchy, and a large acquaintance.

Mama's Birthday and the Briny Deep

This morning I woke up at around eight o'clock. I remembered right away that it was Mama's birthday, and serenaded her with "Happy Birthday" as she sat at the computer (Papa was also up; the rest were sleeping). Then I went on a round of errands; I bought cake from the bakery (Ge.'s suggestion) and pink roses from the florist's (my own idea). T. had suggested doing the dishes for Mama, but after doing one round (where Mama dried the dishes anyway) my enthusiasm waned.

After Papa's return to the university we feasted on the cake and pickles and hot cocoa/ovaltine. The dish stacks in the background did not impede our enjoyment of the lunch in the least, whereas the absence of Gi. -- who is in the countryside -- was felt. During the subsequent interlude I read online books and a nineteenth-century periodical, and played the piano. As far as music goes, it was not one of my "genius days;" but in terms of phrasing, lightness, fluency, etc., I played many of Mendelssohn's "Lieder ohne Worte," and Chopin's waltzes and polonaises*, and Mozart sonata movements much better than I ever did before. The usual sampling of late Beethoven sonata movements, Chopin nocturnes, and the piano part of "The Swan," also went well.

In the evening W., Si., A. and O. visited. They brought red wine, refreshments, and presents; Mama also prepared refreshments; and so we all gathered in the corner room for a convivial round. After a while a strong wind blew up outside, not only at the level of the oak outside the window, but also at the level of the greyish clouds that moved swiftly across the sky. At one point I went to the balcony door to feel the wind, and I was pleasantly surprised to detect a distinct sea-smell. It instantly reminded me of my grandfather's apartment at Sidney; some of the others didn't particularly like the strong odour of decomposing or at least warm seaweed that sometimes met us when we visited there, but I never minded it even at its worst, and I've felt rather nostalgic about it. Besides, I like the sea in general anyway. When Papa said that the wind had travelled for about seven hours to here from the ocean, I instantly pictured (in my mind's eye) a turbulently gusty scene at the North Sea coastline: powerful white-capped waves crashing down with flying spray onto the sand. At Sidney there was a breakwater where we could see that kind of wave at close quarters: we stood at the railing and watched broad waves roll swiftly in, then smash up against the concrete, and finally disintegrate into splendidly high plumes of froth that swept over the corner. Anyway, I could reminisce about the sea for a long time, but I won't. (c:

* The polonaises included the one in A major; there is a recording of Arthur Rubinstein's rendition on YouTube.

P.S.: In the previous blog post "Art of the Id," "garish" should be replaced with "gaudy."

An E-Holiday in England

For at least the last two days I've been submerged in online books, sleeping at odd hours, and nearly entirely lazy. At around two o'clock this afternoon I emerged, in a very good mood, and with a strong determination never to do that again.

I've reached the authors whose last names begin with V at gutenberg.org. Mostly I've been reading books about young ladies in the Victorian and Edwardian eras. They are surprisingly relevant to real life, since a central theme is finding employment and coping with pecuniary difficulties. Though I can't say that I came away with any great insights on those points, it's nice to read about people (imaginary though they be) in a similar boat. And I do like comparing the past and present. But I haven't read any books lately that have led to any wise resolves or moral enlightenment (and I guess I could use both).

At the same time I have been thinking, as usual, what I should do next. I've already done enough research to get a general idea of what I must do (immatriculation forms and German proficiency tests) in the case that I'm accepted to university. And every two days or so I check online job listings (Meinestadt.de, Craigslist, and sometimes the Berliner Zeitung), not only to see if there are reputable-looking jobs for which I am qualified, but also to get a general idea what jobs are out there and what qualifications employers are (or should be) looking for. As for getting out more, I'm beginning to think of ways and means. But the self-education question is looking very doubtful; much as I wish that I would learn something, I still need a strong example, or strong compulsion by circumstances, to rouse myself to do it. If I do become a student this year, these problems would be, for the most part, solved. It even seems to be easier to find a job when one is a student. I cannot, however, rely on such a solution.

Anyway, T. made a delightful dinner today of pasta, chicken, and sweet-and-sour sauce (Mama did the shopping -- twice!). Then she and I played pieces for the piano and recorder again: the two movements of a Marcello sonata, and Telemann's Suite in a minor. After that I tried to practice the piano part of cello duets, where I whistle the cello part. The whistling was decent but exhausting. Then Papa offered to play the cello part, so we went through "Klassische Stücke für den Anfang" and Saint-Saens's "The Swan," and the pieces sounded nice.

With th'impending dusk, I went off for a quick walk to the Kleistpark. The few remaining blossoms included pink hydrangea and purple butterfly-bush flowers; there were also yellow flowers, including the fluffy dark ones that I mentioned in my Easter blog entry. But the dark purplish-blue Oregon grapes are also out, the snowberry bushes are decorated in white berries and tiny pink blooms, and one rose bush is full of red hips. Besides the flora, the fauna were also in evidence: dedicated joggers and conversing friends, of the species Homo sapiens. Spare droplets fell from the sky, but the grey cloud-cover otherwise retained its watery contents. Altogether, given the beautiful flourishing green everywhere, I see no reason to change my mind that the loveliest summer weather is cool temperatures and a lot of rain.

P.S.: The "E-Holiday" is short for "electronic holiday." It is rather lame but, hopefully, descriptive.

Art of the Id

Today was a very warm day. In the apartment it is moderately cool, except where a tepid breeze blows in, as if from a hairdryer, from the balcony. The stairway is cooler still. But then, when one steps outside, a mass of hot air envelops one and slowly assimilates one's body temperature until it is no longer pleasantly comfortable but rather stifling. Still, it can get hotter, and it was bearable in the bus. At Potsdamer Platz I was reminded of the concept of the city microclimate (often mentioned in the newspapers when we arrived in Berlin during a heat wave last year) -- cities are always warmer than the surroundings because the streets and buildings soak up and store the heat -- because the street seemed so hot and desert-like. It puzzles me that the weather should heat so quickly, as if to make up for lost time.

Anyway, Mama, M., and I ventured out into these conditions in order to look at exhibitions at the Martin-Gropius-Bau. The sun was shining brightly, the "Die Welt" sightseeing balloon was floating motionlessly at the end of its guy wire, and at least one bus was disgorging a flood of art-seekers to join the queue underneath the sheltering porch of the stately building. So I had time to inspect the carvings on the front wall. There are carvings on the pillars, as I've mentioned in a previous blog entry, but also in the bricks in the wall, along the complex cornices, and on slabs of wood running along the wall. The intricacy of the decorations is, I find, most appealing, and it counteracts any pompous effect. Carved on one of the pillars there is a shield bearing a ribbon-wrapped palette, and though I didn't find it exactly pretty, I admired the veins and rippled edges with which the surrounding sprays of laurel (?) had been sculpted. I like patterns to be small and detailed, and I've often been disillusioned when I look more closely at artwork (for example designs on the bindings of old books) that has a pretty complicated effect but turns out to be composed of crude lines and dots.

Once past the security officer and the rotating door, a blessed frigidity met us. Then we bought the tickets and set off up the stairs to the Cindy Sherman exhibition. This exhibition was composed of sets of photographs with unifying themes. At the beginning there were, for example, washed-out actress types and people waiting at a bus station. Later subjects included "models," clowns, and figures in old paintings. But one thing that unified most of these photos was the fact that it was Cindy Sherman who posed for them, made up and dressed up in order to portray these different characters. The remaining photos were of inanimate objects, in particular a series of mutilated dolls that more or less justified the sign at the exhibition's entrance to the effect that it might hurt one's feelings and was not suitable for children or youths.

The pedantry-tinged but helpful signs indicated clearly enough the central preoccupations of the artist: artificiality, and the way females are viewed in the film and fashion industries. The main thematic tool was caricature, and it was mostly grotesque and disturbing. But in the case of a "model" photo with a brightly painted red face encircled with a mane of straw there was considerable aesthetic value, hardly disturbed by the grimy fingernails of the subject; also, for some reason I did feel like laughing when I saw the recreation of a portrait of the Virgin Mary holding her child, according to the very stiff and unnatural posture in some quite old painting, with a rather supercilious expression on her preternaturally tidy face.

To continue on the subject of the recreated paintings, I think that it is really here where her skill in make-up, costumery and facial expression are most evident. The way she transforms her face to resemble widely different people is incredible. That said, not all the portraits appealed to me, particularly not the Judith-and-Holofernes (?). Besides the ones that did appeal, I also liked many of the black-and-white photos where stereotypical scenes with women in old films were recreated, for instance a woman in noirish artistic clothing striding past a modern office building, or another woman in a nurse-like uniform stretching up for a book in a shelf. But I thought that her poses in many of them were too staged, and the scenes a little flat. I think that many older black-and-white films were made with a very clear eye for aesthetics, which did not seem to concern Cindy Sherman as much.

Altogether, the skill of the photographer was obvious. But I went through the exhibition rather grumpily. One thing that I found unsettling was that the proportions and the cutting of the photos were rarely what I would consider "right." I don't know if this was purposely done or not. For example it really bothers me when a person is in the exact centre of a photo, effectively dividing the picture. (Admittedly I do have a minor fixation with expecting photos to be separated into thirds, for example two-thirds foreground and one-third background.) Or I think that the photo is not long enough, or that the ratio of Cindy Sherman to the background is not right (e.g. in her "Rear Projection" series), or that the background is too blurry. All of this results in an incompleteness and confusion, which is, I think, not necessary for the purposes of the artist. As for her motifs, clowns and plastic dolls and gruesome representations of fairy tales by adults are things I've always found rather garish and disliked anyway. But all of this is a matter of personal taste. Most people probably don't have my aesthetic hang-ups, and are more fond of art that has much to do with effect and shock value. Without knowing much about the field, I suppose that anyone interested in psychoanalysis would find the exhibition particularly absorbing, because the photos are full of archetypes and primal emotions (hence the title of this post). Anyway, I did find the exhibition interesting and don't regret that I went to see it.

We went home again after roaming in the gift shop (which I rather like, with hundreds of postcards neatly arranged along the entry, a generous skylight, and walls and shelves full of picture-filled books). The guiding wire of the "Die Welt" balloon was now at an angle, indicating that a wind had come up; at the street level it was not perceptible except as a breeze that would have done credit to the Sahara, and was laden with car-scent.

Besides this, I read C.S. Lewis's The Magician's Nephew, which was nice to reread after many years. I liked its comic moments and well-drawn characters and excellent descriptions of scenery very much, even if the morality did come across as rather ponderous (I mostly ignored it (c: ). Then I browsed the net, and played the piano. The music went decently today. I think I've found out a very bad habit that is partly to blame for my muddy tone: I try to play legato and use the pedal at the same time. If I fix that, I may finally play the non-lento waltzes of Chopin with a modicum of clarity and elegance.

An Afternoon Party, Etc.

Today we had lots of visitors, partly in honour of my uncle M.'s visit from Kevelaer (he arrived yesterday evening), and partly in honour of the visit of two friends of my parents. So there was a great spread prepared by Mama: lasagne, salad, baguette, cheese, red wine, and strawberries. And then the guests arrived, eight in all. I'm still painfully shy, so I stayed at my laptop much of the time, but it's been worse. As for the weather, it was sunny and warm. Just before everything began, J. and I had gone to the Kleistpark to play badminton, and the temperatures were bearable.

As for music, Papa and I played bits of Mozart sonatas, T. and I played two movements of a Marcello sonata for flute and piano as well as piano duets ("melodious exercises") by Diabelli, and then Papa and I played variations for cello and piano by Beethoven as well as Mendelssohn's Song Without Words for cello and piano in D major (Op. 109). I think back regretfully to the days when Tante Nora would play chamber music with Papa (and Uncle Pu), because she was evidently much better and made the music pleasant to listen to. On the other hand, no matter how good and atmospheric house music is, I think that it always demands patience and good-humour on the part of the audience, and when I'm not involved in creating it I tend to prefer hearing it at a distance and being able to wander off elsewhere.

The piano has been going fairly badly in general. Technically it's all right, and I've been exploring more music (late Beethoven sonatas), but the playing itself usually sounds insincere and disagreeable to me. It makes me think that I must have a rather awful soul. Hopefully it's only a phase, since it's not nice being presented with a sort of musical portrait-of-Dorian-Grey whenever I sit down at the piano. It's not deserved either, except insofar as I've been irritable and self-absorbed and lazy lately.

As for online books, I am now roaming among authors whose names begin with "S" on Project Gutenberg. I've finished two indifferent cowboy novels, skimmed through the first article of the Spectator (sic transit the conscientious attempt to expand my mind), and am now making my way through the saccharine and flowery pages of The Old Homestead. But yesterday evening I read in Pride and Prejudice (paper version) again. Not only have I read the book too often, I've also seen the films too often, because I can hardly read a line without picturing the corresponding scene in the 1995 BBC version. But it's enjoyable anyway.

As for university, T. and I handed in our applications the day before yesterday. T. is applying for a "combination bachelor" for the third year in English Philology and the first year in Information Technology, and I am applying for a bachelor for the third year in English Philology and the third year in History. Reason advises me that I will most likely not be accepted this year, but I think I'm expecting that I will anyway. How T. feels about it I don't know.

Bureaucratic Cogwheels in Motion

Today T. and I went to Dahlem again. We arrived fortunately in time for the office hours of the secretary in the English department; she said that there were no appointments free until after the application deadline, but she did add that we could scan in our academic records and send them as e-mail attachments to the professor in whose office she was working. Then he could quickly formally recognize them and tell us which level we should apply to study at, even though we would still need to submit the records in the orthodox manner eventually. So we returned home and, after much consideration and scanning and revisions of a draft e-mail, we sent the request and documents. After about an hour I checked my e-mail again and had a most agreeable surprise: the professor had sent a cheerfully informal answer, saying that everything was all right, and that we should apply for the third semester. In the evening T. and I filled out the online application forms for an English Philology major. Now we're not finished with the paperwork yet (we have to fill out separate forms for the minors, for instance, and then send everything off), but we're much closer.

Today was also the last day of school for Gi., Ge. and J. They came home early, and with them came three report cards, with decent though not brilliant marks. Since then they've been oddly subdued, and not in the least euphoric. J. did go out and play badminton with me in a good mood; our rallies, however, were few, partly because of lousiness and partly because rain (that issued from impressively dark grey clouds) cut our session short. Uncle Pu came by soon after we returned, and he and Papa and Mama filled the corner room with pipe and cigar smoke as they discussed the identities of some of the people whose photos now grace the living room wall, etc. In the evening Papa made, by popular demand, Chinese food: a generous dish of sweet-and-sour pork and chicken, with rice on the side. We dug into it happily. I especially liked the pineapple, which is, I think, more deliciously juicy cooked than fresh.

So it has been busy. But I'm very happy about the progress we've made with our university applications. Not only was T.'s company most cheering, but we were also both pleasantly surprised that the secretary didn't rake us over the coals for coming to her so tardily, and that the professor replied so quickly and kindly.

A Tale of Two Circumlocution Offices

Today I visited an office each at the Freie Uni and Humboldt Uni today, armed with my transcripts and copies of my high school diploma, with no concrete result for either.

Since my visit to the Humboldt Uni on Wednesday I've been trying to figure out who is responsible for checking foreign academic records, or responsible for helping people fill out the forms, at the English departments in the Freie Uni and Humboldt Uni. Is it the secretaries of the Prüfungsbüros (examination offices), or the academic advisors for the BA programmes? The websites have provided no clear answer. Today I tried the academic advisor for the Englische Philologie BA programmes at the FU, and the secretary of the foreign languages Prüfungsbüro (examination office) at the Humboldt Uni. (I already decided not to go to Heidelberg a while ago, because I'm not going to trot about in search of a translator for my academic records, and now there's no time left anyway.)

First of all, I got up unusually early. I had set the alarm clock -- which is, sadly, a heroic measure for me -- but I didn't need it (impending duty impedes sleep, I suppose). Then I took the U-Bahn to Dahlem and revisited the Institut in the Goßlerstraße. I had the good fortune to encounter the academic advisor, even though her office hours had technically not begun yet; she told me that the person in charge of looking at foreign academic records was one of the professors' secretary. That lady's office is down the hall, and she was not there today but will be there tomorrow.

Then I walked back along the very quiet streets, and enjoyed the feeling of being among houses rather than apartment buildings again, even if not every house's design was my cup of tea; I also kept a watch out for flowers, like the harebells and the purple and white clover along the sidewalks, and the roses and hostas in a garden, and saw two snails that had foolishly ventured out onto the wet pavement.

After briefly returning home, I set off again for the Humboldt Uni. So I stepped out at Französische Straße, and walked down the street past a school class, across Unter den Linden, and along the elegant and expensive-looking boutiques, and to the left down the Dorotheenstraße until I spotted the right building (DOR 65, as it is cryptically referred to). That edifice has a complicated floor plan, many stairways and two elevators, some stairway doors that won't open and another that sounded as if I were horribly breaking it when I did open it. Its labyrinthine interior also reminded me of the Buchanan Tower at UBC (where I had to explore a lot too). After taking an absurdly long time searching on the third to fifth floors, I revisited either the third or fourth floor, and saw the right office as soon as I stepped out of the staircase. I had to wait for three other students, then asked about the records, and was told that I had to go to the English advisor, who will only have office hours on Wednesday.

Made wiser by experience, I decided to pre-locate the office of that secretary before I went home again. But, deciding not to retrace my steps, I went back along another route, and was suddenly entirely disorientated. For some reason I thought that the S-Bahn at Friedrichstraße runs perpendicular to Unter den Linden, whereas it doesn't even run properly parallel. But dumb luck guided me back in the right direction, and I was relieved when I walked along the fortress-like side of the main Humboldt Uni building, shaded by plane trees (or sycamores) that rise out of a fenced-in sea of ivy. There weren't that many tourists out.

As I entered the building (UL 6), I was more curious about it than the last time I came here. A workman was fixing the door as I entered. Inside I ascended the grand staircase opposite the entrance, and noticed the quotation from Karl Marx in the middle of it (but I didn't bother to read it). The staircase itself is quite posh, with grey marbled steps (which are so smooth as to be slippery) and dark brown marbled railings. At the head of the stairway I was at first interested by the black-and-white photos on the walls, and then impressed by the grand wooden doors leading to the senate room.

I blundered about a little before I went along the right hallway. Both hallways are accessible through large doors with simple utilitarian metal handles and light-blue paint. They look unassuming, but I was much amused when I saw that they automatically swing open to let one pass. It reminded me vaguely of the Harry Potter books, and of Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast film. It's also oddly counterintuitive that a door with prominent handles should open automatically. The hallway to the right is grander. There are outsize wooden doors leading to the president's office, etc., and I inhaled the splendour and dignity as I passed by (I'm joking). The staircases beyond both hallways are still broad but decidedly un-posh, being concrete. Either way, I found the right office, wrote down the office hours just to be sure, and returned home.

Long story short, I had four U-Bahn journeys and five long walks and two labyrinth tours. The only practical results were exercise, the loss of 6.10 Euros to a BVG Tageskarte, and improved geographical knowledge. But why couldn't I have been able to figure out exactly what to do and where to go months earlier?!

Anyway, everyone else has been busy, too. Papa went to the university twice today, Mama was at work and then ran errands, T. prepared mini-quiches lorraines, Gi. and Ge. were at an end-of-year class party after their school day, and J. went to school and is now relaxing in his room. Yesterday Mama went around the apartment hanging up pictures and other artwork. There is a cherub corner above the stove at the piano, an ancestral portrait-gallery above the sofa in the living room, three stained-glass windows by my grandfather hanging in our fenestral alcoves, and so on and so forth. It makes our apartment rather more distinguished-looking, I think (when and if I've written my "great novel" I'll pay for tiling the kitchen (c: ).

I've been meditating much lately about order vs. disorder, especially in my half-room. Too much neatness makes me uncomfortable, and it means that books or writings that I would otherwise read, or work on, or perhaps be inspired by, are hidden away and being useless. Too much disorder does not only that; it also reflects and perhaps induces a disordered mind. So either I have to cut down my belongings to pretty ones that make picturesque messes, or I have to find ways of being neater (which comes about as naturally to me as ballet does to a cat). For one thing, I must cure myself of the idea that I will read the newspaper if it lies around on my desk long enough . . .

Another question that I meditate about is how necessary household duties really are. If God exists, does He mind if dust bunnies (a lovely term) flock under the sofa, or if the windows go unwashed? Is it really for the greater good of humanity if one keeps one's room clean, even if no one else ever enters it? At which point is dishwashing really necessary (e.g. when only aluminum pans and knives are left?), and why are people so reluctant to do it? If cleaning up is a sign of virtue, why does one feel like one has sacrificed precious hours of life to a lowly materialist pursuit? Well, to be fair, I often feel that I've sacrificed precious hours of life when I write exams, or whenever I go to a concert or movie theatre when it's light and leave when it's dark; obviously it isn't the most logical sentiment. Anyway, I'm probably really over-thinking this. (c:

Two Weeks Later

I've just returned from another walk to the St. Matthäus churchyard. It was raining, but I had a raincoat with me (very sensible, is it not?). The street market was set up again near the Yorckstraße S-Bahn station, long rows of stalls mostly roofed with white sheets, offering vegetables, fruit, herbs, clothing, etc. It's quite crowded and noisy, with sellers calling their wares (I usually only make out the words "für ein Euro"), and trucks coming and going, and crates and boxes piled at the perimeters. The passage under the train tracks, which is being renovated, leads one through to a calmer world.

The churchyard is still splendidly green, thanks to the continuous rainy weather which has formed my ideal of a summer. It's probably mean toward people who actually have parties and do sports outside, but there's nothing "fun" about an abysmal water level and droughts, so the more it rains during this season the happier I am. But I'm worried that I'll jinx it now . . . (c: Anyway, the flowers that are blooming now include purple harebells, dark red begonias, blue lobelia, tall pink-flowered hostas, very tall weeds with small aster-like flowers, and yellow celandine (at least that's what I think it's called).

At first I read the first two tales out of the Grimms Märchen in the porch of the church-like building. I looked at the sculpture more closely, and it turns out that the figure which I thought was a student has wings (and most teachers would probably agree that one cannot be a student and angelic at the same time). Then I walked slowly up the central path and then around the edge of the graveyard nearest the train tracks. Sometimes I look at headstones to see if I'd like to use the names for a story, and mostly I wonder how the lives of the people were. At particular plots there are black signboards with information (gathered by schoolchildren) about who "here lies." I was interested to learn that Max Bruch apparently fell into disfavour and nearly into oblivion during Nazi times because of the Jewish nature of his piece "Kol Nidrei." There are two families who have old monuments along the walls, one "Langhans" (I think) and the other "Gill," which interest me because they have English inscriptions. And there is one "Cölestin de Zitzewitz" whose monument was put up by the court of Friedrich Wilhelm III (I think). These monuments are in the upper part of the graveyard, which is more sombre and stately. Near the bottom of the slope there is a nice large field with a colony of newer plots in the middle, whose brightly coloured flowers make it look like a cottage garden.

But it disturbs me when there are small plastic signs saying "Ruhezeit abgelaufen." First of all, it probably means that someone's remains will shortly be kicked out of the plot, and secondly it sounds as if the deceased's ghost will rise and start haunting the neighbourhood.

As for university, I made a trip each to the Humboldt Uni (Unter den Linden 6) and the Freie Uni (Institut für Englische Philologie, Gosslerstraße 2-4), but, though my understanding of the application processes have advanced, the applications themselves haven't. I'm preparing to hand in my academic records for processing on Monday, and I have to apply by next Sunday. Altogether I do wish I hadn't made such a mountain out of the molehill that is the application process. I also wish that I hadn't received quite so much advice. It feels like people are prodding me over and over again on the same spot, and a painful metaphorical bruise has developed. It's not advice that I lack, but precise knowledge. Of course it's nice to know that people are interested. But help that does not help is usually depressing -- and if the person who intends to help evidently believes that I'm rather incompetent, it's very depressing.