What sees me through December

In Germany, December is dark. In December, Germany is dark, too, but that makes the whole thing sound much more sinister than it really is. Anyway, you may think that the 8 hours and 3 minutes of light between sunrise and sunset sounds like just enough, but then you assume all sorts of things about the quality of light that are simply unrealistic (for instance, that one may experience two days in a row without rain). My instinct is to ingest an unholy amount of gebrannte Mandeln and hibernate, but the powers that be will admit no such thing. I AM NOT A BEAR, I repeat to myself each morning. But I am not yet fully convinced.

And so, dear readers, I give you yet another list, this time of my December survival strategies. It is not overly-lengthy, but, then again, neither is the time until cookies become the mainstay of my diet.

1. SWEET POTATO!! the concept, the smell, and the pie. I recently learned that China grows 80% of the world's sweet potatoes, which lead me to declare that I was moving there immediately. I subsequently read that they feed 60% of this 80% to pigs, which means that 48% of the world's sweet potatoes are eaten by even-toed ungulates. No matter, the humans are winning.

2. Elaborate fantasies in which I am seduced by Ernst Haeckel in the Canaries. None of these involve him drawing my nasal flora in exquisitely beautiful detail. Of course not. That would be perverse. Nor would it involve playing house in a cave and playfully throwing loquats at one another while watching the sun set over Teide. Absurd! But who am I kidding, really? I would settle any day for his assistant in the photo, Nicholas Miklouho-Maclay. Can't you tell from his swagger that that man's an abolitionist?

3. Last, but very much not least, embracing rejection! Or shall we say refusées? Why is 19th century modernism so much more charming than the twentieth century variety? I say we go back to embracing this productive loser dynamic, or at least use all of the hideous wallpaper of the world to say a thing or two.

The Questions that I Exorcise

The curse of reading widely is that all sorts of questions that only tangentially relate to the subject at hand constantly knock at the door to the mind and, oftentimes, forcibly enter. You first detect this mental burglary when you see that you've read a paragraph, sometimes an entire page, without absorbing any of the content written. And yet you cannot simply recognize this and go on-- you know these webs of distraction are sometimes as fruitful as they are inhibiting. I've taken to writing questions down as soon as they come to mind to force them out of my system, into the future. These were today's questions, and some of them were even answerable:

1. Why does the air smell metallic when it gets very cold?

Verdict: Unknowable or not yet known- the internet could not tell me a thing, but perhaps you, dear reader, can. Am I the only one with this affliction?

2. How does cinnamon simulate heat?

Verdict: Apparently there's something called 'cinnamaldehyde' or 'cinnamic aldehyde,' which reacts with the censors in your mouth that normally detect heat, called trigeminal nociceptors. I find the name of the receptor somewhat lacking, but I'm reconsidering names for my first born after thinking through the myriad of nicknames one could have for 'cinnamaldehyde.'

3. How much does the heart of a blue whale weigh? (A fact I had learned in grade school, and promptly forgotten, only to have it surface [ha!] years later)

Verdict: An awful lot- over 1000 pounds, at least. I particularly liked this formulation of the question. 'How heavy is the blue whale's heart'? sounds to me like a delightfully terrible folk song. When I recounted this fact to my boyfriend, he looked at me wide-eyed and said, "Just one heartbeat could kill you!" Indeed. And according to the National Marine Mammal Laboratory, a human could even crawl through a whale's aorta, though the fantasy that we could endlessly circulate through a whale is probably entirely untenable. Pity- no matter how obese we become, we'll never know what it's like to be giant.

4. What does mold look like to ants? (I had been reading about the leafcutter ant's magnificent mold gardens in the amazon)

Verdict: It turns out the gardens of the leafcutter ants are mostly just amorphous and fuzzy, though they're impressive agriculture feats. In the process of researching this, though, I came across a couple of magnificent pieces by the artist Stacy Levy. The image above and the one below feature images of magnified mold (penicillium and aspergillus respectively) which have been sandblasted onto glass plates. Cultures of these very molds are then grown on the plates themselves, to fill in the crannies. Does everything that is moldy twice over acquire such beauty? It makes you wonder what would happen with a third iteration, a third level of moldiness...perhaps everything would just become disgusting again.

A-roving

Immer Was Los, a publication detailing all kinds of noteworthy events in and around Gießen, Hessen, Germany, where Lauren currently makes her home, had informed us that there was a big to-do in Hungen.

What, precisely? A Krämermarkt, or ‘stuff market’. Address? Hungen. The entire town, apparently. We realized that this would either be sublime (i.e. a Christmas market in early November), or dreadful. So we decided to go.

We spent the 24-minute train ride admiring German animals and planning our futures living happily in Lich, a seemingly v. pleasant neighbour of Gießen. We emerged from the forest, the charming brick and reassuring fields, to find ourselves in a post-apocalyptic junk yard. Like much of Germany on a cloudy day, it smelled like poo. This wasteland was Hungen.

Oh mein Gott, we said. What have we DONE.

We trudged towards civilization, after checking the schedule for the next train out of there. Along the path were what may or may not have been trash compactors, bulldozer tillers, and various piles of yellow and orange things, whose purposes remain a mystery probably even to themselves.

But then we smelt the waffles cooking. And we saw a Turkish restaurant. And we turned the corner and saw a stand that sold nothing but eight thousand varieties of candied almonds, and another stand that sold nothing but alpaca socks, and dozens and dozens of stands that stretched all the way down the street (which was a very charming, seventeenth-century German sort of street), and shortly afterwards we began our careers as supermodels.

It was freakishly cold. Spotting some choice knitwear, we proceeded to gleefully try on what, by German standards, would be considered far too many hats. We attracted the attention of numerous vendors. DIE SIND ALLE HANDGEMACHT! [These are all handmade!] insisted the sales lady (who never said anything else afterwards). HOW FANTASTIC, we said with our eyebrows, and crowded around the mirror to admire our marvelous taste.

Then suddenly there was a jolly man with a giant camera bag, asking if he could take some photos of us trying on hats for the local paper. We said yes, and then promptly realized that it is impossible to look candid and photogenic at the same time. So we were trying to make happy shopping faces and nonchalant faces and in the meantime this man was taking about fifty pictures a second, and it was all a bit confusing after a while. We felt we really should buy some hats then, so Lauren got a beautifully cozy white one with brass buttons and Maddy got a slouchy blue one with a secret geometric design on the back. These were not the hats we were wearing in the pictures. But some level of anonymity must be preserved.

(Full disclosure: we spent quite some time trying to track ourselves down in the slideshows of the Allerheiligenmarkt that we found on the websites of Hungen's local papers. It seems we were passed over in favor of the very young and very old. Are we not yet suffiiciently German?)

We wiled away a few hours in this fashion, always discovering new delights- exotic succulents, flammkuchen, FREE SHRIMP. The succulents were particularly memorable, because the succulent man (it's not what you think!) was very stern about us watering our LEBENDIGE STEINE [LIVING STONES] every 14 days for 30 minutes at a time. He also refused to sell us a specimen in a hanging pot, claiming that if he let it go, nobody would ever believe the species capable of blooming. We certainly wouldn't have.

When we move to Hungen, and I'm certain we will any day now, we will live in the Schloss (which is also the synagogue). We originally thought it was a gymnasium [fancy high school], but it seems to have been turned into some sort of apartment complex for Hungeners/Hungers. We want the roof apartment (WITH FOUR TURRETS!). We will play in the leaves in the back. We will have friends in the houses nearby, which are made from curvy beams and mud and straw. Though you might expect these friends to have dirty faces, they will not. This will be our life in Hungen.

It's a good thing that our life will be so pleasant, because escaping Hungen is nigh impossible. We tried, thrice, and were thwarted the first two times. Why? Our zug was simply ausgefallen, a word whose exact meaning we're not precisely sure of (though we always know it spells inconvenience), but we were not alone in our strandedness. We were joined by two helpless Slovenian transplants, a mother, who referred to Madeleine as a gutes Mädchen, and her daughter, who took a special joy out of crossing train tracks rather than using the subterranean stairs. They didn't take kindly to the delay, and, suspecting strikes, ranted about poor people, to our shock and delight. The old woman found our hangman game, which we played whilst waiting for a train to come and which must have been entirely unintelligible to her, hilarious.

What follows is a list of our hangman words, in order: split-pea soup, allspice, echidna, balustrade, incongruous, toreador, pamplemousse, antifreeze, strumpfhosen, laissez-faire, mise-en-abîme, flohmarkt, australopithecus, expressionismus, megatherium, vulcanologist, chaos, vestige, so we'll go no more a-roving, pluck, why, om, and kulturindustrie.

On taxonomy

I think every biology teacher I’ve ever had has rolled her eyes at the thought of taxonomists. They are necessary people, yes — they speak Latin — but they are (apparently) kind of a drag to be around.

Hence my (slight) reluctance to admit my fascination with taxonomy and my own catalogic tendencies. I’m obsessed with Borges’ Chinese Encyclopedia, for one thing, in which animals are fitted into categories like “belonging to the emperor,” “fantastic,” and “that from a long way off look like flies.” Also, I have recently discovered the OED Historical Thesaurus — a taxonomy of every entry in the Oxford English Dictionary — which is incomprehensible but astoundingly poetic. Here, for example, is how you may reach the word ‘shell’:

the external world > abstract properties > existence > substantiality or concreteness > unsubstantiality or abstractness > [noun] > unsubstantiality or lack of substance > superficiality or hollowness > superficial or hollow thing ►shell (1791)

How is “unsubstantiality or abstractness” a sub-set of “substantiality or concreteness”? Why is it “unsubstantiality” instead of “insubstantiality”? Can’t a shell also be a tangible thing, and if so, why is it considered an “abstract property”? Dare I question the methods of the OED?

One of my professors recently asked us to make a list, from memory, of every book we’d ever read, and to then somehow organize this list. How to organize everything I can ever remember reading in my life? Right now, my categories are kind of boring — “books from childhood,” “poetry & drama,” that sort of thing. But might it not be more accurate to have categories like:

• books I read when I was probably too young for them;
• books I refuse to travel without;
• books whose titles I have lost;
• books I wish I had more opportunity to quote from;
• books I claim to have read but haven’t exactly read read ... ?

And — since this is an assignment for a translation class — shouldn’t I also include “books I tend to think about in German” or “books I tend to think about in French” or “books whose original language I will probably never be able to read”?

But actually translation and taxonomy seem to me to be natural partners. Taxonomy is merely the art of making distinctions, and therefore every language is a kind of taxonomy; every language makes different types of distinctions. In Latin or Russian, for example — languages with complex case systems — it is important to distinguish the role of each noun: is it singular, plural, masculine, feminine, a direct or an indirect object? The case ending will tell you. In Chinese, par contre, what is important about nouns is not what they are doing, really, but what they are. Each noun is accompanied by a “measurement word”, which indicates a sort of category: “long soft things,” like fish and feathers, have one measurement word, and “long hard things” like pencils and dogs (?!) have another. Books have their own measurement word, and so do people, and so do cups.

What do these taxonomies tell us? More about the culture than about the objects themselves, I suspect. To go back to my list of books: what would happen if I organized them, not into piles, but into a continuum — based on color, for example, or length, or by when I read them or how much I love them? Would the way I organize my reading material — that is to say, my past — determine my relationship to it?

Translation is: difficult; music.

Taped on the wall just above my desk in my apartment in Paris are a picture of Darwin and a picture of Leonard Bernstein. Darwin is there because G.G., a professor of mine once printed it out for me, saying, “I’m not sure why I’m printing this for you, but I think you should have it.” He has enjoyed pride of place ever since. And Leonard Bernstein is there because I’m obsessed with him.

However, I have come to realize that these two serve a metaphorical purpose as well, and I’m keeping them there to remind me about the ethics of translation. It seems to me now that Darwin was a kind of translator, observing nature meticulously, obsessively, in order to re-write it, its genealogy and present state, in another language: a human one. Another of my professors has asked whether translation can be defined as “writing under constraint”; I think that’s really not a bad definition — and Darwin was certainly constrained.

So he reminds me, basically, to just keep at it: keep observing, keep reading, agonize if you must, and then produce something, even if everyone thinks you’re crazy (and they probably will).

The photo of Bernstein I have is my favorite picture of him: conducting, head thrown back, arms upraised, eyes closed, as if at any moment he will transubstantiate and simply turn into music. He once said that his engagement with music was “a total embrace,” that knowledge of a work makes you belong to it, and not it to you.

He was also absolutely fanatical about loyalty to the composer, and remains remarkable among conductors for sounding noticeably different with each composer he conducts. Conducting, he said, is exactly like breathing: the preparation is inhalation, the music is exhalation.

So Lenny, eyes closed, is winking at me and reminding me to be loyal to the composer (or in my case, the writer), and not to engage except by total embrace; the work must live inside you; you must be inhaling and exhaling it.

(For in fact, literary translation is very much like musical interpretation: Bach as played by Perahia is not the same as Bach by Gould, but Bach is always there, and music is always the goal, the necessity.)

Paris: la belle, la bête, et le what now?

Amazing things about Paris:

1) WARM BAGUETTES: The best things ever. Somehow I’ve had incredible luck for three days running, and have never yet walked home with a less-than-piping-hot baguette.

2) Chocolate éclairs: OH. MON. DIEU. The best things ever, after warm baguettes. Didn’t realize they were chocolate when I bought them — I mean, they had chocolate on top, of course — but they had chocolate mousse inside, and I bit into one and almost died right then and there of happiness.

3) Daily life in Paris can be rather complicated and difficult, which means that even tiny victories (e.g. food) can be celebrated all out of proportion. Perfect example: learned today that my super-fancy, cutting-edge contact lens solution is available here, albeit it for €18/ginormous bottle. Danced all the way home.

Less-than-amazing things about Paris:

1) The national telecom company blacklist, which I have inexplicably found myself on. (Now, true, I have had fantasies about getting into some sort of political trouble in a foreign country, but I was hoping to be able to say something more along the lines of, “Ah, Liechtenstein! Yes, I was once deported from Liechtenstein,” and less, “I was blacklisted by every phone company in France for a while.”) After paying an exorbitant fee, I have freed myself from this blacklist, but only after “twelve to fifteen days” of processing time. Because they who control the blacklist don’t have computers, I guess, and so need to inform each other of my acquittal by carrier pigeon.

2) Not nearly enough executive transvestites hanging around with mice, cats, and monkeys.

Incredibly weird things about Paris: there’s only a need for one: Marie Antoinette’s dulcimer-playing android. Android, as in Data, only in the eighteenth century.

You say goodbye, and I say hello

I wrote before about the death of one of my former professors; I’m back in Paris now, which meant I was able to attend her memorial service yesterday, on what would have been her birthday, in one of the rooms that used to be part hers. She would come in — tiny, blonde, often in a red coat and usually dragging a wheeled suitcase — say, “Okay,” and then lecture for ninety minutes, without ever once looking at her notes.

I loved hearing people talk about her. They all said the same things — she was brilliant, she had a terrifying reputation but was a genuinely kind person, she held everyone up to rigidly (but not impossibly) high standards. One of her colleagues, another of my former professors and still a dear friend, said that he was so happy that he was able to teach with her and not be graded by her! I was crying by then, but that phrase made me laugh out loud.

I wish I’d known her better, or at least longer; even so, something about her death has made me deeply sad and I notice her absence on campus and in my life, somehow. Forces of nature don’t go missing; but she has.

A couple of strange things about funerals (or rather, memorials), and this one in particular: (1) I always feel incredibly hungry afterwards. It’s probably just a desire to remind myself that I am still alive, but I devoured two glasses of grapefruit juice, half a pain suisse, and some kind of strange lemon poppyseed cookie right after the service, and in a way this was also part of saying goodbye. (2) This service gave me a chance to see several people I hadn’t seen yet since arriving in Paris, very dear people, old friends, old professors, etc. Having to greet old friends on the occasion of someone’s death is very odd — there’s a slight awkwardness at the joy of it, but the joy is also intensified by the reminder of its fragility.

Afterwards my very dear friend Lily and I spent a long time on the Champs de Mars (the park near campus and directly in front of the Eiffel Tower), catching up and processing each other’s lives, talking about our old and new homes, old and new relationships, and ending up, as always, with Virginia Woolf.

And all of this was, in a symbolic and particularly poignant way, representative of my first two weeks in Paris: made up of goodbyes and hellos.

I’m just starting my MA and realizing (as usual) that I don’t know ANYTHING, that academically I am pulled in about fifty-seven different (and opposite) directions, but that everything is exciting and thrilling, I love my professors, my classmates are v. interesting, intelligent, and fun, and Paris seems like a brand-new city, not at all like it was two years ago, except for the quality of the pastries, which is and always has been exceptional.

Not that anything particular has changed about Paris; minor things only; but I have changed, and all things are ready, if our minds be so.

geometry, currency, holography; or, everything is so much more real in winter!

Out of the illiteracy of summer (to which not all are susceptible, but I most certainly am), comes other, more volatile, obsessions. If I were in 18th century France, this might mean seduction and heresy, but here in the boonies, where our egos are kept in check by the lightning and alien rock formations, summer obsessions take on an altogether more inhuman character. At the moment, I cannot relinquish thoughts of:

1. Crystals- quite literally the ordering of flows. the science of how you get something geometrical to emerge from something which is not is clear, but this doesn't make the act of finding a crystal in the dirt any less astounding. The experience always has an extra-terrestrial tinge to it, as does everything, really, which reminds you that the earth is first and foremost a geological entity. Björk and Gondry, are, as usual, extremely adept at capturing this sublime strangeness.

2. Money- not the accumulation of it, but its endless, irrational coming and going. My current line of work puts me smack-dab in the middle of infinite arbitrary exchanges, and I have tried to explain to Madeleine time after time how hypnotic this becomes. I wonder, really, if this, and not the promise of reward, is what drives gamblers. For this reason I have also developed an unhealthy interest in the 2-dollar bill, which is rare enough these days that it seems to create jams and blockages whenever used as legal tender. This summer I have received two, a suitably clunky number.

3. The secret behind our pixelated reality! If only tabloids would run this kind of story. Come winter, doubtless, I will find this completely ridiculous and untenable. But, for now, I am a hologram.

By contrast

There are things that make me ashamed of America, like this inane and infuriating piece about why the world would be safer with more guns; and things that make me proud, like Roy Harris’ Symphony No. 3, parts I and II.

There are delightful examples of graphic design with minimal fuss, like these posters by Christian Jackson for children’s stories:

And examples of graphic design with minimal soul power, like this collection of default profile pictures. I want to know: why there are multiple hipsters and robots (not to mention the wailing baby), and (more importantly), why the defaults always seem to be male. Oh, that robot is a woman, you say? My mistake.

Aaaaaand: most exciting (but not necessarily obvious) list of books ever; most outrageously obvious scientific finding ever.

Things we like VIII

1) Superhero movies!! At least the ones that don’t suck, like Captain America (and unlike Thor, though it pains me to say it, as someone who considers Norse mythology her comfort literature and worships Branagh’s Henry V). Am also now super-excited for The Avengers next summer, since it will apparently involve inter-dimensional travel, eyepatches, requisite mad scientists, and, most importantly, more Tony Stark.

2) The way that manatees a) walk along the sea floor with their flippers and b) sleep. Also, whenever they aren’t eating up to 10% of their body weight, they’re sleeping. I would make an excellent manatee.

3) The Once and Future King by T.H. White. I’ve probably started this book five or six times in my life, always loved starting it, but never got around to actually finishing it. This time am utterly resolved. Currently 100 pages in and adoring it.

4) Proper nouns that sound like adjectives (why are they inevitably British?): e.g. Cavendish; Standish.

Things we like VII

1) Ataraxia, which is absolutely not my current state, and which therefore seems like a worthy goal;

2) English words of Anglo-Saxon descent:

3*) the fact that most anagrams of my name have to do with destruction and disease: Malady Rued, Lauded Army, Mauled Yard, Dreamy Dual.

* doesn’t really deserve to be included in “things we like”; would do better in “things we find amusing and mildly disturbing”

4) this incredibly sad letter from Marilyn Monroe to her psychiatrist, Dr. Ralph Greenson;

5) Leonard Bernstein’s birthday card to Aaron Copland, 1967:

Dear A:

It’s two days before your birthday, but I’m already thinking hard and tenderly about you; and this note is your birthday present carrying with it such abiding love as I rarely if ever get to express to you in our occasional meetings. I don’t know if you’re aware of what you mean, have meant for 30 years, to me and my music and so many of my attitudes to life and to people. I suppose if there’s one person on earth who is at the center of my life it’s you; and day after day I recognize in my living your presence, your laugh, your peculiar mixture of intensity and calm. . . . I hope you live forever.

A long strong hug —

Lenny

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan

In honor of Bloomsday, a small collection of amusing things that I don’t understand:

1)

that do WHAT?!

(also ... it really should be “dudes who”...

not that I have an unhealthy obsession with grammar, or anything)

2)

In San Francisco, people like robot porn.

Is this true, O California friends of mine?

3)

the magnificent six-legged grizzly bears of 1865.

P.S. We can’t have a Bloomsday without Molly Bloom’s soliloquy.

Things we like VI (I think? I've lost count)

1) Sarah Vowell: for many many reasons, like: having the same passionately ambiguous relationship to America that I do; for expressing said relationship much more eloquently than I could; for being a frustrated idealist; for being a nerd; for being the most reliably witty live person I can think of:

Heaven, such as it is, is right here on earth. Behold: my revelation: I stand at the door in the morning, and lo, there is a newspaper, in sight like unto an emerald. And holy, holy, holy is the coffee, which was, and is, and is to come. And hark, I hear the voice of an angel round about the radio, saying, “Since my baby left me I found a new place to dwell.” And lo, after this I beheld a great multitude, which no man could number, of shoes. And after these things I will hasten unto a taxicab and to a theater, where a ticket will be given unto me, and lo, it will be a matinee, and a film that doeth great wonders. And when it is finished, the heavens will open, and out will cometh a rain fragrant as myrrh, and yea, I have an umbrella.

— “The End is Near, Nearer, Nearest” from Take the Cannoli

2) Yo-Yo Ma, especially in the most recent issue of Gramophone magazine, in which he is interviewed by Lang Lang, and proves himself entirely wonderful:

YM: Menuhin used to say that certain composers are less exportable than others. This reminds me of Chinese food. Do you know the Chinese delicacy, the thousand-year egg?

LL: The pidan! I tried to get my American friends to eat it and they told me to get lost.

YM: No one likes it int he West because it’s stinky. Yet Peking Duck is very exportable because it looks beautiful with its crispy skin. Someone told me yesterday that in Vietnam they drink a liqueur whose bottle contains a snake. I think it would be a little hard for me to do that. Certain things travel well, other things travel less well. I wonder if music is a bit like that.

LL: You choose the final question, Yo-Yo. Would you like to talk about Bach or about how Chinese culture has influenced Western music?

YM: Why not both? One of the things that I’ve learnt about Bach and about music in general is that there is no such thing as purity. ... It’s good for music that composers and musicians are exposed to different things, that people try to understand what they don’t understand. People need to get to a point where they feel that the thing that they don’t understand is part of them.

3) Snarky biographies, namely Harold C. Schonberg’s The Lives of the Great Composers (3rd ed.), in which the author demonstrates his apparent disdain (= jealousy!!) for certain composers near and dear to my heart:

If Bruckner’s music arouses fanatical devotion in many listeners, Mahler’s creates an actual frenzy. Again there are doubters, those who find Mahler’s music too neurotic and often too banal for enjoyment. The dedicated Mahlerian regards these unregenerates the way St. Paul regarded the heathen. It is hard to think of a composer who arouses an equal loyalty. The worship of Mahler amounts to a religion. Any music critic will attest to the fact that a response of anything except rapture to the Mahler symphonies will bring long letters of furious denunciation.

I, for one, was surprised to find out that Mahler heathens even exist. I mean ... really?

OK, Computer.

I appreciate the reassurance, Computer:

but it’s not good enough anymore. There are too many things that exist that shouldn’t. For example:

1) this program Hidden, which allows you to spy on anybody who’s stolen your computer. How does it work? Well, they say:

When you activate tracking, Hidden will locate your stolen computer anywhere on the planet, collect photos of the thief and screen shots of the computer in use. (We also collect lots of nerdy network information, but we won’t bore you with the details!)

WAIT! Give me those boring nerdy details! Like: WHO ELSE CAN SPY ON ME? (In Soviet Russia, Hidden spies YOU !!)

Don’t tell me it’s for my own good, Computer. I’m on to you.

2) The Museum of Me, featuring the Facebook Collection: this just makes me sick.

Death, oh baby ...

... you know that dying is fine, but maybe,

I wouldn’t like death if death were good,

Not even if death were good.

Things that are making me think about death:

1) One of my favorite professors, Feliz Eda Burhan, died last week; she was an amazing woman — a brilliant scholar and teacher. She was demanding and always v. critical of my writing (and I loved her for it). “This is good,” she would write on my essays, “but I know you can do better.”

A classmate of mine wrote to me to inform me of her death; she said that Professor Burhan had “passed away.” That’s what everybody said about her, actually: she passed away. I’ve always found this an incredibly strange phrase; I preferred the way another of my friends put it: that Professor Burhan had come to inhabit one of her own phrases, the “absence of presence and the presence of absence.” She is not here, but she has not passed away. In her absence is presence.

2) Mahler’s Ninth Symphony. Mahler was obsessed with death his entire career, but he was particularly afraid of the curse of the ninth — to which, in fact, he ultimately succumbed. As he was writing the Ninth, his four-and-a-half-year-old daughter suddenly died of scarlet fever; he himself was diagnosed with a fatal heart condition; WWI was rapidly approaching. So the symphony became his farewell to life — his own, and that of his entire world’s. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold — I was thinking of this line as I listened, especially during the third movement when the cracks in the structure are revealed and everything indeed begins to crumble. The second and third movements are intense and twisted, carnivalesque, ridiculous and sinister at the same time; the first and fourth are movements of the body: the symphony begins with an irregular pulse, a hesitant arrhythmia, and the final movement ends in much the same way; it is the heart-beat slowing down.

Herbert von Karajan said that this symphony is “music coming from another world, it is coming from eternity.”

I highly recommend both the program notes by Dr. Richard E. Rodda from the performance I attended (the Colorado Symphony Orchestra, conducted by the incomparable Marin Alsop), and the essay “Late Night Thoughts on Listening to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony” by Lewis Thomas. It’s rather apocalyptic, but so is the symphony.

3) These recently-declassified photos from Hiroshima, 1945:

This one reminds me of the human body, a spine or a rib cage.

kinds of freedom

I’m slightly in shock and don’t really know how to respond to this news about bin Laden — for one thing, I found about it from friends’ Facebook statuses, and that alone kind of freaked me out — and then there were the exhumed 9/11 memories to be dealt with —and then there was the fact that even though bin Laden was (to borrow a phrase from Eddie Izzard) a mass-murdering fuckhead, my country still assassinated somebody, and I can’t really accept the equation of that to “justice being served.”

So between feeling deeply confused about all that and anxiety about my show opening this week (The Odd Couple — do come see it, if you’re in the area!), I slept terribly and feel rather out of it, and am compelled to make lists.

Things that make me feel human:

1) I don’t care how many mediocre films Woody Allen has made, he is still my hero forever just for this scene: a minute and a half of Manhattan.

2) Mozart probably didn’t know this, but he wrote Don Giovanni for Cecilia Bartoli: Batti, Batti, O Bel Masetto.

3) Ai Weiwei (whose name [Ài; 艾] is a homophone for ‘love’ [ài; 愛]) is fighting for freedom of speech in China, has been censored and harassed by the government for years, and is now being held in custody for undefined “economic crimes.” Here is his TED video.

in honor of the last day of national poetry month...

All You Who Sleep Tonight

All you who sleep tonight

Far from the ones you love,

No hand to left or right

And emptiness above —

Know that you aren’t alone

The whole world shares your tears,

Some for two nights or one,

And some for all their years.

— Vikram Seth

The South; or, Alles wird Trauben

For the first time, really, I find myself in the southern part of the old world, and there is something peculiar about it. The quality of decay (equally of paint and morals) is entirely superior here.

Concretely, one may observe this is in the sugar packets that are three times the size of ones you would find in the new world or in northern Europe, the ubiquity and cheapness of drink, the succulents sprouting from collapsed roofs. Austerity is to be found nowhere, and particularly not in the church, where one may find the severed head of St. John the baptist and obscene gilt drapery (not painted, but carved in wood and now dripping with who knows what substance).

But, as many have observed, there is also a mental south, and this is equally irresistible and horrifying. Here, one does not dream, but is kept in a fever state. There is no future in the south, you see- only the occasional pleasure which entirely resists planning or deferral. This is why we view it as permanently youthful, despite the wrinkled facades and rotting infrastructure. The south is precisely the point at which thanatos meets eros.

It is also 'Jack on his Deathbed,' illustrated so aptly by Walton Ford:

She treads the path that she untreads again

There is so much space to be reckoned with! And I spend so much of my time being transported — usually by car, which makes me nervous and/or sleepy — that I’m just about ready to revolutionize the whole system: change all the places to go and all the ways to go there. For example — in a perfect world —

I would go everywhere that Deutsche Bahn does not go by Gossamer Albatross, which is like a flying bicycle —

in 1979 the Gossamer Albatross traversed the English Channel and won the Kremer Prize (which is given to pioneers of human-powered flight).

And then I would fly to my houseboat — which would be round, and as much like a floating hobbit hole as possible.

My dearest ambition in life is to be a river rat like Johnny Depp in Chocolat.

And if the river got too rough, I would just go sleep in my bubble house on the beach.

Suggestions for reality shows ( ... mostly involving academics)

One of the most disturbing but most entertaining consequences of living in America has been that both of us now watch much more TV than we ever have in our lives. It’s kind of a love/hate thing: it’s so vacuous... so soulless... so ADDICTING and BRILLIANT... Reality TV is, of course, the best kind, appealing perpetually to our fascination with the real vs. the un- or hyperreal, and really our only complaint is that reality TV doesn’t feature enough academics (what, who says pasty professors can’t be telegenic?!).

To remedy the situation, we propose the following shows:

1. Publish or Perish: Academics in the Ring (i.e. if a contestant fails to publish in a peer-reviewed journal, he or she must be ‘peer-reviewed’ by The Adjudicator)

2. Wax figure-sculpting contest: can you fool the audience?

3. Wax person contest: can you fool the audience?: this entails setting people on stage while the judges and/or audience attempt to guess if the person is a real person or a wax person; see our previous post on the wax person phenomenon.

4. The Next Best-Selling Teen Novel: must draw major plot elements/religious persuasions out of hat

5. The Apprentice: Ljubljana (with Slavoj Žižek instead of Donald Trump; his hair is anyway vastly superior)

6. Dance-ademic: is deconstructive criticism parasitic or isn’t it?! is there such a thing as universal grammar or isn’t there?! did Michelangelo sculpt Laocoön or didn’t he?! DANCE IT OUT! Showdown, bitte.

Short story collection

Lauren has just shown me this v. amusing site, the Random Title Generator. It’s rather formulaic — one title is always [Adjective] + [Noun], another is always The [Noun] of the [Noun], etc., and the pool of potential words to be plugged in is relatively small — but still, if you play with it long enough, it yields some pretty entertaining results.

Here are my favorite titles, randomly generated by the internet, and their accompanying recommended plot summaries, randomly generated by my imagination:

The Cracked Person: a thriller graphic novel, about a man who, in a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong, accidentally combines his DNA with that of a pepper grinder*;

Vacant Voyages: genre: photography/psychoanalysis — pictures of people staring into space, with scholarly commentary;

The Unwilling Name: starring Hortense, or Tiglath-pileser the Third;

The Girl of the Person: a vacuous tale, to be sold exclusively by Urban Outfitters;

Lovely Snake: an epic poem, narrated by Cleopatra, describing her thoughts in the moments before she puts the asp to her breast;

The Magnificent Doors: a coffee-table book for people who love both architecture and Jim Morrison;

Crying in the Ice: über-depressing — will undoubtedly win the Booker Prize;

The Consort of the Petals: an eighteenth-century drama of scandal, passion, intrigue, decadence — basically, Dangerous Liaisons, except with flowers instead of people.


* this takes place in the future, obviously, when inanimate objects have been discovered to possess DNA...

Simulating Summer

What do you do when temperatures dip to a positively unnatural -20 degrees Fahrenheit (-29 degrees Celsius for the non-initiates)? If at all possible, board yourself up in your cave, put your samovar in overdrive, and do everything you can to trick your brain into believing it's summer. The following things have given me some relief.

1. The new Destroyer album, Kaputt, which is doubly-summery-- it's vaguely nostalgic in precisely the way August is, and it channels the 80's, which are eternal summer, in the best way possible. I showed a dear friend this video, and he asked me, "Is that guy Dan Bejar?" Only in my dreams...

2. Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), which is suffused with all the sunshine that one could possible desire, enough perhaps to become somewhat stifling. Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I have a soft spot for white dresses and inconceivably monumental rock formations, and this contains plenty of both.

3. Hallucinating elaborate and lengthy thunderstorms! For it is not just the sunshine that one misses in winter- the electricity simply is not there, and thundersnows are the rarest occurrence. I attempted to find a virtual substitute, and came closest with the 'virtual thunderstorm with a 3-d holophonic sound illusion' (I'll give anything a try that sounds like it could be part of a 19th century sideshow), but I think the science of artificial 3-d thunder is dubious at best. Still, it is better than the snow, which absorbs any sound at all.

Three kinds of love

The first is love mixed with architecture: yellow hot-water-bottle windows, a tear in every one, and the red tower from Vienna Westbahnhof.

(Hundertwasser, Yellow Houses — it hurts to wait with love,

if love is somewhere else — jealousy, 1966)

The second is tiny, that shies at the hooting of cars, that adores the bells of horse-trams.

должно быть, маленький,

смирный любеночек.

Она шарахается автомобильных гудков.

Любит звоночки коночек

(Mayakovsky, A Cloud in Trousers, 1915)

The third is contained in twelve billion words, beginning in ----, ----.

The first kind of love speaks German; the second, Russian; the third, English.

The Vegetable Lamb: Number 1

The Vegetable Lamb, a little project of mine which Madeleine has been providing enormous amounts of assistance with (and contributing to!), is finally here!

The Vegetable Lamb Issue 1:

Number 1

By Lauren Greyson in Art

The inaugural issue of the Vegetable Lamb has arrived! Featuring everything from accounts of trans-species friendships to meditations on difference and repetition, this issue is meant to introduce the indiscernible in all its depth and breadth.

‘The most lamentable comedy and cruel death’

First, the cruel death, i.e. my new favorite depressing poem:

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

— Stevie Smith (1957)

And the most lamentable comedy: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, by my new hero, Laurence Sterne. My cheek muscles are sore from having grinned and/or laughed out loud through 150 pages (which isn’t v. far in, but Tristram himself hasn’t even been born yet, or rather, hasn’t gotten around to telling the story of his birth, though he has covered his conception, the death of poor Yorick, the wounding of Uncle Toby, hobby-horses, and whether it is possible to baptize a child before it has been born).

For in this long digression which I was accidentally led into, as in all my digressions (one only excepted) there is a master-stroke of digressive skill, the merit of which has all along, I fear, been overlooked by my reader [...]

The connection: these works are ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in them,’ which is what Marianne Moore says poetry should be.

Things we like V: undeniable trends [aka the year in review]

1. An analysis of my reading habits in 2010:

Books that I read, cover to cover: approximately 30.

Books that I spent a good deal of time reading, but either started and didn’t finish, or read only lengthy excerpts of: approximately 25.

2. Norwegian men of the year (to qualify one must be named Edvard): Munch and Grieg.

3. Apichatpong Weerasethakul (one of my new favorite people) and his film, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. The film won the Palme d’Or at Cannes and, praise the Queen!, was showing in London, where I finally saw it and became entirely enamored. There is a v. nice summary of Uncle Boonmee here, though I also highly recommend putting the original Thai title into Google translate:

4. The difference between the real and the surreal, more specifically: my increasing inability to distinguish them. There is reality TV, for one thing, which shouldn’t be real but is, and then obviously wax people who are not made of wax, and women laughing alone with salad.

5. Hedonism, which often takes the form of a search for the perfect chocolate muffin (found, at long last, on Charing Cross Road). As we were snacking on the street, my friend whom I was with declared, “This is the best muffin in the entire world. I like that I can be v. hedonistic around you.”

6. Commemorating instances of cosmic unfairness and/or explaining medieval literature by writing limericks.

7. Ai Weiwei, his ethics, and his beautiful beautiful sunflower seeds.

8. Quantum entanglement, which sounds, like most things, better in German: Quantenverschränkung.

Things we like IV: the post-holiday decadence edition

1. Sun sneezing (photic sneezing reflex if we're being technical) and the art it inspires. If Apollo were to sneeze, these sculptures would be the result.

2. Hand-colored daguerreotypes, particularly when they feature royals who knew the meaning of facial hair. English royalty could do with a new infusion of Teutonic blood.

3. Thai peanut butter cup bonbons from this lovely establishment. Who would have thought the sublime goodness of chocolate and Thai curry would be even more sublime together?

4. Micromosaic jewelery, popular from the 17th to 19th centuries, and enjoying a resurgence now. I'm collecting barely visible tesserae in preparation for my own 2 centimeter tall okapi.

5. Practical guides to lacemaking, particularly if they contain over 300 engravings. Why oh why can't lacework be introduced into the standard mathematics curriculum?