This afternoon, before coming to the bookshop, I had my first Islamic Studies lecture, i.e. the prerequisite course to higher-level studies of the Culture and History of the Near East minor.
I had originally thought to skip it entirely this year because I like my Greek classes and there happens to be one at the same time, besides which the seminar would require a little schedule-cramming. But I sent an email to the Islamic Studies department and, though the response was helpful and its terms liberal, it did transpire that it would be best for me to take it.
So far I have not gone to a seminar. If the rooms in the large building wherein they are held are not too crowded, I am thinking of going to more than one. (I visited the building after class today so that I could figure out how to get there; or, in the worst case, how not to get there.)
***
THE PROFESSOR began with a more cerebral approach than customary. For instance he acutely and very quickly argued-without-arguing which historical approach is best — a social focus, political focus, or what-have-you; story, empiricism, or theory — and announced that (as the lecture title implies) he would focus on Islamic society at various historical points. A corollary of which aim is that he does not intend to take a strictly schematic, chronological or geological approach, rattling off what happened where in a list. — Since I haven't thought much about it, the only thing that came to mind by way of social history is George Macaulay Trevelyan's English Social History from Opapa's bookshelf. I looked into it and seem to remember finding far too vague to be of utility.
Nevertheless he began at the beginning and tried to portray for our benefit something of the Arabian peninsula before the birth of Muhammad and the spread of his prophecies. It was a nexus of the Byzantine, West Roman, and Iranian empires (re. 'Iran': Persia, he said, is in fact a smaller region) or more specifically of the traders who shuttled silk, gold, slaves, myrrh, balsam, etc. between them, over a land route to Syria and along the Red Sea to or from the Mediterranean and through the Arabian Sea, or over the Silk Road, to India.
There were orthodox Christian sectors who were in opposition to the state religion of Constantinople: the Nestorians and the Monophysites. The Nestorians are also denominated Duophysites because they believed that the spirit of God is separate from Christ, and the Monophysites comprised the Copts and others who believe that Christ is God and man in unity. In Iran there were Zoroastrianists, who were monotheistic on the one hand but believed in the dual presence of good and evil on the other. There were tensions between which trading points supported which state and consequently its religion.
Contrary to common belief, Islam is not a "faith of the desert," since only a relatively small part of the Arabian peninsula consists of dunes in which no plant may grow; and at the time of its inception the trade routes meant that there were thriving little towns and kingdoms like Sabaa (the Queen of Sheba — the professor emphasized — may not have existed, but her kingdom certainly did) all over.
Mecca, with its Kaʿba — whose provenance is rather vague, though it is now considered Abraham's toil, but significance great — was one of the trading points, and one of the places where poets met and talked and developed in a subtle long-winding way what we consider the classical Arabic language, ʿarabiyya.
It was ruled within the great Quraysh tribe. In the old sense of proper government, the chief of a tribe was, as the professor put it, primus inter pares. Every man who was a tribesman, not a slave or an outsider (for instance the Roma, or gypsies), was considered to have equal rights. The chief was the mediator and where necessary the representative of the tribe in negotiations and relations with other tribes; every tribesman had a right to protection. Slaves, who were widespread there as they were in Europe, had no right to protection.
One of the poorer men who was not happy under the heel of the fellow Qurayshes, despite this nominal equality and freedom, was Muhammad, who lived on the outer margins of Mecca. He was born around 570 AD (in this case I will say CE), which is a little subject to controversy because by others his birth is attributed to the Year of the Elephant — apparently the year in which what would become Yemen was conquered by Ethiopian troops — but the dates don't fit. He married the widow of a comfortably-off tradesman and ended up travelling up to Syria and becoming acquainted with the religious traditions of his neighbours. Then he was privy to enlightenment by God through his intermediary, the angel Gabriel; after running afoul of the authorities he retired to Medina. There he wished to form an umma, or community, with a Jewish clan in the area, which ended in blood and presumably tears. He decided that it was his aim to return to Mecca — he did, and (by this point in the lecture the end of class was impending — so 'tell-tale compression' of events, etc.) by the time he died in 632 CE his religion was officially observed throughout the Arabian Peninsula. It is this kind of state religion which a sector of Islam insists on endeavouring to reinstate.
That was basically the end of the lecture. I've left a great deal out and I'm happy that there is so much more, because I like having a whole pile of facts and thoughts to sort through at leisure. I think I've remembered everything reasonably well, too, but this blog post isn't fact-checked, so reader beware and all that.
He is incidentally the only one of my professors who seems to read out a lecture from detailed notes or even a text — so far it seems a pithier and more content-rich and a little less condescending method than PowerPoint presentations and other methods which involve ex tempore commentary. I also liked that he clearly had lots of opinions and a lively interest in politics and controversies — during the beginning of the Iraq War he would probably have been one of those of us who talked about it with everyone he knew, read as many magazine articles about it as he could lay his hands on, sent letters to the editor, etc. — but that he didn't feel impelled to inflict them on us. Sometimes I come across people and have the urge to haul them home to meet the family, and as far as I can tell, he is one of them.
***
My other classes were Greek (we're reviewing the sounds/phonemes, thank goodness, because I don't know all of them that well, and am sort of giving up on knowing when to use which pronunciation of ντ, for instance; today when I was gone we in the broad sense of the term we also learned "have" and "be," and the definite and indefinite articles, and maybe something I've forgotten) and Foundations of Ancient History. That class began with 19th-century Danish archaeologists who came up for instance with the three-period system (Stone Age, Iron Age, Bronze Age) and ended with the, er, Schicklgrubrian reinterpretations and politicization of German and Scandinavian prehistory research. At the very end the lecture slid into the inevitable post-war repentance, discarding of the ideas formed in the shadow of the short mustache, and the rise of new technology, for instance radiocarbon dating.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Greek, in Exhausting Detail
Please beware of and forgive all and any factual errors in the following:
This evening I have Latin again, but in the meantime I have returned from the morning's Greek lessons and am sitting comfortably in the bookshop. In the lessons we reviewed the phonetics of the past two days, which is highly useful, and read aloud example words for consonant pairs like κλ and γδ, which looks complicated but in fact isn't.
This time our professor took the time to tell us the meanings of words, which with πνευμα (air, breath, spirit) and ενεργειεα was simple enough; there were quite interesting ones in between. Ανθοσ (flower) and αμυγδαλια (almond tree) were familiar but I hadn't known the Greek stem-words.
Though I have left out the stress accents (in Greek, the accent is called the οξεια) on these Greek words until I figure out the html encoding, there should be an acute on each one. Since 1982, Greek has adopted the "monotοnikó" (μονοτονικο) system whereby every accent is stricken from the written language except for the οξεια. In the absence of the rough and smooth breathing (the little curling apostrophe which sits on the first vowel of a word and separates the "ho"s from the "o"s), and circumflexes and grave accents indicating changes in the pitch of the voice, written Greek has become much less fussy. I wonder where the changes in pitch went — whether they were artificially imposed on Ancient Greek when it became the scholar's preserve or whether they did exist but have fallen into complete disuse over the centuries.
Earlier the professor gave a leisurely introduction into modern Greek history.
She reiterated that the Erasmus system of pronunciation (e.g. οι = ahoy!, αι = might) is artificial and demonstrably historically inaccurate, Erasmus having designed it purely so help his students learn to spell the words. I was a little miffed, since I like Erasmus's system and moreover have used it consistently for Ancient Greek — though it is admittedly best suited for communication within the ivory tower. But Russian or French and certainly Greek universities — for example — seem to teach a different Ancient Greek system.
She went into detail besides about the Katharevousa — which is a formal language created after Greece shed Ottoman rule, spelled καθαρευουσα, and which like modern Italian hopped back in time not in this case to the Middle Ages but a little further for inspiration. But if I've understood correctly, it created an unsettling gap, by separating Greeks into the hoity-toity world of the official constructed language, and the hoi polloi world of the demotic tongue, Dimotiki — δημοτικη. The popular language had in fact acted as a reservoir to preserve Greek over the centuries and folk poetry had kept what the written word had discarded, but in a different form from the tongue of Aristophanes or Pericles, whose preservation fell to scholars who left Constantinople as it fell in 1453 and to their Arabic colleagues and later of course to scholars across Europe who would no longer have been privy to the spoken traditions (for instance pronunciation) which would hint at the ancient forms. Katharevousa took over some of the popular language, but otherwise was a little estranged. Besides the Katharevousa is apparently not held in good odour since it is associated with the military dictatorship and its organs.
What I had not heard before is that the administration of Greece in the early 19th century had been pedantic and quite foreign in character. It was guided by Philhellenes from the remainder of Europe, many of whom were shocked to arrive in Greece and find that it was not a nation of (as the professor put it) lofty-souled, tunic-wearing philosophers. Instead there were guerrilla fighters. She also pointed out that due to the four preceding centuries of foreign rule, and a brutal extirpation of the regional aristocracy at the time of the conquest in 1453, Greece does not have any aristocracy; its handful of modern kings were invariably imports or descendants of imports.
Apart from that she explained the construction of Greek last names, which were introduced as such under the Ottoman government to simplify taxation and the military. Papandreou would mean, I think, the child of Andreas; physical attributes like black hair also lent themselves to names.
This evening I have Latin again, but in the meantime I have returned from the morning's Greek lessons and am sitting comfortably in the bookshop. In the lessons we reviewed the phonetics of the past two days, which is highly useful, and read aloud example words for consonant pairs like κλ and γδ, which looks complicated but in fact isn't.
This time our professor took the time to tell us the meanings of words, which with πνευμα (air, breath, spirit) and ενεργειεα was simple enough; there were quite interesting ones in between. Ανθοσ (flower) and αμυγδαλια (almond tree) were familiar but I hadn't known the Greek stem-words.
Though I have left out the stress accents (in Greek, the accent is called the οξεια) on these Greek words until I figure out the html encoding, there should be an acute on each one. Since 1982, Greek has adopted the "monotοnikó" (μονοτονικο) system whereby every accent is stricken from the written language except for the οξεια. In the absence of the rough and smooth breathing (the little curling apostrophe which sits on the first vowel of a word and separates the "ho"s from the "o"s), and circumflexes and grave accents indicating changes in the pitch of the voice, written Greek has become much less fussy. I wonder where the changes in pitch went — whether they were artificially imposed on Ancient Greek when it became the scholar's preserve or whether they did exist but have fallen into complete disuse over the centuries.
Earlier the professor gave a leisurely introduction into modern Greek history.
She reiterated that the Erasmus system of pronunciation (e.g. οι = ahoy!, αι = might) is artificial and demonstrably historically inaccurate, Erasmus having designed it purely so help his students learn to spell the words. I was a little miffed, since I like Erasmus's system and moreover have used it consistently for Ancient Greek — though it is admittedly best suited for communication within the ivory tower. But Russian or French and certainly Greek universities — for example — seem to teach a different Ancient Greek system.
She went into detail besides about the Katharevousa — which is a formal language created after Greece shed Ottoman rule, spelled καθαρευουσα, and which like modern Italian hopped back in time not in this case to the Middle Ages but a little further for inspiration. But if I've understood correctly, it created an unsettling gap, by separating Greeks into the hoity-toity world of the official constructed language, and the hoi polloi world of the demotic tongue, Dimotiki — δημοτικη. The popular language had in fact acted as a reservoir to preserve Greek over the centuries and folk poetry had kept what the written word had discarded, but in a different form from the tongue of Aristophanes or Pericles, whose preservation fell to scholars who left Constantinople as it fell in 1453 and to their Arabic colleagues and later of course to scholars across Europe who would no longer have been privy to the spoken traditions (for instance pronunciation) which would hint at the ancient forms. Katharevousa took over some of the popular language, but otherwise was a little estranged. Besides the Katharevousa is apparently not held in good odour since it is associated with the military dictatorship and its organs.
What I had not heard before is that the administration of Greece in the early 19th century had been pedantic and quite foreign in character. It was guided by Philhellenes from the remainder of Europe, many of whom were shocked to arrive in Greece and find that it was not a nation of (as the professor put it) lofty-souled, tunic-wearing philosophers. Instead there were guerrilla fighters. She also pointed out that due to the four preceding centuries of foreign rule, and a brutal extirpation of the regional aristocracy at the time of the conquest in 1453, Greece does not have any aristocracy; its handful of modern kings were invariably imports or descendants of imports.
Apart from that she explained the construction of Greek last names, which were introduced as such under the Ottoman government to simplify taxation and the military. Papandreou would mean, I think, the child of Andreas; physical attributes like black hair also lent themselves to names.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Midweek
This morning I went to the Foundations of Ancient History Studies lecture and arrived in excellent time, in the very large and already familiar lecture hall with down-folding blond wood chairs and the technical booth in the back at the top and the ghostly glow of a PowerPoint slideshow in front. It has a clever windowy antechamber which presumably guards from noise and conspicuous intrusions.
As it turns out the Foundations course will introduce a cluster of specializations, like Prehistoric Archaeology and Classical Archaeology, and even the seminars will rotate between the various sub-disciplines and therefore various buildings.
The professor, who looked rather like General Wesley Clark, laid out the course itself, up to the exam; his associate described the electronic resources. The professor defended the three-year Bachelor system enthusiastically, whereat I metaphorically speaking rolled my eyes.
Then I had a long interval to the next class, which I spent in finding the right room and in looking up (in an English-Modern Greek dictionary which was I think bought accidentally) the words which my Greek class materials use as phonetic examples. Someone else asked me for directions.
Greek took place in the speech laboratory today, so we sat among the cubicles with fairly rotten computers; mine refused to start up properly so I never even glimpsed the user desktop. But we spent most of the time finishing the phonetics and reading the sample words out loud. Ν can sound unusual depending where it is placed, for instance, so we spent some ten minutes with the computers in the end.
Since there was no Ancient History seminar and no evening philosophy lecture, and the career preparation advisor whom I had wanted to consult about the archaeology work course, etc., seemed very busy, I had the rest of the day off. Despite the respite, I still feel really tired. So I will continue my Greek homework and then rest in preparation for the class at 8:30 tomorrow morning.
As it turns out the Foundations course will introduce a cluster of specializations, like Prehistoric Archaeology and Classical Archaeology, and even the seminars will rotate between the various sub-disciplines and therefore various buildings.
The professor, who looked rather like General Wesley Clark, laid out the course itself, up to the exam; his associate described the electronic resources. The professor defended the three-year Bachelor system enthusiastically, whereat I metaphorically speaking rolled my eyes.
Then I had a long interval to the next class, which I spent in finding the right room and in looking up (in an English-Modern Greek dictionary which was I think bought accidentally) the words which my Greek class materials use as phonetic examples. Someone else asked me for directions.
Greek took place in the speech laboratory today, so we sat among the cubicles with fairly rotten computers; mine refused to start up properly so I never even glimpsed the user desktop. But we spent most of the time finishing the phonetics and reading the sample words out loud. Ν can sound unusual depending where it is placed, for instance, so we spent some ten minutes with the computers in the end.
Since there was no Ancient History seminar and no evening philosophy lecture, and the career preparation advisor whom I had wanted to consult about the archaeology work course, etc., seemed very busy, I had the rest of the day off. Despite the respite, I still feel really tired. So I will continue my Greek homework and then rest in preparation for the class at 8:30 tomorrow morning.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
A Student's Odyssey
Today I had the first day of my Greek pre-language course. We learned how to pronounce the vowels, consonants, and diphthongs, and were introduced to the textbook and two potential grammar reference works, by a very nice professor who is an excellent teacher. Knowing some Ancient Greek was an advantage, but some of the counterintuitive sounds were thoroughly irritating.
e.g. β beta
- letter name pronounced "béta" for Ancient Greek purposes
- name pronounced like Latin "vita" for Modern Greek purposes
ντ nu + tau (nt)
- pronounced like "ant" in Ancient Greek, as far as I know
- pronounced like "d" ("dog"), "nd" (and), or "nt" (ant) in Modern Greek
μπ mu + pi (mp)
- pronounced like "imp" in Ancient Greek, as far as know
- pronounced like "b" (bar), "mb" (amble), or "mp" (imp) in Modern Greek
Besides "nu" is pronounced "nee"; "mu," "mee"; "tau," "taph".
AND all of these vowels or diphthongs are now pronounced like "eek!":
iota (ι), eta (η), upsilon (υ); (omicron + iota) οι, (epsilon + iota) ει
AND alpha + iota, αι, is pronounced like the epsilon — "meh."
THE professor argued that Greek is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get language because it has so many compound words (e.g. symphony = with + sound). But I find it quite ambiguous, as I told my father at somewhat obnoxious length today. Taking the example, "with sound" can as easily signify a modern "talkie" film, noise, or singing in unison.
*
ANYWAY, I think that the Rost-/Silberlaube is mad at me after the remarks I made about it yesterday; I spent maybe an hour trying to find a room in it that didn't exist, and after literally roaming over the rooftops I stumbled across the right room through mere chance since class schedules are posted beside classroom/lecture hall doors. But I do know where the Habelschwerdter Allee is now, from having to consult further maps.
Then I decided to pay my father a visit and roamed all over the wrong part of his building, dismayed and bewildered because none of the rooms looked familiar from a similarly peripatetic adventure last week. In the morning I also went for an, er, circuitous walk, which I will skip in this post.
The irony is that at least two people asked me for directions today.
T. HAS kindly and justifiedly bought me a very own alarm clock, which I should set soon, and one of the drawers around Papa's desk donated the battery. Tomorrow I have three classes, from 8-10 a.m., 12-2 p.m. and 6-8 p.m, if I decide to attend all. The important one is my Greek, from 12 to 2. As optional homework I have written out a good copy of part of my Greek course notes; besides I've sketched out a schedule for the next five university days, but it will require ironing out.
LASTLY, I like riding the U-Bahn, partly because I like the people-watching, and because I have not been packed into it like a sardine yet; but I like the stretch around Dahlem-Dorf best because it is overground, at the bottom of a green embankment.
e.g. β beta
- letter name pronounced "béta" for Ancient Greek purposes
- name pronounced like Latin "vita" for Modern Greek purposes
ντ nu + tau (nt)
- pronounced like "ant" in Ancient Greek, as far as I know
- pronounced like "d" ("dog"), "nd" (and), or "nt" (ant) in Modern Greek
μπ mu + pi (mp)
- pronounced like "imp" in Ancient Greek, as far as know
- pronounced like "b" (bar), "mb" (amble), or "mp" (imp) in Modern Greek
Besides "nu" is pronounced "nee"; "mu," "mee"; "tau," "taph".
AND all of these vowels or diphthongs are now pronounced like "eek!":
iota (ι), eta (η), upsilon (υ); (omicron + iota) οι, (epsilon + iota) ει
AND alpha + iota, αι, is pronounced like the epsilon — "meh."
THE professor argued that Greek is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get language because it has so many compound words (e.g. symphony = with + sound). But I find it quite ambiguous, as I told my father at somewhat obnoxious length today. Taking the example, "with sound" can as easily signify a modern "talkie" film, noise, or singing in unison.
*
ANYWAY, I think that the Rost-/Silberlaube is mad at me after the remarks I made about it yesterday; I spent maybe an hour trying to find a room in it that didn't exist, and after literally roaming over the rooftops I stumbled across the right room through mere chance since class schedules are posted beside classroom/lecture hall doors. But I do know where the Habelschwerdter Allee is now, from having to consult further maps.
Then I decided to pay my father a visit and roamed all over the wrong part of his building, dismayed and bewildered because none of the rooms looked familiar from a similarly peripatetic adventure last week. In the morning I also went for an, er, circuitous walk, which I will skip in this post.
The irony is that at least two people asked me for directions today.
T. HAS kindly and justifiedly bought me a very own alarm clock, which I should set soon, and one of the drawers around Papa's desk donated the battery. Tomorrow I have three classes, from 8-10 a.m., 12-2 p.m. and 6-8 p.m, if I decide to attend all. The important one is my Greek, from 12 to 2. As optional homework I have written out a good copy of part of my Greek course notes; besides I've sketched out a schedule for the next five university days, but it will require ironing out.
LASTLY, I like riding the U-Bahn, partly because I like the people-watching, and because I have not been packed into it like a sardine yet; but I like the stretch around Dahlem-Dorf best because it is overground, at the bottom of a green embankment.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
A New Beginning
It's the night before my first day of normal classes at the FU — one is an art history lecture, and the other an introductory Latin course which I intend to audit this semester and properly take the next. So I will be gone most of the afternoon and evening.
On Saturday I sent an email to the professor in charge of a paleontology work course at the university; depending on the response I will be part of a group learning how to archive and preserve remains from a prehistoric dig every Friday. Since I have wanted to do that since before I was ten years old — and, if it isn't congenial after all, I'm happy to have a chance to test it — it is feverishly exciting.
In general I feel pleased, bent on getting my way (as in taking the courses I want to take despite scheduling obstacles), and nervous.
***
Updated:
The first lecture was a fizzle, since I left the bookshop in time, found the building without difficulties thanks to my habit of drawing little diagrams for myself (a habit inculcated by unhappy events relating to past job interviews), and found the proper room by a stroke of luck. It appears to be a fairly large lecture, too, which makes me happy because I like being an anonymous student and not having to do group work or talk to people unless one or both of us feels like it. But as the hour struck, a student came into the class and said that the lecture had been cancelled for that day.
So I went all the way back to the bookshop again and was there to greet Mama when her time came to take over. The prehistoric archaeology professor has answered my email and said that it would be fine if I participated in her work course, if I am really interested in washing and labelling finds. So I went to the campus in the middle of pleasant suburbia, via a "long and leisurely" bus drive through the incipient rush hour, to "scope out" the terrain. Instead I found, to my howling dismay, that there was a compound of some thirteen buildings in which the course could be held. In fact the identity of the building was revealed in the course index, but I had foolishly skipped it over as an irrelevant detail. One of the buildings I went into didn't have the tentative room number — it had the room number before and the room number after but not the one in between, which left me figuratively hopping with suspense. But now I know the right building and that was not it. The date of the first meeting is also unknown and will be revealed through an "Aushang," which apparently means an update to the institute's website.
Then, somewhat disgruntledly, I travelled back to the U-Bahn station Dahlem-Dorf and betook myself in search of the Rost- and Silberlaube for Latin. This is a huge building which appears to be the core of the campus in terms of teeming with students. I looked for the Habelschwerdter Allee in vain on the U-Bahn map, but being fairly certain that it was down the railroad tracks and then left, and being confirmed in this by a sign, I went down to the Thielallee (pronounced roughly teal ull-lé). I entered the Laube, still not knowing where the Habelschwerdter Allee is, though it must be admitted that it wouldn't be difficult to find out.
If the belt of a treadmill were ever stretched out to represent the true distance which one walks on it, the corridors of the Rost- and Silberlaube would correspond to it in terms of length and of the feeling of futility which it instills. The room numbers are e.g. xx/xxx, in which the first xx indicates which cluster of rooms is meant, and the first x of the xxx indicates the floor number (1, 2, 3). My cluster was for some reason dark. I may be exaggerating, but it seemed like the only light was coming from inside the rooms, the exit signs, and the neighbouring hallways. For some reason that also really peeved me, though from an environmentalist's perspective I salute it.
So my Latin class convened in a horseshoe of desks which filled, and filled, and filled some more. After minutes of entering, seating, chatting and finally befuddled silence, the professor arrived and said, bravely, that it was interesting how the computer system told her there were twenty-three students in this class and how it strangely appeared that there were rather more, and then cheerfully and I think a little nervously launched into her first lecture. She was wearing black jeans and a blazer, reddish hair loose, appears to be in her 40s, has a warmth which I think comes from Polish or Czech parents, and has quite a nice voice and interest-retaining teaching style though I find her grammatical elucidations rather confusing. But I was in a straight-out bratty mood and rather peeved that we were covering material I had already learned on my own; and the Domina ancillam vocat sentences were a base "homage," I indignantly thought, to the old German Latin staple Ludus Latinus.
Anyway, we learned the hoary basics — that one can play around with the word order in Latin, that the nominative case applies to the subject and the accusative to the object, and that many words ending in -us are part of the o-declension and that words ending in -a (except, I thought with dim recollections of textbook paradigms returning, for the neutral plural) are part of the a-declension. There was some interesting stuff about where to emphasize words, involving long and short vowels; it was altogether very close to the Ancient Greek quirks which I know and therefore love, and did not love all that much in the process of having to prod my brain into getting to know them. I want to make vocabulary flashcards but I feel tired. Maybe tomorrow — after my packed 8 a.m. - 2 p.m. schedule is over.
Then I went home in the pitch dark, which made me a very unhappy camper. But on the whole I figure that I will grow more of a backbone if there are petty daily discomforts to grapple with and the lesson learned how to deal with them with sense and some small measure of dignity, though grumbling has also been fun. I've taken a shower and made my bed, and now I intend to rest in it; and that feels inspiriting.
On Saturday I sent an email to the professor in charge of a paleontology work course at the university; depending on the response I will be part of a group learning how to archive and preserve remains from a prehistoric dig every Friday. Since I have wanted to do that since before I was ten years old — and, if it isn't congenial after all, I'm happy to have a chance to test it — it is feverishly exciting.
In general I feel pleased, bent on getting my way (as in taking the courses I want to take despite scheduling obstacles), and nervous.
***
Updated:
The first lecture was a fizzle, since I left the bookshop in time, found the building without difficulties thanks to my habit of drawing little diagrams for myself (a habit inculcated by unhappy events relating to past job interviews), and found the proper room by a stroke of luck. It appears to be a fairly large lecture, too, which makes me happy because I like being an anonymous student and not having to do group work or talk to people unless one or both of us feels like it. But as the hour struck, a student came into the class and said that the lecture had been cancelled for that day.
So I went all the way back to the bookshop again and was there to greet Mama when her time came to take over. The prehistoric archaeology professor has answered my email and said that it would be fine if I participated in her work course, if I am really interested in washing and labelling finds. So I went to the campus in the middle of pleasant suburbia, via a "long and leisurely" bus drive through the incipient rush hour, to "scope out" the terrain. Instead I found, to my howling dismay, that there was a compound of some thirteen buildings in which the course could be held. In fact the identity of the building was revealed in the course index, but I had foolishly skipped it over as an irrelevant detail. One of the buildings I went into didn't have the tentative room number — it had the room number before and the room number after but not the one in between, which left me figuratively hopping with suspense. But now I know the right building and that was not it. The date of the first meeting is also unknown and will be revealed through an "Aushang," which apparently means an update to the institute's website.
Then, somewhat disgruntledly, I travelled back to the U-Bahn station Dahlem-Dorf and betook myself in search of the Rost- and Silberlaube for Latin. This is a huge building which appears to be the core of the campus in terms of teeming with students. I looked for the Habelschwerdter Allee in vain on the U-Bahn map, but being fairly certain that it was down the railroad tracks and then left, and being confirmed in this by a sign, I went down to the Thielallee (pronounced roughly teal ull-lé). I entered the Laube, still not knowing where the Habelschwerdter Allee is, though it must be admitted that it wouldn't be difficult to find out.
If the belt of a treadmill were ever stretched out to represent the true distance which one walks on it, the corridors of the Rost- and Silberlaube would correspond to it in terms of length and of the feeling of futility which it instills. The room numbers are e.g. xx/xxx, in which the first xx indicates which cluster of rooms is meant, and the first x of the xxx indicates the floor number (1, 2, 3). My cluster was for some reason dark. I may be exaggerating, but it seemed like the only light was coming from inside the rooms, the exit signs, and the neighbouring hallways. For some reason that also really peeved me, though from an environmentalist's perspective I salute it.
So my Latin class convened in a horseshoe of desks which filled, and filled, and filled some more. After minutes of entering, seating, chatting and finally befuddled silence, the professor arrived and said, bravely, that it was interesting how the computer system told her there were twenty-three students in this class and how it strangely appeared that there were rather more, and then cheerfully and I think a little nervously launched into her first lecture. She was wearing black jeans and a blazer, reddish hair loose, appears to be in her 40s, has a warmth which I think comes from Polish or Czech parents, and has quite a nice voice and interest-retaining teaching style though I find her grammatical elucidations rather confusing. But I was in a straight-out bratty mood and rather peeved that we were covering material I had already learned on my own; and the Domina ancillam vocat sentences were a base "homage," I indignantly thought, to the old German Latin staple Ludus Latinus.
Anyway, we learned the hoary basics — that one can play around with the word order in Latin, that the nominative case applies to the subject and the accusative to the object, and that many words ending in -us are part of the o-declension and that words ending in -a (except, I thought with dim recollections of textbook paradigms returning, for the neutral plural) are part of the a-declension. There was some interesting stuff about where to emphasize words, involving long and short vowels; it was altogether very close to the Ancient Greek quirks which I know and therefore love, and did not love all that much in the process of having to prod my brain into getting to know them. I want to make vocabulary flashcards but I feel tired. Maybe tomorrow — after my packed 8 a.m. - 2 p.m. schedule is over.
Then I went home in the pitch dark, which made me a very unhappy camper. But on the whole I figure that I will grow more of a backbone if there are petty daily discomforts to grapple with and the lesson learned how to deal with them with sense and some small measure of dignity, though grumbling has also been fun. I've taken a shower and made my bed, and now I intend to rest in it; and that feels inspiriting.
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Phyla, Panini and Paperwork
To supplement the course of botanical inquiry I've been on lately — mostly reading a book on plant systematics which should help me keep the classes, orders, families, etc. of flora straight and enlighten me better about the tiny characteristics which distinguish them — I decided to look around YouTube and quickly found an apt lesson on classification and evolution from a course at Berkeley. So I spent roughly an hour on that, including the times I had to pause and repeat it so that my notes would be more accurate, and since then have begun copying down a diagram of the outdated higher orders of life, in the back of our Oxford English Reference Dictionary. We covered those quite thoroughly in Biology 11 and most of the evolutionary elucidations were already familiar from that class and previous science classes, but then I came across brachiopods (which were probably not brought up at all, probably because most species survive only in fossil form) and so have been launched on a certain-online-encyclopaedia session. I might review flatworms and nematodes, too, which quite lastingly put me off 1) ponds and 2) soil, if one grubs around in them without washing one's hands afterwards.
***
My sister purchased a panini grill, or a hot sandwich press if you prefer, and is very enthusiastic about it. As far as I have observed, it does not reach a very high relative heat because it is adapted to the conventional electrical outlets; secondly, frying things in fat and achieving a strong Maillard effect (if you'll forgive the pedantry) greatly improves their flavour. My sister presumably bought it because one thing she liked about the first two years of university, even when they were otherwise dire, were the grilled ciabatte with salmon and our choice of topping from the residence cafeteria. They were freshly assembled and if we liked grilled in a press with generous splashes of olive oil.
Anyway, I feel nostalgic about the cafeteria too, but we do have a cast-iron pan to 'grill' food on even if it leaves no stripes on the food. So what I feel more nostalgic about is, for example, having fish and chips, chicken fingers, enormous sticky cinnamon buns, Belgian waffles and nacho chips without having to bake them, and a salad bar though the time I assumed that what looked like feta cheese was feta cheese was frightful, and having several flavours of ice cream at hand at all times of the year if I feel like having some, etc. In fact I ate quite healthily but the possibility of eating sinfully was highly exciting. (The 'feta cheese' was tofu, by the way. In one of my Foods and Nutrition classes in school we had cooked it two ways to show that it isn't horrible; as I recall it we ended up with a tofu stir-fry and warmish slabs of the stuff inundated — purportedly 'fried' — in maple syrup, which indeed weren't terrible but gave the tofu all the dynamic interest of a flavourless piece of gelatinous white bread.)
Possibly the least delicious thing I had came from the prepackaged food section: a little tub of pineapple cottage cheese, which I tried as a novelty. Either I am genetically engineered not to like it or it is really abhorrent in a neutral sort of way. Once the wasabi sauce that went with the sushi packages also gave me something like stomach cramps (nothing worse) and I figure that was because though I'd eaten wasabi several times it was still too unfamiliar to my Teutonic digestion.
* (Continuation, in which I say a lot of tactless things:)
As far as university present is concerned, I have my student card and transit pass and e-mail account now, and soon I can register for my courses. That registration process is worrying me a little because the FU has regulations the way that the seashore has grains of sand, so it sounds terribly uptight and labyrinthine and I always worry about getting into trouble because someone in the university administration might not have enough common sense to see that even if I make a huge effort to research and ask questions at the right spot, there are some arcana or even obvious things which cannot be found out, deduced, intuited or otherwise perceived by the ordinary mortal who is not up-to-date on which office is handling what, how, and when this particular year. For instance, the structure for one of my minors has changed this year without notice, splitting into four specializations, and (though cautiously optimistic that it will turn out for the best) I'm hopping mad that there was no notice. Anyway, I'm grateful for many things, but even the mildest bureaucratic surprises (what a terrifying combination of adjective and noun!) tend to make me explode in irritation.
*
I know that I'll have to let go my idealizing allegiance to UBC and its administrative practices eventually and transfer it to my present institution. But the highest echelons of the FU also horrify me because of their blather about becoming business-aligned and 'elite,' etc.
If you have to talk about becoming 'elite,' you're not it; though to be fair a former president of Georgetown University was also recently dropping 'prestige' all over an article in the Huffington Post (?). I go to university to learn well, to train the mind and my ability to research and process information in a productive way, and (this time) to hide from reality for four or five years; and frankly I don't want to be a shining example of intellectual superiority or careerist ambition, either on my own behalf or on the university's, because that would make me a terrible person.
If the FU presidency has a monomania for the American university system, it could at least take a better and more astute look at how humanized as well as successful it is — and that what drives it are (as far as I can tell) not managerial acrobatics but the lashings of private money that flow into it.
For instance I think that UBC is good because of geographic position i.e. at a kind of nexus of Asia and North America, because of the somewhat exaggerated payment it extorts from non-domestic students, because of its liberal environment, because of its capacious endowment, and as far as I can tell because it treats its students and employees reasonably well.
I think it's more in backward states like Texas where troglodytes like Rick Perry are demanding that airy-fairy students have success in the business world and get jobs right away. I think it's incredibly dumb, too, to blame one's university on not getting a job. People who do get jobs right away probably do it through their own or their family's connections; and for people like me who'd rather jump off a cliff than acquire influence, I should gather job experience during the studies or the holidays or take extra pains to find positions where any university graduation as well as the ability to write well, informedly and coherently is already sufficient qualification. Frankly I think that employers who demand a diploma without a pertinent reason are snobs or lazyboneses who can't be bothered to test applicants' talents properly; but that's the way the world apparently works.
***
My sister purchased a panini grill, or a hot sandwich press if you prefer, and is very enthusiastic about it. As far as I have observed, it does not reach a very high relative heat because it is adapted to the conventional electrical outlets; secondly, frying things in fat and achieving a strong Maillard effect (if you'll forgive the pedantry) greatly improves their flavour. My sister presumably bought it because one thing she liked about the first two years of university, even when they were otherwise dire, were the grilled ciabatte with salmon and our choice of topping from the residence cafeteria. They were freshly assembled and if we liked grilled in a press with generous splashes of olive oil.
Anyway, I feel nostalgic about the cafeteria too, but we do have a cast-iron pan to 'grill' food on even if it leaves no stripes on the food. So what I feel more nostalgic about is, for example, having fish and chips, chicken fingers, enormous sticky cinnamon buns, Belgian waffles and nacho chips without having to bake them, and a salad bar though the time I assumed that what looked like feta cheese was feta cheese was frightful, and having several flavours of ice cream at hand at all times of the year if I feel like having some, etc. In fact I ate quite healthily but the possibility of eating sinfully was highly exciting. (The 'feta cheese' was tofu, by the way. In one of my Foods and Nutrition classes in school we had cooked it two ways to show that it isn't horrible; as I recall it we ended up with a tofu stir-fry and warmish slabs of the stuff inundated — purportedly 'fried' — in maple syrup, which indeed weren't terrible but gave the tofu all the dynamic interest of a flavourless piece of gelatinous white bread.)
Possibly the least delicious thing I had came from the prepackaged food section: a little tub of pineapple cottage cheese, which I tried as a novelty. Either I am genetically engineered not to like it or it is really abhorrent in a neutral sort of way. Once the wasabi sauce that went with the sushi packages also gave me something like stomach cramps (nothing worse) and I figure that was because though I'd eaten wasabi several times it was still too unfamiliar to my Teutonic digestion.
* (Continuation, in which I say a lot of tactless things:)
As far as university present is concerned, I have my student card and transit pass and e-mail account now, and soon I can register for my courses. That registration process is worrying me a little because the FU has regulations the way that the seashore has grains of sand, so it sounds terribly uptight and labyrinthine and I always worry about getting into trouble because someone in the university administration might not have enough common sense to see that even if I make a huge effort to research and ask questions at the right spot, there are some arcana or even obvious things which cannot be found out, deduced, intuited or otherwise perceived by the ordinary mortal who is not up-to-date on which office is handling what, how, and when this particular year. For instance, the structure for one of my minors has changed this year without notice, splitting into four specializations, and (though cautiously optimistic that it will turn out for the best) I'm hopping mad that there was no notice. Anyway, I'm grateful for many things, but even the mildest bureaucratic surprises (what a terrifying combination of adjective and noun!) tend to make me explode in irritation.
*
I know that I'll have to let go my idealizing allegiance to UBC and its administrative practices eventually and transfer it to my present institution. But the highest echelons of the FU also horrify me because of their blather about becoming business-aligned and 'elite,' etc.
If you have to talk about becoming 'elite,' you're not it; though to be fair a former president of Georgetown University was also recently dropping 'prestige' all over an article in the Huffington Post (?). I go to university to learn well, to train the mind and my ability to research and process information in a productive way, and (this time) to hide from reality for four or five years; and frankly I don't want to be a shining example of intellectual superiority or careerist ambition, either on my own behalf or on the university's, because that would make me a terrible person.
If the FU presidency has a monomania for the American university system, it could at least take a better and more astute look at how humanized as well as successful it is — and that what drives it are (as far as I can tell) not managerial acrobatics but the lashings of private money that flow into it.
For instance I think that UBC is good because of geographic position i.e. at a kind of nexus of Asia and North America, because of the somewhat exaggerated payment it extorts from non-domestic students, because of its liberal environment, because of its capacious endowment, and as far as I can tell because it treats its students and employees reasonably well.
I think it's more in backward states like Texas where troglodytes like Rick Perry are demanding that airy-fairy students have success in the business world and get jobs right away. I think it's incredibly dumb, too, to blame one's university on not getting a job. People who do get jobs right away probably do it through their own or their family's connections; and for people like me who'd rather jump off a cliff than acquire influence, I should gather job experience during the studies or the holidays or take extra pains to find positions where any university graduation as well as the ability to write well, informedly and coherently is already sufficient qualification. Frankly I think that employers who demand a diploma without a pertinent reason are snobs or lazyboneses who can't be bothered to test applicants' talents properly; but that's the way the world apparently works.
Monday, September 19, 2011
A Despatch from the Medico-Institutional Frontier
Papa is not home yet after all, and though he might have shown up on our apartment building stoop in the taxi around the same time as I reached the hospital, I decided to venture forth in case he was still there.
In the bag: a draft contribution to a periodical plus a lot of extra paper which had ventured into the pile, a magnifying glass for the infinitesimal print, two issues of the computer magazine CT, the newest Manière de voir (a magazine which comprises selections from the Monde diplomatique archive on a particular theme) still in its wrappings.
What I had not brought were the lab books of two of his tutoring students, which he rather touchingly wanted to correct so that it would be ready in good time for them. At least he isn't out of touch with his colleagues; he telephoned with two of them, which must have been fun: 'So, I have a really good reason for not showing up to work today.' . . .
On the whole I am fairly oblivious to symptoms of illness in other people and decided to treat my visit as dropping by and not as a medical inquiry. It felt like the right course, though visiting someone in the hospital and not asking about symptoms or about the hospital itself sounds weird; and though we both pitched conversational tidbits equally Papa didn't raise these subjects. My impressions were that Papa seemed tired and though he could walk well was still a little unsteady (since his balance had been physiologically affected). To be really frank he had a rather forlorn air. His interest in the field of medicine (balanced or fed by a horror of consulting doctors) had seemingly drooped in the institutional environment; rather than making philosophical observations he clearly really does not want to be there and would greatly prefer to convalesce at home and get back to work.
As for the hospital itself, it has a splendid view of the Berlin skyline, is conveniently located off the U Bahn line that runs past our block, and I thought the atmosphere was good. I checked in at the front desk, a dimly lit room in which two more or less disgruntled people peacefully sat, then took the elevator to the relevant floor; then checked in as advised with the nurse at that station's desk to see whether his room was still the same. He is in an oblong room with two other beds, in which two miserable and inert-looking individuals also lay; there are blue lockers for cleaning or other equipment at the door and tucked in that corner a sink surrounded by a white shower curtain with a monotint winter tree and geese motif; the bed was no massive electrically manoeuverable thingamajig but simply a bed; and there was a nightstand beside it with a foldable tray upon which one could eat, but preferably not cut anything more resistant than a piece of cheese, because putting pressure on it makes it bend like Anna Pavlova. In the aisle at the feet of the beds, there was also a table where Papa could likewise eat.
So we chatted along in the room and then wandered out into the lounge, which is an oblonger windowed room with a plain white table and padded blue chairs where one can eat or talk or read. Papa did have a copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung to read, by the way, so he improved on my small elucidations of current events where he already has, to use the delightful German expression, his nose in the wind.
***
As for the Berlin city elections, do I feel guilty for not having voted? — Yes. — Did I feel I was well enough informed to make a responsible decision, rather than going with my gut? — No. I did the Wahl-o-Mat and it left me even more confused; for most of the issues I had to vote "neutral" because I had no idea what the projected consequences or the philosophical underpinnings were. As it is, I was politically scattered between the SPD, Grüne and Linke; fortunately, except for the CDU voting bloc and the people who voted for the Piratenpartei, it appears I had this befuddlement in common with the Berlin population in macrocosm.
In the bag: a draft contribution to a periodical plus a lot of extra paper which had ventured into the pile, a magnifying glass for the infinitesimal print, two issues of the computer magazine CT, the newest Manière de voir (a magazine which comprises selections from the Monde diplomatique archive on a particular theme) still in its wrappings.
What I had not brought were the lab books of two of his tutoring students, which he rather touchingly wanted to correct so that it would be ready in good time for them. At least he isn't out of touch with his colleagues; he telephoned with two of them, which must have been fun: 'So, I have a really good reason for not showing up to work today.' . . .
On the whole I am fairly oblivious to symptoms of illness in other people and decided to treat my visit as dropping by and not as a medical inquiry. It felt like the right course, though visiting someone in the hospital and not asking about symptoms or about the hospital itself sounds weird; and though we both pitched conversational tidbits equally Papa didn't raise these subjects. My impressions were that Papa seemed tired and though he could walk well was still a little unsteady (since his balance had been physiologically affected). To be really frank he had a rather forlorn air. His interest in the field of medicine (balanced or fed by a horror of consulting doctors) had seemingly drooped in the institutional environment; rather than making philosophical observations he clearly really does not want to be there and would greatly prefer to convalesce at home and get back to work.
As for the hospital itself, it has a splendid view of the Berlin skyline, is conveniently located off the U Bahn line that runs past our block, and I thought the atmosphere was good. I checked in at the front desk, a dimly lit room in which two more or less disgruntled people peacefully sat, then took the elevator to the relevant floor; then checked in as advised with the nurse at that station's desk to see whether his room was still the same. He is in an oblong room with two other beds, in which two miserable and inert-looking individuals also lay; there are blue lockers for cleaning or other equipment at the door and tucked in that corner a sink surrounded by a white shower curtain with a monotint winter tree and geese motif; the bed was no massive electrically manoeuverable thingamajig but simply a bed; and there was a nightstand beside it with a foldable tray upon which one could eat, but preferably not cut anything more resistant than a piece of cheese, because putting pressure on it makes it bend like Anna Pavlova. In the aisle at the feet of the beds, there was also a table where Papa could likewise eat.
So we chatted along in the room and then wandered out into the lounge, which is an oblonger windowed room with a plain white table and padded blue chairs where one can eat or talk or read. Papa did have a copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung to read, by the way, so he improved on my small elucidations of current events where he already has, to use the delightful German expression, his nose in the wind.
***
As for the Berlin city elections, do I feel guilty for not having voted? — Yes. — Did I feel I was well enough informed to make a responsible decision, rather than going with my gut? — No. I did the Wahl-o-Mat and it left me even more confused; for most of the issues I had to vote "neutral" because I had no idea what the projected consequences or the philosophical underpinnings were. As it is, I was politically scattered between the SPD, Grüne and Linke; fortunately, except for the CDU voting bloc and the people who voted for the Piratenpartei, it appears I had this befuddlement in common with the Berlin population in macrocosm.
A Sketch of the Wordthrift Bookshop-Tender
It's been an interesting time for the past day or two (counting yesterday afternoon) which, er, culminated in a hospital visit; it seems to be an "all's well that ends well" case that nonetheless scared us all. I'd rather not talk about it; it's not my story to tell and it's not at all entertaining.
I'm at the bookshop hoping that the phone call about Papa's arrival home will come, and in the meantime am doing various things on the internet as customary. I didn't sleep much but felt very alert most of the night, and quite as alert and prickly this morning.
Anyway, a customer came in and asked what would be read during the next weekly reading. I said I didn't know, and since she turned to look at the door where the information about the readings is posted and the information was likelier to be found, I dove back into the computer. Soon I looked up our website on the very slender chance that the information might be found there; it wasn't, so I didn't mention it.
Then, on the way back out the door, the lady paused to say with quiet indignation that I wasn't particularly forthcoming, and that if someone comes in with interest I might as well respond. I replied that I didn't have the information, and that it's my mother who does the readings; and then somewhat awkwardly and longwindedly suggested that people tend not to like to give out their telephone numbers and email addresses, but that if she wanted to leave one, my mother could contact her with the reading details once she arrives after 3 p.m.
So the lady (somewhat to my surprise) left an email address. First she interjected that my mother probably wouldn't be too pleased with me — to which I smoothly agreed, "Probably not," while thinking that I'm a little too old to be parentally chastised.
At any rate, I took the relevant notes and put up the piece of paper with the address, etc., on the laptop screen where it can hardly be missed. Soon a Swiss (?) woman came in to inquire after a specific book, and I was a little more extroverted than customary. Thirdly, of course I admire the lady's willingness to keep trying to talk and reach some kind of understanding in the face of a clash of temperaments or moduses operandi.
But — aside from that — I keep fishing for a germ of guilty conscience, in vain. Even more perversely I find the contretemps rather funny. This might not be a particularly grand or admirable example of the quality; but I like feeling cheeky. On the other hand, I don't know what Mama will think of the matter; so if she thinks that my taciturnity was a serious infringement of manners or of the reputation of the bookstore instead of a mild case of still-professional grimness I may repent.
I'm at the bookshop hoping that the phone call about Papa's arrival home will come, and in the meantime am doing various things on the internet as customary. I didn't sleep much but felt very alert most of the night, and quite as alert and prickly this morning.
Anyway, a customer came in and asked what would be read during the next weekly reading. I said I didn't know, and since she turned to look at the door where the information about the readings is posted and the information was likelier to be found, I dove back into the computer. Soon I looked up our website on the very slender chance that the information might be found there; it wasn't, so I didn't mention it.
Then, on the way back out the door, the lady paused to say with quiet indignation that I wasn't particularly forthcoming, and that if someone comes in with interest I might as well respond. I replied that I didn't have the information, and that it's my mother who does the readings; and then somewhat awkwardly and longwindedly suggested that people tend not to like to give out their telephone numbers and email addresses, but that if she wanted to leave one, my mother could contact her with the reading details once she arrives after 3 p.m.
So the lady (somewhat to my surprise) left an email address. First she interjected that my mother probably wouldn't be too pleased with me — to which I smoothly agreed, "Probably not," while thinking that I'm a little too old to be parentally chastised.
At any rate, I took the relevant notes and put up the piece of paper with the address, etc., on the laptop screen where it can hardly be missed. Soon a Swiss (?) woman came in to inquire after a specific book, and I was a little more extroverted than customary. Thirdly, of course I admire the lady's willingness to keep trying to talk and reach some kind of understanding in the face of a clash of temperaments or moduses operandi.
But — aside from that — I keep fishing for a germ of guilty conscience, in vain. Even more perversely I find the contretemps rather funny. This might not be a particularly grand or admirable example of the quality; but I like feeling cheeky. On the other hand, I don't know what Mama will think of the matter; so if she thinks that my taciturnity was a serious infringement of manners or of the reputation of the bookstore instead of a mild case of still-professional grimness I may repent.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Börsenblatt, Berlin Elections and the Billboard
Today I woke up a little in advance of when I had to be ready to go to the bookshop, and since then have arrived agreeably early, received a package of promotional bookmarks from someone pedalling by on his bicycle, leafed through the Börsenblatt (the weekly — I think — publication of the German booksellers' guild), and seen one pair of people enter the shop to look around. The weather is variable and chilly, owing to the west wind. The news hasn't been too compelling, though since a slow day is generally good news for everyone it's not a complaint; and later I will undoubtedly look at more slideshows from New York Fashion Week.
***
In three days the Berlin city elections will be held and though I have a vague idea of voting for the Linke party in at least one category, I am completely uninformed. On no solid grounds I'm assuming that the Green Party on this level is not particularly alluring, because of petty, snooping, egotistic self-righteousness and for instance the mentality that cyclists are a morally superior lot who deserve to have shelters for their vehicles in case of rain, etc. Most of the charm is being able to vote for a really lefty party that is better on some issues — like civil rights — than any other, in a context where I don't look nuts and communist for doing so. Besides, as long as I don't vote for the FDP everything is fine (which is pretty much the electoral motto in my family and its immediate connections). Speaking of which, also on no solid grounds, I think that the Newer, Younger, Shinier Wave in the FDP — on the federal level, so it must be admitted that it's irrelevant to the city elections — makes even Guido Westerwelle look like a noble character and well-rounded statesman.
***
Last night I tried to foray into the world of popular contemporary music again. Two of the main realizations were that (evidently having a heart of stone) I still don't understand the profound significance of Tupac Shakur or why he is treated as a martyr (though being shot full of five bullets as he was in 1994, if I recall the relevant Wikipedia elucidations correctly, must have been an unpleasant experience), and that to be honest I liked "Baby" as sung by Justin Bieber. Not because it is a great song and not because the singing by Ludacris wasn't far more interesting than the rest of it, but because one can hear clear and apparently unadulterated singing at length instead of the customary manipulated mix of nothing in particular (*cough* to use a self-conscious example, Black-Eyed Peas "Imma be" *cough*). Kelly Clarkson has a similar likeable simplicity, which is also why I was glad when she won American Idol years ago.
In spur of the moment judgments, Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" sounds far better than her "Born This Way," admirable though the message of the latter is; the song by Taylor Swift which I heard was pretty immature, twee stuff. Then I found out that one of the songs fellow students used to play during my studying in Vancouver was apparently "Yeah!" by Usher. Besides I listened to Dolly Parton; to be honest, I like her so much that she could sing terribly and I wouldn't criticize it, and in any case there was no danger of it. Unrelatedly, hearing Susan Boyle was also a possibility, but the same kind of horror with which my uncle Pu regards classical music competitions, I apply to competitions where the best of the crop are people like Paul Potts — whose "Nessun dorma" I did hear and found, though earnestly sung, not very profound and completely out of touch with the operatic tradition — and where the fuss surrounding them is more important than the music itself. (Though, to go on a further tangent, such distracting fuss is also offered up in the most prestigious continental opera houses, when the stage direction goes out on the town and produces what is pejoratively termed "Euro trash opera" in the States.)
Lastly I heard Adele, who is offered up as the grand contemporary exemplar of good singing and profundity; that is probably true, but I don't approve of adopting a singing tradition which has direct roots in slavery and segregation and a sense of homelessness when it expresses nothing more profound than middle-class pensiveness or romantic woes. Amy Winehouse sang in the same tradition, but she gave it an individual, sharp edge (to be honest, I find her singing hard to listen to at length because of this edge) which made it halfway her own. With Adele it is still the excellent imitation of something that older people who were born into the generation can, and do, do better. (I haven't heard Duffy, so couldn't compare her style.) At any rate "Rolling in the Deep" is a good song, and an improvement on "Chasing Pavements," though since I listened to a mixture of live performances and recordings it is hard to tell whether unreliable sound quality, etc., biased the impression.
One obstacle to this entire foraying procedure is that I am really bad at catching lyrics, so there could have been something Shakespearean in the way of songwriting and I would have missed it. What I wonder, too, is how much listening to opera singing once in a while qualifies me to understand which songs are full of thought, effort and inspiration, and ably sung, and which ones aren't. It was much easier figuring out which songs are generally well liked when I was still at school, though that was a totalitarian music appreciation environment and if people preferred edgier or older music than Ricky Martin or Britney Spears they had to keep it well hidden for fear of Being Strange.
***
In three days the Berlin city elections will be held and though I have a vague idea of voting for the Linke party in at least one category, I am completely uninformed. On no solid grounds I'm assuming that the Green Party on this level is not particularly alluring, because of petty, snooping, egotistic self-righteousness and for instance the mentality that cyclists are a morally superior lot who deserve to have shelters for their vehicles in case of rain, etc. Most of the charm is being able to vote for a really lefty party that is better on some issues — like civil rights — than any other, in a context where I don't look nuts and communist for doing so. Besides, as long as I don't vote for the FDP everything is fine (which is pretty much the electoral motto in my family and its immediate connections). Speaking of which, also on no solid grounds, I think that the Newer, Younger, Shinier Wave in the FDP — on the federal level, so it must be admitted that it's irrelevant to the city elections — makes even Guido Westerwelle look like a noble character and well-rounded statesman.
***
Last night I tried to foray into the world of popular contemporary music again. Two of the main realizations were that (evidently having a heart of stone) I still don't understand the profound significance of Tupac Shakur or why he is treated as a martyr (though being shot full of five bullets as he was in 1994, if I recall the relevant Wikipedia elucidations correctly, must have been an unpleasant experience), and that to be honest I liked "Baby" as sung by Justin Bieber. Not because it is a great song and not because the singing by Ludacris wasn't far more interesting than the rest of it, but because one can hear clear and apparently unadulterated singing at length instead of the customary manipulated mix of nothing in particular (*cough* to use a self-conscious example, Black-Eyed Peas "Imma be" *cough*). Kelly Clarkson has a similar likeable simplicity, which is also why I was glad when she won American Idol years ago.
In spur of the moment judgments, Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" sounds far better than her "Born This Way," admirable though the message of the latter is; the song by Taylor Swift which I heard was pretty immature, twee stuff. Then I found out that one of the songs fellow students used to play during my studying in Vancouver was apparently "Yeah!" by Usher. Besides I listened to Dolly Parton; to be honest, I like her so much that she could sing terribly and I wouldn't criticize it, and in any case there was no danger of it. Unrelatedly, hearing Susan Boyle was also a possibility, but the same kind of horror with which my uncle Pu regards classical music competitions, I apply to competitions where the best of the crop are people like Paul Potts — whose "Nessun dorma" I did hear and found, though earnestly sung, not very profound and completely out of touch with the operatic tradition — and where the fuss surrounding them is more important than the music itself. (Though, to go on a further tangent, such distracting fuss is also offered up in the most prestigious continental opera houses, when the stage direction goes out on the town and produces what is pejoratively termed "Euro trash opera" in the States.)
Lastly I heard Adele, who is offered up as the grand contemporary exemplar of good singing and profundity; that is probably true, but I don't approve of adopting a singing tradition which has direct roots in slavery and segregation and a sense of homelessness when it expresses nothing more profound than middle-class pensiveness or romantic woes. Amy Winehouse sang in the same tradition, but she gave it an individual, sharp edge (to be honest, I find her singing hard to listen to at length because of this edge) which made it halfway her own. With Adele it is still the excellent imitation of something that older people who were born into the generation can, and do, do better. (I haven't heard Duffy, so couldn't compare her style.) At any rate "Rolling in the Deep" is a good song, and an improvement on "Chasing Pavements," though since I listened to a mixture of live performances and recordings it is hard to tell whether unreliable sound quality, etc., biased the impression.
One obstacle to this entire foraying procedure is that I am really bad at catching lyrics, so there could have been something Shakespearean in the way of songwriting and I would have missed it. What I wonder, too, is how much listening to opera singing once in a while qualifies me to understand which songs are full of thought, effort and inspiration, and ably sung, and which ones aren't. It was much easier figuring out which songs are generally well liked when I was still at school, though that was a totalitarian music appreciation environment and if people preferred edgier or older music than Ricky Martin or Britney Spears they had to keep it well hidden for fear of Being Strange.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Immatriculation, the Runway and Splendid Singledom
Since the last post I've been accepted to university, and have sent off the immatriculation paperwork and paid the fees, at least pro forma since I don't know how long the banks take to sort them out. I have laid excellent plans for preparing academically, because I am hoping to burrow into my studies and only crawl out of them for basic interhuman communication and for work (nature thereof to be determined).
At the moment I am sitting in the bookshop, after a not unproductive morning wherein someone appreciated the lovely wrapping papers which we sell at their full aesthetic value and someone else bought a book out of the window display. The New York Review of Books arrived this morning, so I retrieved it guiltily from our postbox and brought it along to the shop, and have skimmed over Michael Tomasky's political article when customers have come in because staring at the computer then would seem a trifle out of keeping.
Yesterday my sister T. prepared fudge for us again, out of cream and sugar and chocolate and beet root syrup and butter, and it turned out well. Then we had Leberkäs, which are rectangles of meat that taste quite good with sharp mustard of French provenance scraped over them with a fork and toasted in the oven, with mashed potatoes and apple sauce.
Otherwise I've been thinking about carrying on my "live blogging" of War and Peace for my books blog, though since Tuesdays are supposed to be about modern literature or premodern literature I meditated about riffing on an Aesop fable or one of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales instead.
So what I did do in the end is look at more photos from New York Fashion Week. So far I have really liked Zac Posen's collection, which looked I thought like a very Parisian audition for the house of Dior, and Carolina Herrera's collection, which is inspired by the 1930s? and Bauhaus in a vivid way that reminds me of the costumes and buildings in Poirot, and Donna Karan's collection, which is inspired by Haiti and I thought dealt with the artisanal sources faithfully and self-effacingly, though of course she dropped in conventional monochrome pastel dresses for a better-rounded collection. As usual, liking collections is quite different from thinking that I could wear them well or would want to wear them, just as I think that admiring a painting is probably better than acquiring the original, firstly because it might not fit in with one's home or one's personal aesthetic and secondly because there are so many good ones that preferring one to the other is difficult to absurd and thirdly because familiarity breeds contempt.
Anyway, as far as work goes, I first of all want to connect my studies with very concrete skills, and secondly if I have more than 200 Euros in my bank accounts I will be greatly surprised. I have more money which is earmarked for clothes (from my aunt) and for piano lessons (from a friend of the family) respectively, which I tend to keep sacrosanct. But I have relaxed my rules for the latter enough to spend 10 Euros from it on a concert and consider using more to hear the singing masterclasses with Christine Schäfer at the Hanns Eisler music school at the end of the month, which is partly also intended to improve my background knowledge of the discipline in case the opportunity arises to write a Maria Callas-related essay for my Greek courses. The problem is having enough funds to pay for transit to and from such events.
But otherwise I am very happy with not having extra money. Firstly it is much easier to not spend money if it isn't there to spend; I never consider the money truly mine anyway because there are many rightful claims on it first of all by pitching into household expenses, secondly by paying health insurance and other necessary things, and thirdly by charities; and thirdly I spent my childhood and teenagerhood feeling uncertain about every single purchase I made (grocery shopping, present shopping, buying gummy bears and clothes and so on for myself during university) in case it was superfluous. Besides I don't much like going out, so if I do meet people I like I'd rather talk with them or play soccer or whatever than go to restaurants or lectures or whatever, and it gives me the perfect excuse to avoid even seeming like I am on the search for a boyfriend.
More friends would be nice and it is definitely dreary not being able to talk to people; but where a boyfriend is concerned I need to sort out my psychological messes, grow up and into myself — which includes beginning to work properly, and finally come across the proper person first. In school and university, the boys whom I admired the most were ones who were friendly (not to me but in general) and clever, and I called those crushes — really it was in a pretty sisterly way without the least bit of a spark. Besides I have an inkling that I am going to be the strong, reliable, and somewhat inscrutable person who knows how to do the necessary things (paperwork, plumbing, electrical repairs, etc.) and how to make people feel secure in an eventual relationship; that sounds rather nice to me now that I am no longer a needy teenager, and I have to be extra-well prepared. Partly I think about what is right for me in that respect because three of my Facebook friends from school are pregnant and six are married and one at least already has a child, but it was clear even back in Grade 7 that I have my own turtle's pace of leading my life, which is certainly odd but effective and, indeed, right.
At the moment I am sitting in the bookshop, after a not unproductive morning wherein someone appreciated the lovely wrapping papers which we sell at their full aesthetic value and someone else bought a book out of the window display. The New York Review of Books arrived this morning, so I retrieved it guiltily from our postbox and brought it along to the shop, and have skimmed over Michael Tomasky's political article when customers have come in because staring at the computer then would seem a trifle out of keeping.
Yesterday my sister T. prepared fudge for us again, out of cream and sugar and chocolate and beet root syrup and butter, and it turned out well. Then we had Leberkäs, which are rectangles of meat that taste quite good with sharp mustard of French provenance scraped over them with a fork and toasted in the oven, with mashed potatoes and apple sauce.
Otherwise I've been thinking about carrying on my "live blogging" of War and Peace for my books blog, though since Tuesdays are supposed to be about modern literature or premodern literature I meditated about riffing on an Aesop fable or one of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales instead.
So what I did do in the end is look at more photos from New York Fashion Week. So far I have really liked Zac Posen's collection, which looked I thought like a very Parisian audition for the house of Dior, and Carolina Herrera's collection, which is inspired by the 1930s? and Bauhaus in a vivid way that reminds me of the costumes and buildings in Poirot, and Donna Karan's collection, which is inspired by Haiti and I thought dealt with the artisanal sources faithfully and self-effacingly, though of course she dropped in conventional monochrome pastel dresses for a better-rounded collection. As usual, liking collections is quite different from thinking that I could wear them well or would want to wear them, just as I think that admiring a painting is probably better than acquiring the original, firstly because it might not fit in with one's home or one's personal aesthetic and secondly because there are so many good ones that preferring one to the other is difficult to absurd and thirdly because familiarity breeds contempt.
Anyway, as far as work goes, I first of all want to connect my studies with very concrete skills, and secondly if I have more than 200 Euros in my bank accounts I will be greatly surprised. I have more money which is earmarked for clothes (from my aunt) and for piano lessons (from a friend of the family) respectively, which I tend to keep sacrosanct. But I have relaxed my rules for the latter enough to spend 10 Euros from it on a concert and consider using more to hear the singing masterclasses with Christine Schäfer at the Hanns Eisler music school at the end of the month, which is partly also intended to improve my background knowledge of the discipline in case the opportunity arises to write a Maria Callas-related essay for my Greek courses. The problem is having enough funds to pay for transit to and from such events.
But otherwise I am very happy with not having extra money. Firstly it is much easier to not spend money if it isn't there to spend; I never consider the money truly mine anyway because there are many rightful claims on it first of all by pitching into household expenses, secondly by paying health insurance and other necessary things, and thirdly by charities; and thirdly I spent my childhood and teenagerhood feeling uncertain about every single purchase I made (grocery shopping, present shopping, buying gummy bears and clothes and so on for myself during university) in case it was superfluous. Besides I don't much like going out, so if I do meet people I like I'd rather talk with them or play soccer or whatever than go to restaurants or lectures or whatever, and it gives me the perfect excuse to avoid even seeming like I am on the search for a boyfriend.
More friends would be nice and it is definitely dreary not being able to talk to people; but where a boyfriend is concerned I need to sort out my psychological messes, grow up and into myself — which includes beginning to work properly, and finally come across the proper person first. In school and university, the boys whom I admired the most were ones who were friendly (not to me but in general) and clever, and I called those crushes — really it was in a pretty sisterly way without the least bit of a spark. Besides I have an inkling that I am going to be the strong, reliable, and somewhat inscrutable person who knows how to do the necessary things (paperwork, plumbing, electrical repairs, etc.) and how to make people feel secure in an eventual relationship; that sounds rather nice to me now that I am no longer a needy teenager, and I have to be extra-well prepared. Partly I think about what is right for me in that respect because three of my Facebook friends from school are pregnant and six are married and one at least already has a child, but it was clear even back in Grade 7 that I have my own turtle's pace of leading my life, which is certainly odd but effective and, indeed, right.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Ramblings, From Trauma to Poor's
It's quite late but I am still very much up, and since my usual time-wasting experiences are temporarily out of reach, I was doing a little research for the story instead. As long as the reading about gunshot wounds was strictly theoretical and verbal, it was fine; even looking at the photos was fine. Then I looked at photos of other types of wounds, stitches, etc., and was for once subtly rocked to the verge of seasickness, as it were. So I decided to postpone the rest to a different day, and here is my blog post instead.
This evening my sister T. had an interview, and instead of having to go off to a complicated location, the interviewer came over to us! The rest of us were tucked away in our respective rooms and didn't traipse in to disrupt the proceedings. Anyway, it was a lovely change of pace.
***
The weather has been mixed, with a couple impressive gusts which bent back the branches on the oaks and even stirred the top of the trunk; in Dahlem a gust of over 19 m/s was recorded, which is not unusual but at any rate an 8 on the Beaufort scale and gale-force. The temperature fell and rose between 14 and 19 degrees Celsius; the humidity was generally I think between 60 and 70%. I like looking at the circum-British marine weather on the Met Office's website, too, and finding strong winds and learning the names of the different quadrants of sea. It's fairly useless for knowing the weather in Berlin except if conditions in the "German Bight" are similar.
At any rate the night sky is covered in clouds for the first time in several days, which I know because I have been watching for Perseid shooting stars before the moon becomes full. I can only point out the Big Dipper and the moon and sometimes Orion, but do recognize Cassiopeia because it is simply a sideways W, and so by luck I think I figured out where Perseus's constellation lies (i.e. mostly behind a neighbouring apartment building).
Though too impatient to watch stars well, I did take the time to sit in the open window of Ge.'s and J.'s room and watch the aperture of sky for a long while, and noticed that it is a slow process for the eye to accustom itself to the darkness and to glimpse more stars. Then of course there was the ambient city light, and even someone turning on the light in a room dimmed the stars further. I haven't seen the obvious blips of shooting stars which I saw (I think those were the Leonid showers, so in November) gliding over the sky in Canada once; but I saw one goldenish fizzle, which was strange and possibly something else, and I have never seen so many imaginary streaks of light in my life.
***
I have been following the riots in London with intense interest. On the whole, though I made a conscious decision not to read the coverage in the Telegraph much, I find the response of public opinion reasonable. The calls for police brutality and prompt military invasion are of course shortsighted and profoundly unintelligent on the whole, but as a verbal reaction at least they are to be expected and natural. What interested me is (for example) that there was so much of a focus on David Cameron handling the matter, rather than Boris Johnson; though admittedly Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (I read the whole name somewhere today and thought it was worth repeating) does not exude the air of the stern, noble arbiter of the socioeconomically afflicted.
Generally what I think is that living in downtown London is, depending on income level and the nature of one's immediate neighbours, in fact quite brutal and very monotonous; so without considering all of the looters as victims, and with considering setting fire to buildings as well as beatings of people as acts whose abhorrent nature should not need to be pointed out, I have a lot of sympathy for the rioters and looters. As for the theft, of course I am not comfortable with it; in pragmatic terms, it is clear firstly that destroying the work and savings of someone who has had to struggle for them (like the owners of the small businesses which have also been attacked) is unjustified, and secondly that the wealthy management of a multinational retailer are very likely to ensure that the brunt of financial losses falls on persons other than themselves. Thirdly I think it's true that the looting doesn't do much for the besieged economy; fourthly I don't understand why technology gadgets seem so essential to these people. As for the man who was shot and killed in Croydon, the phrasing of the incident is so ambiguous that I wonder whether he was shot by the police, and if the death was in fact related to the riots or not — doubts all the more justified, I think, by the improbity of public statements regarding Jean Charles de Menezes, Ian Tomlinson, and more recently Mark Duggan.
***
As for the stock market crashes, I think that they are fairly stupid, and have been as inclined to mutter about Moody's and Standard & Poor's (also of course in connection with Greece, Portugal, and Italy) as many other people, though I need to read more business articles to know what precisely is going on. Becoming the agency that hammers the nail into the coffin of a national economy must not be very rewarding, and as Paul Krugman has pointed out, for instance, S&P entirely failed to identify the subprime mortgage problem before it burst onto the scene and so is something less than omni in its science. On the other hand if something finally gets Berlusconi out of the prime ministerial office and into the round of judicial proceedings which have been breathing down his neck, I don't mind if it is this period of economic malaise.
This evening my sister T. had an interview, and instead of having to go off to a complicated location, the interviewer came over to us! The rest of us were tucked away in our respective rooms and didn't traipse in to disrupt the proceedings. Anyway, it was a lovely change of pace.
***
The weather has been mixed, with a couple impressive gusts which bent back the branches on the oaks and even stirred the top of the trunk; in Dahlem a gust of over 19 m/s was recorded, which is not unusual but at any rate an 8 on the Beaufort scale and gale-force. The temperature fell and rose between 14 and 19 degrees Celsius; the humidity was generally I think between 60 and 70%. I like looking at the circum-British marine weather on the Met Office's website, too, and finding strong winds and learning the names of the different quadrants of sea. It's fairly useless for knowing the weather in Berlin except if conditions in the "German Bight" are similar.
At any rate the night sky is covered in clouds for the first time in several days, which I know because I have been watching for Perseid shooting stars before the moon becomes full. I can only point out the Big Dipper and the moon and sometimes Orion, but do recognize Cassiopeia because it is simply a sideways W, and so by luck I think I figured out where Perseus's constellation lies (i.e. mostly behind a neighbouring apartment building).
Though too impatient to watch stars well, I did take the time to sit in the open window of Ge.'s and J.'s room and watch the aperture of sky for a long while, and noticed that it is a slow process for the eye to accustom itself to the darkness and to glimpse more stars. Then of course there was the ambient city light, and even someone turning on the light in a room dimmed the stars further. I haven't seen the obvious blips of shooting stars which I saw (I think those were the Leonid showers, so in November) gliding over the sky in Canada once; but I saw one goldenish fizzle, which was strange and possibly something else, and I have never seen so many imaginary streaks of light in my life.
***
I have been following the riots in London with intense interest. On the whole, though I made a conscious decision not to read the coverage in the Telegraph much, I find the response of public opinion reasonable. The calls for police brutality and prompt military invasion are of course shortsighted and profoundly unintelligent on the whole, but as a verbal reaction at least they are to be expected and natural. What interested me is (for example) that there was so much of a focus on David Cameron handling the matter, rather than Boris Johnson; though admittedly Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (I read the whole name somewhere today and thought it was worth repeating) does not exude the air of the stern, noble arbiter of the socioeconomically afflicted.
Generally what I think is that living in downtown London is, depending on income level and the nature of one's immediate neighbours, in fact quite brutal and very monotonous; so without considering all of the looters as victims, and with considering setting fire to buildings as well as beatings of people as acts whose abhorrent nature should not need to be pointed out, I have a lot of sympathy for the rioters and looters. As for the theft, of course I am not comfortable with it; in pragmatic terms, it is clear firstly that destroying the work and savings of someone who has had to struggle for them (like the owners of the small businesses which have also been attacked) is unjustified, and secondly that the wealthy management of a multinational retailer are very likely to ensure that the brunt of financial losses falls on persons other than themselves. Thirdly I think it's true that the looting doesn't do much for the besieged economy; fourthly I don't understand why technology gadgets seem so essential to these people. As for the man who was shot and killed in Croydon, the phrasing of the incident is so ambiguous that I wonder whether he was shot by the police, and if the death was in fact related to the riots or not — doubts all the more justified, I think, by the improbity of public statements regarding Jean Charles de Menezes, Ian Tomlinson, and more recently Mark Duggan.
***
As for the stock market crashes, I think that they are fairly stupid, and have been as inclined to mutter about Moody's and Standard & Poor's (also of course in connection with Greece, Portugal, and Italy) as many other people, though I need to read more business articles to know what precisely is going on. Becoming the agency that hammers the nail into the coffin of a national economy must not be very rewarding, and as Paul Krugman has pointed out, for instance, S&P entirely failed to identify the subprime mortgage problem before it burst onto the scene and so is something less than omni in its science. On the other hand if something finally gets Berlusconi out of the prime ministerial office and into the round of judicial proceedings which have been breathing down his neck, I don't mind if it is this period of economic malaise.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Possibly the Longest Navel in History
I've begun writing on my "lousy stories" again. It's an old tale which I felt was stupid and shallow the first time I wrote and finished it and have been revising out of a sense of shame ever since. The latest draft was begun June 21st-ish, and though I suspect that I must have left this latest draft open whilst wandering off elsewhere, Word says that I have spent over 85 hours on it.
What I've done lately to encourage writing endurance is set up an elaborate tea service at the laptop. I cleaned the secretary-desk a little. The ceremony involves brewing a pot of tea, arranging it on a large plate or today our tray, having a sugar pot and a rye cracker beside it, and then consuming it as the writing advances. I don't know if it qualifies as a slop bowl, but I even have a little fingerbowl in which I put today's teabags when they had sufficiently steeped. It feels very professional; the real business of literary endeavour is, of course, unconnected to the state of our teapot.
***
Though I was in the bookshop for a short while today as Mama's holidays begin to taper off, I have had endless time for the piano: Mozart's early sonatas and the concerto in d minor (20), Chopin's "revolutionary" étude and his "raindrop" prelude, Händel's "Harmonious Blacksmith" suite, the slow movement of Mendelssohn's d minor trio, Schubert's sonata in B flat major (D 960) and the two before, and Bach, for instance. I like having my sloppy pile of notes on both ends of the noterack and on the noterack itself, and pulling forward one of the previous notes to wedge in place the recently turned pages of the current score.
I really like Beethoven's cadenzas for the Mozart concerto, but that may be because of their familiarity from the Rudolf Serkin and Clara Haskil recordings I liked to hear at university. Clara Schumann's introduces (I felt when I attempted it today) too much of her own style and Carl Reinecke's is friendly but perhaps slavishly subordinated to Mozart's composition. In the fantasia-like tradition of cadenzas they are all rather weird; so with the very weirdest I am parochially inclined to prefer my own flavour of eccentricity. On the other hand canon compositions themselves are often hard to follow, as I had reason to observe again today in the thickets of Schubert; and I will likely concede in a couple of years that the problem lies not with the cadenzators but with the uncongeniality of my interpretation.
***
Yesterday it was Mama's birthday, and though she has never felt inclined to fuss about it, she took it upon herself for our sakes to indulge the mood for a bit of a splurge and shop for an elaborate set of repasts.
In the morning I spent an idle hour or so washing cutlery and cleaning the stove, with its extremely irritating freight of mistakenly loyal grease which was sort of like a glue stick when you try to rub the glue off of something and it only becomes more grey and streaked and stubborn. I wasn't the one who spattered the damn stuff after leaving a middling flame unattended on the largest gas burner. There were little creamy splatters on the inverted underside of our Römertopf lid, which I conveniently ignored.
Anyway, after lingering over that I prepared three "puddings surprises," this time with three types of pudding mixes, the ladyfinger biscuits, coffee, sherry, bilberries, raspberries, the berry juices and chocolate sprinkles. Due to different cooking times the puddings were fairly tepid by the time the dishes were achieved, as it were, but I woke up the others so that they could enjoy the pudding in residual warmth. I think the pudding would have been improved with more sherry.
Then Mama and T. laboured over fruit tortes, which were beautiful and delectable and their toppings compounded of mandarin and peach slices from a can, apricot halves, blueberries or bilberries, raspberries, and pineapple rings. There was whipping cream to go with it, and a bowl of yoghurt with the remaining fruit. To follow we had bars and squares of chocolate — nougat, milk, marzipan, and ginger marzipan — which were partitioned in the corner room as one of the Herbie films appeared for the millionth time, still charming, on television. In the evening W. came by with a bottle of prosecco, which I enjoyed likewise in a sampling this morning. Of course we had also sung Happy Birthday.
***
Anyway, I thought that I would write a thorough profile on Amy Winehouse for one of my blogs. But though I spent a good part of yesterday researching and I like her and find her interesting, I think that it would be best to have gathered a knowledge of the music industry and the historical background against which her songwriting and performances developed. Hopping on the bandwagon isn't a problem in this case, I think, because so much nonsense has been written about her that someone should do a nicer job of it — though I do like Russell Brand's commentary from his blog (it should still be available at Guardian.co.uk). Secondly, while the subject is still fresh there is less of a likelihood that stuff will be raked up that should be left forgotten. I was interested in her to begin with because I had never heard any criticism of her musical talent, whereas music of any genre brings out so much partisanship, envy, and nitpicking that this is impossibly rare; and because she did seem to fit so naturally and authentically into her jazz, rocker persona, old-fashioned groove.
As for Norway, I think that it is too easy to write something sensationalist or grandiosely sentimental, and it's doubtful whether one can write anything helpful or unprecedented. As little can be done in retrospect for the victims at the youth camp and in Oslo as for many other civil or military situations in the past year in which many (unarmed, young) people have died. What one can do is not to construct a perverse demigod out of the suspected murderer by discussing him more than those who died.
For News of the World I am completely uninterested, though why the straightforward tabloid rather than the tabloids in the guise of news-papers which compose the rest of his [= R. Murdoch] subjournalistic consortium should be the one under fire for its ethics is the question, and it is a pity that the employees were let go when it was closed down.
Where Somalia and northeastern Kenya are concerned, I still don't have the impression that there is much one can do as an individual abroad. What I do think is that the portrayal of the famine-stricken as brainless and helpless mouths to feed instead of as herders, villagers, etc., who would have been able to get along on their own and in their native soil had they been given the resources (wells, etc.) which a government or agency should have afforded them, and who need not only food but also some measure of protection and a dignified temporary shelter, is patronizing and denigrating. The closest I've come to reading about such a situation is in Laura Ingalls Wilder, and it is very clear that there is nothing one can do — hard work or intelligence or even wealth — against the weather if you rely on agriculture. The main difference in this millennium is that the infrastructure to develop and distribute technology has improved along with the technology itself, that where farming is done on a larger scale the risks tend to be better balanced out, and that governments are better at evening out the odds for vulnerable farmers if they accept the responsibility.
***
Last week I had an interview for a job at a restaurant. The transit and timing worked well, but the interview itself went badly. Either I didn't seem waitressy or the person was looking for an excuse not to hire me, because he said that without food industry experience he couldn't hire me, in fact nobody could hire me, in fact that at best I could do cleaning work; then was wroth that I didn't speak Italian though I could tease out the meaning of the advertisement; all things which were clear in the c.v. and letter I had sent him. He sent an email apologizing for being in a bad mood, since he is stressed; but I didn't think it was entirely sincere and everything felt a little "squicky" anyway and not a situation where I would be happy or make the employer so. So I turned down an offer to help with the website; it is on the face of it a dumb thing to do (beggars choosers etc.) but in this case my instincts were emphatically against it and I don't know much about web design so wasn't eager to have the bluff called. I consider it a bullet dodged, and was mostly irritated at the time because of the expenditure of time (esp. two words: S-Bahn delays), effort, and of hope that I would at last have work. Now I feel pleased because I have managed to be obdurate about not putting up with balderdash.
What I've done lately to encourage writing endurance is set up an elaborate tea service at the laptop. I cleaned the secretary-desk a little. The ceremony involves brewing a pot of tea, arranging it on a large plate or today our tray, having a sugar pot and a rye cracker beside it, and then consuming it as the writing advances. I don't know if it qualifies as a slop bowl, but I even have a little fingerbowl in which I put today's teabags when they had sufficiently steeped. It feels very professional; the real business of literary endeavour is, of course, unconnected to the state of our teapot.
***
Though I was in the bookshop for a short while today as Mama's holidays begin to taper off, I have had endless time for the piano: Mozart's early sonatas and the concerto in d minor (20), Chopin's "revolutionary" étude and his "raindrop" prelude, Händel's "Harmonious Blacksmith" suite, the slow movement of Mendelssohn's d minor trio, Schubert's sonata in B flat major (D 960) and the two before, and Bach, for instance. I like having my sloppy pile of notes on both ends of the noterack and on the noterack itself, and pulling forward one of the previous notes to wedge in place the recently turned pages of the current score.
I really like Beethoven's cadenzas for the Mozart concerto, but that may be because of their familiarity from the Rudolf Serkin and Clara Haskil recordings I liked to hear at university. Clara Schumann's introduces (I felt when I attempted it today) too much of her own style and Carl Reinecke's is friendly but perhaps slavishly subordinated to Mozart's composition. In the fantasia-like tradition of cadenzas they are all rather weird; so with the very weirdest I am parochially inclined to prefer my own flavour of eccentricity. On the other hand canon compositions themselves are often hard to follow, as I had reason to observe again today in the thickets of Schubert; and I will likely concede in a couple of years that the problem lies not with the cadenzators but with the uncongeniality of my interpretation.
***
Yesterday it was Mama's birthday, and though she has never felt inclined to fuss about it, she took it upon herself for our sakes to indulge the mood for a bit of a splurge and shop for an elaborate set of repasts.
In the morning I spent an idle hour or so washing cutlery and cleaning the stove, with its extremely irritating freight of mistakenly loyal grease which was sort of like a glue stick when you try to rub the glue off of something and it only becomes more grey and streaked and stubborn. I wasn't the one who spattered the damn stuff after leaving a middling flame unattended on the largest gas burner. There were little creamy splatters on the inverted underside of our Römertopf lid, which I conveniently ignored.
Anyway, after lingering over that I prepared three "puddings surprises," this time with three types of pudding mixes, the ladyfinger biscuits, coffee, sherry, bilberries, raspberries, the berry juices and chocolate sprinkles. Due to different cooking times the puddings were fairly tepid by the time the dishes were achieved, as it were, but I woke up the others so that they could enjoy the pudding in residual warmth. I think the pudding would have been improved with more sherry.
Then Mama and T. laboured over fruit tortes, which were beautiful and delectable and their toppings compounded of mandarin and peach slices from a can, apricot halves, blueberries or bilberries, raspberries, and pineapple rings. There was whipping cream to go with it, and a bowl of yoghurt with the remaining fruit. To follow we had bars and squares of chocolate — nougat, milk, marzipan, and ginger marzipan — which were partitioned in the corner room as one of the Herbie films appeared for the millionth time, still charming, on television. In the evening W. came by with a bottle of prosecco, which I enjoyed likewise in a sampling this morning. Of course we had also sung Happy Birthday.
***
Anyway, I thought that I would write a thorough profile on Amy Winehouse for one of my blogs. But though I spent a good part of yesterday researching and I like her and find her interesting, I think that it would be best to have gathered a knowledge of the music industry and the historical background against which her songwriting and performances developed. Hopping on the bandwagon isn't a problem in this case, I think, because so much nonsense has been written about her that someone should do a nicer job of it — though I do like Russell Brand's commentary from his blog (it should still be available at Guardian.co.uk). Secondly, while the subject is still fresh there is less of a likelihood that stuff will be raked up that should be left forgotten. I was interested in her to begin with because I had never heard any criticism of her musical talent, whereas music of any genre brings out so much partisanship, envy, and nitpicking that this is impossibly rare; and because she did seem to fit so naturally and authentically into her jazz, rocker persona, old-fashioned groove.
As for Norway, I think that it is too easy to write something sensationalist or grandiosely sentimental, and it's doubtful whether one can write anything helpful or unprecedented. As little can be done in retrospect for the victims at the youth camp and in Oslo as for many other civil or military situations in the past year in which many (unarmed, young) people have died. What one can do is not to construct a perverse demigod out of the suspected murderer by discussing him more than those who died.
For News of the World I am completely uninterested, though why the straightforward tabloid rather than the tabloids in the guise of news-papers which compose the rest of his [= R. Murdoch] subjournalistic consortium should be the one under fire for its ethics is the question, and it is a pity that the employees were let go when it was closed down.
Where Somalia and northeastern Kenya are concerned, I still don't have the impression that there is much one can do as an individual abroad. What I do think is that the portrayal of the famine-stricken as brainless and helpless mouths to feed instead of as herders, villagers, etc., who would have been able to get along on their own and in their native soil had they been given the resources (wells, etc.) which a government or agency should have afforded them, and who need not only food but also some measure of protection and a dignified temporary shelter, is patronizing and denigrating. The closest I've come to reading about such a situation is in Laura Ingalls Wilder, and it is very clear that there is nothing one can do — hard work or intelligence or even wealth — against the weather if you rely on agriculture. The main difference in this millennium is that the infrastructure to develop and distribute technology has improved along with the technology itself, that where farming is done on a larger scale the risks tend to be better balanced out, and that governments are better at evening out the odds for vulnerable farmers if they accept the responsibility.
***
Last week I had an interview for a job at a restaurant. The transit and timing worked well, but the interview itself went badly. Either I didn't seem waitressy or the person was looking for an excuse not to hire me, because he said that without food industry experience he couldn't hire me, in fact nobody could hire me, in fact that at best I could do cleaning work; then was wroth that I didn't speak Italian though I could tease out the meaning of the advertisement; all things which were clear in the c.v. and letter I had sent him. He sent an email apologizing for being in a bad mood, since he is stressed; but I didn't think it was entirely sincere and everything felt a little "squicky" anyway and not a situation where I would be happy or make the employer so. So I turned down an offer to help with the website; it is on the face of it a dumb thing to do (beggars choosers etc.) but in this case my instincts were emphatically against it and I don't know much about web design so wasn't eager to have the bluff called. I consider it a bullet dodged, and was mostly irritated at the time because of the expenditure of time (esp. two words: S-Bahn delays), effort, and of hope that I would at last have work. Now I feel pleased because I have managed to be obdurate about not putting up with balderdash.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Negligees and Menacing Moons
Besides practicing again, I have been keeping up with the haute couture in Paris, which ended on the 7th. These shows are, I've learnt, put on by members of the Chambre Syndicale, which demands that a fashion house put on two per year. This year I liked all of the ones I looked at — as usual I looked at the slideshows on Style.com, which have the advantage of occasionally giving the names (and agencies) of the models, while Vogue proper's website has a little magnifying box so that one to look at the photos close up, so that the workmanship is visible and it is easier even to tell what the fabric is. But newspaper websites like the Daily Telegraph's have them too.
One of the dresses I remember is Azzedine Alaïa's last; it is (if I recall) made out of a black latticework-like fabric which reminded me vaguely of old Middle Eastern window architecture, it has a broad belt-waist with metallic rims, and it is tied up at the throat with thin black straps, and hanging from the waist there is a short overskirt which falls in a pattern of petals. The overskirt mimicked the "skating skirts" earlier in the show which — though if they are trimmed with real fur I am inclined to disapprove — had a lovely Victorian appearance, and one or two came in a dark red velvety shade. They reminded me of ostrich feathers because of their fringe and their laden droop.
Then I really liked Anne Valerie Hash's line, which was a masterpiece of modernist French subtlety, and it was a relief to see black models; I don't know how to say this tactfully, but here their inclusion didn't look like political correctness because I don't think the clothes — the satiny fabric and the creamy or black shades — would have looked half so well on anybody else.
I looked at Dior briefly, twice, and felt that the problem with it was that dress-wise John Galliano has a better rein on his imagination once he has indulged it; I don't remember him ever indulging in pastels much, though they're more of my own bête noire, and the choice of patterns would have benefited from a sober second opinion. But the way in which the costumes were thrown together was at fault, too, since pieces that looked busy and unwearable together would have done very well if they had been contrasted with something striking but plain. In one case I noticed that there was a quieter skirt; I think either giving it a broad hem at the bottom or a strip of dark colour would have helped, since it was beige and looked almost literally like the unglamorous gruel of office fashion. I don't think the collection was disastrous by any means, but not thought over enough (and the reasonably popular photo of the girl in the opalescent moon dress would have been less horrifying had the sickle not been wedged with such homicidal tightness around her face).
Elie Saab had a line of thin dream-dresses which had a bathroom colour theme going on, namely that I could imagine each tint in the handle and packaging of a feminine razor; and though like Monique Lhuillier's his dresses do appeal sentimentally I have been meanly inclined to think without evidence that he designs a little cynically for the unimaginative tastes of the rich and famous. With Givenchy I didn't exactly get the point, since it was essentially all white negligées, suitable if one is an opera heroine who wishes to die tragically of consumption (the riverside backdrop to the show lent another suicidal overtone, though perhaps too Canaletto summer and not sufficiently gloomy or house-overhung for the lantern-lit, Thames-dragging variety of old-fashioned demise) but otherwise a trifle beside the point of winter attire, or for that matter attire. The Valentino show was rich and cheerful, and I liked the bright congress of Natalia Vodianova, Anne Hathaway, and the other guests.
Jean-Paul Gaultier's show I've somehow forgotten, and Chanel's I don't think I looked at in the first place — which is absurd, of course, because they're very important and I tend to like Chanel.
Anyway, this was all kind of frivolous and what the point of reviewing it as I have is precisely, I cannot say, but perhaps it is amusing. What is more embarrassing sartorially is that I could stare at what Kate Middleton wears forever, and either photographers choose her photos very respectfully or she is incredibly photogenic; at any rate I tend to delay looking at slideshows for a few days so that I am not undignifiedly hanging onto her every snapshot, as it were. Kate Moss's wedding photos I skipped; and the royal nuptials in Monaco made me (like other meddlesome-minded hoi polloi) a little sad, so I went through one slideshow a little absentmindedly and decided to shroud the rest in a sort of imperfect individual privacy.
One of the dresses I remember is Azzedine Alaïa's last; it is (if I recall) made out of a black latticework-like fabric which reminded me vaguely of old Middle Eastern window architecture, it has a broad belt-waist with metallic rims, and it is tied up at the throat with thin black straps, and hanging from the waist there is a short overskirt which falls in a pattern of petals. The overskirt mimicked the "skating skirts" earlier in the show which — though if they are trimmed with real fur I am inclined to disapprove — had a lovely Victorian appearance, and one or two came in a dark red velvety shade. They reminded me of ostrich feathers because of their fringe and their laden droop.
Then I really liked Anne Valerie Hash's line, which was a masterpiece of modernist French subtlety, and it was a relief to see black models; I don't know how to say this tactfully, but here their inclusion didn't look like political correctness because I don't think the clothes — the satiny fabric and the creamy or black shades — would have looked half so well on anybody else.
I looked at Dior briefly, twice, and felt that the problem with it was that dress-wise John Galliano has a better rein on his imagination once he has indulged it; I don't remember him ever indulging in pastels much, though they're more of my own bête noire, and the choice of patterns would have benefited from a sober second opinion. But the way in which the costumes were thrown together was at fault, too, since pieces that looked busy and unwearable together would have done very well if they had been contrasted with something striking but plain. In one case I noticed that there was a quieter skirt; I think either giving it a broad hem at the bottom or a strip of dark colour would have helped, since it was beige and looked almost literally like the unglamorous gruel of office fashion. I don't think the collection was disastrous by any means, but not thought over enough (and the reasonably popular photo of the girl in the opalescent moon dress would have been less horrifying had the sickle not been wedged with such homicidal tightness around her face).
Elie Saab had a line of thin dream-dresses which had a bathroom colour theme going on, namely that I could imagine each tint in the handle and packaging of a feminine razor; and though like Monique Lhuillier's his dresses do appeal sentimentally I have been meanly inclined to think without evidence that he designs a little cynically for the unimaginative tastes of the rich and famous. With Givenchy I didn't exactly get the point, since it was essentially all white negligées, suitable if one is an opera heroine who wishes to die tragically of consumption (the riverside backdrop to the show lent another suicidal overtone, though perhaps too Canaletto summer and not sufficiently gloomy or house-overhung for the lantern-lit, Thames-dragging variety of old-fashioned demise) but otherwise a trifle beside the point of winter attire, or for that matter attire. The Valentino show was rich and cheerful, and I liked the bright congress of Natalia Vodianova, Anne Hathaway, and the other guests.
Jean-Paul Gaultier's show I've somehow forgotten, and Chanel's I don't think I looked at in the first place — which is absurd, of course, because they're very important and I tend to like Chanel.
Anyway, this was all kind of frivolous and what the point of reviewing it as I have is precisely, I cannot say, but perhaps it is amusing. What is more embarrassing sartorially is that I could stare at what Kate Middleton wears forever, and either photographers choose her photos very respectfully or she is incredibly photogenic; at any rate I tend to delay looking at slideshows for a few days so that I am not undignifiedly hanging onto her every snapshot, as it were. Kate Moss's wedding photos I skipped; and the royal nuptials in Monaco made me (like other meddlesome-minded hoi polloi) a little sad, so I went through one slideshow a little absentmindedly and decided to shroud the rest in a sort of imperfect individual privacy.
Thursday, July 07, 2011
A Chromatic Scale
It's the summer holidays and so I haven't been at the bookshop, instead have been drifting and doing kind of the same things and kind of other things, in a looser schedule.
For one thing, the spare time is a nudge to work on the piano again. Today and yesterday I sightread some of the piano part for Beethoven'sEmperor concerto No. 4. It went better than last time because it is difficult to get into the mood; the piano bit is more scrappy and subordinated to the orchestra than in some other concerts. It's especially rewarding in a way, though, because the recognizable, relaxed, and lovely pieces of melody come at unexpected moments, especially after the most tedious scale or repetitive broken chords or a difficult trill that persists like an angry and troubling bumblebee. (Which can also happen with Mozart when, in a compositional device my father likes to point out, a chromatic scale leads haphazardly back to the original key. Chromatic scales run up or down in half notes; I think that they have a meandering character because they pause by the sharps and flats and therefore draw out the run, or a scurrying character because the additional sharps and flats render them more frenzied. Inventing dumb or obvious miniature stories about scales is the way I've developed to convince myself that they have meaning and that I can love them.) It is nicest of all when it is an endearing earlier motif which I thought had been extinguished forever.
There are two cadenzas to the concerto in the back of the score. The first made no sense to me yesterday but I should try again, and the second is the one I seem to have heard in recordings. Today I made up ones of my own as I went along, because even if I don't have much of a method or book-instruction yet I must start figuring out improvisation at some point.
By the time I had gone through Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, Chopin's Raindrop Prelude and Revolutionary Etude, etc., I was tired.
For one thing, the spare time is a nudge to work on the piano again. Today and yesterday I sightread some of the piano part for Beethoven's
There are two cadenzas to the concerto in the back of the score. The first made no sense to me yesterday but I should try again, and the second is the one I seem to have heard in recordings. Today I made up ones of my own as I went along, because even if I don't have much of a method or book-instruction yet I must start figuring out improvisation at some point.
By the time I had gone through Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, Chopin's Raindrop Prelude and Revolutionary Etude, etc., I was tired.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
The Grey Lady at the Helm
This article is a project that has arbitrarily consumed hours and hours of the past week. Credit goes to all the reporters and anonymous Wikipedia contributors whose work I have aggregated. I hope the self-conscious attempt at being journalistic isn't too mined with jargon and other characteristic flaws to be readable or fit into a personal blog; and I tried to answer all of my own questions. What is left out is a closer look at the New York Times's editorial approach to the Bush years, since I had neither the strength, curiosity, nor ready sources to have hoped to do justice to it.
On June 2nd, Bill Keller, Arthur Sulzberger Jr., Dean Baquet, and Jill Abramson gathered for an 11 a.m. address to the New York Times newsroom and announced that Abramson will replace Keller, who is resigning to pursue writing, as the executive editor on September 6th. This is the first time in its 160-year history that a woman will head the newspaper, and for the second time or so the dignified New York Times made a stir in internautical wilds like Twitter.
Jill Abramson, born in New York City and alumna of Harvard University, had worked as a journalist until 2003; after the Jayson Blair news fabrication scandal she was appointed as co-managing editor for the news.
The tasks of a managing editor are to "[oversee] and [coordinate] the publication's editorial activities" and at the Times it is the second-highest post. (Based on pure surmise this presumably means that if the arts editor wants to know whether to publish a contentious story, as is, or with changes, (s)he would refer it to the managing editor; and it would be at Abramson's discretion to consult the paper's lawyers or the top editor or even the publisher, etc., if she can't satisfactorily settle the question herself.) Baquet, now the assistant managing editor and an employee who is highly regarded by his colleagues at the New York and formerly at the Los Angeles Times,* will assume this post.
THE history of women reporters in the Times is venerable but chequered, and it begins with Jane Grant. She was stuck writing articles on "women's issues" and struggled through a rude environment for fifteen years in all. (In 1925 she co-founded the magazine New Yorker with her husband Harold Ross.)
Later women have held high positions in the Times, like the columnists Anna Quindlen and Maureen Dowd, and more recently Gail Collins; Carlotta Gall is charged with the reporting from Afghanistan and Pakistan after a similarly tough post for a different paper in Chechnya; and bylines from Ligaya Mishan through Elaine Sciolino to Janet Maslin appear throughout. Dowd won a Pulitzer in 1999 for her columns about the Monica Lewinsky affair, but she has ten predecessors (Ada Louise Huxtable in 1970 for architecture reporting, Nan C. Robertson in 1983 for a medicine feature, Sheryl WuDunn in a shared laurel in 1990, Natalie Angier in 1991, Anna Quindlen in 1992, Isabel Wilkerson in 1994, Margo Jefferson in 1995, Linda Greenhouse and Michiko Kakutani in 1998 ) all the way down to Anne O'Hare McCormick, who in 1937 was honoured for her foreign correspondence. (Since then there have been five others: Gretchen Morgenson, Andrea Elliott, Amy Harmon, Sheri Fink, and Ellen Barry.) There are three women — Lynn G. Dolnick, Susan W. Dryfoos, and Cathy J. Sulzberger — on the Ochs-Sulzberger Trust board, too. Judith Miller certainly left her mark as well.
BESIDES Keller's dispiriting consciousness of being Sulzberger's second-best, his heart lies in the writing which earned him his Pulitzer (though why he would use the lofty writerly skills, which to garner the prize must have rendered the decline and fall of the Soviet Union in vivid colour, to battle the Twitter windmill is beyond me) rather than in editing, particularly when freighted with a high burden of business decisions.
Keller's current employee David Carr characterizes him with excellent conciseness in a recent interview with Baristanet:
***
Her father, Norman L. Abramson, is a New Yorker like her mother and "retired president of Irish Looms Associates, New York textile importers." (This is the information in her wedding announcement in the Times. Despite the section's habit of adorning occupations which have an insufficiently patrician air, in this instance embellishment is clearly not required.)
The household were newspaper-readers who harboured a Virginia O'Hanlon faith in the Times's dictates — "In my house growing up, The Times substituted for religion. If The Times said it, it was the absolute truth," Jill Abramson told the newsroom on Thursday — and it could afford to send her to Ethical Culture Fieldston School, a NYC school and member of the Ivy Preparatory School League.** The school's list of prominent alumni is a fragmentary Who's Who of the American elite, among them Sofia Coppola, Jeffrey Katzenberg, Howard Wolfson, David Denby, Jane Mayer (whom Abramson seems to have met and become friends with at the school), Sheryl WuDunn and, coincidentally, Gil Scott-Heron.
At Harvard she pursued undergraduate studies in History and Literature, and emerged magna cum laude in 1976, to dive straight away into the journalist profession.
Along the road she picked up an interest in fashion — in pursuit of his profile Gabriel Sherman caught her before a Narciso Rodriguez runway show — and in music in the form of Arcade Fire; feminism appears a passion if her early book on the first graduating class of Harvard Law School where women had represented over 10% of the freshman class, the photo of the Times's third female reporter on her office wall, and her paean to her predecessors during her newsroom speech on Thursday are an indication; so, clearly, is raising dogs. She broke her wrist last year during a hike, so corpore sano is evidently not neglected either (except for the wrist).
In 1981 she married fellow New Yorker and Harvard graduate Henry Little Griggs 3rd. As the son of an NBC News producer and employee with a political PR company he was not new to the halls of the Ivy League, journalism, or politics either. They have two children and the hero of the puppy diaries, Scout, and alternate geographically between New York City and Connecticut.
***
"Good for one fare only"
Subway token inscription / philosophical metaphor for a human life (presumably it implies carpe diem/dum vivimus vivamus) / part of Jill Abramson's tattoo
*
"Jill Abramson" [Wikipedia] (read)
"Carlotta Gall" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Elaine Sciolino" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Jane Grant" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Tina Brown" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011 UTC+2)
"Jill Abramson: 'I'm a battle-scarred veteran'" [Guardian] by Ed Pilkington (June 7, 2011)
"Jill Abramson, Just-Named New York Times Editor, Ready To 'Seize The Future'" [Huffington Post], by Michael Calderone (June 2, 2011)
"New York Times shakes up its masthead" [Politico], by Keach Hagey (June 2, 2011)
"Jill E. Abramson Is Bride Of Henry Little Griggs 3d" [New York Times] (March 15, 1981)
"Ethical Culture Fieldston School" [Wikipedia] Read June 3, 2011
"The New York Times" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Times Two" [New York Magazine], by Gabriel Sherman (September 26, 2010) [and Page 2]
"New York Times names Jill Abramson as first female executive editor" [Guardian], by Jason Deans (June 2, 2011)
"Coffee With . . . David Carr" [Baristanet] by Debbie Galant (June 5, 2011)
"The United States of America vs. Bill Keller" (p. 2) [New York Magazine], by Joe Hagan (Sept. 10, 2006) [and Pages 4, 7 and 10]
Interview: "Jane Mayer and Jill Abramson in Current Affairs" [Charlierose.com] (Nov. 7, 1994)
*
* From Politico's article: "Dean Baquet, the paper’s assistant managing editor and Washington bureau chief who became a kind of journalistic folk hero when he refused to cut staff as editor of the Los Angeles Times, will replace Abramson as managing editor."
** To be honest, though the Ivy Preparatory School League sounds prestigious and likely is, even after reading the relevant Wikipedia article the practical ramifications of this affiliation remain obscure.
On June 2nd, Bill Keller, Arthur Sulzberger Jr., Dean Baquet, and Jill Abramson gathered for an 11 a.m. address to the New York Times newsroom and announced that Abramson will replace Keller, who is resigning to pursue writing, as the executive editor on September 6th. This is the first time in its 160-year history that a woman will head the newspaper, and for the second time or so the dignified New York Times made a stir in internautical wilds like Twitter.
Jill Abramson, born in New York City and alumna of Harvard University, had worked as a journalist until 2003; after the Jayson Blair news fabrication scandal she was appointed as co-managing editor for the news.
The tasks of a managing editor are to "[oversee] and [coordinate] the publication's editorial activities" and at the Times it is the second-highest post. (Based on pure surmise this presumably means that if the arts editor wants to know whether to publish a contentious story, as is, or with changes, (s)he would refer it to the managing editor; and it would be at Abramson's discretion to consult the paper's lawyers or the top editor or even the publisher, etc., if she can't satisfactorily settle the question herself.) Baquet, now the assistant managing editor and an employee who is highly regarded by his colleagues at the New York and formerly at the Los Angeles Times,* will assume this post.
THE history of women reporters in the Times is venerable but chequered, and it begins with Jane Grant. She was stuck writing articles on "women's issues" and struggled through a rude environment for fifteen years in all. (In 1925 she co-founded the magazine New Yorker with her husband Harold Ross.)
Later women have held high positions in the Times, like the columnists Anna Quindlen and Maureen Dowd, and more recently Gail Collins; Carlotta Gall is charged with the reporting from Afghanistan and Pakistan after a similarly tough post for a different paper in Chechnya; and bylines from Ligaya Mishan through Elaine Sciolino to Janet Maslin appear throughout. Dowd won a Pulitzer in 1999 for her columns about the Monica Lewinsky affair, but she has ten predecessors (Ada Louise Huxtable in 1970 for architecture reporting, Nan C. Robertson in 1983 for a medicine feature, Sheryl WuDunn in a shared laurel in 1990, Natalie Angier in 1991, Anna Quindlen in 1992, Isabel Wilkerson in 1994, Margo Jefferson in 1995, Linda Greenhouse and Michiko Kakutani in 1998 ) all the way down to Anne O'Hare McCormick, who in 1937 was honoured for her foreign correspondence. (Since then there have been five others: Gretchen Morgenson, Andrea Elliott, Amy Harmon, Sheri Fink, and Ellen Barry.) There are three women — Lynn G. Dolnick, Susan W. Dryfoos, and Cathy J. Sulzberger — on the Ochs-Sulzberger Trust board, too. Judith Miller certainly left her mark as well.
AS for other American publications, women have already held leading posts. Tina Brown edited Vanity Fair from 1984 to 1992 and The New Yorker from 1992 to 1998, Katharine Graham was the moving spirit behind the Washington Post as its publisher, Anne Marie Lipinski was the editor of the Chicago Tribune from 2001 to 2008, others have headed the Portland Oregonian (Sandra Rowe starting in 1993) and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution (Julia Wallace starting in 2002). Nancy Hicks Maynard was the first African-American woman to own a large newspaper, the Oakland Tribune, in 1983. In the online press Arianna Huffington and more recently Brown have become formidable figures.
The response of these colleagues, also in the television milieu, has been enthusiastic; PBS's Gwen Ifill, Katie Couric of ABC News, Time's Kate Pickert, CNN's Christiane Amanpour, and Tina Brown joined employees in the Times in expressing their congratulations and appreciation for the shattering of another glass ceiling.
***
Jill Abramson has co-written among other books a weighty rebuttal to the defamation of Anita Hill by David Brock in his book The Real Anita Hill, by political allies, and by the media who uncritically repeated the libel. Hill had endangered the confirmation of Supreme Court appointee Clarence Thomas by accusing him of harassment. Jane Mayer (then a colleague at the Wall Street Journal and now a contributor to the magazine New Yorker) was the co-author, and it came out on the bookshelves as Strange Justice: The Selling of Clarence Thomas in 1994. Since then it has become the final word on the matter. In October Puppy Diaries, a nonpolitical compendium of her series of personal blogs on the Times's website in 2009, will appear in Times Books.
In terms of the press, she worked for Time magazine (1973-1976), NBC News, The American Lawyer during the eighties, and the Legal Times as editor-in-chief from 1986-1988. In 1988 she started her stint at the Wall Street Journal's Washington bureau, and when Maureen Dowd nudged her to the Times in 1997 she became Washington bureau chief. While she was with the Times she and Don Van Natta Jr. uncovered part of the network of lawyers and enemies of the Clintons who ferreted out and nudged into press circulation reports of fiscal and amorous impropriety in the 1990s (praised in ex-editor Joseph Lelyveld's 2003 article, "In Clinton's Court," for the New York Review of Books).
Since 1988 she has appeared on television often: 39 times on the political affairs channel C-SPAN and 2 times on Charlie Rose's highly civilized talkshow on PBS. Her voice has a New York edge, and it is a continuous flow of words that stretch into each other, presumably as a way to avoid stumbles or filler like "um," though "you know" presents an island of punctuation intermittently. In short, her speaking style is Harvard-educated Sarah Palin with superior syntax, brain, and no conscious folk vernacular. On television her clothing seems a little stuffy, her tone occasionally patronizing, her emotions and reactions detached by superego, and despite the geniality toward the interviewer her air is a billboard declaring Keep Away. Relative to the rank and file of commentators, she is neither defensive nor aggressive, nor needily impelled to prove herself; she seems as willing to listen and think as to talk and think. She gives a careful interview. When someone challenges the Times's golden calf, viz. the belief in its own immaculate objectivity, her sense of responsibility to the New York Times seems to declare red alert as her autopilot reiterates nuanceless assurances of the Times's impeccable neutrality.
JILL Abramson has been seen as the potential heir to Bill Keller for years, though as she put it to Gabriel Sherman in 2010
"I don’t dwell on it," [. . .] "I think it would be a healthy, nice thing for the country. It is meaningful to have women in positions of leadership at important institutions in society. But, you know, there are wonderful male editors in this place who are just as capable as I am, and they could run this place exquisitely well. If it happens, it happens, if it doesn’t, it doesn’t."She has a relatively benign example to follow. Before Keller became the executive editor he had been passed over for the position in favour of Howell Raines. When Raines was fired two years later in connection with the Blair scandal — nominally; he also raised animosity by insisting on reforms which frankly the Times might need, but perhaps more aggressively than the Times needs — the publisher decided abruptly that he wanted Keller after all.
BESIDES Keller's dispiriting consciousness of being Sulzberger's second-best, his heart lies in the writing which earned him his Pulitzer (though why he would use the lofty writerly skills, which to garner the prize must have rendered the decline and fall of the Soviet Union in vivid colour, to battle the Twitter windmill is beyond me) rather than in editing, particularly when freighted with a high burden of business decisions.
Keller's current employee David Carr characterizes him with excellent conciseness in a recent interview with Baristanet:
He has accomplished amazing things in the job and is probably one of the most talented journalists of our time. Remember, he was not the first choice, and it was an accident of history. And the crown with him never exactly fit. He never was the imperial executive editor of the New York Times, and he turned out to be a fabulous one.Keller himself has surmised,
I think Howell’s view of leadership is martial [. . .]. And mine is more paterfamilias, I guess. You are dependent on this huge reservoir of talent, and your job is to create the circumstances under which they can do their best work, to reward them when they do well, correct them when they do wrong, set some guidelines, and spur their ambitions. But it’s not about me.SO Keller soothed the savage malcontent among the Times reporters. Even if the outrage is not entirely laid (Abramson herself has been gloomily cast as having Raines moments), Sulzberger is fully behind her — even in 2003 he was hoping that she would become the first female executive editor — and despite the controversies over the delay of the National Security Agency wiretap story in 2005 and over the free imaginative rein which Judith Miller held over her reporting on Iraq's putative weapons of mass destruction, etc., she appears to have emerged happily from the froth like a Venus.
***
Her father, Norman L. Abramson, is a New Yorker like her mother and "retired president of Irish Looms Associates, New York textile importers." (This is the information in her wedding announcement in the Times. Despite the section's habit of adorning occupations which have an insufficiently patrician air, in this instance embellishment is clearly not required.)
The household were newspaper-readers who harboured a Virginia O'Hanlon faith in the Times's dictates — "In my house growing up, The Times substituted for religion. If The Times said it, it was the absolute truth," Jill Abramson told the newsroom on Thursday — and it could afford to send her to Ethical Culture Fieldston School, a NYC school and member of the Ivy Preparatory School League.** The school's list of prominent alumni is a fragmentary Who's Who of the American elite, among them Sofia Coppola, Jeffrey Katzenberg, Howard Wolfson, David Denby, Jane Mayer (whom Abramson seems to have met and become friends with at the school), Sheryl WuDunn and, coincidentally, Gil Scott-Heron.
At Harvard she pursued undergraduate studies in History and Literature, and emerged magna cum laude in 1976, to dive straight away into the journalist profession.
Along the road she picked up an interest in fashion — in pursuit of his profile Gabriel Sherman caught her before a Narciso Rodriguez runway show — and in music in the form of Arcade Fire; feminism appears a passion if her early book on the first graduating class of Harvard Law School where women had represented over 10% of the freshman class, the photo of the Times's third female reporter on her office wall, and her paean to her predecessors during her newsroom speech on Thursday are an indication; so, clearly, is raising dogs. She broke her wrist last year during a hike, so corpore sano is evidently not neglected either (except for the wrist).
In 1981 she married fellow New Yorker and Harvard graduate Henry Little Griggs 3rd. As the son of an NBC News producer and employee with a political PR company he was not new to the halls of the Ivy League, journalism, or politics either. They have two children and the hero of the puppy diaries, Scout, and alternate geographically between New York City and Connecticut.
***
"Good for one fare only"
Subway token inscription / philosophical metaphor for a human life (presumably it implies carpe diem/dum vivimus vivamus) / part of Jill Abramson's tattoo
*
"Jill Abramson" [Wikipedia] (read)
"Carlotta Gall" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Elaine Sciolino" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Jane Grant" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Tina Brown" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011 UTC+2)
"Jill Abramson: 'I'm a battle-scarred veteran'" [Guardian] by Ed Pilkington (June 7, 2011)
"Jill Abramson, Just-Named New York Times Editor, Ready To 'Seize The Future'" [Huffington Post], by Michael Calderone (June 2, 2011)
"New York Times shakes up its masthead" [Politico], by Keach Hagey (June 2, 2011)
"Jill E. Abramson Is Bride Of Henry Little Griggs 3d" [New York Times] (March 15, 1981)
"Ethical Culture Fieldston School" [Wikipedia] Read June 3, 2011
"The New York Times" [Wikipedia] (read June 6, 2011)
"Times Two" [New York Magazine], by Gabriel Sherman (September 26, 2010) [and Page 2]
"New York Times names Jill Abramson as first female executive editor" [Guardian], by Jason Deans (June 2, 2011)
"Coffee With . . . David Carr" [Baristanet] by Debbie Galant (June 5, 2011)
"The United States of America vs. Bill Keller" (p. 2) [New York Magazine], by Joe Hagan (Sept. 10, 2006) [and Pages 4, 7 and 10]
Interview: "Jane Mayer and Jill Abramson in Current Affairs" [Charlierose.com] (Nov. 7, 1994)
*
* From Politico's article: "Dean Baquet, the paper’s assistant managing editor and Washington bureau chief who became a kind of journalistic folk hero when he refused to cut staff as editor of the Los Angeles Times, will replace Abramson as managing editor."
** To be honest, though the Ivy Preparatory School League sounds prestigious and likely is, even after reading the relevant Wikipedia article the practical ramifications of this affiliation remain obscure.
Lycurgus, the Obnoxious Tyrant
Back during one of my depressed years, maybe Grade 11, when I was worried about being underread, I kept our old brown copy of Plutarch's Lives (in the Dryden translation, and my grandmother's I believe) at the bedside and strove to make inroads.
One of the lives did strike a chord, since it recapitulated what I learned about Spartan education in history class during an otherwise mostly unedifying year in German school. Under the impression that Lycurgus's biography was the one in question, I found it this morning in a different translation online and read it, keeping on expecting to find the nice passages. The further it went the clearer it was that this is the incomprehensible hagiography of a tremendous jerk, and a paean to totalitarianism.
As I thought it out, Plutarch is likely an originator of the neoclassical and later Christian model of finding a historical figure who can be elevated as a man worthy of emulation, who never does anything wrong and whose enemies are wicked envious ones, or whose faults (for whom a nebulous and inexorable fate is to blame) are a dignified caution to his historical successors. (Probably a harebrained idea, but it seems to me after reading lots of retellings that Homer's heroes for example don't strive so hard after perfection and everyone meets a sticky end whether they're impressive human beings or middling ones — their paths of glory lead but to the grave, etc.) The taxation on the truth and the realities of the human character is too high to be redeemed by the potential benefit. In short it appears profoundly unsound. The air of moral eventemperedness and conservative yearnings are taken as signs of health and practicability, but in fact they often appear to conceal narrow experience, feeble imagination about human nature and the world, and an egotistical need to order the cosmos to one's physical and spiritual comfort that neither recognizes the rights and differences of others, nor is fundamentally good.
Anyway, that is a tangent which it is practically impossible to defend objectively, so to return to "Lycurgus" here is one passage that encapsulates a little of the pleasant experience his rule must have been:
From the modern perspective, water taken from dirty sources would have borne fecal bacteria and parasites, and drinking a broth is not more pleasant even if the silt has settled and the vessel it's served in is a tasteful chalky grey. Besides I am pretty sure that Lycurgus would have drunk (if that grammatical tense is correct) from a slightly different cup. Skim over the dry passages and there are many more gems like this one.
Anyway, I don't follow Plutarch's thoughts. Would he have liked to live in a dual kingdom with lousy furniture, communal dinners, discontent rich people throwing stones, servants presumably living in worse circumstances as the wealth declined, a mediocre democracy where Lycurgus was ruling through the young second king after a military coup (though bloodless), no "useless tradesmen" and no merchant relations with foreign towns since these couldn't do much with the new iron (as opposed to gold and silver) coins?
Unless he was living on the street and was infested with a horrible disease, in contrast to which this Sparta might sound like the Elysian Fields, I doubt Plutarch would have found this lifestyle much fun to put in practice. Sparta may have been truly awful before Lycurgus improved it and so he is a model of making the best of a bad lot. Or, since I didn't finish the Life (too disgruntled), perhaps it has a splendid surprise ending.
Maybe he should be excused on the grounds that most of us who read the Little House on the Prairie series when we were little also thought that, with the exception perhaps of the Long Winter, it sounded rather cozy and nice. The idea of austerity can be charming, the reality of it unthinkable.
What also annoyed me was the praise which the Oracle at Delphi accorded to Lycurgus, twice. Either the oracle accepted arrant bribery, Lycurgus was misrepresenting its findings or never went there, or the oracle did inspire herself through now-controlled substances and had partaken of particularly happy ones whenever he came to visit. I don't think any proper god would accord a follower unalloyed praise, because 'tis human to err, etc. The tale of Croesus is far more instructive and real, I think, and I would think more of Plutarch's or Lycurgus' psychology if one of them had thought that the praise must be a particularly mean trick of the Olympians.
But, to end on a more cheerful note, the Laconian cup puts me in mind of Aunt Adelaide Stitch's education and boarding programme in Nurse Matilda:
"Her own suite of rooms, decorated in chocolate brown
A new wardrobe of clothing in colours that wouldn't show the dirt"
One of the lives did strike a chord, since it recapitulated what I learned about Spartan education in history class during an otherwise mostly unedifying year in German school. Under the impression that Lycurgus's biography was the one in question, I found it this morning in a different translation online and read it, keeping on expecting to find the nice passages. The further it went the clearer it was that this is the incomprehensible hagiography of a tremendous jerk, and a paean to totalitarianism.
As I thought it out, Plutarch is likely an originator of the neoclassical and later Christian model of finding a historical figure who can be elevated as a man worthy of emulation, who never does anything wrong and whose enemies are wicked envious ones, or whose faults (for whom a nebulous and inexorable fate is to blame) are a dignified caution to his historical successors. (Probably a harebrained idea, but it seems to me after reading lots of retellings that Homer's heroes for example don't strive so hard after perfection and everyone meets a sticky end whether they're impressive human beings or middling ones — their paths of glory lead but to the grave, etc.) The taxation on the truth and the realities of the human character is too high to be redeemed by the potential benefit. In short it appears profoundly unsound. The air of moral eventemperedness and conservative yearnings are taken as signs of health and practicability, but in fact they often appear to conceal narrow experience, feeble imagination about human nature and the world, and an egotistical need to order the cosmos to one's physical and spiritual comfort that neither recognizes the rights and differences of others, nor is fundamentally good.
Anyway, that is a tangent which it is practically impossible to defend objectively, so to return to "Lycurgus" here is one passage that encapsulates a little of the pleasant experience his rule must have been:
the Laconian cup, we are told by Kritias, was especially valued for its use in the field. Its colour prevented the drinker being disgusted by the look of the dirty water which it is sometimes necessary to drink, and it was contrived that the dirt was deposited inside the cup and stuck to the bottom, so as to make the drink cleaner than it would otherwise have been.
Anyway, I don't follow Plutarch's thoughts. Would he have liked to live in a dual kingdom with lousy furniture, communal dinners, discontent rich people throwing stones, servants presumably living in worse circumstances as the wealth declined, a mediocre democracy where Lycurgus was ruling through the young second king after a military coup (though bloodless), no "useless tradesmen" and no merchant relations with foreign towns since these couldn't do much with the new iron (as opposed to gold and silver) coins?
Unless he was living on the street and was infested with a horrible disease, in contrast to which this Sparta might sound like the Elysian Fields, I doubt Plutarch would have found this lifestyle much fun to put in practice. Sparta may have been truly awful before Lycurgus improved it and so he is a model of making the best of a bad lot. Or, since I didn't finish the Life (too disgruntled), perhaps it has a splendid surprise ending.
Maybe he should be excused on the grounds that most of us who read the Little House on the Prairie series when we were little also thought that, with the exception perhaps of the Long Winter, it sounded rather cozy and nice. The idea of austerity can be charming, the reality of it unthinkable.
What also annoyed me was the praise which the Oracle at Delphi accorded to Lycurgus, twice. Either the oracle accepted arrant bribery, Lycurgus was misrepresenting its findings or never went there, or the oracle did inspire herself through now-controlled substances and had partaken of particularly happy ones whenever he came to visit. I don't think any proper god would accord a follower unalloyed praise, because 'tis human to err, etc. The tale of Croesus is far more instructive and real, I think, and I would think more of Plutarch's or Lycurgus' psychology if one of them had thought that the praise must be a particularly mean trick of the Olympians.
But, to end on a more cheerful note, the Laconian cup puts me in mind of Aunt Adelaide Stitch's education and boarding programme in Nurse Matilda:
"Her own suite of rooms, decorated in chocolate brown
A new wardrobe of clothing in colours that wouldn't show the dirt"
The Audience of Wooden Seats
Though I have watched pieces only of the least artistically obscure of his films, besides ignorant of the craft in general, and therefore am ill qualified to judge his actorly stature, I've had a mild crush on Peter O'Toole after Lawrence of Arabia, Goodbye Mr. Chips, The Lion in Winter and the one with Audrey Hepburn whose name I can't recall; so here is a link to an interview — "Peter O’Toole Has a Few Words for Directors" — by Dave Itzkoff of the New York Times (June 26).
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Chirpy Update on "Uni," Etc.
On June 2nd I sent the electronic application to the Freie Universität and on the 4th I sent the corroborating documents (or, rather, my mother kindly dropped the envelope into the box for me on her way out), and now I am waiting. Since July 15th is the deadline for applications and responses come in September, I am not worried about being too much on tenterhooks, and instead am focusing — at least these days — on researching the news and revisiting Mozart sonatas on our piano and tending the bookshop.
After much dithering I decided to apply for Modern Greek, as promised, Near Eastern Studies (culture and languages), and Classical Studies: Latin. Russian wasn't an option in combination with other courses, as I found after studying the charts lengthwise and crosswise several times, though eventually I want to take a language course in it outside of studies. Realistically I don't think my chances of getting in are terribly good; however with Modern Greek I do happen to have an extra "in" if I've learned another modern language; since English is evidently one, and French in university and Spanish in high school are there, I hope that will help, and fortunately I did rather well in my Ancient Greek course.
In the meantime I've tried to acquire a little modern Greek; fortunately a vague recollection led me to the BBC website, which has a modest collection of resources including MP3 files to supplement the pronunciation guide I found in the dictionary in our bookshelves. I've done other things too but won't go into too much detail. Fortunately the pronunciation doesn't appear too abstruse, though it has certainly changed in 2000 years and it's a minor disappointment to pronounce "ph" as such and not as a strong "p," the loss of "eta" as a long e as opposed to ee is also sad, and so on and so forth. These changes do align the sound of Greek words more closely with the pronunciation of similar words in different languages, however, just taking "philosophy" as an example, and I admit I'm hardly distraught that the accents now indicate simple emphasis and not convoluted changes in pitch.
So . . . otherwise I'm reading through UNAIDS's report on AIDS after 30 years, though I am too ignorant about the issue to be properly informed even after the perusal, and at some point I may wrap up a blog post about the incoming executive editor of the New York Times. For the latter I've gone through our physical archive of New York Review of Bookses, and since Jill Abramson did important political reporting the contributions where she shows up have been a bundle of nostalgia. Her television appearances on Charlie Rose are also preserved, so I watched those. When was the last time I'd heard about Zell Miller, Jesse Helms, etc.? But I don't feel nostalgic about Whitewater, etc., and while the confirmation hearings of Clarence Thomas must have taken place while I was already reading the newspaper I don't remember anything about them. The combination of scandalmongering and of libelling victims of harassment makes it seem like it would have been a lacklustre use of time and attention anyway. Speaking of Rose, I found his show tremendously boring the last time I tried to watch it, but it has apparently really grown on me.
Less importantly, it has been a very warm day, not miserable precisely and my brain is reasonably active because of the aforementioned mental exercises, but my physical reflexes are presumably terribly slow and let's say I feel a little sticky. Garbage Day (Friday? — I've forgotten.) was the pits, and still a balmy air is very pleasant when it emanates from the flowers and particularly roses which are blossoming in panoply. Yesterday morning I realized that dehydration might be a minor issue, so I am taking "doses" of water with a couple drops of lime juice, teaspoon of sugar, and pinch of salt. It feels pleasingly unspartan particularly when I reach the bottom, i.e. the delicious deposit of saccharine grains.
After much dithering I decided to apply for Modern Greek, as promised, Near Eastern Studies (culture and languages), and Classical Studies: Latin. Russian wasn't an option in combination with other courses, as I found after studying the charts lengthwise and crosswise several times, though eventually I want to take a language course in it outside of studies. Realistically I don't think my chances of getting in are terribly good; however with Modern Greek I do happen to have an extra "in" if I've learned another modern language; since English is evidently one, and French in university and Spanish in high school are there, I hope that will help, and fortunately I did rather well in my Ancient Greek course.
In the meantime I've tried to acquire a little modern Greek; fortunately a vague recollection led me to the BBC website, which has a modest collection of resources including MP3 files to supplement the pronunciation guide I found in the dictionary in our bookshelves. I've done other things too but won't go into too much detail. Fortunately the pronunciation doesn't appear too abstruse, though it has certainly changed in 2000 years and it's a minor disappointment to pronounce "ph" as such and not as a strong "p," the loss of "eta" as a long e as opposed to ee is also sad, and so on and so forth. These changes do align the sound of Greek words more closely with the pronunciation of similar words in different languages, however, just taking "philosophy" as an example, and I admit I'm hardly distraught that the accents now indicate simple emphasis and not convoluted changes in pitch.
So . . . otherwise I'm reading through UNAIDS's report on AIDS after 30 years, though I am too ignorant about the issue to be properly informed even after the perusal, and at some point I may wrap up a blog post about the incoming executive editor of the New York Times. For the latter I've gone through our physical archive of New York Review of Bookses, and since Jill Abramson did important political reporting the contributions where she shows up have been a bundle of nostalgia. Her television appearances on Charlie Rose are also preserved, so I watched those. When was the last time I'd heard about Zell Miller, Jesse Helms, etc.? But I don't feel nostalgic about Whitewater, etc., and while the confirmation hearings of Clarence Thomas must have taken place while I was already reading the newspaper I don't remember anything about them. The combination of scandalmongering and of libelling victims of harassment makes it seem like it would have been a lacklustre use of time and attention anyway. Speaking of Rose, I found his show tremendously boring the last time I tried to watch it, but it has apparently really grown on me.
Less importantly, it has been a very warm day, not miserable precisely and my brain is reasonably active because of the aforementioned mental exercises, but my physical reflexes are presumably terribly slow and let's say I feel a little sticky. Garbage Day (Friday? — I've forgotten.) was the pits, and still a balmy air is very pleasant when it emanates from the flowers and particularly roses which are blossoming in panoply. Yesterday morning I realized that dehydration might be a minor issue, so I am taking "doses" of water with a couple drops of lime juice, teaspoon of sugar, and pinch of salt. It feels pleasingly unspartan particularly when I reach the bottom, i.e. the delicious deposit of saccharine grains.
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