I was wrong. So it was back to the drawing board, telephoning agents. In Norwich there is an
area euphemistically called the Golden Triangle. The only thing golden in this part of the
city is the lining of the private landlords’ pockets.
We found a two-bedroom terrace house, rather grubby and in need of a coat of paint but
otherwise sound. We did not have to pay for July, which was a bonus, but we did get stung
for 75 per cent of the rent for August and the whole amount of £600 for September, even
though the house was not occupied until the end of the month. There was also a further £600
deposit to stump up and we had to sign a contract until the end of June, when, no doubt,
some other poor student will be forced to take on a 12-month lease to make sure of having
somewhere to stay for the following term.
I hope that in future, when applications drop — and I believe they will because of the
sheer expense — universities will respond by shortening their courses and trying to control
the spiralling costs of having somewhere to live.
Until then, how many other individuals will fall prey to private landlords and experience
the frustration of having to pay through the nose for their children to live in sub-standard
digs?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
My dear, dear daughters
AM IN THE fortunate, or unfortunate, position of having twin daughters at university. Fortunate to have them; unfortunate in that everything comes at double cost.
This includes paying rent for their accommodation. We have only just managed, yet again, to find them somewhere to live for their final year.
It is the third year in a row that I am being ripped off by greedy landlords who line their pockets at the expense of students desperate for somewhere to live.
Both daughters are doing a four-year course — one at Reading, the other in Norwich — with a year in France. For the year abroad, one was offered accommodation that resembled a prison cell block. For the other daughter no accommodation was available and we had to rent a studio. We did not just have to rent it for the academic year, but for 12 months at approximately £350 a month with two months’ deposit up front. When French students come to my daughter’s university here, they are given places in hall; it is odd how rarely reciprocal agreements exist.
During their first year they stayed in hall, as is customary. During their second year we had to pay inflated rent for a room in a rundown house in Norwich, and for a room in a more upmarket house in Reading.
But I thought, after the rent we paid in Paris, that was the end of it. We were home and dry. I had expected both daughters to go back into hall for their final year and just pay residence fees by the term, meaning that I was not paying deposits, or rent for July and August and for Christmas and Easter holidays.
This includes paying rent for their accommodation. We have only just managed, yet again, to find them somewhere to live for their final year.
It is the third year in a row that I am being ripped off by greedy landlords who line their pockets at the expense of students desperate for somewhere to live.
Both daughters are doing a four-year course — one at Reading, the other in Norwich — with a year in France. For the year abroad, one was offered accommodation that resembled a prison cell block. For the other daughter no accommodation was available and we had to rent a studio. We did not just have to rent it for the academic year, but for 12 months at approximately £350 a month with two months’ deposit up front. When French students come to my daughter’s university here, they are given places in hall; it is odd how rarely reciprocal agreements exist.
During their first year they stayed in hall, as is customary. During their second year we had to pay inflated rent for a room in a rundown house in Norwich, and for a room in a more upmarket house in Reading.
But I thought, after the rent we paid in Paris, that was the end of it. We were home and dry. I had expected both daughters to go back into hall for their final year and just pay residence fees by the term, meaning that I was not paying deposits, or rent for July and August and for Christmas and Easter holidays.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
When we two parted
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me-
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met-
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After ling year,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me-
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met-
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After ling year,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
time is reckoned
Here, then, is the problem which I present to you, stark and dreadful and inescapable: Shall we put an end to the human race1 or shall mankind renounce war? People will not face this alternative because it is so difficult to abolish war. The abolition of war will demand distasteful limitations of national sovereignty. But what perhaps impedes understanding of the situation more than anything else is that the term 'mankind' feels vague and abstract. People scarcely realize in imagination that the danger is to themselves and their children and their grandchildren, and not only to a dimly apprehended humanity' And so they hope that perhaps war may be allowed to continue provided modern weapons are prohibited. I am afraid this hope is illusory. Whatever agreements not to use hydrogen bombs had been reached in time of peace, they would no longer be considered binding in time of war, and both sides would set to work to manufacture hydrogen bombs as soon as war broke out, for if one side manufactured the bombs and the other did not, the side that manufactured them would inevitably be victorious...
As geological time is reckoned, Man has so far existed only for a very short period one million years at the most. What he has achieved, especially during the last 6,000 years, is something utterly new in the history of the Cosmos, so far at least as we are acquainted with it. For countless ages the sun rose and set, the moon waxed and waned, the stars shone in the night, but it was only with the coming of Man that these things were understood. In the great world of astronomy and in the little world of the atom, Man has unveiled secrets which might have been thought undiscoverable. In art and literature and religion, some men have shown a sublimity of feeling which makes the species worth preserving. Is all this to end in trivial horror because so few are able to think of Man rather than of this or that group of men? Is our race so destitute of wisdom, so incapable of impartial love, so blind even to the simplest dictates of self-preservation, that the last proof of its silly cleverness is to be the extermination of all life on our planet? - for it will be not only men who will perish, but also the animals, whom no one can accuse of communism or anticommunism.
I cannot believe that this is to be the end. I would have men forget their quarrels for a moment and reflect that, if they will allow themselves to survive, there is every reason to expect the triumphs of the future to exceed immeasurably the triumphs of the past. There lies before us, if we choose, continual progress in happiness, knowledge, and wisdom. Shall we, instead, choose death, because we cannot forget our quarrels? I appeal, as a human being to human beings: remember your humanity, and forget the rest. If you can do so, the way lies open to a new Paradise; if you cannot, nothing lies before you but universal death.
As geological time is reckoned, Man has so far existed only for a very short period one million years at the most. What he has achieved, especially during the last 6,000 years, is something utterly new in the history of the Cosmos, so far at least as we are acquainted with it. For countless ages the sun rose and set, the moon waxed and waned, the stars shone in the night, but it was only with the coming of Man that these things were understood. In the great world of astronomy and in the little world of the atom, Man has unveiled secrets which might have been thought undiscoverable. In art and literature and religion, some men have shown a sublimity of feeling which makes the species worth preserving. Is all this to end in trivial horror because so few are able to think of Man rather than of this or that group of men? Is our race so destitute of wisdom, so incapable of impartial love, so blind even to the simplest dictates of self-preservation, that the last proof of its silly cleverness is to be the extermination of all life on our planet? - for it will be not only men who will perish, but also the animals, whom no one can accuse of communism or anticommunism.
I cannot believe that this is to be the end. I would have men forget their quarrels for a moment and reflect that, if they will allow themselves to survive, there is every reason to expect the triumphs of the future to exceed immeasurably the triumphs of the past. There lies before us, if we choose, continual progress in happiness, knowledge, and wisdom. Shall we, instead, choose death, because we cannot forget our quarrels? I appeal, as a human being to human beings: remember your humanity, and forget the rest. If you can do so, the way lies open to a new Paradise; if you cannot, nothing lies before you but universal death.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Shall we choose death?
I am speaking not as a Briton, not as a European, not as a member of a western democracy, but as a human being, a member of the species Man, whose continued existence is in doubt. The world is full of conflicts: Jews and Arabs; Indians and Pakistanis; white men and Negroes in Africa; and, overshadowing all minor conflicts, the titanic struggle between communism and anticommunism.
Almost everybody who is politically conscious has strong feelings about one or more of these issues; but I want you, if you can, to set aside such feelings for the moment and consider yourself only as a member of a biological species which has had a remarkable history and whose disappearance none of us can desire. I shall try to say no single word which should appeal to one group rather than to another. All, equally, are in peril, and, if the peril is understood, there is hope that they may collectively avert it. We have to learn to think in a new way. We have to learn to ask ourselves not what steps can be taken to give military victory to whatever group we prefer, for there no longer are such steps. The question we have to ask ourselves is: What steps can be taken to prevent a military contest of which the issue must be disastrous to all sides?
The general public, and even many men in positions of authority, have not realized what would be involved in a war with hydrogen bombs. The general public still thinks in terms of the obliteration of cities. It is understood that the new bombs are more powerful than the old and that, while one atomic bomb could obliterate Hiroshima, one hydrogen bomb could obliterate the largest cities such as London, New York, and Moscow. No doubt in a hydrogen-bomb war great cities would be obliterated. But this is one of the minor disasters that would have to be faced. If everybody in London, New York, and Moscow were exterminated, the world might, in the course of a few centuries, recover from the blow. But we now know, especially since the Bikini test, that hydrogen bombs can gradually spread destruction over a much wider area than had been supposed. It is stated on very good authority that a bomb can now be manufactured which will be 25,000 times as powerful as that which destroyed Hiroshima. Such a bomb, if exploded near the ground or under water, sends radioactive particles into the upper air. They sink gradually and reach the surface of the earth in the form of a deadly dust or rain. It was this dust which infected the Japanese fishermen and their catch of fish although they were outside what American experts believed to be the danger zone. No one knows how widely such lethal radioactive particles might be diffused, but the best authorities are unanimous in saying that a war with hydrogen bombs is quite likely to put an end to the human race. It is feared that if many hydrogen bombs are used there will be universal death - sudden only for a fortunate minority, but for the majority a slow torture of disease and disintegration...
Almost everybody who is politically conscious has strong feelings about one or more of these issues; but I want you, if you can, to set aside such feelings for the moment and consider yourself only as a member of a biological species which has had a remarkable history and whose disappearance none of us can desire. I shall try to say no single word which should appeal to one group rather than to another. All, equally, are in peril, and, if the peril is understood, there is hope that they may collectively avert it. We have to learn to think in a new way. We have to learn to ask ourselves not what steps can be taken to give military victory to whatever group we prefer, for there no longer are such steps. The question we have to ask ourselves is: What steps can be taken to prevent a military contest of which the issue must be disastrous to all sides?
The general public, and even many men in positions of authority, have not realized what would be involved in a war with hydrogen bombs. The general public still thinks in terms of the obliteration of cities. It is understood that the new bombs are more powerful than the old and that, while one atomic bomb could obliterate Hiroshima, one hydrogen bomb could obliterate the largest cities such as London, New York, and Moscow. No doubt in a hydrogen-bomb war great cities would be obliterated. But this is one of the minor disasters that would have to be faced. If everybody in London, New York, and Moscow were exterminated, the world might, in the course of a few centuries, recover from the blow. But we now know, especially since the Bikini test, that hydrogen bombs can gradually spread destruction over a much wider area than had been supposed. It is stated on very good authority that a bomb can now be manufactured which will be 25,000 times as powerful as that which destroyed Hiroshima. Such a bomb, if exploded near the ground or under water, sends radioactive particles into the upper air. They sink gradually and reach the surface of the earth in the form of a deadly dust or rain. It was this dust which infected the Japanese fishermen and their catch of fish although they were outside what American experts believed to be the danger zone. No one knows how widely such lethal radioactive particles might be diffused, but the best authorities are unanimous in saying that a war with hydrogen bombs is quite likely to put an end to the human race. It is feared that if many hydrogen bombs are used there will be universal death - sudden only for a fortunate minority, but for the majority a slow torture of disease and disintegration...
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Music From the Ruins
FIVE musicians in neat evening dress were singing Mozart's Requiem in a bombed-out library, or rather amid a heap of rubble. The rough venue and tight security check had kept down the audience, but the concert was being televised live on international media networks -- to raise charity funds, incidentally.
It was an incongruous situation. The air was resonant with the music and songs mourning for the countless lives lost in the war. Gunfire of hatred could destroy everything physical, but it could never stifle the voice of beauty and compassion from the human hearts.
The scene was in downtown Sarajevo, capital of war-torn Bosnia, the same venerable city visited by -- perhaps you remember -- Joan Baez the pop singer and pacifist from America, who came and sang at concerts there last year.
Mostly she travelled around in an armoured personnel carrier, but one day she took a walk outside. In front of a bakery reduced to ruins, she saw a man playing the cello there for the 22nd day hitherto, grieving with his music over the bombardment victims, including his own brother.
Joan stopped. She listened to him playing adagio, bemoaning the ghastly deaths and rejoicing over the miraculous survivals. Finally, she knelt down beside the cellist and the two ended up in a close embrace, weeping.
“All day long, I was seized by a swoon of soundless sorrow,” wrote the singer later. “I wouldn't have regretted it even if I'd died that very day!” Reading those printed words, I felt tears welling up in my eyes and music ringing in my ears -- an image of the ruins, witness to the dignity of Man.
It was an incongruous situation. The air was resonant with the music and songs mourning for the countless lives lost in the war. Gunfire of hatred could destroy everything physical, but it could never stifle the voice of beauty and compassion from the human hearts.
The scene was in downtown Sarajevo, capital of war-torn Bosnia, the same venerable city visited by -- perhaps you remember -- Joan Baez the pop singer and pacifist from America, who came and sang at concerts there last year.
Mostly she travelled around in an armoured personnel carrier, but one day she took a walk outside. In front of a bakery reduced to ruins, she saw a man playing the cello there for the 22nd day hitherto, grieving with his music over the bombardment victims, including his own brother.
Joan stopped. She listened to him playing adagio, bemoaning the ghastly deaths and rejoicing over the miraculous survivals. Finally, she knelt down beside the cellist and the two ended up in a close embrace, weeping.
“All day long, I was seized by a swoon of soundless sorrow,” wrote the singer later. “I wouldn't have regretted it even if I'd died that very day!” Reading those printed words, I felt tears welling up in my eyes and music ringing in my ears -- an image of the ruins, witness to the dignity of Man.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Fragrance Forever
THE SMELL of wood, refreshingly sweet, greeted me even before I sat down at the round table. As if breathing along with the trees, I felt a simple, primitive joy when admiring those furniture and home articles shaped and carved out of cedar in the heritage museum village of San Antonio, an old-time riverside town down south in the United States.
The craftsman, Arnold, came from a family of carpenters. As a Vietnam War veteran, he related to me, a visitor from Asia, how he had fought against the Vietcong guerrillas in the jungle.
His dearest memory, he said, was that of a medley of tropical smells of the rain forest, in which he had to move with the utmost caution, trembling with fear that the lurking enemy would attack from anywhere, any moment. What calmed him down, he recalled, was the fragrance of wood as he, holding his rifle, was lying prone against the trunk of a large tree, sticking himself to the coarse bark.
After the war, Arnold started to live by working on wood, like his ancestors. Among his finest carpentry works was a rocking-chair, in which his daughter was now seated, reading. I picked out a tube-shaped pot with a lid. Chiselled out of a block, the objet d'art well preserved the material's colour in various shades, the clear annual rings, the original cracks and nodes -- what a reminder of the mystique of life!
Lifting the lid, I savoured the fragrance of wood, feeling the natural power that had helped Arnold overcome his fear -- fragrance in war, which sounds like a poet's nonsense.
The craftsman, Arnold, came from a family of carpenters. As a Vietnam War veteran, he related to me, a visitor from Asia, how he had fought against the Vietcong guerrillas in the jungle.
His dearest memory, he said, was that of a medley of tropical smells of the rain forest, in which he had to move with the utmost caution, trembling with fear that the lurking enemy would attack from anywhere, any moment. What calmed him down, he recalled, was the fragrance of wood as he, holding his rifle, was lying prone against the trunk of a large tree, sticking himself to the coarse bark.
After the war, Arnold started to live by working on wood, like his ancestors. Among his finest carpentry works was a rocking-chair, in which his daughter was now seated, reading. I picked out a tube-shaped pot with a lid. Chiselled out of a block, the objet d'art well preserved the material's colour in various shades, the clear annual rings, the original cracks and nodes -- what a reminder of the mystique of life!
Lifting the lid, I savoured the fragrance of wood, feeling the natural power that had helped Arnold overcome his fear -- fragrance in war, which sounds like a poet's nonsense.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Flowers and Coconut Leaves
FLOWERS and coconut leaves are daily necessities in Balinese life. Along with cooked rice, they are normal gifts to gods as the natives of Bali, “Island of Sacrifices”, set offerings in front of their houses every day, not to mention on special dates.
You get a glimpse of the islanders' carefree lifestyle from the common scene of small clusters of farmers enjoying a leisurely chat by the paddy fields, having laid down their hoes. A recess could easily last two or three hours, according to our guide.
On my recent visit, I noticed automobiles festooned with designs woven out of coconut leaves on their fronts. It turned out that sacrifices had just been offered with a prayer for road safety. The fast growth of tourism and traffic had brought about frequent accidents on the island, prompting the natives to add “safe driving” to their sacrificial calendar.
The Balinese entrust everything in life to divine providence. Even when a house is virtually burnt down, our local guide told us, people would celebrate their good fortune if any part of it were spared by the fire. Such contentment is what leads the islanders through life in their peculiar happy-go-lucky manner.
Once at nightfall, when passing the swimming-pool at my hotel, I caught sight of some Balinese dancers in ethnic costumes getting ready for their performance. With delicate care, the girls picked their head adornments from the flower-bed and fixed the blossoms on to their hair. What grows in Nature comes natural to them as the need arises.
Presumably, flowers bloom from Heaven and leaves sprout from Man's heart. To the accompaniment of the jingling lutes and babbling brooks, they embellish this world for the Balinese, and lend wings to their imagination for an even sweeter next world.
You get a glimpse of the islanders' carefree lifestyle from the common scene of small clusters of farmers enjoying a leisurely chat by the paddy fields, having laid down their hoes. A recess could easily last two or three hours, according to our guide.
On my recent visit, I noticed automobiles festooned with designs woven out of coconut leaves on their fronts. It turned out that sacrifices had just been offered with a prayer for road safety. The fast growth of tourism and traffic had brought about frequent accidents on the island, prompting the natives to add “safe driving” to their sacrificial calendar.
The Balinese entrust everything in life to divine providence. Even when a house is virtually burnt down, our local guide told us, people would celebrate their good fortune if any part of it were spared by the fire. Such contentment is what leads the islanders through life in their peculiar happy-go-lucky manner.
Once at nightfall, when passing the swimming-pool at my hotel, I caught sight of some Balinese dancers in ethnic costumes getting ready for their performance. With delicate care, the girls picked their head adornments from the flower-bed and fixed the blossoms on to their hair. What grows in Nature comes natural to them as the need arises.
Presumably, flowers bloom from Heaven and leaves sprout from Man's heart. To the accompaniment of the jingling lutes and babbling brooks, they embellish this world for the Balinese, and lend wings to their imagination for an even sweeter next world.
Monday, December 15, 2008
one way or another
But the host went around as if he didn't notice anything, though Grandfather always insisted that he detected a little twinkle in the rich man's eyes as he shook hands with all his fellow parishioners and wished them good night.
The preacher toted19 his gifts into his house, and just because they had been the center of interest, so to speak, he picked one of the big white potatoes out of the basket. Then he noticed that one end of the potato had been opened. He investigated, and discovered that a silver dollar had been neatly inserted through the opening. He examined every potato in that bushel basket, and there was a silver dollar in every single one of them.
At this point Grandfather usually sat back and plucked benignly at his white beard20 and smiled. Then he'd turn philosopher and say:
"It takes an almighty pile of gall21 for a man to sit up and say what is going on in another man's mind, don't22 it? I mean one way or another. When Doc Eaton told me that story he didn't bother to point out any moral. By the way, he don't do any preaching any more. He's been a congressman from New Jersey for years and years. But I guess the story has a moral, all right. Always sort of tickled23 me, like it must have tickled Doc's rich parishioner. "
"The New Testament says it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.24 Well, I ain't saying it isn't true. But I am saying this: It took John D. Rockefeller to put a silver dollar through the eye of a potato in order that a lot of people could have some food for thought."25
The preacher toted19 his gifts into his house, and just because they had been the center of interest, so to speak, he picked one of the big white potatoes out of the basket. Then he noticed that one end of the potato had been opened. He investigated, and discovered that a silver dollar had been neatly inserted through the opening. He examined every potato in that bushel basket, and there was a silver dollar in every single one of them.
At this point Grandfather usually sat back and plucked benignly at his white beard20 and smiled. Then he'd turn philosopher and say:
"It takes an almighty pile of gall21 for a man to sit up and say what is going on in another man's mind, don't22 it? I mean one way or another. When Doc Eaton told me that story he didn't bother to point out any moral. By the way, he don't do any preaching any more. He's been a congressman from New Jersey for years and years. But I guess the story has a moral, all right. Always sort of tickled23 me, like it must have tickled Doc's rich parishioner. "
"The New Testament says it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.24 Well, I ain't saying it isn't true. But I am saying this: It took John D. Rockefeller to put a silver dollar through the eye of a potato in order that a lot of people could have some food for thought."25
Saturday, December 13, 2008
those who made
Grandfather said even then he had the sneaking feeling that the rich man wasn't so insulated and isolated by his money14 that he didn't know what people were saying about him, and that was the real reason he gave the party.
But both sides of the question went to the party. A lot of them were pretty curious about the inside of a rich man's home.
They brought offerings for the pastor, as they were requested. Some people brought apples, and others brought sides of bacon and onions and other homey old-fashioned things like that15. But nobody was really much interested in what the other guests brought. They were all waiting for one thing. What would the rich man bring out? Even Doc Eaton, the preacher, according to Grandfather, couldn't help wondering about what was coming. You could feel the undercurrent of suspense.
And then the rich man16 brought out his offering.
It was a bushel of potatoes.17 They were nice potatoes, extra large and scrubbed white and clean. But still and all, they were only a bushel of potatoes that anybody could buy in the Old Market for a lot less than a dollar.
Well, sir, Grandfather chuckled, you could practically see what people were thinking. They were the people who were saying to themselves and to everybody else, "Well, what did I tell you??And then there were those who made it perfectly plain that they thought it was mighty tactful of their host not to make an ostentatious parade of his money18 before a lot of neighbors and friends.
But both sides of the question went to the party. A lot of them were pretty curious about the inside of a rich man's home.
They brought offerings for the pastor, as they were requested. Some people brought apples, and others brought sides of bacon and onions and other homey old-fashioned things like that15. But nobody was really much interested in what the other guests brought. They were all waiting for one thing. What would the rich man bring out? Even Doc Eaton, the preacher, according to Grandfather, couldn't help wondering about what was coming. You could feel the undercurrent of suspense.
And then the rich man16 brought out his offering.
It was a bushel of potatoes.17 They were nice potatoes, extra large and scrubbed white and clean. But still and all, they were only a bushel of potatoes that anybody could buy in the Old Market for a lot less than a dollar.
Well, sir, Grandfather chuckled, you could practically see what people were thinking. They were the people who were saying to themselves and to everybody else, "Well, what did I tell you??And then there were those who made it perfectly plain that they thought it was mighty tactful of their host not to make an ostentatious parade of his money18 before a lot of neighbors and friends.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Rich Man
Grandfather was a philosopher, and like a lot of philosophers, I guess, he was a mild-mannered man who was always ready to admit that there are two sides to every question. So when people got to arguing with him, or around him, about things that they got heated up and illogical about, like politics and religion,1 he would tell this story that Doc Eaton told him one day up on the Hill.
It happened a long time ago, when the town wasn't all steel and concrete and automobiles; when you could still hear the whir of a lawn mower without taking a streetcar out to the suburbs, and still see a horse lazily switching at the flies on his flanks under almost any sycamore tree.2 The Forest City had a lot of trees in those days.
And it had a lot of people that didn't always see eye to eye,3 like a lot of other cities. And it had a rich man, like almost every other town. And this rich man was a pillar in the Baptist Church;4 and people didn't see eye to eye about him, either.
There were those—and Grandfather's eyes twinkled when he said it—that claimed the rich man was an old hypocrite5, that he was ruthless in his business dealings, that he was so tightfisted he wouldn't spend a nickel to see an earthquake,6 that when he went to church on Sunday morning he was almost as important as God to a lot of people.
Then there was the other school of thought7. It asserted that just because a man had made money under conditions as they existed was no reason to call him a lot of hard names.8 In fact, they asserted stoutly, the people that called him names were merely envious of his success9. They maintained he went to church not because he was a sanctimonious old fraud10 but because he was at heart, and for all his money, a simple, deeply religious man.
It was while these two groups were hot at it that the rich man gave a party. Well, it wasn't exactly a party, Grandfather would explain. It was more like a shower for the pastor of the church.11 One group of parishioners saw in their invitation nothing but a kindly, neighborly gesture. The other just said it showed how miserly the old buzzard was12—getting other people to do what he could have done a thousand times over without feeling it a mite.13
It happened a long time ago, when the town wasn't all steel and concrete and automobiles; when you could still hear the whir of a lawn mower without taking a streetcar out to the suburbs, and still see a horse lazily switching at the flies on his flanks under almost any sycamore tree.2 The Forest City had a lot of trees in those days.
And it had a lot of people that didn't always see eye to eye,3 like a lot of other cities. And it had a rich man, like almost every other town. And this rich man was a pillar in the Baptist Church;4 and people didn't see eye to eye about him, either.
There were those—and Grandfather's eyes twinkled when he said it—that claimed the rich man was an old hypocrite5, that he was ruthless in his business dealings, that he was so tightfisted he wouldn't spend a nickel to see an earthquake,6 that when he went to church on Sunday morning he was almost as important as God to a lot of people.
Then there was the other school of thought7. It asserted that just because a man had made money under conditions as they existed was no reason to call him a lot of hard names.8 In fact, they asserted stoutly, the people that called him names were merely envious of his success9. They maintained he went to church not because he was a sanctimonious old fraud10 but because he was at heart, and for all his money, a simple, deeply religious man.
It was while these two groups were hot at it that the rich man gave a party. Well, it wasn't exactly a party, Grandfather would explain. It was more like a shower for the pastor of the church.11 One group of parishioners saw in their invitation nothing but a kindly, neighborly gesture. The other just said it showed how miserly the old buzzard was12—getting other people to do what he could have done a thousand times over without feeling it a mite.13
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
universe was created
Then God commanded,“Let the water be filled with many kinds of living beings, and let the air be filled with birds.” So God created the great sea-monsters, all kinds of creatures that live in the water, and all kinds of birds. And God was pleased with what he saw. He blessed them all and told the creatures that live in the water to reproduce, and to fill the sea, and he told the birds to increase in number. Evening passed and morning came—that was the fifth day.
Then God commanded, “Let the earth produce all kinds of animal life: domestic and wild, large and small”—and it was done. So God made them all, and he was pleased with what he saw.
Then God said, “And now we will make human beings; they will be like us and resemble us. They will have power over the fish, the birds, and all animals, domestic and wild, large and small.”So God created human beings, making them to be like himself. He created them male and female, blessed them, and said,“Have many children, so that your descendants will live all over the earth and bring it under their control. I am putting you in charge of the fish, the birds, and all the wild animals. I have provided all kinds of grain and all kinds of fruit for you to eat; but for all the wild animals and for all the birds I have provided grass and leafy plants for food”—and it was done. God looked at everything he had made, and he was very pleased. Evening passed and moring came—that was the sixth day.
And so the whole universe was completed. By the seventh day God finished what he had been doing and stopped working. He blessed the seventh day and set it apart as a special day, because by that day he had completed his creation and stopped working. And that is how the universe was created.
Then God commanded, “Let the earth produce all kinds of animal life: domestic and wild, large and small”—and it was done. So God made them all, and he was pleased with what he saw.
Then God said, “And now we will make human beings; they will be like us and resemble us. They will have power over the fish, the birds, and all animals, domestic and wild, large and small.”So God created human beings, making them to be like himself. He created them male and female, blessed them, and said,“Have many children, so that your descendants will live all over the earth and bring it under their control. I am putting you in charge of the fish, the birds, and all the wild animals. I have provided all kinds of grain and all kinds of fruit for you to eat; but for all the wild animals and for all the birds I have provided grass and leafy plants for food”—and it was done. God looked at everything he had made, and he was very pleased. Evening passed and moring came—that was the sixth day.
And so the whole universe was completed. By the seventh day God finished what he had been doing and stopped working. He blessed the seventh day and set it apart as a special day, because by that day he had completed his creation and stopped working. And that is how the universe was created.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Story of Creation
In the beginning, when God created the universe, the earth was formless and desolate. The raging ocean that covered everything was engulfed in total darkness, and the power of God was moving over the water. Then God commanded, “Let there be light”—and light appeared. God was pleased with what he saw. Then he separated the light from the darkness, and he named the light“Day” and the darkness "Night".Evening passed and morning came—that was the first day.
Then God commanded, “Let there be a dome to divide the water and to keep it in two separate places”—and it was done. So God made a dome, and it separated the water under it from the water above it. He named the dome “Sky.” Evening passed and morning came—that was the second day.
Then God commanded,“Let the water below the sky come together in one place, so that the land will appear”—and it was done. He named the land “Earth,” and the water which had come together he named “Sea.” And God was pleased with what he saw. Then he commanded, “Let the earth produce all kinds of plants, those that bear grain and those that bear fruit”—and it was done. So the earth produced all kinds of plants, and God was pleased with what he saw. Evening passed and morning came—that was the third day.
Then God commanded, “Let lights appear in the sky to separate day from night and to show the time when days, years, and religious festivals begin; they will shine in the sky to give light to the earth”—and it was done. So God made the two larger lights, the sun to rule over the day and the moon to rule over the night; he also made the stars. He placed the lights in the sky to shine on the earth, to rule over the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness. And God was pleased with what he saw. Evening passed and morning came—that was the fourth day.
Then God commanded, “Let there be a dome to divide the water and to keep it in two separate places”—and it was done. So God made a dome, and it separated the water under it from the water above it. He named the dome “Sky.” Evening passed and morning came—that was the second day.
Then God commanded,“Let the water below the sky come together in one place, so that the land will appear”—and it was done. He named the land “Earth,” and the water which had come together he named “Sea.” And God was pleased with what he saw. Then he commanded, “Let the earth produce all kinds of plants, those that bear grain and those that bear fruit”—and it was done. So the earth produced all kinds of plants, and God was pleased with what he saw. Evening passed and morning came—that was the third day.
Then God commanded, “Let lights appear in the sky to separate day from night and to show the time when days, years, and religious festivals begin; they will shine in the sky to give light to the earth”—and it was done. So God made the two larger lights, the sun to rule over the day and the moon to rule over the night; he also made the stars. He placed the lights in the sky to shine on the earth, to rule over the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness. And God was pleased with what he saw. Evening passed and morning came—that was the fourth day.
Friday, December 5, 2008
light well
A man shall see faces, that if you examine them part by part, you shall find never a good;
and yet altogether do well. If it be true that the principal part of beauty is in decent
motion, certainly it is no marvel, though persons in years seem many times more amiable;
pulchrorum autumnus pulcher; for no youth can be comely but by pardon, and considering the
youth, as to make up the comeliness.
Beauty is as summer fruits, which are easy to corrupt, and cannot last; and for the most
part it makes a dissolute youth, and an age a little out of countenance; but yet certainly
again, if it light well, it maketh virtue shine,and vices blush.
and yet altogether do well. If it be true that the principal part of beauty is in decent
motion, certainly it is no marvel, though persons in years seem many times more amiable;
pulchrorum autumnus pulcher; for no youth can be comely but by pardon, and considering the
youth, as to make up the comeliness.
Beauty is as summer fruits, which are easy to corrupt, and cannot last; and for the most
part it makes a dissolute youth, and an age a little out of countenance; but yet certainly
again, if it light well, it maketh virtue shine,and vices blush.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Of Beauty
VIRTUE is like a rich stone, best plain set; and surely virtue is best, in a body that is comely ,though not of delicate features; and that hath rather dignity of presence, than beauty of aspect. Neither is it almost seen, that very beautiful persons are otherwise of great virtue; as if nature were rather busy, not to err, than in labor to produce excellency.
And therefore they prove accomplished, but not of great spirit; and study rather behavior, than virtue. But this holds not always: for Augustus Caesar, Titus Vespasianus, Philip le Belle of France, Edward the Fourth of England, Alcibiades of Athens, Ismael the Sophy of Persia, were all high and great spirits; and yet the most beautiful men of their times.
In beauty, that of favor, is more than that of color; and that of decent and gracious motion, more than that of favor. That is the best part of beauty, which a picture cannot express; no, nor the first sight of the life.
There is no excellent beauty, that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
A man cannot tell whether Apelles, or Albert Durer, were the more trifler; whereof the one, would make a personage by geometrical proportions; the other, by taking the best parts out of divers faces, to make one excellent. Such personages, I think, would please nobody, but the painter that made them. Not but I think a painter may make a better face than ever was; but he must do it by a kind of felicity (as a musician that maketh an excellent air in music), and not by rule.
And therefore they prove accomplished, but not of great spirit; and study rather behavior, than virtue. But this holds not always: for Augustus Caesar, Titus Vespasianus, Philip le Belle of France, Edward the Fourth of England, Alcibiades of Athens, Ismael the Sophy of Persia, were all high and great spirits; and yet the most beautiful men of their times.
In beauty, that of favor, is more than that of color; and that of decent and gracious motion, more than that of favor. That is the best part of beauty, which a picture cannot express; no, nor the first sight of the life.
There is no excellent beauty, that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
A man cannot tell whether Apelles, or Albert Durer, were the more trifler; whereof the one, would make a personage by geometrical proportions; the other, by taking the best parts out of divers faces, to make one excellent. Such personages, I think, would please nobody, but the painter that made them. Not but I think a painter may make a better face than ever was; but he must do it by a kind of felicity (as a musician that maketh an excellent air in music), and not by rule.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Lights Going On and Off
Why are installations so bloody irritating, then? Perhaps because in the many cases when craftsmanship is removed, art seems like the emperor's new clothes. Perhaps also because artists are frequently so bound up with the intellectual ramifications of the history of art and the cataclysm of isms, that those who are not steeped in them don't care or understand. But, ultimately, because being irritating need not be a bad thing for a work of art since at least it compels engagement from the viewer.
But irritation isn't the whole story. I don't necessarily understand or like all installation art, but I was moved by Double Bind, Juan Munoz's huge work at Tate Modern. A false mezzanine floor in the turbine hall is full of holes, some real, some trompe l'oeil and a pair of lifts chillingly lit and going up and down, heading nowhere. To get the full impact, and to go beyond mere illusionism, you need to go downstairs and look up through the holes. There are grey men living in rooms between the floorboards, installations within this installation. It's creepy and beautiful and strange, but you need to make an effort to get something out of it.
The same is true for Martin Creed's Lights Going On and Off, though I didn't find it very illuminating. "My work," says Martin Creed, "is about 50% what I make of it and 50% what people make of it. Meanings are made in people's heads - I can't control them."
It's nice of Creed to share the burden of significance. But sadly for him, few of the spectators were making much of his show last week. His room was often deserted, but the rooms housing Isaac Julien's boring films and Richard Billingham's dull videos were packed. Maybe Creed's aim is to drive people away from installation art, or maybe he is just not understood. Whatever. The lights were on, and sometimes off, but nobody was home.
But irritation isn't the whole story. I don't necessarily understand or like all installation art, but I was moved by Double Bind, Juan Munoz's huge work at Tate Modern. A false mezzanine floor in the turbine hall is full of holes, some real, some trompe l'oeil and a pair of lifts chillingly lit and going up and down, heading nowhere. To get the full impact, and to go beyond mere illusionism, you need to go downstairs and look up through the holes. There are grey men living in rooms between the floorboards, installations within this installation. It's creepy and beautiful and strange, but you need to make an effort to get something out of it.
The same is true for Martin Creed's Lights Going On and Off, though I didn't find it very illuminating. "My work," says Martin Creed, "is about 50% what I make of it and 50% what people make of it. Meanings are made in people's heads - I can't control them."
It's nice of Creed to share the burden of significance. But sadly for him, few of the spectators were making much of his show last week. His room was often deserted, but the rooms housing Isaac Julien's boring films and Richard Billingham's dull videos were packed. Maybe Creed's aim is to drive people away from installation art, or maybe he is just not understood. Whatever. The lights were on, and sometimes off, but nobody was home.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
provoke reactions
What these two examples suggest to me is that we are barking up the wrong tree by trying to define installations. Installations do not all share a set of essential characteristics. Some will demand audience participation, some will be site-specific, some conceptual gags involving only a light bulb.
Installations, then, are a big, confusing family. Which brings us to the second question. Why are there so many of them around at the moment? There have been installations since Marcel Duchamp put a urinal in a New York gallery in 1917 and called it art. This was the most resonant gesture in 20th century art, discrediting notions of taste, skill and craftsmanship, and suggesting that everyone could be an artist. Futurists, Dadaists and surrealists all made installations. In the 1960s, conceptualists, minimalists and quite possibly maximalists did too. Why so many installations now? After all, two of this year's four Turner prize candidates are installation artists.
American critic Hal Foster thinks he knows why installations are everywhere in modern art. He reckons that the key transformation in Western art since the 1960s has been a shift from what he calls a "vertical" conception to a "horizontal" one. Before then, painters were interested in painting, exploring their medium to its limits. They were vertical. Artists are now less interested in pushing a form as far as it will go, and more in using their work as a terrain on which to evoke feelings or provoke reactions.
"Many artists and critics treat conditions like desire or disease as sites for art," writes Foster. True, photography, painting or sculpture can do the same, but installations have proved most fruitful - perhaps because with installations the formalist weight of the past doesn't bear down so heavily and the artist can more easily explore what concerns them.
Installations, then, are a big, confusing family. Which brings us to the second question. Why are there so many of them around at the moment? There have been installations since Marcel Duchamp put a urinal in a New York gallery in 1917 and called it art. This was the most resonant gesture in 20th century art, discrediting notions of taste, skill and craftsmanship, and suggesting that everyone could be an artist. Futurists, Dadaists and surrealists all made installations. In the 1960s, conceptualists, minimalists and quite possibly maximalists did too. Why so many installations now? After all, two of this year's four Turner prize candidates are installation artists.
American critic Hal Foster thinks he knows why installations are everywhere in modern art. He reckons that the key transformation in Western art since the 1960s has been a shift from what he calls a "vertical" conception to a "horizontal" one. Before then, painters were interested in painting, exploring their medium to its limits. They were vertical. Artists are now less interested in pushing a form as far as it will go, and more in using their work as a terrain on which to evoke feelings or provoke reactions.
"Many artists and critics treat conditions like desire or disease as sites for art," writes Foster. True, photography, painting or sculpture can do the same, but installations have proved most fruitful - perhaps because with installations the formalist weight of the past doesn't bear down so heavily and the artist can more easily explore what concerns them.
Friday, November 28, 2008
stab at a definition
First question first. What are installations? "Installations," answers the Thames and Hudson Dictionary of Art and Artists with misplaced self-confidence, "only exist as long as they are installed." Thanks for that. This presumably means that if the ice cream van man took the handbrake off his installation Van No1, it wouldn't be an installation any more.
The dictionary continues more promisingly: installations are "multi-media, multi-dimensional and multi-form works which are created temporarily for a particular space or site either outdoors or indoors, in a museum or gallery."
As a first stab at a definition, this isn't bad. It rules out paintings, sculptures, frescoes and other intuitively non-installational artworks. It also says that anything can be an installation so long as it has art status conferred on it (your flashing bulb is not art because it hasn't got the nod from the gallery, so don't bother writing a "funny" letter to the paper suggesting it is). The important question is not "what is art?" but "when is art?"
The only problem is that this definition also leaves out some very good installations. Consider Richard Wilson's 20:50. It consists of a lake of sump oil that uncannily reflects the ceiling of the gallery. Spectators penetrate this lake by walking along an enclosed jetty whose waist-high walls hold the oil at bay. This 1987 work was originally set up in Matt's Gallery in east London, through whose windows one could see a bleak post-industrial landscape while standing on the jetty. The installation, awash in old engine oil, could thus be taken as a comment on Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing industries. Then something very interesting happened. Thatcher's ad man Charles Saatchi put 20:50 in his windowless gallery in west London, depriving it of its context. But the Thames and Hudson definition does not allow that this 20:50 is an installation because it wasn't created for that space. This is silly: it would be better to say there were two installations - the one at Matt's and the other at the Saatchi Gallery.
Or think about Damien Hirst's In and Out of Love. In this 1991 installation, butterfly cocoons were attached to large white canvases. Heat from radiators below the cocoons encouraged them to hatch and flourish briefly. In a separate room, butterflies were embalmed on brightly coloured canvases, their wings weighed down by paint. The spectator needed to move around to appreciate the full impact of the work. Unlike looking at paintings or sculptures, you often need to move through or around installations.
The dictionary continues more promisingly: installations are "multi-media, multi-dimensional and multi-form works which are created temporarily for a particular space or site either outdoors or indoors, in a museum or gallery."
As a first stab at a definition, this isn't bad. It rules out paintings, sculptures, frescoes and other intuitively non-installational artworks. It also says that anything can be an installation so long as it has art status conferred on it (your flashing bulb is not art because it hasn't got the nod from the gallery, so don't bother writing a "funny" letter to the paper suggesting it is). The important question is not "what is art?" but "when is art?"
The only problem is that this definition also leaves out some very good installations. Consider Richard Wilson's 20:50. It consists of a lake of sump oil that uncannily reflects the ceiling of the gallery. Spectators penetrate this lake by walking along an enclosed jetty whose waist-high walls hold the oil at bay. This 1987 work was originally set up in Matt's Gallery in east London, through whose windows one could see a bleak post-industrial landscape while standing on the jetty. The installation, awash in old engine oil, could thus be taken as a comment on Thatcherite destruction of manufacturing industries. Then something very interesting happened. Thatcher's ad man Charles Saatchi put 20:50 in his windowless gallery in west London, depriving it of its context. But the Thames and Hudson definition does not allow that this 20:50 is an installation because it wasn't created for that space. This is silly: it would be better to say there were two installations - the one at Matt's and the other at the Saatchi Gallery.
Or think about Damien Hirst's In and Out of Love. In this 1991 installation, butterfly cocoons were attached to large white canvases. Heat from radiators below the cocoons encouraged them to hatch and flourish briefly. In a separate room, butterflies were embalmed on brightly coloured canvases, their wings weighed down by paint. The spectator needed to move around to appreciate the full impact of the work. Unlike looking at paintings or sculptures, you often need to move through or around installations.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
When is a room not a room?
There was a bit of a fuss at Tate Britain the other day. A woman was hurrying through the large room that houses Lights Going On and Off in a Gallery, Martin Creed's Turner prize-shortlisted installation in which, yes, lights go on and off in a gallery. Suddenly the woman's necklace broke and the beads spilled over the floor. As we bent down to pick them up, one man said: "Perhaps this is part of the installation." Another replied: "Surely that would make it performance art rather than an installation." "Or a happening," said a third.
These are confusing times for Britain's growing audience for visual art. Even one of Creed's friends recently contacted a newspaper diarist to say that he had visited three galleries at which Creed's work was on show but had not managed to find the artworks. If he can't find them, what chance have we got?
More and more of London's gallery space is devoted to installations. London is no longer a city, but a vast art puzzle. Next to Creed's flashing room is Mike Nelson's installation consisting of an illusionistic labyrinth that seems to lead to a dusty Tate storeroom. It's the security guards I feel sorry for, stuck in a faux back room fielding tricky questions about the aesthetic merits of conceptual art simulacra and helping people with low blood sugar find the way out.
Every London postcode has its installation artist. In SW6 Luca Vitoni has created a small wooden box with grass on the ceiling and blue sky on the floor. Visitors can enhance the experience with free yoga sessions. In W2 the Serpentine Gallery has commissioned Doug Aitken to redesign its space as a sequence of dark, carpeted rooms with dramatic filmed images of icy landscapes, waterfalls and bored subway passengers miraculously swinging like gymnasts around a cross-like arrangement of four video screens. The gallery used to be stables, you know. Not to be outdone, in SE1 Tate Modern has a wonderful installation by Juan Munoz.
At the launch of this year's Turner prize show, a disgruntled painter suggested that the ice cream van that parks outside the Tate should have been shortlisted. This is a particularly stupid idea. Where would we get our ice creams from then?
What we need is the answer to three simple questions. What is installation art? Why has it become so ubiquitous? And why is it so bloody irritating?
These are confusing times for Britain's growing audience for visual art. Even one of Creed's friends recently contacted a newspaper diarist to say that he had visited three galleries at which Creed's work was on show but had not managed to find the artworks. If he can't find them, what chance have we got?
More and more of London's gallery space is devoted to installations. London is no longer a city, but a vast art puzzle. Next to Creed's flashing room is Mike Nelson's installation consisting of an illusionistic labyrinth that seems to lead to a dusty Tate storeroom. It's the security guards I feel sorry for, stuck in a faux back room fielding tricky questions about the aesthetic merits of conceptual art simulacra and helping people with low blood sugar find the way out.
Every London postcode has its installation artist. In SW6 Luca Vitoni has created a small wooden box with grass on the ceiling and blue sky on the floor. Visitors can enhance the experience with free yoga sessions. In W2 the Serpentine Gallery has commissioned Doug Aitken to redesign its space as a sequence of dark, carpeted rooms with dramatic filmed images of icy landscapes, waterfalls and bored subway passengers miraculously swinging like gymnasts around a cross-like arrangement of four video screens. The gallery used to be stables, you know. Not to be outdone, in SE1 Tate Modern has a wonderful installation by Juan Munoz.
At the launch of this year's Turner prize show, a disgruntled painter suggested that the ice cream van that parks outside the Tate should have been shortlisted. This is a particularly stupid idea. Where would we get our ice creams from then?
What we need is the answer to three simple questions. What is installation art? Why has it become so ubiquitous? And why is it so bloody irritating?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Change
Change has been the one constant in my life. While staring out at the bleak Wisconsin winter, I think back to my beginnings on a warm tropical island. The biggest change was probably the first — moving from that buzzing Spanish-speaking isle to the sleepy sea-side town that was Tampa in 1978. It took me some time to realize that the other pre-schoolers could not understand my native tongue. Before long, I too was speaking their language.
Five years later I, an excited eight-year-old girl, boarded a school bus in New Jersey. The excitement quickly turned to fear as I heard rampant swearing in the back of the bus. I was truly shocked when the bus driver did nothing to stop the vulgarity. In my schools in Florida such behavior would have met with a bar of soap and a visit to the principal’s office. A year later, I had a "Jersey" accent, and had started swearing too.
After nine years my family then moved to a place called "a whole ’nother country": Texas. I discovered that everything is bigger in Texas, from the size of a glass of ice tea to the distances on the road. My mother added barbecued brisket to the regular menu of turkey and Idaho potatoes on Monday and arroz con pollo on Tuesday.
The incredibly friendly Texans, wearing cowboy boots and going to high school football games on Friday nights, seemed a totally different breed from my friends in New Jersey. A slight drawl entered my speech.
In two years time, I found myself in the mountains of rural Bolivian. As part of a team of doctors and students researching hypertension on a group of African- Bolivian villagers, I quickly learned a new vocabulary that included medical and anthropological terms. The greatest test of my linguistic abilities came when a villager accused me of drinking blood samples in some kind of vampire-like witchcraft ritual. I had to bridge a vast cultural gulf to explain a DNA isolation and analysis protocol in Spanish to someone who had never heard of a gene much less a double helix.
A year later I stood in a line at a McDonalds outside Buenos Aires asking for a sorbeto with a Puerto Rican accent and receiving a blank stare in return. I did not realize that in Argentina the word for straw was papote. Working at the U.S. embassy, I could clearly see the obvious differences between the U.S. and Argentina, but being out among the people and actually experiencing the culture helped me begin to understand and appreciate the subtle differences which, when taken together, make up a people.
Each place I have lived has its differences, from the obvious distinctions of Wisconsin and Texas weather, to the regional variations of the Spanish language. I bring with me wherever I go a part of those places and the impact they have had on my life, most evident to others by the variations in my speech. Beneath all the accents, however, lies something more significant, for I believe who you are is immeasurable more important than where you were. When I was younger, I could not clearly discern between situations where I should or should not adopt the ways of those around me. With maturity however I have come to understand the crucial difference between adaptation and assimilation. I have chosen to reject the vulgarity of the New Jersey school bus; I have also adopted the Texans’ warm and friendly manner. Having experienced frequent moves to very different surroundings, I can adapt without compromising what is important to me while learning from each new setting.
A sign hung in my garage for many years that said, "Home is where you can scratch where it itches." To me this means that home is wherever you are comfortable and secure with yourself and your surroundings. I will be at home and prepared to meet new challenges wherever I am. Starting over so many times has taught me not to fear failure, but rather to embrace opportunities for change.
Five years later I, an excited eight-year-old girl, boarded a school bus in New Jersey. The excitement quickly turned to fear as I heard rampant swearing in the back of the bus. I was truly shocked when the bus driver did nothing to stop the vulgarity. In my schools in Florida such behavior would have met with a bar of soap and a visit to the principal’s office. A year later, I had a "Jersey" accent, and had started swearing too.
After nine years my family then moved to a place called "a whole ’nother country": Texas. I discovered that everything is bigger in Texas, from the size of a glass of ice tea to the distances on the road. My mother added barbecued brisket to the regular menu of turkey and Idaho potatoes on Monday and arroz con pollo on Tuesday.
The incredibly friendly Texans, wearing cowboy boots and going to high school football games on Friday nights, seemed a totally different breed from my friends in New Jersey. A slight drawl entered my speech.
In two years time, I found myself in the mountains of rural Bolivian. As part of a team of doctors and students researching hypertension on a group of African- Bolivian villagers, I quickly learned a new vocabulary that included medical and anthropological terms. The greatest test of my linguistic abilities came when a villager accused me of drinking blood samples in some kind of vampire-like witchcraft ritual. I had to bridge a vast cultural gulf to explain a DNA isolation and analysis protocol in Spanish to someone who had never heard of a gene much less a double helix.
A year later I stood in a line at a McDonalds outside Buenos Aires asking for a sorbeto with a Puerto Rican accent and receiving a blank stare in return. I did not realize that in Argentina the word for straw was papote. Working at the U.S. embassy, I could clearly see the obvious differences between the U.S. and Argentina, but being out among the people and actually experiencing the culture helped me begin to understand and appreciate the subtle differences which, when taken together, make up a people.
Each place I have lived has its differences, from the obvious distinctions of Wisconsin and Texas weather, to the regional variations of the Spanish language. I bring with me wherever I go a part of those places and the impact they have had on my life, most evident to others by the variations in my speech. Beneath all the accents, however, lies something more significant, for I believe who you are is immeasurable more important than where you were. When I was younger, I could not clearly discern between situations where I should or should not adopt the ways of those around me. With maturity however I have come to understand the crucial difference between adaptation and assimilation. I have chosen to reject the vulgarity of the New Jersey school bus; I have also adopted the Texans’ warm and friendly manner. Having experienced frequent moves to very different surroundings, I can adapt without compromising what is important to me while learning from each new setting.
A sign hung in my garage for many years that said, "Home is where you can scratch where it itches." To me this means that home is wherever you are comfortable and secure with yourself and your surroundings. I will be at home and prepared to meet new challenges wherever I am. Starting over so many times has taught me not to fear failure, but rather to embrace opportunities for change.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
chinese story
"The State of Yu and the State of Guo are neighbor stated as closely related as lips and teeth. The State of Yu cannot exist independently if the state of Guo is destroyed. Your precious stones and fime hores are just left in the care of the monarch of the State of Yu." So Duke Xian of the State of Jin accepted Xun Xi's plan. When the monarch of Yu saw the precious gifts, he was elated,and readily promised to let the Jin army pass through his state. Hearing the news, Gong Zhiqi, one of the ministers as the State of Yu, hastened to admonish the monarch, saying," That won't do.For the State of Yu and the State of Guo are neighbor states as closely related as lips and teeth. Our two small states are interdependent, and can help cach other when problems crop up .If the State of Guo were destroyed, it would be difficult for our State of Yu to continue to exist. As the common saying goes, if the lips are gone ,the teeth will be cold, The teeth can hardly be kept if the lips are gone. So it won't do at all to allow the Jin army pass our state." The monarch of the State of Yu said," The State of Jin is a big state. Now they here specially to present gifts to us with the intention of being on friendly terms with us. Under suchcircumstances, how can we refuse to allow them to pass through our state?" Hearing this, Gong Zhiqi sighed repeatedly. Knowing that the State of Yu would soon be destroyed, Gong Zhiqi left the State of Yu together with his whole family. As expected, the troops of the State of Jin, allowed to pass through the State of Yu, destroyed the State of Guo and on their return trip captured the monarch of the State of Yu who went out personally to meet them, htus destroying the State of Yu as Well. This story appears in the chapter " The Fifth Year of Duke Xi " in Zuo zhuan,the famous commentary by Zuo Qiuming on The Spring and Autumn Annals. The set phrase " if the lips are gone, the teeth will be cold " is used to mean that two persons or things share a common lot and that is one fails ,the other is in danger.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
learn chinese resource
Today,i see a web to learn chinese.Now I share for you!
learn chinese online:http://www.chinesepal.cn/
learn chinese link
learn chinese: www.chinesepal.cn/first/learn-chinese/
learn chinese online:http://www.chinesepal.cn/
learn chinese blog
andy guo:gwb-chinese.blogspot.com
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