I arrived in Nürnberg in the afternoon, after a very agreeable train ride. When I got here, I went to the tourist information centre, and was told that there are two hostels in the town: the one on the Kaiserburg, where the Holy Roman Emperors once lived, and a backpacker's hotel near the train station. So I duly trekked up to the Kaiserburg, asked at the hostel and found that they had no one by that name, and duly took a tour of the battlements (which were impressively broad, but the red stone was so neatly flattened and squared that I feel sure that much of it has been rebuilt). Then I (and hundreds of other tourists, among them an amazingly large contingent of -- if I have my popular culture down properly -- aficionados of punk rock) decided to take a long winding tour down the streets, over the charming river (polluted as heck, of course, and twice because my orientation was a trifle off), past the churches and over the square (where fresh Lebkuchen are still to be sold), and then back down to the information centre, where Internet Explorer on the free computers still failed to load.
So now I'm in an internet café in the train station. But Google Mail is deeply incompatible with Mexx Solutions (more like Mexx Problems (c: ), so I could read my friend's bewildered emails (she has left Nürnberg for Würzburg, and may come back, or may not) but not send any reply to her. Maddening.
I have a great deal more to write about, but I don't want to take too long, so it will have to wait.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Notes from the Wanderpfad
Last night at around 10:15 my friend M. and I arrived in Munich. It was raining, we took a taxi, and sped down the street from the Hauptbahnhof to the Meininger City Hostel, where we checked in and then ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. Mentally I felt leached by the long train ride, but it took a long while to sleep after all, and I woke up again before 7 a.m. But I don't feel too bad, especially as I just ate breakfast, a poppy seed bun with strawberry and with raspberry jam, and a cup of strawberry tea. The place is full of schoolchildren and people of all other ages; M.'s and my roommates are two nice Korean girls. At around 10 a.m. we can set off for a free guided tour of the city centre, which is pretty exhaustive and moreover should be, considering that it will take three hours.
As for the train ride, it was beautiful. Until, I'd say, Leipzig, there were fields upon fields of tanned grasses, pine and birch woods, brick houses, and rows of wind generators and even, at one point, a little wooden windmill that sat in a backyard confined in a neat wooden fence. There were fields of corn, wheat of whose stalks the grains had been stripped, and sunflowers; shooting platforms; and, near towns, sunken gardening colonies. Ridges of forest rose in the distance, and at last the train tracks were enfolded in them, as we ran along into the valley of the Saale. This was, aside from the inevitable modern factory buildings, a landscape that strongly recalled the Germany of Romantic literature: apple trees, brown castles on hills, oak and beech and fir woods, the winding river which at times reminded me of a Rubens (?) landscape in the Gemäldegallerie, the towns full of houses roofed in red tiles and (later) shining black shingles, and the clock-faced spires rising from them in peaked bulbs or pyramids. The region of Jena struck me especially.
There is little internet time left to me, so I'll have to stop here. (c:
As for the train ride, it was beautiful. Until, I'd say, Leipzig, there were fields upon fields of tanned grasses, pine and birch woods, brick houses, and rows of wind generators and even, at one point, a little wooden windmill that sat in a backyard confined in a neat wooden fence. There were fields of corn, wheat of whose stalks the grains had been stripped, and sunflowers; shooting platforms; and, near towns, sunken gardening colonies. Ridges of forest rose in the distance, and at last the train tracks were enfolded in them, as we ran along into the valley of the Saale. This was, aside from the inevitable modern factory buildings, a landscape that strongly recalled the Germany of Romantic literature: apple trees, brown castles on hills, oak and beech and fir woods, the winding river which at times reminded me of a Rubens (?) landscape in the Gemäldegallerie, the towns full of houses roofed in red tiles and (later) shining black shingles, and the clock-faced spires rising from them in peaked bulbs or pyramids. The region of Jena struck me especially.
There is little internet time left to me, so I'll have to stop here. (c:
Monday, August 18, 2008
The City on a Monday
Yesterday evening my friend M. arrived, so today we went on two excursions: the first, an unglamorous one to Plus, where we bought dinner; the second, a long promenade through Winterfeldtplatz and Nollendorfplatz, to the Siegessäule ("Victory Column"), then along the Straße des 17. Juni to Brandenburger Tor. There were loungers in the seas of sidewalk tables and chairs in front of the cafés at Nollendorfplatz, but a modest quantity of people in general. The vicinity of the CDU headquarters, Malaysian embassy, etc., behind Potsdamer Platz was, as much as ever, a deserted playground of modern architecture and asphalt. Innovative buildings are, I find, like shiny new toys; they are exciting for a moment, and then they sit around unused and unnoticed for eternity, to be interesting again only if our instinct of cupidity is aroused.
A group of cyclists had gathered at the Großer Stern, and a friendly flock of tourists were loosely distributed around the base of the Siegessäule, but otherwise it was very quiet there. By the time we arrived at Brandenburger Tor, M.'s shoes were bothersome, and it was warmer than we found quite pleasant, so we wandered over to the Reichstag and kept our eye out for a bus station. The lineup for the Reichstag dome was incomprehensibly long as always, so we stayed outside.
As we left, a woman approached us, asked if we speak English, and, when I answered in the positive, handed me a card. I thought that there would be an address written on it, and that she wanted me to tell her the way. Instead it was a begging appeal, informing whichever tourist it may concern that she was Bosnian and had two children. Without taking the time to think it over, I gave her some change, upon which she put her hands together, bowed, and blessed me (which was a bit embarrassing, even as a routine form of thanks, especially as the grand sum I had given her was 2.20 Euros). A moment later, of course, the realization came that it was stupid of me because I needed change for the bus fare (but M. paid for me). Still, whether she has two children or genuinely needs the money or not, I didn't have the impression that the money is going to drugs. Besides, she interested me. She was likely a gypsy. Twice I've seen a gypsy (once at the Kleistpark colonnades, and once waiting for the bus at, I believe, the Staatsbibliothek), who greatly impressed me because his face was so marked with deep experience and character, and a dignified melancholy; he looked, too, as if he might travel through time as well lands, for he would have fit into the scene as easily in the 19th or even 17th century. It was the same with her. So I don't regret having given the money.
Before the tour, however, we passed through the Kleistpark and I saw that a door in the entrance of the Kammergericht was open. So we went in, to a little room at the left with an inactive baggage screener, where a security guard who generously tried to thaw out of his gruff boredom looked into our bags, handed us and an elderly man (who had happened to enter at the same time) roughly folded brochures and print-outs from Berlin.de about the Kammergericht. Then he waved us through the door into the great round hall where the staircase rises to the upper levels of the building.
The Kammergericht is in the Neobaroque style, built 1909, but the flattened romanesque arches, heavy piers, and the white vaults that ran around the hall on the ground level strongly suggest an ancient church or abbey. A wooden announcement board that was once used by the Allied Control Centre stands to the left. The balusters of the staircase, which runs grandly down, facing the door, are quite evidently "neo," however, being oddly square and slanted. Underneath the staircase there is a delightful pair of little arches that mysteriously leads into the hall behind. We went to the window, protected by a wrought-iron(?) railing, and looked out into the courtyard, which is a square of black asphalt, preternaturally void of any greenery but fitted out with a lone trash can (largely intended to receive cigarette butts), around which rise white stucco walls full of windows and pebbly designs (e.g. a triangle with an eye in it!). On the upper floors we found flourishes in plaster, ornate wooden doors, and brass or gilded chandeliers with white bulbs, and halls lined with black tiles. It was all pretty quiet and empty, though a handful of employees did pass through when we were there.
So one unifying element in our trip was probably the silence and emptiness, which is only to be expected on a Monday when everyone is inside at work, but which is saddening. I read somewhere that the population of Berlin was once 4.9 million (but I think that 4.5 million is the right figure) and now it is 3.4 million. In any case, I wish that the empty spaces in the city core of Berlin had not all been claimed by office buildings and government buildings — which are great nutshells for tiny kernels to rattle in, and inaccessible to the vast majority of mortals — or grandiose architectural experiments. I think they should be filled with tasteful and liveable upscale apartment buildings. But, on the other hand, I like the generous proportions in Berlin; and the sad loneliness, which not everyone may agree exists anyway, does have its dignified charm.
A group of cyclists had gathered at the Großer Stern, and a friendly flock of tourists were loosely distributed around the base of the Siegessäule, but otherwise it was very quiet there. By the time we arrived at Brandenburger Tor, M.'s shoes were bothersome, and it was warmer than we found quite pleasant, so we wandered over to the Reichstag and kept our eye out for a bus station. The lineup for the Reichstag dome was incomprehensibly long as always, so we stayed outside.
As we left, a woman approached us, asked if we speak English, and, when I answered in the positive, handed me a card. I thought that there would be an address written on it, and that she wanted me to tell her the way. Instead it was a begging appeal, informing whichever tourist it may concern that she was Bosnian and had two children. Without taking the time to think it over, I gave her some change, upon which she put her hands together, bowed, and blessed me (which was a bit embarrassing, even as a routine form of thanks, especially as the grand sum I had given her was 2.20 Euros). A moment later, of course, the realization came that it was stupid of me because I needed change for the bus fare (but M. paid for me). Still, whether she has two children or genuinely needs the money or not, I didn't have the impression that the money is going to drugs. Besides, she interested me. She was likely a gypsy. Twice I've seen a gypsy (once at the Kleistpark colonnades, and once waiting for the bus at, I believe, the Staatsbibliothek), who greatly impressed me because his face was so marked with deep experience and character, and a dignified melancholy; he looked, too, as if he might travel through time as well lands, for he would have fit into the scene as easily in the 19th or even 17th century. It was the same with her. So I don't regret having given the money.
Before the tour, however, we passed through the Kleistpark and I saw that a door in the entrance of the Kammergericht was open. So we went in, to a little room at the left with an inactive baggage screener, where a security guard who generously tried to thaw out of his gruff boredom looked into our bags, handed us and an elderly man (who had happened to enter at the same time) roughly folded brochures and print-outs from Berlin.de about the Kammergericht. Then he waved us through the door into the great round hall where the staircase rises to the upper levels of the building.
The Kammergericht is in the Neobaroque style, built 1909, but the flattened romanesque arches, heavy piers, and the white vaults that ran around the hall on the ground level strongly suggest an ancient church or abbey. A wooden announcement board that was once used by the Allied Control Centre stands to the left. The balusters of the staircase, which runs grandly down, facing the door, are quite evidently "neo," however, being oddly square and slanted. Underneath the staircase there is a delightful pair of little arches that mysteriously leads into the hall behind. We went to the window, protected by a wrought-iron(?) railing, and looked out into the courtyard, which is a square of black asphalt, preternaturally void of any greenery but fitted out with a lone trash can (largely intended to receive cigarette butts), around which rise white stucco walls full of windows and pebbly designs (e.g. a triangle with an eye in it!). On the upper floors we found flourishes in plaster, ornate wooden doors, and brass or gilded chandeliers with white bulbs, and halls lined with black tiles. It was all pretty quiet and empty, though a handful of employees did pass through when we were there.
So one unifying element in our trip was probably the silence and emptiness, which is only to be expected on a Monday when everyone is inside at work, but which is saddening. I read somewhere that the population of Berlin was once 4.9 million (but I think that 4.5 million is the right figure) and now it is 3.4 million. In any case, I wish that the empty spaces in the city core of Berlin had not all been claimed by office buildings and government buildings — which are great nutshells for tiny kernels to rattle in, and inaccessible to the vast majority of mortals — or grandiose architectural experiments. I think they should be filled with tasteful and liveable upscale apartment buildings. But, on the other hand, I like the generous proportions in Berlin; and the sad loneliness, which not everyone may agree exists anyway, does have its dignified charm.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Fourth Plinth, and Other Tales
My latest project is a book review blog, The Lighthouse at Alexandria. It is my job now, and it is at least a part-time job as far as the time and effort spent in reading the books, finding links, and writing the reviews themselves are concerned. So that has kept me busy for the past three days. (c: On Saturdays the plan is to review my favourite articles among the ones that have appeared in newspapers and magazines over the past week. Last evening I started exploring, but so many articles were delightful that I decided to do a riff on the New York Times bestseller lists there, and write about the articles here, instead.
One of my minor obsessions is the Fourth Plinth, which is a stone block at the corner of London's Trafalgar Square whereupon a statue of William IV was supposed to be raised but never was, and which is now host to a rotating exhibition of contemporary art. That I am obsessed with it is odd considering that not all of the art on it is exactly to my taste. I did like the effects of Bill Woodrow's "Regardless of History," a tangle of bronze tree with a book engulfed in the roots and a man's head crushed underneath, and Thomas Schütte's "Hotel for the Birds," a colourful, strong, and bright statement in layered red, yellow and blue glass amid the gloomy grey.
Lately there was a competition for a new design. None of the finalists truly thrilled me, but I did like Tracey Emin's meerkats. They remind me of people standing on the end of a sinking boat. That is not cheerful but thoughtful and mournful, and still it's nice, as the meerkats are standing there together, unmoved. I like meerkats in themselves, too — their dignity and agility, their ability to kill snakes, and their quiet vigilance as they stand guard at the entrances of their burrows. Yinka Shonibare's ship in a bottle (I am very fond of wooden sailing ships, whether they are four inches high and in a bottle, or forty yards high and on the sea) is attractive, too. But Antony Gormley's concept, the upturned transparent collar and the idea of having one member of the public standing on top of the plinth at a time, does not speak to me. Probably my likes and dislikes are boringly conservative, but everyone has their own sensitivities, and I guess that it's fine.
The Guardian has written extensively on this weighty matter. In January there was a nice article on Mr. Schütte and his design. On August 8th there was an amusing blog about the rumour that Boris Johnson has backed down from his intention to change the use of the plinth, as he was informed that it's "being kept warm" for an equestrian statue of Elizabeth II, "to be commissioned after her death." It must be unnerving to know that a whole industry is waiting to blossom upon one's demise. But in a way it's funny, too. Generally I support the idea of an open plinth, where the art changes. It is a fine source of income for the artist community, and it also freshens a historical square with a nice breeze of modernity, and if one of the artworks is truly dreadful one has the consolation of knowing that it will be replaced. On the other hand, I hope that less well-established artists are actively encouraged to submit their ideas, too.
* * *
The most delightful articles were about architecture, a field that greatly interests me but that I know very little.
As J. will go to Barcelona in September, I was especially interested in a photo gallery of Antoni Gaudí's Sagrada Familia church. In one sentence, I'd describe it as a crown of spires, intricate and fanciful, with a futuristic, extraterrestrial vibe. Among the photos, there is an excellently observed one that depicts a bird's-eye view of a spiralling interior staircase; it exactly resembles the cross-section of a snail's shell and the broad steps even look like the shell segments. I like the church, but there are many aspects of it I don't like. First of all, it is outlandish and disproportionate to everything around it. Secondly, it is a paean to a very beautiful and complex aesthetic; despite countless details which it takes from ecclesiastical architecture, I think it is scarcely religious, except in this artistic sense. Thirdly, it is tremendously expensive and complicated, and it is an exponent of a personal whim and not an outreach to the community. So I think, but I may be wrong.
THEN there was a photo series on observatories. I took these notes:
1. Kielder observatory: Ikea ("karg" setting)
2. Telescope: Star Wars ship gun
3. Greenwich observatory: hill
4. Jaipur observatory: paper cut-outs
5. Very Large Array: Very Stupid Name (also, moon-flowers)
6. WM Keck observatory, Hawaii
7. Parkes observatory: black latticed fan with a windmill base
The note on the Greenwich observatory is meant to remind me that our aunt L. took T. and me to see it when we were in London. I stayed at the foot of the hill, reading Jane Austen's Love and Freindship, but L. and T. courageously strove up the steep slope to the observatory itself. What fascinated me about the hill is its visual effect. As the people who streamed up and down the slopes were so high and far away, and tiny, I had the odd feeling of seeing a miniature world laid out before me. It now reminds me of an old New England embroidery or painting, of people flocking up a hill that is its own little ideal realm. And that reminds me of the famous passage in the 1630 sermon of the Puritan John Winthrop:
THEN there was a droll article on the "Cheesegrater" (thus nicknamed for its tapering rectangular shape), a 235-metre-tall, 47-floor building, which is to stand beside the Gherkin in London. Sadly its date of completion has been moved ahead into 2012 due to the financial situation. The "Shard" finds itself in a like predicament. Two of the finest passages in the article:
One of my minor obsessions is the Fourth Plinth, which is a stone block at the corner of London's Trafalgar Square whereupon a statue of William IV was supposed to be raised but never was, and which is now host to a rotating exhibition of contemporary art. That I am obsessed with it is odd considering that not all of the art on it is exactly to my taste. I did like the effects of Bill Woodrow's "Regardless of History," a tangle of bronze tree with a book engulfed in the roots and a man's head crushed underneath, and Thomas Schütte's "Hotel for the Birds," a colourful, strong, and bright statement in layered red, yellow and blue glass amid the gloomy grey.
Lately there was a competition for a new design. None of the finalists truly thrilled me, but I did like Tracey Emin's meerkats. They remind me of people standing on the end of a sinking boat. That is not cheerful but thoughtful and mournful, and still it's nice, as the meerkats are standing there together, unmoved. I like meerkats in themselves, too — their dignity and agility, their ability to kill snakes, and their quiet vigilance as they stand guard at the entrances of their burrows. Yinka Shonibare's ship in a bottle (I am very fond of wooden sailing ships, whether they are four inches high and in a bottle, or forty yards high and on the sea) is attractive, too. But Antony Gormley's concept, the upturned transparent collar and the idea of having one member of the public standing on top of the plinth at a time, does not speak to me. Probably my likes and dislikes are boringly conservative, but everyone has their own sensitivities, and I guess that it's fine.
The Guardian has written extensively on this weighty matter. In January there was a nice article on Mr. Schütte and his design. On August 8th there was an amusing blog about the rumour that Boris Johnson has backed down from his intention to change the use of the plinth, as he was informed that it's "being kept warm" for an equestrian statue of Elizabeth II, "to be commissioned after her death." It must be unnerving to know that a whole industry is waiting to blossom upon one's demise. But in a way it's funny, too. Generally I support the idea of an open plinth, where the art changes. It is a fine source of income for the artist community, and it also freshens a historical square with a nice breeze of modernity, and if one of the artworks is truly dreadful one has the consolation of knowing that it will be replaced. On the other hand, I hope that less well-established artists are actively encouraged to submit their ideas, too.
* * *
The most delightful articles were about architecture, a field that greatly interests me but that I know very little.
As J. will go to Barcelona in September, I was especially interested in a photo gallery of Antoni Gaudí's Sagrada Familia church. In one sentence, I'd describe it as a crown of spires, intricate and fanciful, with a futuristic, extraterrestrial vibe. Among the photos, there is an excellently observed one that depicts a bird's-eye view of a spiralling interior staircase; it exactly resembles the cross-section of a snail's shell and the broad steps even look like the shell segments. I like the church, but there are many aspects of it I don't like. First of all, it is outlandish and disproportionate to everything around it. Secondly, it is a paean to a very beautiful and complex aesthetic; despite countless details which it takes from ecclesiastical architecture, I think it is scarcely religious, except in this artistic sense. Thirdly, it is tremendously expensive and complicated, and it is an exponent of a personal whim and not an outreach to the community. So I think, but I may be wrong.
THEN there was a photo series on observatories. I took these notes:
1. Kielder observatory: Ikea ("karg" setting)
2. Telescope: Star Wars ship gun
3. Greenwich observatory: hill
4. Jaipur observatory: paper cut-outs
5. Very Large Array: Very Stupid Name (also, moon-flowers)
6. WM Keck observatory, Hawaii
7. Parkes observatory: black latticed fan with a windmill base
The note on the Greenwich observatory is meant to remind me that our aunt L. took T. and me to see it when we were in London. I stayed at the foot of the hill, reading Jane Austen's Love and Freindship, but L. and T. courageously strove up the steep slope to the observatory itself. What fascinated me about the hill is its visual effect. As the people who streamed up and down the slopes were so high and far away, and tiny, I had the odd feeling of seeing a miniature world laid out before me. It now reminds me of an old New England embroidery or painting, of people flocking up a hill that is its own little ideal realm. And that reminds me of the famous passage in the 1630 sermon of the Puritan John Winthrop:
For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us. So that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a by-word through the world.By "moon-flowers" I mean that there are enormous white satellite dishes that are reposing in isolation on a darkened field, and pointing expectantly toward the sky, as sunflowers point expectantly toward the sun. As for the Hawaiian observatory, I wrote no notes because I wanted to check if it is among the ones on top of Mauna Kea. It is, so I can proudly say that I have seen it in person (though at a distance which made it seem infinitesimal), gleaming on the vast mound beyond the red lunar landscape of Mauna Kea's flanks.
THEN there was a droll article on the "Cheesegrater" (thus nicknamed for its tapering rectangular shape), a 235-metre-tall, 47-floor building, which is to stand beside the Gherkin in London. Sadly its date of completion has been moved ahead into 2012 due to the financial situation. The "Shard" finds itself in a like predicament. Two of the finest passages in the article:
The previous building at 122 Leadenhall Street, a 1960s office block, is being destroyed from the ground up around its central concrete core. For some time it resembled an ice-lolly, but now the floors have gone and only the "stick" remains on the site.and
A sign pinned to the barriers that prevent office workers and shoppers from toppling into the huge hole left by the excavation promised "57,000 square metres of the highest quality office space".
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
A Farewell To Opa
On August 7th, my grandfather died after going into a decline due to old age. He was ninety-six years old, barely a week short of his birthday.
My siblings and I didn't know him very well, as we visited Kevelaer whenever we flew to Germany, but this was a rare occasion. Still, he was a presence in our house, not only through the cards that Oma sent us for Christmas and Easter, but also through photos and his memoirs and his art. For a long time we've had three stained-glass panes that he made, all three bearing Biblical motifs like the dove and flames of Pentecost, and a gouache(?) prototype for a fourth pane depicting Russian onion domes. I quite impartially like these very much, because they are not at all kitschy, the tints are very beautiful, and there is a harmony and depth to them. They are traditional but distinctive; and the relative simplicity of the lines and shapes reconcile their old-fashioned elements to modernity. But (as art was his profession) he also worked in many other media: pencil sketches, bronze and majolica sculpture, mosaics, sgraffito, etc.
As for his life, he was born in a German enclave in Belgium, and experienced World War I there. When the next war broke out, he was with the German army in Russia, and had a predictably disagreeable time where his conscience and religious upbringing were in constant conflict with his environment. Even after the war was officially over, he was interned in a Russian prisoner of war camp for years. Back in Germany, he settled in Kevelaer and worked as an artist, eventually marrying my grandmother and raising twelve children (all boys, except for my mother) with her. He lived and wrought peacefully in the small-town atmosphere of Kevelaer, though he also corresponded with and hosted people from abroad. The town itself is also constantly stirred by the passage of domestic and foreign pilgrims; they come to the basilica and chapel in honour of Mary's appearance in the dreams of a merchant, and his subsequent building of a chapel dedicated to her, in the 17th century.
There is a good assembly of his works at a website that Uncle B. set up for Opa, here. (The girl with the tousled hair in the photos is Mama. (c: )
My siblings and I didn't know him very well, as we visited Kevelaer whenever we flew to Germany, but this was a rare occasion. Still, he was a presence in our house, not only through the cards that Oma sent us for Christmas and Easter, but also through photos and his memoirs and his art. For a long time we've had three stained-glass panes that he made, all three bearing Biblical motifs like the dove and flames of Pentecost, and a gouache(?) prototype for a fourth pane depicting Russian onion domes. I quite impartially like these very much, because they are not at all kitschy, the tints are very beautiful, and there is a harmony and depth to them. They are traditional but distinctive; and the relative simplicity of the lines and shapes reconcile their old-fashioned elements to modernity. But (as art was his profession) he also worked in many other media: pencil sketches, bronze and majolica sculpture, mosaics, sgraffito, etc.
As for his life, he was born in a German enclave in Belgium, and experienced World War I there. When the next war broke out, he was with the German army in Russia, and had a predictably disagreeable time where his conscience and religious upbringing were in constant conflict with his environment. Even after the war was officially over, he was interned in a Russian prisoner of war camp for years. Back in Germany, he settled in Kevelaer and worked as an artist, eventually marrying my grandmother and raising twelve children (all boys, except for my mother) with her. He lived and wrought peacefully in the small-town atmosphere of Kevelaer, though he also corresponded with and hosted people from abroad. The town itself is also constantly stirred by the passage of domestic and foreign pilgrims; they come to the basilica and chapel in honour of Mary's appearance in the dreams of a merchant, and his subsequent building of a chapel dedicated to her, in the 17th century.
There is a good assembly of his works at a website that Uncle B. set up for Opa, here. (The girl with the tousled hair in the photos is Mama. (c: )
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
A Hermit's Meditations
[N.B.: I don't honestly expect anyone to wade through all of this.]
Normally I don't much like talking about "My Future," firstly because the fear of it and the conviction of being a failure has hounded me since Grade 10, and secondly because I'd rather do something than discuss what I might do, only to look indolent and vacillating if I never do it after all. But at present the plan is to find an internship at a magazine or newspaper, write freelance articles (e.g. travel articles on Berlin) and short stories and poems, and in the meantime be as up-to-date as possible by reading newspapers and magazines and blogs. I've conveniently decided to postpone the job-hunt until my friend M. comes to Germany on August 17th, because I want to be free to traipse around Berlin and elsewhere with her. Then I want to take my place in the grown-up world — if I were male, I would say "give up my childhood and become a Man."
Also, as I'm not going to university, I need to pursue my general education, and in any case I need to work on my music. The gaps in knowledge are evident enough — the sciences, information technology, politics, economics, psychology, philosophy, music theory, German and French literature, etc. — and I could stand to learn another language or two. So I'll have to read and I'll hopefully audit a few courses, too. My daydreams change, and I use them mostly as encouragement and not so much as definite aims, but my most cherished present one is to find an internship in New York.
Nevertheless I am happy with my life the way it is. The benefit of the grim slog of school — the guilt about not doing my homework, the isolation, etc. — is that, even though I've had my crises, I know I've had it far worse. What I ask of life is to have my self-respect, to be able to unfold freely in character and mind, to be around people whom I trust, to have food and shelter, and to be at ease with myself and the world around me. Now I have it.
* * *
Besides, though I tend to disapprove of everyone else's religion unless it's a peaceful and beneficial one, and I don't feel guilty for having small respect for the Pope, I have found a faith that greatly comforts me. The central tenet is that, as long as I honestly strive to do right in little things as well as big ones, everything will turn out well, and even if it doesn't I won't have to reproach myself for much. Even as a tiny Munchkin I was already analyzing the motives for what I said and did, and seeing clearly enough where my shortcomings were, making concerted efforts to grow into a better person, and being prodded by a pretty active conscience; so the most difficult part is the trust.
As for going wrong, I don't fear it so much, because my idea of atonement is to freely recognize the misdeed, feel genuinely sorry and do one's best not to repeat it. Shortcomings shouldn't be hidden and repressed, but brought to light and dissolved through analysis or diverted into harmless channels. I don't believe in punishment, either. Instead I believe that any act in bad faith has unhappy consequences attached to it, which do not wait to pounce on a sinner down the road (I deeply dislike this concept) but are immediate. To use an illustration, if life is a stream that runs to the sea, the misdeed is an obstacle that fleetingly redirects it into a different course, though the stream will eventually reach the sea like any other. Also, I am convinced that the only sins are actions where other people are harmed, or offenses against one's own integrity. Lastly, I don't believe that there are "good" people and "bad" people, except in the extremely rare cases where people have no moral code at all; treating other people as lepers, on any pretext whatsoever, is only a reflection on one's flawed self.
I'll freely admit that the problem of evil, and the question of what it is, is one I haven't been able to properly explain to myself. I don't doubt that it exists. Still, one of the nice things about humans is that, in us, evil tends to take a banal concrete form, which is easy enough to spot and counteract. Our personalities are rarely monolithic or powerful enough to be demonic, though I suppose that we can become temporarily demonic e.g. as part of a mob. But at times I have felt evil as an abstract atmosphere, where one must be careful not to be infected; still, the infection is that of superstition and fear and loneliness, and not of any dramatic journey to the "dark side." And the best antidotes to superstition and fear and loneliness are common sense, the right kind of strength, and a belief that there is goodness in the world.
Beyond this I see no point in minute theological discussions. The Bible and the thoughts of others are helpful guides, but I don't feel called upon to believe every detail. As far as God, the Trinity, the saints, etc. go, I incline to think, as Alexander Pope put it in the full couplet of his famous quotation: "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; / The proper study of mankind is man." Nor do I believe that one can arrive at the absolute truth; one should investigate, weigh ideas, draw one's own conclusions, but keep in mind that there can always be flaws in one's observations and logic.
Above all, I believe that one's thoughts and deeds should have as their end the welfare of one's fellow human beings. Though I tend to the less harsh, Hippocrates-like belief that living without harming anyone else is already an accomplishment, I sympathize with the quotation, which Dr. Johnson included in his Rambler, to the effect that "no life is pleasing to God that is not useful to man." This doesn't mean arbitrating the fates of other people, but helping them to help themselves when needed, letting them find their own good in their own way, and treating them with respect. As Mama has often remarked à propos of the "Golden Rule," a problem is that what is good and useful for one person can be bad and worse than useless for another, so one cannot thrust benevolent intentions on others.
As far as one's self is concerned, I think one has a responsibility, too; one is a person like any other, with the same rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Denying an elementary respect and care to one's self is as iniquitous as denying it to someone else. It also defeats one's purpose because if one treats one's self poorly, one tends to treat others poorly too. For example, when I despise myself, it makes me self-centred, torpid and uncommunicative, so that I am quite the opposite of a ray of sunshine to the people with whom I come into contact.
Self-sacrifice can too often be like mercy in reverse, I think, blighting him who gives and him who takes. When I was ten or so, I was much taken by the tales of martyrs, and thought about the concept a good deal. But I felt that I couldn't bear, for example, to die for someone else if he or she didn't know about it and didn't remember me gratefully after I'm gone. In the course of time, however, I've come to believe that martyrdom is admirable only if it is veritably beneficial. Also, I've thought about the feelings of the beneficiary. It is probably a terrible burden to know that someone has literally or figuratively crippled himself, even condemned himself to death, on one's behalf. It is an almost tyrannous claim on one's gratitude. For the benefactor, too, I think it would be somehow embarrassing. So now I find it much kinder to leave the beneficiary in ignorance, and to see one's reward in the knowledge that one has done some good. And if a significant sacrifice is prompted not by generosity but by the urge to self-annihilation, I find it positively criminal.
Lastly, as for the rewards of virtue, I think that they are being at peace with, and being able to respect, one's self. Also, I think that good deeds govern the direction of our lives much as bad ones do; but they guide them into happier and more tranquil courses, so that we are content with our existence and ready to leave the world when we do.
Normally I don't much like talking about "My Future," firstly because the fear of it and the conviction of being a failure has hounded me since Grade 10, and secondly because I'd rather do something than discuss what I might do, only to look indolent and vacillating if I never do it after all. But at present the plan is to find an internship at a magazine or newspaper, write freelance articles (e.g. travel articles on Berlin) and short stories and poems, and in the meantime be as up-to-date as possible by reading newspapers and magazines and blogs. I've conveniently decided to postpone the job-hunt until my friend M. comes to Germany on August 17th, because I want to be free to traipse around Berlin and elsewhere with her. Then I want to take my place in the grown-up world — if I were male, I would say "give up my childhood and become a Man."
Also, as I'm not going to university, I need to pursue my general education, and in any case I need to work on my music. The gaps in knowledge are evident enough — the sciences, information technology, politics, economics, psychology, philosophy, music theory, German and French literature, etc. — and I could stand to learn another language or two. So I'll have to read and I'll hopefully audit a few courses, too. My daydreams change, and I use them mostly as encouragement and not so much as definite aims, but my most cherished present one is to find an internship in New York.
Nevertheless I am happy with my life the way it is. The benefit of the grim slog of school — the guilt about not doing my homework, the isolation, etc. — is that, even though I've had my crises, I know I've had it far worse. What I ask of life is to have my self-respect, to be able to unfold freely in character and mind, to be around people whom I trust, to have food and shelter, and to be at ease with myself and the world around me. Now I have it.
* * *
Besides, though I tend to disapprove of everyone else's religion unless it's a peaceful and beneficial one, and I don't feel guilty for having small respect for the Pope, I have found a faith that greatly comforts me. The central tenet is that, as long as I honestly strive to do right in little things as well as big ones, everything will turn out well, and even if it doesn't I won't have to reproach myself for much. Even as a tiny Munchkin I was already analyzing the motives for what I said and did, and seeing clearly enough where my shortcomings were, making concerted efforts to grow into a better person, and being prodded by a pretty active conscience; so the most difficult part is the trust.
As for going wrong, I don't fear it so much, because my idea of atonement is to freely recognize the misdeed, feel genuinely sorry and do one's best not to repeat it. Shortcomings shouldn't be hidden and repressed, but brought to light and dissolved through analysis or diverted into harmless channels. I don't believe in punishment, either. Instead I believe that any act in bad faith has unhappy consequences attached to it, which do not wait to pounce on a sinner down the road (I deeply dislike this concept) but are immediate. To use an illustration, if life is a stream that runs to the sea, the misdeed is an obstacle that fleetingly redirects it into a different course, though the stream will eventually reach the sea like any other. Also, I am convinced that the only sins are actions where other people are harmed, or offenses against one's own integrity. Lastly, I don't believe that there are "good" people and "bad" people, except in the extremely rare cases where people have no moral code at all; treating other people as lepers, on any pretext whatsoever, is only a reflection on one's flawed self.
I'll freely admit that the problem of evil, and the question of what it is, is one I haven't been able to properly explain to myself. I don't doubt that it exists. Still, one of the nice things about humans is that, in us, evil tends to take a banal concrete form, which is easy enough to spot and counteract. Our personalities are rarely monolithic or powerful enough to be demonic, though I suppose that we can become temporarily demonic e.g. as part of a mob. But at times I have felt evil as an abstract atmosphere, where one must be careful not to be infected; still, the infection is that of superstition and fear and loneliness, and not of any dramatic journey to the "dark side." And the best antidotes to superstition and fear and loneliness are common sense, the right kind of strength, and a belief that there is goodness in the world.
Beyond this I see no point in minute theological discussions. The Bible and the thoughts of others are helpful guides, but I don't feel called upon to believe every detail. As far as God, the Trinity, the saints, etc. go, I incline to think, as Alexander Pope put it in the full couplet of his famous quotation: "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; / The proper study of mankind is man." Nor do I believe that one can arrive at the absolute truth; one should investigate, weigh ideas, draw one's own conclusions, but keep in mind that there can always be flaws in one's observations and logic.
Above all, I believe that one's thoughts and deeds should have as their end the welfare of one's fellow human beings. Though I tend to the less harsh, Hippocrates-like belief that living without harming anyone else is already an accomplishment, I sympathize with the quotation, which Dr. Johnson included in his Rambler, to the effect that "no life is pleasing to God that is not useful to man." This doesn't mean arbitrating the fates of other people, but helping them to help themselves when needed, letting them find their own good in their own way, and treating them with respect. As Mama has often remarked à propos of the "Golden Rule," a problem is that what is good and useful for one person can be bad and worse than useless for another, so one cannot thrust benevolent intentions on others.
As far as one's self is concerned, I think one has a responsibility, too; one is a person like any other, with the same rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Denying an elementary respect and care to one's self is as iniquitous as denying it to someone else. It also defeats one's purpose because if one treats one's self poorly, one tends to treat others poorly too. For example, when I despise myself, it makes me self-centred, torpid and uncommunicative, so that I am quite the opposite of a ray of sunshine to the people with whom I come into contact.
Self-sacrifice can too often be like mercy in reverse, I think, blighting him who gives and him who takes. When I was ten or so, I was much taken by the tales of martyrs, and thought about the concept a good deal. But I felt that I couldn't bear, for example, to die for someone else if he or she didn't know about it and didn't remember me gratefully after I'm gone. In the course of time, however, I've come to believe that martyrdom is admirable only if it is veritably beneficial. Also, I've thought about the feelings of the beneficiary. It is probably a terrible burden to know that someone has literally or figuratively crippled himself, even condemned himself to death, on one's behalf. It is an almost tyrannous claim on one's gratitude. For the benefactor, too, I think it would be somehow embarrassing. So now I find it much kinder to leave the beneficiary in ignorance, and to see one's reward in the knowledge that one has done some good. And if a significant sacrifice is prompted not by generosity but by the urge to self-annihilation, I find it positively criminal.
Lastly, as for the rewards of virtue, I think that they are being at peace with, and being able to respect, one's self. Also, I think that good deeds govern the direction of our lives much as bad ones do; but they guide them into happier and more tranquil courses, so that we are content with our existence and ready to leave the world when we do.
Friday, August 01, 2008
My Moment of Brilliance
Woohoo! T. phoned with the language institute in the Kantstraße where she and I wrote our Test DaF exams, which are a gauge of our proficiency in German, and she found out that I aced it! I received 5/5 in every category. As far as the spoken component goes, I don't think I deserved the 5, but otherwise, like Mrs. Bennet, I "quarrel with no compliments." Even on the written component, I stayed well within my vocabulary and the essay-writing skills instilled by two years of university flowed back to my pen; so, though I'm by no means perfect there, I did achieve what the Test DaF requires, which is to be comprehensible though not perhaps impeccable.
As I remarked to Papa and Mama, this is the first successful thing I've done in a long time. The closest thing I can remember at UBC is the 87% on my (as I now find, largely factually incorrect, but still entertaining) Romanticism History essay, and the two "A"s my professor gave me for my English 220 essays. That was in early 2006. Then there was T.'s and my (undeserved) 100% in Spanish 11. Though I am of the general opinion that perfection is boring, this does not mean that I haven't often wished to approach it more nearly in the academic realm.
Anyway, having enjoyed my moment of jubilation, I will admit that there may be a mistake, which would come out when T. and I pick up the certificate later today. Then I'd post a correction, but if there isn't any, it's all true. (c:
P.S.: In the interests of full disclosure, I'll add that I didn't study for the test. I went in expecting to do really well or really badly (tending toward the latter). I'm not proud of this — at all. But I don't feel entirely guilty, because I have read a fair amount of German on my own initiative over the years, from Otfried Preußler through Grimms Märchen to Der arme Spielmann, as well as the Tagesschau website.
As I remarked to Papa and Mama, this is the first successful thing I've done in a long time. The closest thing I can remember at UBC is the 87% on my (as I now find, largely factually incorrect, but still entertaining) Romanticism History essay, and the two "A"s my professor gave me for my English 220 essays. That was in early 2006. Then there was T.'s and my (undeserved) 100% in Spanish 11. Though I am of the general opinion that perfection is boring, this does not mean that I haven't often wished to approach it more nearly in the academic realm.
Anyway, having enjoyed my moment of jubilation, I will admit that there may be a mistake, which would come out when T. and I pick up the certificate later today. Then I'd post a correction, but if there isn't any, it's all true. (c:
P.S.: In the interests of full disclosure, I'll add that I didn't study for the test. I went in expecting to do really well or really badly (tending toward the latter). I'm not proud of this — at all. But I don't feel entirely guilty, because I have read a fair amount of German on my own initiative over the years, from Otfried Preußler through Grimms Märchen to Der arme Spielmann, as well as the Tagesschau website.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
A Stroll in Mansfield Park
A few nights ago, I finally finished a German translation of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. It was my favourite book when I was ten or eleven; probably I understood it better than Austen's other books because one doesn't lose as much if one reads it with no understanding of irony. Besides, I would picture the scenes as I read: the stairs where Edmund comforts Fanny as a little girl, the mansion of Mansfield Park, the shrubbery, Sotherton and the "ha-ha" (I still don't know what that means), and then the chaotic house in Portsmouth and the seaside. Though much of the action takes place indoors, certainly not all of it does, and one could profitably illustrate the book with a bountiful range of decorous English landscape (or seascape) paintings.
Now what strikes me most is the incredible nuance with which Jane Austen depicts a sensitive character with whom she doesn't seem to have much in common. Of course this nuance is precisely the quality that is commonly identified with the author, but she probably surpasses herself here. I recognize a good deal of my own hypersensitive feelings, especially with regard to the twinges of pain, the tiredness and the constant undermining caused by the perfectly horrid character of Mrs. Norris, who, to use a Harry Potter analogy, is a cross between Dolores Umbridge and a Dementor. There is a truth she brings out well, which is that supposedly good people of even a petty level of villainy can make life a living hell for others. The Portsmouth scenes are also excellent, about the depressing effect of one's surroundings if they are shabby and disorganized.
I've never subscribed to the view that Fanny is merely a "passive victim" or weak. She comes out much better than anyone else in the book, because, though she may not be innately more gifted or intelligent than those around her, she simply uses what she has better. She refuses to be blinded to the world around her, and she is steadfast in adhering to her principles, unlike any of the other characters. "Peer pressure" is a force that, I'd say, ninety-nine people out of a hundred can't resist, so she is definitely not weak. What I dislike in her is the hard judgmental streak, which comes out even before she returns home and finds her mother a "slattern," etc., and which (I think) reflects an underlying humourlessness of the author herself. If one looks at Jane Austen's villains, they firmly meet retribution; in Mansfield Park, she is abominably prim when she writes, first of Henry Crawford and Maria Bertram, and then of Mrs. Norris and Maria, that they are "their mutual punishment."
So I had more sympathy with the Crawfords for a while than with Edmund Bertram or even Fanny. Edmund is altogether a pitifully weak character. He is friendly enough, and when I was eleven I only saw that; but now his principles seem to me to be more a passive rigidity, even prejudices, than anything finer or more spontaneous. The way he talks to Fanny is also dreadfully patronizing. I'm guessing that in real life Fanny would have the upper hand of things once they were married, and also that he'd have to treat her as an intellectual equal, instead of continuing to be her "preceptor." It is unfair to expect a husband to be an outright superior to his wife, instead of an equal partner or even a mild inferior, but he shouldn't assume superiority if he hasn't any. In Sense and Sensibility, for instance, Edward Ferrars openly sees that Elinor is superior and he bows with a good grace to the feminine yoke; besides, he faces Mrs. Ferrars with splendid courage when she disowns him for his engagement with Lucy Steele. So I prefer him to Edmund.
But I do still love many things about Jane Austen: her fluent style, decisiveness and incisiveness in reading character (except where I find it too harsh), sympathy for her heroines, sense that there is a "rightness" in the world, refinement, emphasis on intelligence and self-knowledge, etc. I think she fits squarely into the Enlightenment tradition (though not into the tradition of the artificial, saccharine sensibility that passed as fiction) because she dissects feelings so clearly and emphasizes self-control, self-analysis, and rationality so persistently. For many years I've found other writers more congenial — Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, Leo Tolstoy (in War and Peace), and Thomas Hardy — but there is no denying that she has had a permanent influence on me, and that, whenever I lose the feeling of Austen-saturation, I enjoy her as much as ever.
Now what strikes me most is the incredible nuance with which Jane Austen depicts a sensitive character with whom she doesn't seem to have much in common. Of course this nuance is precisely the quality that is commonly identified with the author, but she probably surpasses herself here. I recognize a good deal of my own hypersensitive feelings, especially with regard to the twinges of pain, the tiredness and the constant undermining caused by the perfectly horrid character of Mrs. Norris, who, to use a Harry Potter analogy, is a cross between Dolores Umbridge and a Dementor. There is a truth she brings out well, which is that supposedly good people of even a petty level of villainy can make life a living hell for others. The Portsmouth scenes are also excellent, about the depressing effect of one's surroundings if they are shabby and disorganized.
I've never subscribed to the view that Fanny is merely a "passive victim" or weak. She comes out much better than anyone else in the book, because, though she may not be innately more gifted or intelligent than those around her, she simply uses what she has better. She refuses to be blinded to the world around her, and she is steadfast in adhering to her principles, unlike any of the other characters. "Peer pressure" is a force that, I'd say, ninety-nine people out of a hundred can't resist, so she is definitely not weak. What I dislike in her is the hard judgmental streak, which comes out even before she returns home and finds her mother a "slattern," etc., and which (I think) reflects an underlying humourlessness of the author herself. If one looks at Jane Austen's villains, they firmly meet retribution; in Mansfield Park, she is abominably prim when she writes, first of Henry Crawford and Maria Bertram, and then of Mrs. Norris and Maria, that they are "their mutual punishment."
So I had more sympathy with the Crawfords for a while than with Edmund Bertram or even Fanny. Edmund is altogether a pitifully weak character. He is friendly enough, and when I was eleven I only saw that; but now his principles seem to me to be more a passive rigidity, even prejudices, than anything finer or more spontaneous. The way he talks to Fanny is also dreadfully patronizing. I'm guessing that in real life Fanny would have the upper hand of things once they were married, and also that he'd have to treat her as an intellectual equal, instead of continuing to be her "preceptor." It is unfair to expect a husband to be an outright superior to his wife, instead of an equal partner or even a mild inferior, but he shouldn't assume superiority if he hasn't any. In Sense and Sensibility, for instance, Edward Ferrars openly sees that Elinor is superior and he bows with a good grace to the feminine yoke; besides, he faces Mrs. Ferrars with splendid courage when she disowns him for his engagement with Lucy Steele. So I prefer him to Edmund.
But I do still love many things about Jane Austen: her fluent style, decisiveness and incisiveness in reading character (except where I find it too harsh), sympathy for her heroines, sense that there is a "rightness" in the world, refinement, emphasis on intelligence and self-knowledge, etc. I think she fits squarely into the Enlightenment tradition (though not into the tradition of the artificial, saccharine sensibility that passed as fiction) because she dissects feelings so clearly and emphasizes self-control, self-analysis, and rationality so persistently. For many years I've found other writers more congenial — Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, Leo Tolstoy (in War and Peace), and Thomas Hardy — but there is no denying that she has had a permanent influence on me, and that, whenever I lose the feeling of Austen-saturation, I enjoy her as much as ever.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Sonata in B Flat Major, Andante
Here is the second movement of Schubert's Sonata in B flat major, which I recorded in March. Altogether it doesn't live up to my highest conception of the music; and, like anything else I produce, whether it's a music film or photo or story, I find it terrible or admirable depending on the mood. Unfortunately, as I used a digital camera, the sound quality is also objectively deficient. Finally, for some reason the recording broke off before the piece was finished, so it's a fragment. But, all that aside, it's my best YouTube film, so up it goes. (c:
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Obama in Berlin, Part I
Today the grand Obama speech took place at the Siegessäule. Ever since I heard that he would speak here, I had decided to attend. So, at around 3:15 I set off, hoping to see everything being set up, the press getting into position, etc. I came up the Hofjägerallee, one of the streets that runs out like a ray from the Säule, and saw about 23 police vans and two long black buses parked along the other side in an impressive stationary cavalcade. The street was blocked off at the roundabout that encircles the Säule, so I became one in a steady trickle of people (and pairs of policemen, with or without a sniffer dog) who made their way along a humble forest path to the entrance on the Straße des 17. Juni. The Brandenburger Tor was to the right, the Column to the left, and a modest crowd of (I'm randomly guessing) two hundred had already spread itself out, sitting or standing, at the fence where orange-shirted people stood watch.
I hadn't been seated for five minutes when the loudspeaker came on; a mildly annoyed male voice announced that we could enter, slowly, by the gates. He added that if we did not get through, which was unlikely, we could see everything on the large screens, and (in a possible touch of Berliner irony) that the sound would be audible even at Brandenburger Tor. The admonition to go slowly was redundant where I was, since our movement, crowded as we were, was the opposite of rapid. Then we had to turn to the right or left to go through security. White pavilions had been set up at the sidewalks. Each contained two grey screening portals, a long table, and two or more orange-shirted security people. An orange bin stood in front, apparently to receive water bottles, which plunked in steadily. The waiting period took forever, and then the portal or who knows what failed at the tent where I was at, and we all had to go to the end of another line.
As I waited for the security checks, I took notes on the scene. People were using their digital cameras or even videocameras to scan the crowd; some called friends; more stood around and talked. Energetic individuals strode up and down through the masses shouting, "Are you American?", "Are you an American citizen?", etc., to find eligible voters who still had to register. The people around me were divided between German and American, with Australians thrown in for good measure, but the Americans appeared to me to preponderate. The overwhelming majority of the people regardless of nationality were, I think, male students; it was like being at university again. They dropped references to Taft, Reagan, and Ross Perot, and were quite well-informed.
One photographer created a photo opportunity by grouping a trio of girls, smiling, in line with the Siegessäule; then he borrowed the Obama pin from a tall supporter (who adamantly though cheerfully refused to be part of the picture) and the girls held it out toward the camera and did their best to grin for him. Others complained about the sluggishness of the line's pace. A helicopter flew overhead. Glaciers formed and melted. I noted that someone was wearing a navy-blue T-shirt bearing the logo, "Global Tsunami of Change," and also noted that this was a trifle insensitive. Music played. Someone remarked solemnly, about the long wait, "In the end, it's always worth it; it's always worth it."
Then I reached the pavilion, emptied my purse and laid it as well as my raincoat on the table, and passed through the portal. The orange-shirted person who stood in the back didn't have to double-check me with the handheld scanner, as I didn't beep. Nor did I have to turn on a digital camera to show that it works. Nor did the suited man who was standing behind him stop me (I surmised that he was U.S. Secret Service, and admittedly thought "cool!"; anyway, at least he and the colleague standing nearby looked jovial). So it was quick and easy.
At length, then, I joined the mostly sitting and rarely standing crowd in the area closest to the Siegessäule. The pavilions with refreshments were to the left, beside a black music stage; the column towered to the front; at its right corner a podium had been set up on a platform; obliquely opposite the podium, a statue of a Prussian war minister rose in his weathered bronze grandeur; and beside him there were the press bleachers. Then the long waiting began. But in the bleachers I did see Christiane Amanpour from CNN, in white shirt and short wavy dark brown hair and (I think) sunglasses. She looked nice and relaxed, talked with someone over the side of the bleacher and gazed out over the crowd. Later on I also saw a brown-suited individual whom I believe to have been (the, in my view, irritating) Richard Quest. Internally I squealed with excitement. I also looked for a Canadian news anchor, or a recognizable German one, but didn't spot any. On the podium itself there was a coming and going. But throughout it there stood a Secret Service man, in a black suit and white shirt and blue tie, the sun pouring forth behind him, flashing on his sunglasses, and lingeringly illumining the white earplug cord at his neck, as the blue sky faded ever more, smudgy long clouds softened the solar glare, and a tranquil sunset was underway.
As for my fellow hoi polloi on the ground, there was a friendly group of students from Michigan State University who had a game of cards and a genial exchange of jokes, a girl who (politely thanking me for moving aside to give her room) stretched out for a nap beneath the Zitty issue whose front cover features Obama, three newspaper-readers, a girlfriend and boyfriend who insisted on smooching even after we'd stood up and were packed like sardines (why?!), a young man wrapped in the American flag, and a pervading atmosphere of sweat. Some smoked cigarettes, too, or marijuana – someone observed, "You wouldn't find that at a McCain rally" – or listened to the music. It was so lovely to hear American English again, by the way. Then there were the "entitled pushy idiots!!!" (according to my notes) who insisted on shoving through the crowd and nearly bowled me over someone's backpack. Three people behind me talked about the TV series "24" and pictured crazy thriller scenarios that could be taking place right now, and talked about explosives ("that's always good," I sarcastically wrote in my notes) in plants (the person mentioned the "yucca palms" in front of the podium, so there was a botanical detail cleared up). Altogether, after we stood up, I became very well acquainted with those around me, if having them nudging my back and arms and making bored or friendly eye contact, for an hour or two, is any criterion.
Then a helicopter began descending, and we were wondering if Barack Obama was making a grand entrance in it, perchance even bailing out of it in an enormous red-white-and-blue parachute. But he wasn't. A person fainted in the crowd behind us, and left a ca. five-foot long gap in the crowd, fringed with the worried/interested faces of the people around the casualty. They shouted and waved for a paramedic, and after a very long time one came. I was wondering whether to help, but First Aid learned in Grade 8 seemed an insufficient qualification.
I hadn't been seated for five minutes when the loudspeaker came on; a mildly annoyed male voice announced that we could enter, slowly, by the gates. He added that if we did not get through, which was unlikely, we could see everything on the large screens, and (in a possible touch of Berliner irony) that the sound would be audible even at Brandenburger Tor. The admonition to go slowly was redundant where I was, since our movement, crowded as we were, was the opposite of rapid. Then we had to turn to the right or left to go through security. White pavilions had been set up at the sidewalks. Each contained two grey screening portals, a long table, and two or more orange-shirted security people. An orange bin stood in front, apparently to receive water bottles, which plunked in steadily. The waiting period took forever, and then the portal or who knows what failed at the tent where I was at, and we all had to go to the end of another line.
As I waited for the security checks, I took notes on the scene. People were using their digital cameras or even videocameras to scan the crowd; some called friends; more stood around and talked. Energetic individuals strode up and down through the masses shouting, "Are you American?", "Are you an American citizen?", etc., to find eligible voters who still had to register. The people around me were divided between German and American, with Australians thrown in for good measure, but the Americans appeared to me to preponderate. The overwhelming majority of the people regardless of nationality were, I think, male students; it was like being at university again. They dropped references to Taft, Reagan, and Ross Perot, and were quite well-informed.
One photographer created a photo opportunity by grouping a trio of girls, smiling, in line with the Siegessäule; then he borrowed the Obama pin from a tall supporter (who adamantly though cheerfully refused to be part of the picture) and the girls held it out toward the camera and did their best to grin for him. Others complained about the sluggishness of the line's pace. A helicopter flew overhead. Glaciers formed and melted. I noted that someone was wearing a navy-blue T-shirt bearing the logo, "Global Tsunami of Change," and also noted that this was a trifle insensitive. Music played. Someone remarked solemnly, about the long wait, "In the end, it's always worth it; it's always worth it."
Then I reached the pavilion, emptied my purse and laid it as well as my raincoat on the table, and passed through the portal. The orange-shirted person who stood in the back didn't have to double-check me with the handheld scanner, as I didn't beep. Nor did I have to turn on a digital camera to show that it works. Nor did the suited man who was standing behind him stop me (I surmised that he was U.S. Secret Service, and admittedly thought "cool!"; anyway, at least he and the colleague standing nearby looked jovial). So it was quick and easy.
At length, then, I joined the mostly sitting and rarely standing crowd in the area closest to the Siegessäule. The pavilions with refreshments were to the left, beside a black music stage; the column towered to the front; at its right corner a podium had been set up on a platform; obliquely opposite the podium, a statue of a Prussian war minister rose in his weathered bronze grandeur; and beside him there were the press bleachers. Then the long waiting began. But in the bleachers I did see Christiane Amanpour from CNN, in white shirt and short wavy dark brown hair and (I think) sunglasses. She looked nice and relaxed, talked with someone over the side of the bleacher and gazed out over the crowd. Later on I also saw a brown-suited individual whom I believe to have been (the, in my view, irritating) Richard Quest. Internally I squealed with excitement. I also looked for a Canadian news anchor, or a recognizable German one, but didn't spot any. On the podium itself there was a coming and going. But throughout it there stood a Secret Service man, in a black suit and white shirt and blue tie, the sun pouring forth behind him, flashing on his sunglasses, and lingeringly illumining the white earplug cord at his neck, as the blue sky faded ever more, smudgy long clouds softened the solar glare, and a tranquil sunset was underway.
As for my fellow hoi polloi on the ground, there was a friendly group of students from Michigan State University who had a game of cards and a genial exchange of jokes, a girl who (politely thanking me for moving aside to give her room) stretched out for a nap beneath the Zitty issue whose front cover features Obama, three newspaper-readers, a girlfriend and boyfriend who insisted on smooching even after we'd stood up and were packed like sardines (why?!), a young man wrapped in the American flag, and a pervading atmosphere of sweat. Some smoked cigarettes, too, or marijuana – someone observed, "You wouldn't find that at a McCain rally" – or listened to the music. It was so lovely to hear American English again, by the way. Then there were the "entitled pushy idiots!!!" (according to my notes) who insisted on shoving through the crowd and nearly bowled me over someone's backpack. Three people behind me talked about the TV series "24" and pictured crazy thriller scenarios that could be taking place right now, and talked about explosives ("that's always good," I sarcastically wrote in my notes) in plants (the person mentioned the "yucca palms" in front of the podium, so there was a botanical detail cleared up). Altogether, after we stood up, I became very well acquainted with those around me, if having them nudging my back and arms and making bored or friendly eye contact, for an hour or two, is any criterion.
Then a helicopter began descending, and we were wondering if Barack Obama was making a grand entrance in it, perchance even bailing out of it in an enormous red-white-and-blue parachute. But he wasn't. A person fainted in the crowd behind us, and left a ca. five-foot long gap in the crowd, fringed with the worried/interested faces of the people around the casualty. They shouted and waved for a paramedic, and after a very long time one came. I was wondering whether to help, but First Aid learned in Grade 8 seemed an insufficient qualification.
Obama in Berlin, Part II
Finally, after a false alarm or two, a loudspeaker announced Barack Obama, and he came out. Everyone (even the tall people) rose and stood on tip-toe, brandishing their cell phones and digital cameras, so I saw nothing. But I clapped.
The speech began, and I was disappointed. It sounded too rehearsed, too brief, and (to borrow from the Guardian reporter who live-blogged the event) too platitudinous. In hindsight, reading Obama's speech in transcript, I may have done the part about Berlin a disservice. But there were terrible lines, full of the personification and metaphors I'd expect of Bush: "flame of freedom," "retreat would have allowed Communism to march across America," "dry up the well of extremism," etc. And he retreaded, horribly retreaded, everything I never want to hear again, about fighting terrorism, Taliban and al Qaeda, "needing" German soldiers in Afghanistan, stopping Iran's nuclear ambitions, etc. – even Communism on the march. [It's not that I object to stopping terrorism, it's just that, de facto, it is a tiny problem in the world compared to war, human rights abuses, and poverty. It should be dealt with quietly and competently within the bounds of the law, not made into a major political issue that feeds into paranoia and a disproportionate concern with one's own real or putative welfare.] Besides, I didn't think there was much original or clever analysis.
As for the crowd, it appeared to be moderately skeptical. We were not in a frenzy of enthusiasm, but favourably inclined, with some reservations. What unexpectedly met with a roar of approval was Obama's remark about Zimbabwe. What met with even stronger approval was his unequivocal support of nuclear disarmament. That was incredibly surprising and a high point of his speech, I thought; the kind of firm and reasonable stance one would hope of him as President. I also liked his amicable reference to Russia, which was surprising, too. When, however, he talked about Afghanistan and its drugs being sold in our streets, I felt that the reaction of those around me was, "Is that supposed to be a bad thing?" A few also laughed derisively when he said, "I know my country has not perfected itself."
But for a while I was distracted, because behind me there was a group of environmental activists who wanted to perform some action. I suspected at first that they wanted to burst onto the stage and disrupt the speech, so I asked, with a displeased mien, what they were planning to do. But it turns out that they were only holding up T-shirts that spelled out, "Stop CO2." So they waveringly sat on the shoulders of people and hoisted the shirts in the air. Possibly they had the order wrong; at any rate, one nearby person asked another what the message was, and he, having looked over his shoulder, replied, "Stop U2." Hilarious! So the activists were friendly after all; one held onto my shoulder as she rose into the air, and another later asked pardon for the shirt that was drooping onto my head. No security people came to haul them off to jail, either. Still, I am sick and tired of the global warming stuff, was annoyed by the World Wildlife Fund T-shirts saying, "I want you to tackle climate change" that part of the audience wore, and think (as I said above) that war, human rights, and poverty are the truly important issues.
When the speech had ended, one or two people expressed disappointment that it had been so short. I felt the same way; I had expected not to hear a word through bad acoustics, but the acoustics were superb, so I heard clearly, and I found the speech itself accessible. We very, very slowly flocked through the gap in the fence, only to have to practically crawl along a good portion of the Straße des 17. Juni, as the announcer told us again to walk slowly and that the gates were wide open, and we internally laughed at the bitter, bitter irony. Then I was free to walk home.
But before I reached the gap in the fence, I heard as one person, bearing a beige banner that I couldn't read, was asked about Obama. He said, more or less, "I love the guy, but I want him to be himself and not some centrist that he thinks people want him to be." Exactly. Honestly, until two or three months ago I hadn't expected Obama to do so much pandering; the double Israeli-American flag pin at his AIPAC speech baffled me. I find him quite intelligent and able to think for himself, pleasingly capable of being natural and unselfconscious, and a good (though not great) speaker and interviewee. But I only hope that, when (and if, but McCain's sad petulance and overall air of defeat indicate that this may not be an issue) he is President, the transparent and worrisome sops to the prejudiced will stop.
The speech began, and I was disappointed. It sounded too rehearsed, too brief, and (to borrow from the Guardian reporter who live-blogged the event) too platitudinous. In hindsight, reading Obama's speech in transcript, I may have done the part about Berlin a disservice. But there were terrible lines, full of the personification and metaphors I'd expect of Bush: "flame of freedom," "retreat would have allowed Communism to march across America," "dry up the well of extremism," etc. And he retreaded, horribly retreaded, everything I never want to hear again, about fighting terrorism, Taliban and al Qaeda, "needing" German soldiers in Afghanistan, stopping Iran's nuclear ambitions, etc. – even Communism on the march. [It's not that I object to stopping terrorism, it's just that, de facto, it is a tiny problem in the world compared to war, human rights abuses, and poverty. It should be dealt with quietly and competently within the bounds of the law, not made into a major political issue that feeds into paranoia and a disproportionate concern with one's own real or putative welfare.] Besides, I didn't think there was much original or clever analysis.
As for the crowd, it appeared to be moderately skeptical. We were not in a frenzy of enthusiasm, but favourably inclined, with some reservations. What unexpectedly met with a roar of approval was Obama's remark about Zimbabwe. What met with even stronger approval was his unequivocal support of nuclear disarmament. That was incredibly surprising and a high point of his speech, I thought; the kind of firm and reasonable stance one would hope of him as President. I also liked his amicable reference to Russia, which was surprising, too. When, however, he talked about Afghanistan and its drugs being sold in our streets, I felt that the reaction of those around me was, "Is that supposed to be a bad thing?" A few also laughed derisively when he said, "I know my country has not perfected itself."
But for a while I was distracted, because behind me there was a group of environmental activists who wanted to perform some action. I suspected at first that they wanted to burst onto the stage and disrupt the speech, so I asked, with a displeased mien, what they were planning to do. But it turns out that they were only holding up T-shirts that spelled out, "Stop CO2." So they waveringly sat on the shoulders of people and hoisted the shirts in the air. Possibly they had the order wrong; at any rate, one nearby person asked another what the message was, and he, having looked over his shoulder, replied, "Stop U2." Hilarious! So the activists were friendly after all; one held onto my shoulder as she rose into the air, and another later asked pardon for the shirt that was drooping onto my head. No security people came to haul them off to jail, either. Still, I am sick and tired of the global warming stuff, was annoyed by the World Wildlife Fund T-shirts saying, "I want you to tackle climate change" that part of the audience wore, and think (as I said above) that war, human rights, and poverty are the truly important issues.
When the speech had ended, one or two people expressed disappointment that it had been so short. I felt the same way; I had expected not to hear a word through bad acoustics, but the acoustics were superb, so I heard clearly, and I found the speech itself accessible. We very, very slowly flocked through the gap in the fence, only to have to practically crawl along a good portion of the Straße des 17. Juni, as the announcer told us again to walk slowly and that the gates were wide open, and we internally laughed at the bitter, bitter irony. Then I was free to walk home.
But before I reached the gap in the fence, I heard as one person, bearing a beige banner that I couldn't read, was asked about Obama. He said, more or less, "I love the guy, but I want him to be himself and not some centrist that he thinks people want him to be." Exactly. Honestly, until two or three months ago I hadn't expected Obama to do so much pandering; the double Israeli-American flag pin at his AIPAC speech baffled me. I find him quite intelligent and able to think for himself, pleasingly capable of being natural and unselfconscious, and a good (though not great) speaker and interviewee. But I only hope that, when (and if, but McCain's sad petulance and overall air of defeat indicate that this may not be an issue) he is President, the transparent and worrisome sops to the prejudiced will stop.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
War Elephant
A poem set at an indeterminate past time in India, which I unfortunately mostly know only from colonialist sources: Kipling's tales, Around the World in Eighty Days, etc. So I guess I'm mostly recycling stereotypes, which may explain why it was hard to make it less pompous and more natural. There were some factual errors (e.g. "tamarisk" instead of "tamarind") but I've hopefully weeded them out. Inspired by a poem by T., and written June 23rd, 2008.
In the rhythm of an unseen war drum
the feet fall on the rich black soil
and their deep and full reverberations
echo amid the cavernous void where tree-trunks wind
and jagged vines sweep in between them
in the shadows of the glossy leaves
which rise in unfathomed masses to the sun,
stir heavily and vastly as the sea in summer storms.
Fauna haunt its shadows in untold numbers:
snakes twine thoughtfully along cool grey bark
or undulate furtively through the leaf-strewn mire;
monkeys wheel and blot out gaps of sky
scattered far above, like stray high windows
in an ancient and far-reaching fortress
letting through remote and starry glimpses of freedom,
clambering along their infinite woody perches
and holding their tails erect in graceful curl;
brilliant birds in a lightly sprawling congress,
glaucous and crimson and golden,
twirling in the airs or singing in the tamarind
or pecking with scimitar-beaks at a tiny feast.
Over the jungle burns the fierce white orb:
the force that desiccates the red soils
and steals the brightness in grass and leaf;
leaves nothing, only the bone-like beige of death,
out in the mercilessly open plains.
It is bound for this realm that the procession
tramples and pounds and jingles and slashes
a path through the strange peace of jungle.
A juggernaut has come and the forest is under its wheels:
men clad in bright tints of peacock and marigold and rose
turbans wound tightly, plumes nodding lightly,
embroidered and bedizened with rich motifs and jewels,
swords in their scabbards in glittering polish,
— in a pomp weirdly fit for a day of the dead.
Grimly they march, and the elephants' plodding
is the beat to the battle, the tolling of the bell,
at once a foreboding and an admission
of inevitability. Their leader, of choice;
the followers, by the force that precipitates water
over the fall and leads it to thunderous destruction
at its rocky foot, embowered in ferocious wilderness.
One mountainous charger after another,
swaying a great grey hide and the howdah above,
irritating trappings of the alien mask and armour,
drooping tusks, swinging heavily side to side
in an aimless, blundering brandishing,
and eye passive in the graven wrinkles
ruminating in a fatalist stupor,
ears flapping limply as the sails on a crippled mast;
the blunt round feet, so mighty and so helpless,
sink ungently in the dark-crushed leaves, the shattered twigs,
and the earth to which their invincible bulk
may yet be forced to bow and return.
In the rhythm of an unseen war drum
the feet fall on the rich black soil
and their deep and full reverberations
echo amid the cavernous void where tree-trunks wind
and jagged vines sweep in between them
in the shadows of the glossy leaves
which rise in unfathomed masses to the sun,
stir heavily and vastly as the sea in summer storms.
Fauna haunt its shadows in untold numbers:
snakes twine thoughtfully along cool grey bark
or undulate furtively through the leaf-strewn mire;
monkeys wheel and blot out gaps of sky
scattered far above, like stray high windows
in an ancient and far-reaching fortress
letting through remote and starry glimpses of freedom,
clambering along their infinite woody perches
and holding their tails erect in graceful curl;
brilliant birds in a lightly sprawling congress,
glaucous and crimson and golden,
twirling in the airs or singing in the tamarind
or pecking with scimitar-beaks at a tiny feast.
Over the jungle burns the fierce white orb:
the force that desiccates the red soils
and steals the brightness in grass and leaf;
leaves nothing, only the bone-like beige of death,
out in the mercilessly open plains.
It is bound for this realm that the procession
tramples and pounds and jingles and slashes
a path through the strange peace of jungle.
A juggernaut has come and the forest is under its wheels:
men clad in bright tints of peacock and marigold and rose
turbans wound tightly, plumes nodding lightly,
embroidered and bedizened with rich motifs and jewels,
swords in their scabbards in glittering polish,
— in a pomp weirdly fit for a day of the dead.
Grimly they march, and the elephants' plodding
is the beat to the battle, the tolling of the bell,
at once a foreboding and an admission
of inevitability. Their leader, of choice;
the followers, by the force that precipitates water
over the fall and leads it to thunderous destruction
at its rocky foot, embowered in ferocious wilderness.
One mountainous charger after another,
swaying a great grey hide and the howdah above,
irritating trappings of the alien mask and armour,
drooping tusks, swinging heavily side to side
in an aimless, blundering brandishing,
and eye passive in the graven wrinkles
ruminating in a fatalist stupor,
ears flapping limply as the sails on a crippled mast;
the blunt round feet, so mighty and so helpless,
sink ungently in the dark-crushed leaves, the shattered twigs,
and the earth to which their invincible bulk
may yet be forced to bow and return.
Friday, July 18, 2008
A Long Disquisition Upon (Classical) Music
Today I went on a quest for new YouTube clips, and I found them in plenty. Above is the Adagio of Haydn's Cello Concerto No. 1 in C major, as played by Jacqueline du Pré. It's one of the pieces I grew up hearing, so I am especially fond of it. I think that listening to so much music when I was little, impressionable and sensitive to atmosphere, really did deepen and beautify my life. It wasn't only our records and tapes that I liked, but also Papa's live music. The Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven piano sonatas that he often played (I'm guessing when he wanted to relax) when we were little made me feel sheltered and content.
Besides, particularly in those sonatas Papa doesn't superimpose anything on the music, but lets it come out naturally. The way one plays does say something about one's character, and if one is vain, bored, unsympathetic, emotionally shallow, or who knows what, it'll come out, and most likely get in the way of the music. So if the playing is unimpeded by these things, limpid as a mountain brook and even indicative of goodness of character, it is extremely nice to hear apart from its musical loveliness.
I think that Schubert's Sonata in B flat major is one of the most demanding pieces in this respect. If one is superficial, pompous, insincere, harsh, etc., — or, I guess, if Schubert simply isn't one's cup of tea — it is terribly evident. As it's my favourite piece, I probably hugely overidealize it, but I think that it is the epitome of modest sincerity, sympathy, depth, and nobility. The first movement reminds me of a church (me and many other people; the stately chords and moderate tempo may be responsible for that). In the second movement the minor chords seem to me like the rending of heartstrings, corrosive in its sadness, followed by a low melody of consolation. Depending on my mood, I feel a corresponding ache when I play it; and for a year or two it was my sanctum sanctorum, which I would only play if I felt that I'd do so in the right spirit. It's similar with the second movement of the previous sonata (A major). In this case it is apparently not wrong to believe that Schubert was thinking of his approaching death as he composed the music, and I often think of him as I play, and admire how he seems to have reached a form of tranquillity.
One thing I like in Glenn Gould's music, by the way, is how his personality played a role. The hint of pedantry, the love of experimentation, the way he was intrigued by the music, intermittent impatience, etc., come out quite transparently. Even where I do not agree with his interpretation, it is invariably interesting, and I always think that it was a station on his way to understanding the piece. In this respect, too, he was refreshingly modest; he didn't pretend that his version was the be-all and end-all. I think he was a genius, too, in the way he found quirky and authentic atmospheres in his music (as he could not have, had he superimposed too much on it). His later Goldberg Variations recordings, to me, have medieval touches despite the modern sound, whereas his Mozart is the essence of classicism, etc. Of course I wasn't alive during the Middle Ages or the Enlightenment; but I think one can intuit the Zeitgeist, and that Gould did this perfectly.
Anyway, another discovery was the "Jewel Song" from Faust (which is familiar from the Tintin comics) as sung by Nellie Melba at the Metropolitan Opera in a year that must be long distant, as the sound quality is pretty terrible. But then I came across the same soprano singing "Ave Maria" from Otello at her farewell concert, Covent Garden, 1926. There the sound quality is excellent, and her timbre comes across well. Besides, I reencountered the ancient recordings of Brahms's voice on wax cylinder, and of Joseph Joachim playing Hungarian Dances No. 1 and 2.
From there I came across Arturo Toscanini's recording of the Tannhäuser overture. I'm not well versed in Wagner, and what I do know mostly comes from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. So as I listened my mind was mostly occupied with visions of a gangly grey rabbit striding about sporting two golden braids and a Viking helmet, and Elmer Fudd solemnly intoning, "Kill the wabbit!" Very highbrow cultural references, I'm sure. (c: Anyway, I liked Toscanini's conducting. The entire orchestra is one surge of music, flowing with the moods as naturally and nearly as easily as a solo instrument, and at times it appears to be on the brink of unmanageable power. This was largely the case in Brahms's Piano Concerto No. 1, in a 1935 recording where Vladimir Horowitz was the soloist. It isn't kitschy either, I think. Only the Wagner, though I think it had intelligence and profundity, was close to a cliché. The scenic effects that the composer pioneered are still common today (e.g. flute solo for a tranquil forest setting; well, someone else probably came up with that, but it's the kind of effect I mean), and the romantic lavishness of Toscanini's interpretation is typical of the scores for black-and-white Hollywood films.
Altogether I very much like that, as in literature and architecture and so many other fields, there is so much to explore and discover in the musical repertoire. At times it's depressing because I feel like an ignoramus, but on the other hand it's relieving to know that I'll be surrounded by wealth and plenty, in the shape of new songs, buildings, books, etc., as long as I live. Besides, as long as I keep growing, I'll find new interpretations and nuances in them, even if it takes a while for a fresh perspective to emerge.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Bookstores and Tourists: The Return
This afternoon T. and I embarked on another odyssey. The first destination was the Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek at the U-Bahn station Hallesches Tor. On the bridge that spans the Landwehrkanal at this station, there are groups of classical sculptures, and one of the figures looked as if he were driving a bicycle pump into another, which gave me food for thought as we waited to cross the street to the library. There were tons of people scattered about, trees and grass and shrubs, and in the middle of the scene rose the fairly inescapable bulk of the Gedenkbibliothek, whose greyish exterior, evoking a mosaic, I even rather liked for the nostalgic reason that the University of Victoria has buildings in that style. It was peculiarly easy to enter, though a lightly uniformed security guard or two was standing around, as we didn't have to wield our library cards at the entrance or anything; and the reading space itself is airy and bright.
T. immediately knew where to go, and I followed her to the languages section. One or two shelves further there is contemporary American literature, and I found lots of books and authors that I haven't read but have heard about. Mitch Albom's Five People You Meet in Heaven, for instance, and T.C. Boyle. Spurred by guilt at being so out of it, and by curiosity, I at length picked up Primary Colors, by "Anonymous" (i.e. Joel Klein), and read the first twelve or so pages. The memory of the film with John Travolta has grown dim, but I knew what it was about. Surprisingly, especially given how annoying I've found Mr. Klein's Time magazine articles, I didn't find the writing trashy or malicious. It described Bill Clinton beautifully well, and I thought the dialogue was spot on.
Sidenote: I think that, as Klein writes, Clinton can be quite genuine in feeling and expressing things. What does bother me is his immense selfishness — not his vanity in itself, which he recognizes and can (or could) keep in decent order — which was, I think, really the problem with his extramarital affairs; also, his tendency to compromise too much. (Obama has a naturally more rigid conscience, I think; he breaks more than he bends.) Otherwise his easy-goingness, intelligence, and accessibility have often made me think that I'd like to meet him, not at an official function but within his family circle or with close friends. Besides my impression that he's a good conversationalist, it's kind of nice to see someone who feels really, really important and basks in it, almost as openly and unselfconsciously as a child.
Anyway, T. ended up not borrowing any of the books, and instead returned three of the old ones at the counters in the foyer. So we reentered the U-Bahn, and set off for KaDeWe to search for green printer ink cartridges. There were flocks of people (in KaDeWe itself I overheard German, English and French), just as there were yesterday. As we entered from Wittenbergplatz, we saw two spiralling black staircases and an enormous black urn full of purple orchids, in a species of antechamber. It was evidently to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Elle in Germany. But the effect, though lavish, was funereal — a very odd choice for a birthday celebration — and it reminded me of the dark and macabrely elegant Edward Gorey pictures that the American TV channel PBS used to introduce its murder mystery evenings. As we went further up and in, I thought snobby thoughts, among them that KaDeWe is rather like a woman given to flaunting, since it presents make-up and jewellery on the ground floor. It's a rich, glossy and exclusive floor, and I think it's meant to keep The Poors in awe. Or maybe there's a kinder explanation.
Anyway, we continued to the fifth floor, didn't find the cartridges, but had the opportunity to overhear the Teutonic English of a Telekom saleswoman who was trying to explain something to two Israeli tourists. We browsed among the stationery looking for large-gridded paper, in vain. Then we were hungry and therefore I suggested that we go up to the sixth floor. T. hadn't been there yet, so we toured the meat counters, the snack shelves, passed by the wines, glimpsed cakes and pastries, lingered over the fish, and left again without buying anything. It was rather funny when we were at the beef and lamb counter, because T. pointed to the yellowish, bumpy, rubbery sheets of calf or cow stomach, and asked carefully, "Is that . . ." — she paused to find the word — "'tripe'?" Yes, I answered. The rabbits looked very pitiful, with their bloody little tails, and I was glad to move on. Later on there was an aquarium; the live, dusky black fish looked unhappy, and they were lined up at the glass as if yearning to be let out, while a handful of dusky black eels rested sluggishly at the bottom. In retrospect, of course, it reminds me of the Doctor Dolittle books, and their expositions on the feelings and trials of animals in the human world.
So we walked over the square, buying drinks that T. pronounced overpriced, and continuing on to a large computer supplies store, where we finally found the green printer ink cartridges. Then we returned to Wittenbergplatz, and took the U-Bahn to Ernst-Reuter-Platz. There we revisited Lehmann's, saw that there were three Malteser people outside it this time, and sank gratefully into the dark red armchairs on the first floor. But there was no dictionary, so we set off again for Zoologischer Garten, to Hugendubel. We rode or walked up the escalators and stairs to the floor with the language books, and T. found a Langenscheidt Japanese-German dictionary that, however, cost over 100 Euros. But there was a cute little one that she bought instead, for just under 11 Euros.
Outside again, under a troubled, cloudy, grey sky, T. bought a bratwurst in a bun at a stand right under the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. The seller was interesting, I thought, as his reddish nose suggested bibulous tendencies, but altogether he was nice and faintly sad. In front of us there was an obnoxious, sharp-faced woman in a tight denim-ish pantsuit, whose exotic make-up had the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but he wasn't too disturbed. I must say, though, that his ideas of hygiene are rudimentary, as, for instance, he laid down a bun, unprotected by a napkin, straight on the counter of his booth. (I'm uptight about these things.) Then T. ate the bratwurst, and I indulged in people-watching. Two Russian(?) women passed by, and I liked their faces; a group of punk(?) youths stood with their sharply curved black dog at a slender tree; a photographer saw them and took their picture; then there were fairly ordinary teenage girls, made-up and dressed in form-hugging jeans, tight synthetic tops, brown jackets, and scarves, who look exactly the same whether they are German, British, American or who knows which nationality.
There was also a diamond-shaped sign underneath a gingko tree. Curiously I went over to look at the inscription, and it turns out that it was a verse on the gingko by Goethe (his name was underneath; otherwise I wouldn't have known), with the addendum "Baumpate werden."* Then there was the Euro Cup 2008 store, bursting with flags in the ground floor of a tall, grim edifice that bore advertisements for Tagesspiegel; and an abandoned handbag huddled beside a lamppost. And soon T. was done and we went home.
* "Adopt a tree"
T. immediately knew where to go, and I followed her to the languages section. One or two shelves further there is contemporary American literature, and I found lots of books and authors that I haven't read but have heard about. Mitch Albom's Five People You Meet in Heaven, for instance, and T.C. Boyle. Spurred by guilt at being so out of it, and by curiosity, I at length picked up Primary Colors, by "Anonymous" (i.e. Joel Klein), and read the first twelve or so pages. The memory of the film with John Travolta has grown dim, but I knew what it was about. Surprisingly, especially given how annoying I've found Mr. Klein's Time magazine articles, I didn't find the writing trashy or malicious. It described Bill Clinton beautifully well, and I thought the dialogue was spot on.
Sidenote: I think that, as Klein writes, Clinton can be quite genuine in feeling and expressing things. What does bother me is his immense selfishness — not his vanity in itself, which he recognizes and can (or could) keep in decent order — which was, I think, really the problem with his extramarital affairs; also, his tendency to compromise too much. (Obama has a naturally more rigid conscience, I think; he breaks more than he bends.) Otherwise his easy-goingness, intelligence, and accessibility have often made me think that I'd like to meet him, not at an official function but within his family circle or with close friends. Besides my impression that he's a good conversationalist, it's kind of nice to see someone who feels really, really important and basks in it, almost as openly and unselfconsciously as a child.
Anyway, T. ended up not borrowing any of the books, and instead returned three of the old ones at the counters in the foyer. So we reentered the U-Bahn, and set off for KaDeWe to search for green printer ink cartridges. There were flocks of people (in KaDeWe itself I overheard German, English and French), just as there were yesterday. As we entered from Wittenbergplatz, we saw two spiralling black staircases and an enormous black urn full of purple orchids, in a species of antechamber. It was evidently to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Elle in Germany. But the effect, though lavish, was funereal — a very odd choice for a birthday celebration — and it reminded me of the dark and macabrely elegant Edward Gorey pictures that the American TV channel PBS used to introduce its murder mystery evenings. As we went further up and in, I thought snobby thoughts, among them that KaDeWe is rather like a woman given to flaunting, since it presents make-up and jewellery on the ground floor. It's a rich, glossy and exclusive floor, and I think it's meant to keep The Poors in awe. Or maybe there's a kinder explanation.
Anyway, we continued to the fifth floor, didn't find the cartridges, but had the opportunity to overhear the Teutonic English of a Telekom saleswoman who was trying to explain something to two Israeli tourists. We browsed among the stationery looking for large-gridded paper, in vain. Then we were hungry and therefore I suggested that we go up to the sixth floor. T. hadn't been there yet, so we toured the meat counters, the snack shelves, passed by the wines, glimpsed cakes and pastries, lingered over the fish, and left again without buying anything. It was rather funny when we were at the beef and lamb counter, because T. pointed to the yellowish, bumpy, rubbery sheets of calf or cow stomach, and asked carefully, "Is that . . ." — she paused to find the word — "'tripe'?" Yes, I answered. The rabbits looked very pitiful, with their bloody little tails, and I was glad to move on. Later on there was an aquarium; the live, dusky black fish looked unhappy, and they were lined up at the glass as if yearning to be let out, while a handful of dusky black eels rested sluggishly at the bottom. In retrospect, of course, it reminds me of the Doctor Dolittle books, and their expositions on the feelings and trials of animals in the human world.
So we walked over the square, buying drinks that T. pronounced overpriced, and continuing on to a large computer supplies store, where we finally found the green printer ink cartridges. Then we returned to Wittenbergplatz, and took the U-Bahn to Ernst-Reuter-Platz. There we revisited Lehmann's, saw that there were three Malteser people outside it this time, and sank gratefully into the dark red armchairs on the first floor. But there was no dictionary, so we set off again for Zoologischer Garten, to Hugendubel. We rode or walked up the escalators and stairs to the floor with the language books, and T. found a Langenscheidt Japanese-German dictionary that, however, cost over 100 Euros. But there was a cute little one that she bought instead, for just under 11 Euros.
Outside again, under a troubled, cloudy, grey sky, T. bought a bratwurst in a bun at a stand right under the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. The seller was interesting, I thought, as his reddish nose suggested bibulous tendencies, but altogether he was nice and faintly sad. In front of us there was an obnoxious, sharp-faced woman in a tight denim-ish pantsuit, whose exotic make-up had the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but he wasn't too disturbed. I must say, though, that his ideas of hygiene are rudimentary, as, for instance, he laid down a bun, unprotected by a napkin, straight on the counter of his booth. (I'm uptight about these things.) Then T. ate the bratwurst, and I indulged in people-watching. Two Russian(?) women passed by, and I liked their faces; a group of punk(?) youths stood with their sharply curved black dog at a slender tree; a photographer saw them and took their picture; then there were fairly ordinary teenage girls, made-up and dressed in form-hugging jeans, tight synthetic tops, brown jackets, and scarves, who look exactly the same whether they are German, British, American or who knows which nationality.
There was also a diamond-shaped sign underneath a gingko tree. Curiously I went over to look at the inscription, and it turns out that it was a verse on the gingko by Goethe (his name was underneath; otherwise I wouldn't have known), with the addendum "Baumpate werden."* Then there was the Euro Cup 2008 store, bursting with flags in the ground floor of a tall, grim edifice that bore advertisements for Tagesspiegel; and an abandoned handbag huddled beside a lamppost. And soon T. was done and we went home.
* "Adopt a tree"
A Pugilistic Priest
Normally I find dreams tiresome, and among my own I prefer the action-adventure ones where I run away from tidal waves or volcanic eruptions, so I am just posting this one because of its compellingness:
In my dream last night, I was a priest standing at the podium, on the stage of a darkened auditorium. I addressed the people in words I don't remember. But then a group of men came up onto the stage, and the foremost one showed a chart of numbers and signs that I had scribbled on my arm with a pen, and shouted that I was involved in something occult. I calmly explained that they were the numbers of the divisions, or rather troops, in the French army during the Revolution, and that the second two columns of the chart recorded the casualties. The accuser wasn't convinced, and he then persisted in poking his handgun into my back. I trembled a little, and he laughed and said that this was odd considering what I had preached about not being afraid of death and what lies beyond it. So I pulled myself together and patiently repeated my explanation. The other person sneered again, and then I decided to put an end to his threats by punching him in the eye. It instantly bruised. He kept on, so I punched him again and gave him another black eye, though internally worrying that this wasn't in keeping with my clerical position. Then he fell and looked quite seriously injured.
The setting had changed into the "little house" back at our home in Victoria, so I lifted the motionless body, nudged open the screen door with my foot, and carried him down to the "big house" for medical attention. A soldier was at the door and another was patrolling the verandah. They assumed that I was up to something violent, they shot me, and I died. But my perspective immediately changed into that of the priest's disembodied spirit, and I was outside the window as an autopsy was done, only seeing the tray with bits of the priest's internal organs on it, and not my body or even the forensics experts themselves. It turned out that I had taken up a manipulated handgun, placed within reach by the "bad" person, and that in using it I had somehow poisoned myself anyway.
Anyway, in dissecting the dream, I see that I dreamt of the chart because of the charts in the kanji book that T. bought yesterday, the French Revolution aspect was suggested because of the research I've done on it for my story, and the autopsy scene could come out of any of the crime shows that I used to watch fairly often. What interested me about this dream was the oddity of having a priest in his fifties or older as my dream-avatar, the seriousness and the detail, and because it seemed unusually intelligent (not my forté!) and meaningful. The evident lesson is that I shouldn't turn to anger and violence to resolve a conflict, and that vengeance does not improve anything and easily recoils on the one who indulges in it. (The manipulated handgun incident is, in hindsight, a glaringly obvious metaphor.) Of course these are not remotely novel thoughts; but, not having a choleric temperament, I've rarely been in the situation where such considerations were relevant.
In my dream last night, I was a priest standing at the podium, on the stage of a darkened auditorium. I addressed the people in words I don't remember. But then a group of men came up onto the stage, and the foremost one showed a chart of numbers and signs that I had scribbled on my arm with a pen, and shouted that I was involved in something occult. I calmly explained that they were the numbers of the divisions, or rather troops, in the French army during the Revolution, and that the second two columns of the chart recorded the casualties. The accuser wasn't convinced, and he then persisted in poking his handgun into my back. I trembled a little, and he laughed and said that this was odd considering what I had preached about not being afraid of death and what lies beyond it. So I pulled myself together and patiently repeated my explanation. The other person sneered again, and then I decided to put an end to his threats by punching him in the eye. It instantly bruised. He kept on, so I punched him again and gave him another black eye, though internally worrying that this wasn't in keeping with my clerical position. Then he fell and looked quite seriously injured.
The setting had changed into the "little house" back at our home in Victoria, so I lifted the motionless body, nudged open the screen door with my foot, and carried him down to the "big house" for medical attention. A soldier was at the door and another was patrolling the verandah. They assumed that I was up to something violent, they shot me, and I died. But my perspective immediately changed into that of the priest's disembodied spirit, and I was outside the window as an autopsy was done, only seeing the tray with bits of the priest's internal organs on it, and not my body or even the forensics experts themselves. It turned out that I had taken up a manipulated handgun, placed within reach by the "bad" person, and that in using it I had somehow poisoned myself anyway.
Anyway, in dissecting the dream, I see that I dreamt of the chart because of the charts in the kanji book that T. bought yesterday, the French Revolution aspect was suggested because of the research I've done on it for my story, and the autopsy scene could come out of any of the crime shows that I used to watch fairly often. What interested me about this dream was the oddity of having a priest in his fifties or older as my dream-avatar, the seriousness and the detail, and because it seemed unusually intelligent (not my forté!) and meaningful. The evident lesson is that I shouldn't turn to anger and violence to resolve a conflict, and that vengeance does not improve anything and easily recoils on the one who indulges in it. (The manipulated handgun incident is, in hindsight, a glaringly obvious metaphor.) Of course these are not remotely novel thoughts; but, not having a choleric temperament, I've rarely been in the situation where such considerations were relevant.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Bookstores and Tourists
T. was in the mood to buy a Japanese textbook, so after conscientious internet and telephone research, she set off with J. and me. From the Bülowstraße station we went along the U2 line (which, of course, has nothing to do with the rock band) to Ernst-Reuter-Platz. It was crowded and stifling and odorous, but oddly enough I didn't mind this time. Nearby, on the Hardenbergstraße, there is Lehmann's, a spacious white bookstore. So we crossed over the street at the building pertaining to the faculty for church music at the Universität der Künste; I find the reddish hue of the building's stone delightful, and the little oriel window at the corner equally so, but the runish Art Nouveau script below that window was over the top and as a whole the building wasn't organic enough.
At the street corner, there were two people from the Maltese Order (a Catholic medical charity that is run by a Freemason-ish hierarchy culminating in a Grand Master). T. went on ahead, J. and I paused, and I decided to at least listen and find out what they wanted, volunteers or money. It was money. This, more or less, was the scintillating conversation:
Maltese person: (After briefly informing me about a learning centre in Berlin-Neukölln, she suggestively opens her binder at the donation forms.) " . . . so we'd like to have donations."
Me: "Unfortunately I don't have a large income." (Silently, to myself: "Why did you say 'not a large income'? You have no income at all! There's no need to qualify it.")
M.P.: "I don't either, but I still give 6 Euros a month." (She has mentioned this before.) "Even if you are a student, or low income, it's still feasible."
Me: "Well, once I get real work, I'll think about it." (I try not to sound as if I were implying "in a million years.")
M.P.: "Too bad then."
(Exchange of small smiles, and we go our separate ways.)
As for Lehmann's, the ground floor is full of round tables (cookbooks and travel, paperback fiction, hardback fiction, coffee table books, touristy/Berlin books), shelves running around the walls (poetry, novels, biographies), and a slender mezzanine. Jeffrey Archer's latest novel was there, Don DeLillo's Falling Man, Alice Sebold, etc. – and on a magazine I saw the smiling visage of Margaret Atwood. The selection looked better than that of the UBC Bookstore, except for the latest English bestsellers, which the Bookstore covers much more thoroughly. T. went directly up to the first floor, where the language books are – a decent assortment, and some in English. (c: She picked out a helpful Japanese textbook, whereas I was lured by a Russian basic vocabulary learning kit (a flashcard set, four audio CDs, and posters), which cost 34.90 Euros. I duly forked over the money at the cash register downstairs, and didn't feel guilty about it; I'm convinced I'll actually use it.
Then we took the U2 again to Hubendubel. We got out at Wittenbergplatz, whereas the bookstore itself is at the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. So we walked down the Tauentzienstraße for a while before we discovered it. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists, and it seriously annoyed me for the reason that I wanted to stride along at a reasonable pace whereas they were idling along in snail fashion. J. and I waited in front of the bookstore, under a plane tree. It was truly a beautiful angle from which to see the church, framed in the winding bulk of the branches, the translucent green spikes of the leaves, and the drooping globes of seeds. J. and I spent a long time admiring the great arches and the details in the bell tower, and discoursing of flying buttresses and the like. Against the dark Gothic-style opening of the tower one could also see the flocking tiny drops of rain, which looked like snow.
I also looked at the faces of the people walking in and out of the bookstore, hopefully not staring; I tried to catch a sympathetic one, but though few of them were outright unsympathetic there wasn't one that truly interested me. What I was looking for, I suppose, was a combination of individuality, intelligence, friendliness, or dignity. Anyway, one of the dramatic highlights was a woman, whose worn face and clothing spoke of the 70s, wheeling herself to the road and hailing a taxi going in the opposite direction which did not stop for her; thereafter she went into a phone booth and called for one. There was a woman with a softened Danish face who reminded me of my fifth-grade teacher, but she had a shrewish expression in her eyes that my mild teacher did not have. Later on a middle-aged American came lumbering out and called, presumably to his wife, "Hey! Want to go have a coffee? I've got a Euro." Then there were suits who stood in the entrance of the store, waiting for the rain to end, making cell phone calls, and at length disappointedly taking a plunge into the elements after all. All of this was hugely banal, I suppose, but I liked it.
After T. came out again, she and J. went off into the U-Bahn, whereas I decided to walk home. I had walked home from Wittenbergplatz once before, after taking a curious peep at the dresses in KaDeWe (which I found too unsubtle). Also, I had once ridden there and back on a bicycle, when a man (who reminds me vaguely of Günther Beckstein, a Bavarian politician whose face resembles that of an evil gnome, as his beady eyes gleam mirthlessly like coals and his ears are large and pointy) walking along the – incidentally almost deserted – sidewalk kindly remarked, "Another stupid fat cow riding on the sidewalk!" A moment afterward, though, there was a look on his face, which I've now deciphered as indicating that he felt that he'd made a gaffe. So, at any rate, the route was familiar, vide engraved in my memory. Soon I passed the Kleistpark, where the construction fencing has been removed. The lawns to the left and right and centre of the colonnades are blindingly green, the mighty fences guard the entrance, red roses cluster in the long beds, and behind that one can see, quite unimpeded, the grand façade of the Kammergericht and the trees that embower the park.
And now I'm home again, with wet socks and a raincoat dripping away on the hook, but happy that I went out. I've made up my mind to begin venturing out into the world, now that I am no longer as sensitive and insecure as I was when I first came here, and this was a good start.
At the street corner, there were two people from the Maltese Order (a Catholic medical charity that is run by a Freemason-ish hierarchy culminating in a Grand Master). T. went on ahead, J. and I paused, and I decided to at least listen and find out what they wanted, volunteers or money. It was money. This, more or less, was the scintillating conversation:
Maltese person: (After briefly informing me about a learning centre in Berlin-Neukölln, she suggestively opens her binder at the donation forms.) " . . . so we'd like to have donations."
Me: "Unfortunately I don't have a large income." (Silently, to myself: "Why did you say 'not a large income'? You have no income at all! There's no need to qualify it.")
M.P.: "I don't either, but I still give 6 Euros a month." (She has mentioned this before.) "Even if you are a student, or low income, it's still feasible."
Me: "Well, once I get real work, I'll think about it." (I try not to sound as if I were implying "in a million years.")
M.P.: "Too bad then."
(Exchange of small smiles, and we go our separate ways.)
As for Lehmann's, the ground floor is full of round tables (cookbooks and travel, paperback fiction, hardback fiction, coffee table books, touristy/Berlin books), shelves running around the walls (poetry, novels, biographies), and a slender mezzanine. Jeffrey Archer's latest novel was there, Don DeLillo's Falling Man, Alice Sebold, etc. – and on a magazine I saw the smiling visage of Margaret Atwood. The selection looked better than that of the UBC Bookstore, except for the latest English bestsellers, which the Bookstore covers much more thoroughly. T. went directly up to the first floor, where the language books are – a decent assortment, and some in English. (c: She picked out a helpful Japanese textbook, whereas I was lured by a Russian basic vocabulary learning kit (a flashcard set, four audio CDs, and posters), which cost 34.90 Euros. I duly forked over the money at the cash register downstairs, and didn't feel guilty about it; I'm convinced I'll actually use it.
Then we took the U2 again to Hubendubel. We got out at Wittenbergplatz, whereas the bookstore itself is at the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. So we walked down the Tauentzienstraße for a while before we discovered it. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists, and it seriously annoyed me for the reason that I wanted to stride along at a reasonable pace whereas they were idling along in snail fashion. J. and I waited in front of the bookstore, under a plane tree. It was truly a beautiful angle from which to see the church, framed in the winding bulk of the branches, the translucent green spikes of the leaves, and the drooping globes of seeds. J. and I spent a long time admiring the great arches and the details in the bell tower, and discoursing of flying buttresses and the like. Against the dark Gothic-style opening of the tower one could also see the flocking tiny drops of rain, which looked like snow.
I also looked at the faces of the people walking in and out of the bookstore, hopefully not staring; I tried to catch a sympathetic one, but though few of them were outright unsympathetic there wasn't one that truly interested me. What I was looking for, I suppose, was a combination of individuality, intelligence, friendliness, or dignity. Anyway, one of the dramatic highlights was a woman, whose worn face and clothing spoke of the 70s, wheeling herself to the road and hailing a taxi going in the opposite direction which did not stop for her; thereafter she went into a phone booth and called for one. There was a woman with a softened Danish face who reminded me of my fifth-grade teacher, but she had a shrewish expression in her eyes that my mild teacher did not have. Later on a middle-aged American came lumbering out and called, presumably to his wife, "Hey! Want to go have a coffee? I've got a Euro." Then there were suits who stood in the entrance of the store, waiting for the rain to end, making cell phone calls, and at length disappointedly taking a plunge into the elements after all. All of this was hugely banal, I suppose, but I liked it.
After T. came out again, she and J. went off into the U-Bahn, whereas I decided to walk home. I had walked home from Wittenbergplatz once before, after taking a curious peep at the dresses in KaDeWe (which I found too unsubtle). Also, I had once ridden there and back on a bicycle, when a man (who reminds me vaguely of Günther Beckstein, a Bavarian politician whose face resembles that of an evil gnome, as his beady eyes gleam mirthlessly like coals and his ears are large and pointy) walking along the – incidentally almost deserted – sidewalk kindly remarked, "Another stupid fat cow riding on the sidewalk!" A moment afterward, though, there was a look on his face, which I've now deciphered as indicating that he felt that he'd made a gaffe. So, at any rate, the route was familiar, vide engraved in my memory. Soon I passed the Kleistpark, where the construction fencing has been removed. The lawns to the left and right and centre of the colonnades are blindingly green, the mighty fences guard the entrance, red roses cluster in the long beds, and behind that one can see, quite unimpeded, the grand façade of the Kammergericht and the trees that embower the park.
And now I'm home again, with wet socks and a raincoat dripping away on the hook, but happy that I went out. I've made up my mind to begin venturing out into the world, now that I am no longer as sensitive and insecure as I was when I first came here, and this was a good start.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Fate of My Poems
Today I received a reply from the New Yorker about my poems, which, though it wasn't an acceptance, was nice because I hadn't expected to hear back from them at all. My first rejection! I'll just go and sob quietly in a corner . . .
Here is the quatrain-like text:
What would have been nice, though, is to know if they think, based on those poems, that I might come up with a poem that they would like to publish. Or if I seriously need to work on my writing, or if my style would simply fit better into another publication. But I never expected any detailed response, as I don't think that the editors have the time to provide one.
In any case, this isn't very noble, but I will always be amused to know that my verse was rejected, whereas they did accept a poem in which the writer opines that grief is like a purple monkey.
Here is the quatrain-like text:
We regret that we are unableI'm not surprised, and I'm not wounded because I know my poems are good – perhaps not extremely good, but good enough that I am not at all ashamed to read them now. Besides, though the poems that are published in the New Yorker are usually admirable, I suspect that I would choose to publish different submissions. It is a matter of taste, if one has so many contributions and the wide majority are (presumably) excellent.
to use the enclosed material.
Thank you for giving us the
opportunity to consider it.
The Editors
What would have been nice, though, is to know if they think, based on those poems, that I might come up with a poem that they would like to publish. Or if I seriously need to work on my writing, or if my style would simply fit better into another publication. But I never expected any detailed response, as I don't think that the editors have the time to provide one.
In any case, this isn't very noble, but I will always be amused to know that my verse was rejected, whereas they did accept a poem in which the writer opines that grief is like a purple monkey.
Friday, June 27, 2008
English History in a Nutshell
A nonsense project that I've been tinkering with since February. Hopefully it isn't too long.
Before 1066 A.D.
England inhabited by savage immigrants, named after their favourite warring accoutrements. The Celts love their kilts, the Picts their pick-axes, the Angles their fishing rods, and the Saxons their axes. Later on the Angles and Saxons coöperate on a fishing-rod-axe, which wreaks havoc in the piscine and human world and seals their supremacy. But for some centuries the Romans, named after their fondness for dark, red-tinged green lettuce, have the upper hand.
122
Hadrian's Wall. A pre-emptive measure against Genghis Khan; known officially as "Hadrian's Security Fence."
1066
Norman Invasion. The Battle of Hastings is named after the haste in which the Saxons fled from the besieging Normans.
1215
Magna Carta signed at Runnymede. King John is in an intoxicated state from the mead for which the town is famous, and once he reaches the friendly tipsy stage, the barons tell him to sign a piece of paper, and he agrees with many a jovial hiccough. On the morning after, the friendliness, tipsiness, and joviality have evaporated, and his metaphysical hangover* is tremendous. The barons, however, are pleased. That piece of paper haunts the dreams of heads of state to this day.
1455-87
Wars of the Roses. The Royal Garden Show descends into violence after the competition for the best new rose cultivar ends in a tie between two powerful noble families. For the next three decades, the houses of York (a white rose) and Lancaster (a red rose) fight for the title, and the spade and the hoe are put to a new and brutal use. The strife ends in Bosworth Field, where a new garden show is held with improved security measures. The Tudor family, whose members come from both houses, wins the rose contest with a third entry: a pink hybrid of the warring houses' cultivars. Almost everyone is conciliated, though there are grumbled accusations of plagiarism; the swords are beaten back into the ploughshares whence they came and the world of gardening resumes its wonted tranquillity for another thousand years.
1509-74
Reign of King Henry VIII. A pioneer in British family law, specializing in divorce de facto and de jure. Among his other notable accomplishments is his action during the Dissolution of the Monasteries (1536-40): England is plagued by acid rain, which severely damages its religious edifices, so His Majesty spearheads a government initiative to retrieve and preserve the gold and jewellery and artwork from the crumbling ruins.
1588
Battle of the Armada. An imprudent Spanish explorer returns from the New World with a giant armadillo (Armada sapiens) on board his ship. The creature predictably breaks its bonds and considerably damages the Iberian fleet. At last Queen Elizabeth I magnanimously orders her own navy to take a whack at the beast, which it does victoriously (for Britannia rules the waves). Oddly enough, the Spanish are not grateful.
1611
King James Bible. The king, battling low self-esteem, orders his scholars to rewrite the Bible, replacing every mention of "God" with "His Most Gracious Majesty." He then distributes it free of charge to the populace, which makes the book very popular.
1642-51
English Civil War. So named because of the extreme politeness with which the affair was conducted. At King Charles's beheading, for instance, a contemporary overhears this exchange:
Great Fire of London. After much lobbying by the Puritans, whose temper was soured by the the monarchy's restoration, God obliges his constituents by cleaning up London with a few well-aimed lightning bolts.
1683
Ryehouse Plot. In a perfidious act of psychological warfare, the political opponents of Charles II plan to blow up the factory where the king's favourite rye bread is baked. The plot fails.
1688
Glorious Revolution. England tires of the absolute monarchy, so Mary and her husband William, Prince of Orange, are invited to come from the Netherlands. Much flattered, the latter agree to a parliamentary system so permissive that Albion's legislators go on a long partying spree. At the end of the night, however, a name for the revolution must be found. Everyone writes down a complimentary adjective on a slip of paper and puts it into a hat, Sir Robert Onslow closes his eyes and pulls one out — "glorious" it is.
1775-83
American Revolution. Faced with a scarcity of the crumpets, Devonshire clotted cream, and thin cucumber sandwiches that made it all worthwhile, the Americans conceive a violent dislike toward British tea in particular and Britain in general. The British government sends the Hessians to mediate; the Hessians decide to extend their diplomacy in the Clausewitzian sense, which measure meets with disfavour. After decades of relations as astringent as the controversial drink, Britain withdraws from the continent and henceforward keeps its tea to itself. In after centuries it is agreed by all countries that Britain may also keep the rest of its cuisine to itself, with the sole exception of fish and chips.
1815
The Napoleonic Wars, between England with its allies and France, end. The epic Battle of Waterloo is fought in the shadow of the great toilet that gave the Belgian town its name. Napoleon, leader of the Gallic forces, inspires his troops to great deeds through his eloquent exhortation to remember that "from the height of yonder edifice, forty centuries are contemplating you." But France loses and its chief is sent to the Caribbean island of St. Helena for a "holiday," as the Mediterranean retreat of Elba had proved not to be sufficiently "away from it all."
1832
Reform Bill. Parliament has become increasingly dissolute, with backbench MPs peddling gin and opium in full view of the Speaker, and the overtasked Speaker calling everyone naughty names. So King William IV calls the House to order in a lengthy lecture that is more sorrowful than angry; the sobered and penitent politicians pass a bill promising to behave henceforth.
1853-56
Crimean War. Its name derives from the British, French, Ottoman and Russian conviction that it would be a crime to let the military-industrial complex lie inactive.
1899-1902
Second Boer War. So called by the British because they are proving good at losing, and feel this to be a bore.
1914-18, 1939-45
Britain's long search for warmongering that is more unsavoury than its colonialist ventures is amply rewarded.
1956
Suez Crisis. A signal failure in good humour on the part of the Egyptians when British and French paratroopers try to annex the Suez Canal.
1979-90
Margaret Thatcher becomes Prime Minister and is promptly nicknamed the "Iron Lady" for her habit of bringing along a decorous, housewifely clothes-iron to parliamentary debates and then flinging it at the opposition whenever the spirit moves her.
1999
London Eye. Increasingly concerned about security, the British government builds a giant ferris wheel to keep a constant watch over the city.
* metaphysical hangover: term that comes up often in discussions of Kingsley Amis's ruminations on alcohol
Before 1066 A.D.
England inhabited by savage immigrants, named after their favourite warring accoutrements. The Celts love their kilts, the Picts their pick-axes, the Angles their fishing rods, and the Saxons their axes. Later on the Angles and Saxons coöperate on a fishing-rod-axe, which wreaks havoc in the piscine and human world and seals their supremacy. But for some centuries the Romans, named after their fondness for dark, red-tinged green lettuce, have the upper hand.
122
Hadrian's Wall. A pre-emptive measure against Genghis Khan; known officially as "Hadrian's Security Fence."
1066
Norman Invasion. The Battle of Hastings is named after the haste in which the Saxons fled from the besieging Normans.
1215
Magna Carta signed at Runnymede. King John is in an intoxicated state from the mead for which the town is famous, and once he reaches the friendly tipsy stage, the barons tell him to sign a piece of paper, and he agrees with many a jovial hiccough. On the morning after, the friendliness, tipsiness, and joviality have evaporated, and his metaphysical hangover* is tremendous. The barons, however, are pleased. That piece of paper haunts the dreams of heads of state to this day.
1455-87
Wars of the Roses. The Royal Garden Show descends into violence after the competition for the best new rose cultivar ends in a tie between two powerful noble families. For the next three decades, the houses of York (a white rose) and Lancaster (a red rose) fight for the title, and the spade and the hoe are put to a new and brutal use. The strife ends in Bosworth Field, where a new garden show is held with improved security measures. The Tudor family, whose members come from both houses, wins the rose contest with a third entry: a pink hybrid of the warring houses' cultivars. Almost everyone is conciliated, though there are grumbled accusations of plagiarism; the swords are beaten back into the ploughshares whence they came and the world of gardening resumes its wonted tranquillity for another thousand years.
1509-74
Reign of King Henry VIII. A pioneer in British family law, specializing in divorce de facto and de jure. Among his other notable accomplishments is his action during the Dissolution of the Monasteries (1536-40): England is plagued by acid rain, which severely damages its religious edifices, so His Majesty spearheads a government initiative to retrieve and preserve the gold and jewellery and artwork from the crumbling ruins.
1588
Battle of the Armada. An imprudent Spanish explorer returns from the New World with a giant armadillo (Armada sapiens) on board his ship. The creature predictably breaks its bonds and considerably damages the Iberian fleet. At last Queen Elizabeth I magnanimously orders her own navy to take a whack at the beast, which it does victoriously (for Britannia rules the waves). Oddly enough, the Spanish are not grateful.
1611
King James Bible. The king, battling low self-esteem, orders his scholars to rewrite the Bible, replacing every mention of "God" with "His Most Gracious Majesty." He then distributes it free of charge to the populace, which makes the book very popular.
1642-51
English Civil War. So named because of the extreme politeness with which the affair was conducted. At King Charles's beheading, for instance, a contemporary overhears this exchange:
Executioner: Be the block sufficiently commodious, Your Majesty?1666
King: Oh, quite; thank thee kindly for the inquiry. Might I remark that thy axe is splendidly polished?
Executioner: I were hoping that ye'd note it!
Great Fire of London. After much lobbying by the Puritans, whose temper was soured by the the monarchy's restoration, God obliges his constituents by cleaning up London with a few well-aimed lightning bolts.
1683
Ryehouse Plot. In a perfidious act of psychological warfare, the political opponents of Charles II plan to blow up the factory where the king's favourite rye bread is baked. The plot fails.
1688
Glorious Revolution. England tires of the absolute monarchy, so Mary and her husband William, Prince of Orange, are invited to come from the Netherlands. Much flattered, the latter agree to a parliamentary system so permissive that Albion's legislators go on a long partying spree. At the end of the night, however, a name for the revolution must be found. Everyone writes down a complimentary adjective on a slip of paper and puts it into a hat, Sir Robert Onslow closes his eyes and pulls one out — "glorious" it is.
1775-83
American Revolution. Faced with a scarcity of the crumpets, Devonshire clotted cream, and thin cucumber sandwiches that made it all worthwhile, the Americans conceive a violent dislike toward British tea in particular and Britain in general. The British government sends the Hessians to mediate; the Hessians decide to extend their diplomacy in the Clausewitzian sense, which measure meets with disfavour. After decades of relations as astringent as the controversial drink, Britain withdraws from the continent and henceforward keeps its tea to itself. In after centuries it is agreed by all countries that Britain may also keep the rest of its cuisine to itself, with the sole exception of fish and chips.
1815
The Napoleonic Wars, between England with its allies and France, end. The epic Battle of Waterloo is fought in the shadow of the great toilet that gave the Belgian town its name. Napoleon, leader of the Gallic forces, inspires his troops to great deeds through his eloquent exhortation to remember that "from the height of yonder edifice, forty centuries are contemplating you." But France loses and its chief is sent to the Caribbean island of St. Helena for a "holiday," as the Mediterranean retreat of Elba had proved not to be sufficiently "away from it all."
1832
Reform Bill. Parliament has become increasingly dissolute, with backbench MPs peddling gin and opium in full view of the Speaker, and the overtasked Speaker calling everyone naughty names. So King William IV calls the House to order in a lengthy lecture that is more sorrowful than angry; the sobered and penitent politicians pass a bill promising to behave henceforth.
1853-56
Crimean War. Its name derives from the British, French, Ottoman and Russian conviction that it would be a crime to let the military-industrial complex lie inactive.
1899-1902
Second Boer War. So called by the British because they are proving good at losing, and feel this to be a bore.
1914-18, 1939-45
Britain's long search for warmongering that is more unsavoury than its colonialist ventures is amply rewarded.
1956
Suez Crisis. A signal failure in good humour on the part of the Egyptians when British and French paratroopers try to annex the Suez Canal.
1979-90
Margaret Thatcher becomes Prime Minister and is promptly nicknamed the "Iron Lady" for her habit of bringing along a decorous, housewifely clothes-iron to parliamentary debates and then flinging it at the opposition whenever the spirit moves her.
1999
London Eye. Increasingly concerned about security, the British government builds a giant ferris wheel to keep a constant watch over the city.
* metaphysical hangover: term that comes up often in discussions of Kingsley Amis's ruminations on alcohol
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Germany vs. Turkey: 3-2
The Germany vs. Turkey match in the Euro Cup took place this evening, and we watched it on the television whilst hearing the radio commentary in the corner room. Gi. was cheering Germany, whereas J. and I were cheering Turkey; everyone else was (fairly) neutral.
It was a good, gripping game. Going into it, the Turkish team was down by many players because of injuries and fouls in the previous matches, and there were hardly any substitutes, but the bets (if I correctly interpret the charts that accompany the Guardian minute-by-minute reports) were still largely in their favour. They had come far despite the expectations to the contrary. Germany, though a solid team, had not been doing so well.
Even though a goal was not scored in the first 20 minutes, and after the equalizing German goal in the 26th minute there was nothing for a long while, it was thrilling enough. Then and later, it felt as if there was always a drive toward the goal. There was fouling and diving, but none of it, or so I thought, on a truly dastardly order; the one bloody clash of heads between Simon Rolfes and Ayhan Akman was accidental; it did disturb me that the referee made bad calls on the fouls. The fouling was done with panache, but the diving wasn't, so the poor sportsmanship of the latter was unredeemed by histrionic interest. In the second half the Turkish team was not at all mobile enough, and there were at least three times when, if one player had run a little into the open, his teammate could have passed to him and he might have scored a goal.
What added to the drama was the double outage of the television feed, due to a looming thunderstorm, so that, from here to London and Rome to Montreal and Argentina (as I learned in the Guardian's report), viewers were left with a blank screen and inane fill-in commentary. Whenever this occurred, the crowd somewhere out in the streets roared with disdain. But the second time, on television, a genius hooked us up to a Swiss channel's footage, so we could follow the game after all.
The match went into the final ten minutes with Germany leading 2-1, but then that fortuitous goal was scored by Semih Senturk, and so it looked as if Turkey might still win, until Philipp Lahm scored in the 89th minute. At that point there was much jubilation, which I felt out of place because the injury time — four minutes — had yet to be played. And, sure enough, Turkey was granted a free kick. It was like a film. Teammates and opponents haggling around in front of the goal. Goalkeeper with concentrated face. Spotlights glaring. Stadium at the highest pitch of excitement. The player on whom it all depends nervously licking his lips and mentally preparing to shoot. His foot draws back, it swings and makes contact, the ball is in the air, soaring and soaring . . . and it goes far over the net. So not a Hollywood ending, except from the German perspective.
Then the game went out with a whimper and not a bang, as a last-minute substitution was made by the German side, and goalkeeper Jens Lehmann took his time with launching out the ball, which was then passed around in the Turkish half and kicked over the centre line in one final, long, shallow shot, as the whistle was blown and the spectators began to celebrate the German victory. At this point, I admit, I had a rather long face. But the Turkish side did have lots of chances that it muffed, so I'll concede that the team that played marginally better won.
Predictably, the celebration in the streets was enthusiastic and protracted, though the last time Turkey won a game it was much more lively. The honking, the chanting, and the whistling were quite over in about an hour. However, a most unfeeling individual did set off two firecrackers close to our apartment after 1 a.m.*; the window was open, it was noisy, and it even startled Mama from her sleep.
*On June 26th, and in German time (I set this blog to publish in Pacific Standard Time, and haven't changed it because I like having my clocks at different hours, and exercising my mind a little whenever I want to know the time).
It was a good, gripping game. Going into it, the Turkish team was down by many players because of injuries and fouls in the previous matches, and there were hardly any substitutes, but the bets (if I correctly interpret the charts that accompany the Guardian minute-by-minute reports) were still largely in their favour. They had come far despite the expectations to the contrary. Germany, though a solid team, had not been doing so well.
Even though a goal was not scored in the first 20 minutes, and after the equalizing German goal in the 26th minute there was nothing for a long while, it was thrilling enough. Then and later, it felt as if there was always a drive toward the goal. There was fouling and diving, but none of it, or so I thought, on a truly dastardly order; the one bloody clash of heads between Simon Rolfes and Ayhan Akman was accidental; it did disturb me that the referee made bad calls on the fouls. The fouling was done with panache, but the diving wasn't, so the poor sportsmanship of the latter was unredeemed by histrionic interest. In the second half the Turkish team was not at all mobile enough, and there were at least three times when, if one player had run a little into the open, his teammate could have passed to him and he might have scored a goal.
What added to the drama was the double outage of the television feed, due to a looming thunderstorm, so that, from here to London and Rome to Montreal and Argentina (as I learned in the Guardian's report), viewers were left with a blank screen and inane fill-in commentary. Whenever this occurred, the crowd somewhere out in the streets roared with disdain. But the second time, on television, a genius hooked us up to a Swiss channel's footage, so we could follow the game after all.
The match went into the final ten minutes with Germany leading 2-1, but then that fortuitous goal was scored by Semih Senturk, and so it looked as if Turkey might still win, until Philipp Lahm scored in the 89th minute. At that point there was much jubilation, which I felt out of place because the injury time — four minutes — had yet to be played. And, sure enough, Turkey was granted a free kick. It was like a film. Teammates and opponents haggling around in front of the goal. Goalkeeper with concentrated face. Spotlights glaring. Stadium at the highest pitch of excitement. The player on whom it all depends nervously licking his lips and mentally preparing to shoot. His foot draws back, it swings and makes contact, the ball is in the air, soaring and soaring . . . and it goes far over the net. So not a Hollywood ending, except from the German perspective.
Then the game went out with a whimper and not a bang, as a last-minute substitution was made by the German side, and goalkeeper Jens Lehmann took his time with launching out the ball, which was then passed around in the Turkish half and kicked over the centre line in one final, long, shallow shot, as the whistle was blown and the spectators began to celebrate the German victory. At this point, I admit, I had a rather long face. But the Turkish side did have lots of chances that it muffed, so I'll concede that the team that played marginally better won.
Predictably, the celebration in the streets was enthusiastic and protracted, though the last time Turkey won a game it was much more lively. The honking, the chanting, and the whistling were quite over in about an hour. However, a most unfeeling individual did set off two firecrackers close to our apartment after 1 a.m.*; the window was open, it was noisy, and it even startled Mama from her sleep.
*On June 26th, and in German time (I set this blog to publish in Pacific Standard Time, and haven't changed it because I like having my clocks at different hours, and exercising my mind a little whenever I want to know the time).
Friday, June 20, 2008
A Trio of Small Triumphs
Turkey has won the Euro Cup quarter-final against Croatia, after a painfully protracted game with half an hour of extra time plus a penalty shoot-out (which was fairly decisive, though). The usual repertoire of cars beeping in rhythmic staccato or one prolonged note, and overflowing with flags and jubilant fans, and crowds streaming down the sidewalks screaming and shouting slogans (mostly "Türkiye!" or, in one case, "Wer hat gewonnen? Tür-ki-ye!"), whistles, and squawking horns, was rounded out by a bird whistle and even a drum. I followed the game on the Guardian minute-by-minute report, but one could keep score without its assistance. When a goal almost fell, the ambient roar was heightened with agonized shrieks of anticipation only to fade out in disappointment, and when it did fall, the noise swelled into a triumphant roar punctuated by popping firecrackers.
Anyway, the post-victory celebrations are fun and euphoric for about half an hour, but after that it becomes a trifle tiring. At least firecrackers don't disturb me much any longer; I'm afraid of them, in themselves and because their noise resembles that of gunshots, and think the world would be fine without them, but I've learned to take them in stride when they're nowhere near me. Speeding cars and alcohol consumption worry me more. Since I've come here I've tended to associate soccer with cheap beer, dark streams of urine and shards of bottles on the sidewalks, and drunken ditties intoned unsteadily in the dead of night by sad people with the temporary I.Q. of a vegetable and the inevitable prospect of an awful hangover in the morning. I haven't seen drunk-driving, but it's definitely a possibility. Also, when the firecrackers go off and people are screaming it sounds like a war zone or a violent protest, which I don't like either. But, all said and done, these are all good reasons why the beeping cars and happy flag-waving which have so far marked Turkey's victories, though not conducive to sleep, are harmless and pleasant. And I don't detect unsavoury nationalism, either, just a sense of shared excitement.
* * *
My most enjoyable internet reading of today was two reviews of Mike Myers's new film The Love Guru. I had no intention of seeing it anyway, even if the reviews had been favourable, since it is not my style of humour. But as it is, the critics came up with splendidly scathing lines, splendid even considering that criticizing the film is apparently like shooting fish in a barrel. When we read the first paragraph of the Slate article, J. and I were speechless with laughter.
A. O. Scott of the New York Times pondered the word "unfunny," and found it insufficient. His conclusion (italics mine):
Anyway, the post-victory celebrations are fun and euphoric for about half an hour, but after that it becomes a trifle tiring. At least firecrackers don't disturb me much any longer; I'm afraid of them, in themselves and because their noise resembles that of gunshots, and think the world would be fine without them, but I've learned to take them in stride when they're nowhere near me. Speeding cars and alcohol consumption worry me more. Since I've come here I've tended to associate soccer with cheap beer, dark streams of urine and shards of bottles on the sidewalks, and drunken ditties intoned unsteadily in the dead of night by sad people with the temporary I.Q. of a vegetable and the inevitable prospect of an awful hangover in the morning. I haven't seen drunk-driving, but it's definitely a possibility. Also, when the firecrackers go off and people are screaming it sounds like a war zone or a violent protest, which I don't like either. But, all said and done, these are all good reasons why the beeping cars and happy flag-waving which have so far marked Turkey's victories, though not conducive to sleep, are harmless and pleasant. And I don't detect unsavoury nationalism, either, just a sense of shared excitement.
* * *
My most enjoyable internet reading of today was two reviews of Mike Myers's new film The Love Guru. I had no intention of seeing it anyway, even if the reviews had been favourable, since it is not my style of humour. But as it is, the critics came up with splendidly scathing lines, splendid even considering that criticizing the film is apparently like shooting fish in a barrel. When we read the first paragraph of the Slate article, J. and I were speechless with laughter.
A. O. Scott of the New York Times pondered the word "unfunny," and found it insufficient. His conclusion (italics mine):
“The Love Guru” is downright antifunny, an experience that makes you wonder if you will ever laugh again.Now from Dana Stevens of Slate:
This tale of a guru who brings joy to all who meet him is the most joy-draining 88 minutes I've ever spent outside a hospital waiting room.and the pièce de résistance:
There are good movies. There are bad movies. There are movies so bad they're good (though, strangely, not the reverse). And once in a while there is a movie so bad that it takes you to a place beyond good and evil and abandons you there, shivering and alone.This is quite honestly how I felt when I watched Robert de Niro's CIA film The Good Shepherd. Though it wasn't bad technically, and I don't dislike the actors or the director, it was truly traumatic and repellent.
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