notes of affection

notes from a small island
by bill bryson

it took me a while to be engaged, but i found myself enjoy more and more, with each turning page, of this small book, which is a delightful travelog of england, its places, large or little, people, noble or notorious, culture, terrific or tedious, and history, fascinating or fast-fading; written by an american who had lived there for 20 years, knew it intimately and detachedly, and talked about it with a humorous pettiness and absently-minded casualness, of the island and himself, to disguise, barely, his most earnest affection.

We got wii, or wii got "we"

we want wii
it didn't even cross my mind the night before that i would be one of those people lining up midnight in a parking lot to buy an eletronic game. of course the boys wanted it. of course i wanted to get them one. but "naturally", the responsibility fell to their dad, who did left home at 5:00 AM on the Saturday two weeks ago, but came back empty-handed. he had decided not to try it again, anticipating even crazier competition with Christmas quickly approaching. it was of course very sensible.

i woke up at 4:50 and habitually turned on the computer to surf the net. but somehow i became anxious, vaguely guilty of having fun while not trying hard enough to bring fun to my boys. fragments of my dream in the waking hour seemed to have related to my going to chain stores, Target in particular.

a Target was opened recently in a nearby mall but i had never been there. i hate that mall, only about 10 min away from my home but with the most tortuously complicated roads all leading to or leading away from it. i either get there accidentally or miss it completely after attempted every route and give up in disgust. but that was my "target" now with time running out - I couldn't really gurantee that i would find a farther one any easier.

so i quickly consulted mapquest.com and got out of the door, feeling but not arguing about the obvious absurdity to try to get the hottest toy of the season in the last desperate hour in such a non-hurried way.

this time i found the abandoned mall alright but noticed that there was no Target store sign on the directory post at the entrance. in confusion, i drove up to the front and saw two people there and a young guy walking pass my car. i asked him about "Target" and he pointed to the shining "Target" sign just across the street. but i realized immediately that he and i didn't meet here by chance. he explained that only 12 Wii's were available at Target and another 24 at the BestBuy next door, with many more people waiting at both places since 10:30 PM last night. he was told by someone that the "Electronic Boutique" game shop in this mall also had 8 and just came over to try his luck. needless to say, i got off my car and followed him. the old guy at the front door had already started a sign-up list. I would have been number 6 but number 4 said that his friend was yet to arrive from Target, so it would only be fair to cross out his name for now. so i signed up as number 5, already seeing his friend walking towards us. it was probably 5:15.

in the next 10 to 15 min, a few more came and we made up exactly 8. no more people showed up in the next hour. i talked to most of them and concluded that the information came from the same unverifiable source. so i was mostly expectant with a quite healthy dose of suspicion. except me, everyone seemed to be experienced. two guys had talked to the security guard and were told that we would be let into the mall around 6:40. it was a mild morning with temperatures above freezing but my feet started to feel cold in my boots after half-an-hour and i didn't even wear a hat or scarf. we won't be cold for long). number 8 checked all entrances to be sure that ours was the only line. obviously, i thought, because there were no wii here.

the 8 of us, for the 8 wii's
number 1 was a teenager. very quiet - he was all wrapped up and mostly slept, leaning against the door. we only remembered him halfway past the large parking lot after being told by the guard to move to a different entrance. i went back to wake him up and found him walking hurriedly towards us. i explained myself but didn't extract a "thank you" from him. after we lined up in the front of the game shop, he was joined by his girl friend. so he moved further away and the two had some good small time to themselves. then the girl sat down at the nearby Dunkin Donut place, with a middle-aged woman, likely her mom. while we waited, they waited for him. patiently.

number 2 was the guy who had directed me here. he is a sophmore in an art school in Los Angeles and came home for winter vacation. he wanted a wii badly for himself. and some snow, too. while waiting at the new entrance, we were concerned that more people might start to form a new line at the main entrance. so i volunteered to go back there to direct the "traffic". he joined me. moments later, number 6 came to get our cell number so that we could notify each other whichever entrance was opened first.

number 3 was the old fold. he has two boys, 10 to 12. i identify mostly with him because he, too, felt so out-of-the-place among the young guys. he emphasized that he just wanted to give a try to answer his wife, who relayed the strong desire of their boys. he kept saying "it's crazy, it's crazy". he arrived around 4:30.

number 4 is a 1st year student in northeastern. he was the more knowledgeable one and had already played wii at a product test setting. but he passed the opportunity to get one because he thought Nintendo could do some improvements. then the bug caught on and now he had to get one. he and number 6 were number 14 and 15 at the Target. after introdution, he wondered aloud why no parents would pay for his wii.

number 6 is a childhood friend of 4. he is the most excited among us, although he doesn't even play electronic games. instead he was trying to get one for his elder brother and sister-in-law, who couldn't sneak out at night because he is married and has a little baby girl. the two friends played rough house to kill time.

number 7 was actually a "team", a teenager and his grandma. the strategy was to take turns to stand in line while the other could slept a little in the car, although obviously it was not necessary with our waiting line of only 8. grandma was also the gift-giver.

number 8 was the game guru of the gathering. most talkative, too. he had worked more than 10 years in a consulting firm, explaing IT matters to lawyers. between he and number 4, the entire history of Sony Playstation, Nintendo Gametube and Microsoft Xbox was narrated. i got lost after 5 minutes when the conversation was into the technical details but the other guys were absorbed. he also had played a wii and encouraged the old guy and me that it was the right toy for our boys. he was quite nervous because of his number 8 status, telling me that he could only be happy after he had a wii in his hands.

we got wii
at the side entrance. we saw and didn't pay attention to a lone car parked there. soon after, a middle-aged lady emerged but didn't bother to talk to anyone. i approached her and asked her to sign up. she was surprised and said she had already been here by 5:30. everyone laughed. she became the bitter number 9.

before anyone showed up at the main entrance, the two of us were phoned right before 7:00 to go back to the side entrance because the security guard had opened that door. getting into the warm, brightly-lighted mall, i found a line was already formed in front of EB Game by my co-waiters of 7 (grandma joined us, too). number 4 and 6 were sitting right next to each other. so i asked to sit between ahead of 4, with the promise that 4 would still get in first when the time came.

Donkin Donut next door was open. i took leave to refresh myself and also got a cup of coffee. the line had grown longer finally. i shared my suspicion again with number 4 and 6 that there might not be any after all. number 6 said "we got it! we got it!" "how do you know? it might just be a rumor". he pointed to the closed door. there was a note pasted there " eight (8) wii will be available on Sunday". i felt a sudden surge of joy in my heart and smiled. it was 7:15.

my phone rang at 7:30. i had been waiting for the call. the dad finally woke up. the shop manager showed up also but closed it after him. we scrutinazed his every action in an attempt to locate wii's in the store. the number 9 lady started to talk loudly that she was the first at the "right" entrance after all and that she could have started a sign-up list of her own. i suddenly realized that not everyone would get the thing. i tried to explain to her that everyone before her came at least half hour earlier but she stuck to her point. i tried to share guilty with number 4 but he said it didn't matter to us and that the only one might be affected was number 8. so i wondered whether she was trying to make 8 guilty. 4 said "no way, he wanted it most even among us". indeed, 8 was focusing all his attentionon on the store manager, no longer talkative.

a coworker of mine suddently showed up and betrayed a great amount of surprise seeing me there. i shrugged lamely. she stayed in the line for awhile and came up to chat with me. she wanted to get one for her nephew but was ready to leave after commenting that "out of all people, you are the least i would have expected". i agreed with her. more poeple came, largely teenage boys, counted the line and left; a few stayed. so there were about 20 people in total.

around 8:00, a shop assistant came to work. now we saw the two brought out the whitish boxes from the cabinet. number 6 jumped up down. up down, chanting. right then, my husband came too, explaining that i didn't pick up his second call and that he was worried that being me, i might have forgot my purse. "of course not, me? forgetting?!". he was amazed by the turn of events. but i always know - all wrong turns lead to the right place.

i had time to say congratulations to number 1 before he walked away. my husband suggested we get 3 extra controllers so all of us could play but we were told that accessaries were also restricted to one extra set per purchase. we did buy the $40 two-yar guarantee, the rip-off we normally refuse. i signed my credit card without even looking at the final amount. the moment i signed it, i felt a surreal sensation. when we walked out of the store, someone in the line far behind said "congratulations". we got wii.

it's going to be a very merry christmas.(12/17/2006).

A glimpse into the Turkish culture

My Name is Red

By Orhan Pamuk

I am not a great fan of the Nobel Prize for literature, which seems partial to books heavy of meanings but devoid of enjoyment. My Name is Red (Red), the 2006 winner, is no exception. Set in 16th-century Istanbul, Red opens with a brutal murdering of a miniaturist in the hands of another. The story progresses through the development of the mystery, intertwined with a love story and extensive references to Turkish art, history and culture.

Not much of a good fiction

The book is written in a somewhat unusual way, narrated by not only main characters, but also objects such as drawing figures, the color red, and, even the abstract “death”. However, it reads as if, or matter-of-factly, being told by a single person (the author): there is barely any distinction of personalities, perspectives, thoughts and narrative styles. Thus, many details and figurative languages are repetitive and get tiresome towards the end. All characters also act in confusingly erratic ways to defy any rational understanding of their behaviors or thoughts. Ultimately, the stories and characters were so boring and unreal that I was mostly disengaged, scarcely affected by the brutal killings, exotic settings or erotic love scenes.

Translation might be part of the problem, too, sluggish and lame, with occasional grammar mistakes and without discernible literary style.

Some history, culture and … desperation

However, I did end up with a very positive appreciation of the book, enjoyed an introduction to the Turkish history and culture.

The Turkish culture, as depicted in the book, is a religious one to the extreme, which worships Allah AND belittles human lives. The belief is so pervasive that it reflects in every single thought of every individual. Thus, drawing is not a personal interest but a way to glorify Allah, through the eyes of Allah, as best guessed by the merely human. The inevitable limitation and diversity of the human perception of God is the root of all agony, melancholy, dispute and hatred. And the unquestioned belief in a lifeafter leads to the “logical” negligence of human suffering, the embracing of extreme self-sacrifice, and the justification of ruthless means to “right the wrong”. The stories in this book were not even that extreme yet this distinctively different perspective prevailed and impressed me greatly. When this life is but a brief passage to the eternal happiness, what is it to cherish? When human beings are but servants to the grace of Allah, how much could individuality matter?

And when it has penetrated, settled and redefined a culture through time, this mentality inevitably exacerbates the misery of human lives with fear, humiliation and suppression, because human beings are also born with unspeakable thoughts, uncontrollable desires and, for those miniaturists, insuppressible inspirations. To draw a few beautiful pictures.

The Western culture, as symbolized by the Venetian art, dealt a deadly blow to this suppressive yet self-sustainable tradition. It is fundamentally different not only in the art form but also in the philosophical belief. Thus, to accept is to give up one’s own identity; yet to reject is to acknowledge inferiority in spite of one’s innate genius. Such is the desperation. It’s not a struggle how paintings should be done but how life should be lived.

The art and the celebrated Chinese influence

I wondered about the famous Turkish paintings described repetitively in the book and was delighted to find some at the publisher’s website (http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf/authors/pamuk/desktopnew.html).

These colorful and elegant pictures bring about justification to the melancholy mood of the book, about a time long passed by.

A pleasant surprise is the highly regarded Chinese influence on the Turkish art: the Istanblites incorporate the special curved clouds as Chinese artists would have painted, they use Chinese inks and they paint all maiden beauties with slanted Chinese eyes… This attitude is in a striking contrast to their resistance to the West, suggesting that cultural harmony is not an impossibility, when the foundations of the mixing cultures are not shaken.

One painting described in the book is about a Chinese bride’s gloomy journey to her foreign husband’s
home. It's got to be the Turkish version of “昭君出塞”:

咏怀古迹五首之三

杜甫

群山万壑赴荆门，生长明妃尚有村。
一去紫台连朔漠，独留青冢向黄昏。
画图省识春风面，环佩空归月夜魂。
千载琵琶作胡语，分明怨恨曲中论！

So it has been a worthwhile and memorable reading experience after all.

附图：土耳其昭君 (from The Topkapi Saray Museum: The Albums and Illustrated Manuscripts.);
中国昭君 (作者：佚名；来源：互联网)

two wolves

needlework, 11x14, 2006

What is a good book? (2)

"Other books" (non-fictions)

I enjoy reading books (or articles) on social, cultural and ideological matters. I occasionally read biographies on those I am curious about. With the very few books I have read, I do know what I want from one.

-Originality. It is always a pleasure to learn new things and ideas, big or small. Sometimes, same idea can be presented from a different angle, thus offering additional insight or perspective. It is also desirable when the same ideas are presented cohensively and creatively. Originality comes from content and style.

-Rationality. I tend to judge the quality of books mainly based on my own way of reasoning. I am less moved by emotional appeal or the moral correctness of the ideas. On the other hand, I can find myself sticking to my own opinions even when I relate to the sounding analysis of others.

-That personal touch. It is generally assumed that objectiveness is the one very important component in presenting ideas and events. Often things get dismissed quickly as being "biased". Or the hidden agenda or background of the authors are dug out to illustrate the unfairness of their opinions. I do think the opposite way. I believe and appreciate the fact that individuals perceive things differently and articulate things differently. As long as there is an environment allowing free expressing, the collective wisdom(s) can serve as the closest thing one gets as "objective". In fact, I particularly enjoy authors standing by their ideas with pride and authenticity.

-Insightfullness. Social, cultural and ideological matters are generally complex. We think and debate about them throughout human history. Still, new understandings and perspectives evolve and emerge as if there were an ultimate truth. Being brought to a "new level" is a truly rewarding experience.

"Other books" come in different forms. Just as human beings, it is often better to think and judge books on individual basis than to categorize (stereotype) them.

What is a good book

this piece was written a few years ago. my taste has evolved and changed somewhat since; still this represents my "gut feelings".

What is a good book?

I. About fictions

It is a very subjective matter to judge a book. This belief makes me feel pretty comfortable talking about it. There are certainly objective criteria; but then, I get to decide which books fit them and which do not.

I will not write a comprehensive piece, but a few key points I feel particular about. I will make my points mainly by citing negative examples; the good ones can be found on my bookshelf.

-Good stories and good ENDs. Twists and turns and branches, the more the better.

It seems hardest to end a book. Many a book starts spectacularly, develops smoothly and falls apart in the end. Often, a bad ending suffices to reduce the whole work to mediocrity. This problem is particularly obvious and fatal for thrillers. I enjoyed "Marathon man" (by William Goldman) literally to the last page, only to be disappointed, because the unfolded plot is not nearly as intriguing as the whole book has alluded to.

Good fictions teach us one thing or two; but they are NOT tools to express belief or ideas. John Irving's "Cider house rules" was well written with interesting characters and stories. Yet it was designed by the writer to illustrate his stand on abortion. The twists and turns served his points fine but look reluctant and deliberate despite his exceptional skill.

Big themes do help novels get recognized more readily. But I do not credit them as criteria for quality.

-Memorable characters. Sometimes good stories are sufficient to make a good book. The finest books, however, always have distinctive characters, who, like real people, are unique, have lives of their own and make stories realistic. On the flip side, fictions with stereotyped characters are the most common form of second-rate books. Michael Crichton's "Rising sun" defines this category well.

-Good language and style. Every writer, good or bad, has his own style. What is considered good is quite subjective yet recognizable and comes in different forms. I pretty much feel it, probably through the choice of words, fluency of sentences, and cohesiveness of the whole work. One notable flaw is redundancy - a writer uses certain words or expressions over and over again - a sign of paucity. Sue Grafton might be a fine writer but I could not even stomach her alphabetical titles: A is for apple; B is for bat...(These are actually better than hers).

-That Magnetic Sensation. I cannot find appropriate words to describe this. Many modern novels grab and surround you with certain emotions, exotic, intense or mystic. Generally, these books are well written and stylish (to have been able to achieve such effect) yet they tend not to stay in one's memory. I enjoyed Toni Morrison's novels while reading; almost immediately afterwards, however, I was left with a blur and couldn't recall anything substantial.

They are big prize grabbers, though. It seems the best formula to win something is to have a sensational style and a larger than life theme. Toni Morrison won both Nobel and Pulitzer. "The English patient" (by Michael Ondaatje) also fits neatly in this category. If I have to choose, however, I usually prefer a poorly-written thriller to a stylish emptiness.

A few words about writers. Having served as a self-appointed authority, I have to emphasize my true admiration for those who can write fictions (or those who can paint or write music notes...). Novels are works of creativity and imagination. And for me, I can only imagine what is missing in my own brain....

Wise or foolish - from "Nature"

in The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson

All men are in some degree impressed by the face of the world; same men even to delight. This love of beauty is Taste. Others have the same love in such excess, that, not content with admiring, they seek to embody it in new forms. The creation of beauty is Art. - pp.13

A man's power to connect his thought with its proper symbol, and so to utter it, depends on the simplicity of his character, that is, upon his love of truth and his desire to communicate it without loss. The corruption of man is followed by the corruption of language. - pp. 15

The wise man shows his wisdom in separation, in gradation, and his scale of creatures and of merits is as wide as nature. The foolish have no range in their scale, but suppose every man is as every other man. What is not good they call worst, and what is not hateful, they call best. - pp. 20

Virtual reality: the virtual is the reality

(it has been 5 years since i was stuck in the net.)

Virtual reality: the virtual is the reality

"I think therefore I am."

So one's existence lies where his mind is. That is how I've come to the realization that participating in an internet chat room is a "real" , not a "virtual", life experience.

Nothing virtual about it

I've found myself in a strange mode ever since I wandered into the HuaXia Forum one year ago. While I had surfed the internet extensively before that, I used it as a convenient extension of the conventional media. The chat room was quite a different thing. The discussions were lively, enlightening and interactive (it was at the end of this Forum's best time). Almost immediately it became a routine for me to visit this and various other chat rooms whenever I had a break, which was a lot, because I mostly did my work on computer. In no time, my desire to be part of the discussion was not to be suppressed. Compared to the regulars, those who posted on the Forum daily with multiple lengthy postings, my involvement appeared negligible: less than one per day in odd hours, early in the morning or late at night, in a span of 6 months.

However, this was "achieved" with great restraint that I had to impose on myself, because I was burdened with guilt and scared by the obsession: my mind was often there when I was not! During my commute, for example, instead of listening to radio, I would be thinking about the discussions and composing my own responses. So the more I was attracted to it, the harder I tried to get away from it.

I don't remember encountering anything even remotely this addictive. The richness of individual ideas and the inter-activeness are enchanting and intoxicating.

It is an intimate communication between minds made possible by a new technology. It is simultaneously secretive and revealing: secretive because almost all of us hide our "real" identity; revealing because we invariably express a lot of "deep thoughts" which we somehow withhold from people we physically know. Thus, it is truly a new life experience.

An emotional one, too, I might add. Though obsessed, people also treat it lightly, convinced that it is just a play. Yet each one of us knows how much we are pleased or hurt by it, "really", not "virtually". More so than in real life: being secretive, it is hardly resistible to be ruthless and nasty; "spilling guts", one becomes touchy and vulnerable.

So it is all too real, heart and mind

Obssesion grows a life of its own, often making me feel like its carrier. It was silly when I dreamed of typing "www...." It was unpleasant that I became absently-minded tending the daily routine while the mind waging in some vigorous arguments with "who-knows-whom". It also seemed particularly worrisome that it was the mind being obsessed with itself, not some third objects, like gambling or cigarettes.

Thus my reluctance. I gather my limited power to restrict my own access to the forum, not because of lack of interest, but because it can so completely occupy the mind that it even squeezes out other significant things in life, say, family and "real" friends. And daily mundane. To me, this "virtual" world can be too "real" to be a good thing.

Really.

Characters - from English Traits

in The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson

There is an English hero superior to the French, the German, the Italian, or the Greek. When he is brought to the strife with fate, he sacrifices a richer material possession, and on more purly metaphysical grounds. He is there with his own consent, face to face with fortune, wich he defies. On deliberate choice and from grounds of character, he has elected his part to live and die for, and dies with grandeur. This race has added new elements to humanity and has a deepter root in the world. -pp. 533

The stability of England is the security of the modern world. If the English race were as mutable as the French, what reliance? But the English stand for liberty. The consevative, money-loving, lord-loving English are yet liberty-loving; and so freedom is safe: for they have more personal force than any other people. The nation always resist the immoral action foo their government. -pp. 535

I told C. that I was easily dazzled, and was accustomed to concede readily all that an Englishman would ask; I saw everywhere in the country proofs of sense and spirit, and success of every sort: I like the people: they are as good as they are handsome; they have everything, and can do everything: but meantime, I surely know, that, as soon as I return to Massachusetts, I shall lapse at once into the feeling, which the geography of America inevitably inspires, that we play the game with immense advantage; that there and not here is the seat and centre of the British race; and that no skill or activity can long compete with the prodigious natural advantages of that country, in the hands of the same race; and that England, an old and exhausted island, must one day be contented, like other parents, to be strong only in her children. But this was a proposition which no Englishman of whatever condition can easily entertain. - pp.598

They are also truthful, sad - from English Traits

in The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson

English veracity seems to result on a sounder animal structure, as if they could afford it. They are blunt in saying what they think, sparing of promises, and they require plain dealing of others. – pp.524

The Englishman finds no relief from reflection, except in reflection. When he wishes for amusement, he goes to work. Religion, the theatre and the reading of books of his country all feed and increase his natural melancholy… It (the police) thinks itself bound in duty to respect the pleasures and rare gayety of this inconsolable nation; and their well-known courage is entirely attributable to their disgust of life. – pp.529

Of the constitutional force which yields the supplies of the day, they have the more than enough; the excess which creates courage on fortitude, genius in poetry, invention in mechanics, enterprise in trade, magnificence in wealth, splendor in ceremonies, petulance and projects in youth. – pp. 531

The ‘h’ in my heart

(a riddle of sorts :-)

The ‘h’ in my heart

If I could silence the ‘h’ in my heart
And register a loud ‘sigh’ to my senses,
You would suppose I have fallen apart -
When I just sounded off Freud in past tenses.

Nature has seasons

(people are often programmed and re-enforced to shy away from feelings other than joy, with shared happiness much celebrated; but life is way more than that, even a happy one.... this was written for net friend R2)

Nature has seasons

Nature has seasons
Summer but one
Of the few

Nature has secrets
Ocean deep with-
out a cue

And Nature has reasons
that make it whole
that make it true…

…So do you

It's in their genes - from English Traits

in The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson

If the race is good, so is the place. - pp. 505

It is not usually a point of honor, nor a religious sentiment, and never any whim, that they will shed their blood for; but usually property, and right measured by property, that breeds revolution. - pp. 510

Lord Elgin, at Athens, saw the imminent ruin of the Green remains, set up his scaffoldings, in spite of epigrams, and, after five years' labor to collect them, got his marbles on ship-board. The ship struck a rock and went to the bottom. He had them all fished up by divers, at a vast expense, and brought to London; not knowing that Haydon, Fuseli and Canova, and all good heads in all the world, were to be his applauders. -- pp. 511

One secret of their power is their mutual good understanding. Not only good minds are born among them, but all the people have good minds. Every nation has yielded some good wit, if, as has chanced to many tribes, only one. But the intellectual organization of the English admits a communicableness of knowledge and ideas among them all. -- pp 515

blood chilled by cold blood

In Cold Blood
by Truman Capote

I was prepared for this book. I had watched the movie "Capote" and had anticipated accurately how it would have been written. Still i was captured by the mesmerizing stories, the excellent writing and the hidden yet unmistakable emphathy that the author had shown to the victims AND the criminals.

Capote gave a vivid illustration of the complexity of human nature. There are contradictory forces at work among individuals and within one; there are infinite varieties and depth of thoughts, impulses and emotions; and there exists the origin of virture, evil and everything in between.... One could not help but feel a sense of desperation and profound sadness that each individual is bound to become what he is made of, only some are luckier and others less so.

What about this guy?!

(another old piece - "the heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of." :-))

Talking about Clinton

So many times I wanted to write about my fondness of Bill Clinton and as many times I was glad that I did not get to it. Now, after all these turmoil years (for him, not really for most of us in the same sense), I am surprised by myself for still holding fairly postive opinion of this guy. It is particularly puzzeling considering meanwhile I have also been such
a dedicated reader of the Wall Street Journal - not a single day has passed by without some Journal editorial sneering at him (usually rightly so).

Politicians as a breed bore me. Back in 1992, however, I was quite impressed by the young and energetic pair, Bill and Al. Al lost his appeal long before his disastrous presidential election; yet Bill has kept his attractiveness from the ruins of his own making. I still consider 1998 a bad year because I spent way too much time worrying about his fate. Favorable and unfavorable events seemed to alternate each day and I would only read "good" news, rumors or not. So I never bothered with that Starr report, yet was pleased when Betty Currie lied to protect her boss (no principle on my part certainly). Of course, when I barely breathed a sigh of relief towards the end of his tenure, he had just got himself into the deep water of a pardon scandal. Now I have pretty much resigned to the fact that, from this guy, there is always another dirty shoe waiting to fall. Nonetheless I am still interested in reading any good things about him and hope somehow he continues to manage whatever trouble he is going to run into next.

I know it is again my soft spot for complicated personalities. I generally like people inflicted with extremes, strength and faults, Clinton being an example, not an exception. He has a shiny personality (well, at least on surface) and he has intelligence (not in all matters); and he seems down-to-the-earthly communicable (just my perception). Whatever impossible situation he gets into seems to me a demonstration of an inevitable struggle with the evil side of oneself, of the complexity of a being and of the futility of life, all making him, well, quite interesting.

Still it is all too embarrassing and un-sought for, this unwavering fascination with someone so principle-less, faith-less and reckless. Now Clinton is laughing to the bank with the likes of me still wishing the best of him and with my favorite Journal seething with incredulity. What do I have to say? Not every matter can be rationalized; least of all, one's feelings. there, there. :-)

What is it in this garbage

(i can't seem to keep a straight face for long; so i wrote this one right after the previous article about WSJ. just to "balance out". ;-))

Reading tabloids

If you've ever wondered who make up that large readership of the much discredited tabloids, well, count me one. I used to define a cozy afternoon as one sitting alone on my apartment floor with a large bag of potato chips and a thicket of tabloids (It feels cozier, even luxurious now since I don't have that kind of time anymore). I often do not mind the long waiting line at the supermarket check-out -- I would always pick up a tabloid and scan it contently....

The best thing about a tabloid is that it is like one's earnest friend: it only cares about pleasing you. A tabloid goes out of the way (yeah, I know­.) to find out what you might really want to know about some celebrities or some shocking events. It is always enthusiastic about the tasks, as evident in its chatty tones and flashy styles. Contrary to those authoritative and mission-ridden newspapers, the Wall Street Journal coming to mind, a tabloid would never give you any pressure by being so judgmental, argumentative, superior and sophisticated. Nor is it pretentious -- it cheerfully and unapologetically carries news which is not "worth printing".

A tabloid is a showcase of the sad side of life. It illustrates the very famous in full-color and in off-color: how a young beautiful deteriorates into oblivion; how a glamorous becomes aged and ugly. It immortalizes those who have died young. In a tabloid's casual tone, one comes to realize the frailty and irony of life. A tabloid is never forgetful. Instead of getting just "one annual report" in a regular paper, some of the best known culture icons are forever "regulars" here. Under this light, a regular paper looks duty-bound while a tabloid is almost humane.

Oh, don't expect me bad-mouthing tabloids here; others have done that one thousand times over :))

In praise of a newspaper

(an old piece written around 1999)

On The Wall Street Journal

I always enjoy reading newspapers. The habit went back at least as far as the wartime between China and Vietnam in the late seventies. I used to fight with my father daily to get to read "the International News for Reference (?)" first. Only in recently years had we subscribed to the Wall Street Journal, for obviously practical reasons. I didn't warm up to it right away. The format was drastically different from any other newspapers I had ever read. It did not have colorful pictures; major figures mentioned in articles were sketches in black&white - interesting yet strange. Over all, the paper looked, well, it looked boring. Newspapers to me are mainly for entertainment these days. News comes from TV and, increasingly, from internet. And I had no interest in investment or business in general.

I guess I have to admit that environment does modulate one's behaviors. With the bulky journal scattering around the house all the time, I gradually picked up some short sections and long articles. Then one day I had an important discovery - the journal is the most informative, entertaining and educational newspaper I had ever read! It was certainly embarassing to admit that I had been so oblivious to the "most influential newspaper in the world" for so long while claiming myself a rigorous newspaper reader. Still it is better late than never. I am simply happy that I have got to know this paper eventually.

So what is it about the Journal that is special? Granted that whoever reads it must have very different opinions, here is my own take on it.

Other newspapers emphasize daily news (by definition; nothing wrong about it). But daily news nowadays is ubiquitous. One gathers the same information from internet, TV, radio or the first paper one picks up. The Journal, on the other side, provides only title size for most of the world and national news. This leaves the front page for other things it cares to carry. They are not all business-related, often about something new or strange in my opinion (one does not often read about them in other frontpages) and always written in a very interesting and personified style. In other words, they are more like stories than news and they make one ponder or simply delighted.

I always devote sizable time to the Journal editorials and opinions. The Journal has very strong and clear ideology standings: pro-business, pro-religion and socially conservative. I had never learned so much about American politics, cultural issues and ideology conflicts in any other place. In fact, I wasn't even aware of the existence of many of the particulars. I have become enormously interested in these issues and started to clarify my own views. The journal's position is somewhere to my right. Interestingly, despite its enormously influence over me, the Journal's position has remained, well, somewhere to my right through the years (I will talk more on this topic in other writings).

I also enjoy reading book reviews and reviews on music, art, theatre and sports. Again they are somehow different from what I read in other spapers and seem more entertaining. I had taken the book reviews seriously and stopped following the NYT bestsellers.

The Marketplace section carries more business-related news and trends in selected industries. I can usually find at least one interesting enough to follow. I had never missed the humourous "tofu" block (taken off since). Often, at this point, I run out of time. Otherwise, the Money&Investing is not that boring after all; or I will dig out other news between the pages.

Weekly, a special section would come along, introduicng an emerging industry, summarizing all one needs to know about certain investment or reviewing social changes of a past time frame of choice (mutual funds; internet; e-commerce, the world after the fall of berlin wall, etc, etc). It again makes a good leanring experience.

And as if it's still not enough! The Journal recently introduced a weekend section published every Friday. Wow, talk about favorites within favorites. It provided so many fun and original topics already that it has become a fixture of my weekend routine. Once a main article introduced the best art works in some of the most famously museums around the country. I am a total foreigner to arts and usually do not bother to learn. But this piece was not made of the usual laundry listing; instead, it was written in such a thoughtful and delightful way (probably with ingorant people like myself in mind) that I followed eagerly to track down the most storied, the most forgotten and the most controversial arts in the museums. It also helped that the article was illustrated with the works it talked about. The next time I walked into the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, I was surprised by my own knowledge and appreciation of a couple of art works exhibited there!

Several things about the Journal stand out. 1). the quality of writing. I don't know how to describe it but one could simply feel the flow and elegance of style (even the constant manipulative playing of words). It makes plain contents fanciful and unfamiliar topics intimating. 2). the orginality and creativeness. So often I would come across something, a piece of news or an opinion, from other media sources after I have already read it first in the Journal. 3). The authenticity and that little bit of arrogance. It impresses me how the journal takes clear stand on various social, cultural and business issues, takes pride in its authenicity and resourcefulness, and takes it upon itself to educate and influence readers and the society as a whole.

What else could be asked of a daily newspaper?!

Transexual but not transcedental

Enjoyed Transamerica, a movie exploring the awkward experiences of a male-to-female transexual who eventually succeeded to have the life she wanted. Coincidentally, read the next day on WSJ about Dr. Ben Barres, a female-to-male transexual i met many years ago, before his "transformation".

In the WSJ interview, Barres held strongly that there is really no difference in intelligence between males and females, himself being the living proof. and he recounted how he was then discriminated as a she and now well respected as a he. Adding to the amazing personal experiences was his expert knowledge on the well-established plasticity of neurons.

What can be more convincing? ! Well, not to get into the debate of intelligence per se, i have to say i am rather disappointed by his arguments.

For one, any personal experience, no matter how extraorindary, is not necessarily a path to truth. therefore, all he had said needs to be qualified as "me thinks ...". Because, to prove what he believes, he still has to conduct scientific studies, to define intelligence and to compare large enough numbers of boys and girls. Secondly, as badly as he had portraited it, one can also argue that discrimination against Dr. Barres as a scientist and against him as a transexual was actually not powerful enough to have prevented him from obtaining the professorship in the former or changing his sex in the latter case, suggesting that something more fundamental was at work. To me, it is evident that there exists biological basis determining both human sexuality and gender differences in obtaining knowledge, both of which can be readily, albeit imprecisely, appreciated in daily life and can be studied seriouslly by scientists.

Thus, it is a benignly rational, if irratating to some, hypothesis that the innate difference could be ONE OF the contributing factors to a disproportional representation of the two sexes in scientific research, which does not really diminish discrimination against women being another key factor, as Dr. Barres so acutely experienced and recounted. And one should not ignore the slow but profound societal improvement/adjustment which has yet to reflect upon the current composition of the scientific minds. Knowing them all helps us learn how we have become us, as individuals and as human beings.

You and me together - from English Traits

in The Essential Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson

Emerson quoted Wordsworth: “Christ died on the tree; that built Dunscore kirk yonder; that brought you and me together. Time has only a relative existence.” - pp. 476

Classics which at home are drowsily read, have a strange charm in a country inn, or in the transom of a merchant brig. I remember that some of the happiest and most valuable hours I have owed to books, passed, many years ago, on shipboard. - pp. 483

As we neared the land, its genius was felt. This was inevitably the British side. In every man's thought arises now a new system, English sentiments, English loves and fears, English history and social modes. Yesterday, every passenger had measured the speed of the ship by watching the bubbles over teh ship's bulwarks. To-day, instead of bubbles, we measure by Kinsale, Cork, Waterford and Ardmore. There lay the green shore of Ireland, like some coast of plenty. We could see towns, towers, churches, harvests, but the curse of eight hundred years we could not discern. - pp. 483

Alfieri thought Italy and England the ony countries worth living in: the former because there Nature vindicates her rights and triumphs over the evils inflicted by the governments; the latter because art conquers anture and tarnsforms a rude, ungenial land into a paradise of comformt and plenty. - pp. 484

The practical common-sense of modern society, the utilitarian direction which labor, lawers, opinion, religion take, is the natural genius of the British mind. The influence of France is a constituent of modern civility, but not enough opposed to the English for the most wholesome effect. The American is ony the continuation of the English genius into new conditions, more or less propitious. - pp. 485

Many a mean, dastardly boy is , at the age of puberty, transformed into a serious and generous youth. - pp. 498

Art, in a sorry age for a long while - from Pale Fire

by Vladimir Nabokov

All artists have bene born in what they call
A sorry age; mine is the worst of all:
An age that thinks spacebombs and spaceships take
A genius with a foreign name to make,
When any jackass can rig up the stuff;
An age in which a pack of rogues can bluff
The selenographer; a comic age
That sees in Dr. Schweitzer a great sage. pp. 270

VN's verses such as this one are very rational hums; they are rhythmic but short of emotions. It makes one think, not feel. :-)

on Parody - from Pale Fire

by Vladimir Nabokov

I have a certain liking, I admit,
For Parody, that last resort of wit:
"In nature's strife when fortitude prevails
The victim falters and the victor fails." pp. 269
Parody: whenever i could, i would. :-)

VN thought of God - from Pale Fire

by Vladimir Nabokov

Line 101: No free man needs a God

"When one considers the numberless thinkers and poets in the history of human creativity whose freedom of mind was enhanced rather than stunted by Faith, one is bound to question the wisdom of this easy aphorism." -pp.116

Interesting argument, but VN has mixed up two issues: the existence of God and the belief of the existence of God. What he observed could as easily be attributed to the latter. :-)

"Just behind (one oozy footstep) Frost" - from Pale Fire

I am in the mood for poetry recently. came across this passage in Pale Fire and loved it.

"Frost is the author of one of the greatest short poems in the English language, a poem that every American boy knows by heart, about the wintry woods, and the dreary dusk, and the little horsebells of gentle remonstration in the dull darking air, and that prodigious and poignant end --two closing lines identical in every syllable, but one personal and physical, and the other metaphysical and universal. I dare not quote from memory lest I displace one small precious word.

With all his excellent gifts, John Shade could never make his snowflakes settle that way." - p p.203

The last sentence made me smile - some writing to have made VN humble! ;-)
Needless to say, I, too, love this wondrous little piece of pearl:

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

dandelions again

replaced the "borrowed" fancy lines with plainer words, which are mine and, more importantly, more consistent with my low-key style. Now I can call it my own. :-)

Dandelions

Mommy tends to her orchids,
I, look after these dandelions.

Called nothing but weeds -
I wonder why,
Year after year,
They are so beautiful to me.

Bloom in our backyard
They are yellow and bright.
Surprise me on the sidewalks,
Their heads puffy and white.

I love all flowers anyways,
But this one only
I can blow away -

Sending their kids around the world,
Oh, little dandelions!

What did William really think? - A section from Rose

The name of the rose
by Ubertino Eco

“…It’s hard to accept the idea that there cannot be an order in the universe because it would offend the free will of God and His omnipotence. So the freedom of God is our condemnation, or at least the condemnation of our pride.”

"I dared, for the first and last time in my life, to exprss a theological conclusion: “But how can a necessary being exist totally polluted with the possible? What difference is there, then, between God and primigenial chaos? Isn’t affirming God’s absolute omnipotence and His absolute freedom with regard to His own choices tantamount to demonstrating that God does not exist?”

William looked at me without betraying any feeling in his features, and he said, “ how could a learned man go on communicating his learning if he answered yes to your questions?” I did not understand the meaning of his words. “Do you mean,” I asked, “that there would be no possible and communicable learning any more if the very criterion of truth were lacking, or do you mean you could no longer communicate what you know because other would not allow you to?” -------pp, 493

or what does Eco really think. of God. ;-)

From what had happened, Adso came to the daring conclusion that "God does not exist" . And William's answer was an evasive "yes".

However, one has to remember "what had happened", or this story, was entired and very carefully constructed by Eco. To me, this conversation explained why the story had proceeded as it was: a seemingly mystery ended up suddenly in smoke.

Which is to say that Eco has made up a compelling story to illustrate his VIEW that God does not exist (whether God exists or not is a different matter).

My more complete review is here.

That's all, folks. :-)

My reading buddies

What poetry is

Poetry is the art of words. It reflects the beauty of words, especially the rhythmic beauty of words.

Scared and scary animals

Robert Crumb, documentary, 1994

Thought I knew about psychiatric disorders. Unexpectedly I learned something new from the movie, which was either not explicitly described in textbooks or I had missed completely by ignorance, which is that afflicted individuals also have very dysfunctional sexuality. Shouldn't have been a surprise; I just didn't think about it.

It takes someone like R Crumb, with a rare combination of acute personal experiences, a daring (and barely functional) personality and amazing artistic skills, to illustrate and bring this dark side to light. And he brought along his even sicker brothers (his two sisters refused the interview). Their lives are simply tragic, trapped in their scared but also scary animalistic shells. That R Crumb has "survived" and his art recognized is no less than a miracle.

What do I have to say? That life is simple complex? that life is not always beautiful? That there is so much more to life than one is willing to explore, even at the individual level? Well, feel like adding a couple of feathers to a heavy dying bird.

(I had been puzzled by Kafka's Metamorphosis until I watched Crumb. Kafka's Samsa turned out to be a "milder" case of the same impairing disorder).

A scared animal

Metamorphosis

by Franz Kafka

"One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin."...

Thus began the story of a man with an extremely depressive personality, and he looked at the world in an extremely pessimistic way. which made the reading, too, distressing, although, occasionally, one was amused by small humors here and there.

Others have found numerous cultural or societal implications from or for this story; but really it matters little how the world turns, or does not turn, for someone in such a desperate yet perceptive mindset, which is what this story talks about.

A deliberate rose

The Name of the Rose
by Umberto Eco

What a lively abbey... at night!

The book tells a murder mystery set in a 14-century Italian monastery, which also held other secrets. The plot is well-structured and well-paced, not too intense yet very intriguing. The story is told in a humorous and pleasant fashion, interwined with details about lives of the Mid Age religious people, reflections on religion and philosophy, and meditations on the intricacies of ... books. And unlike many popular thrillers, the main characters are carefully developed, with good guys personable and bad ones believable. Some parts are a little bit too excessively descriptive, but overall well writeen, even in this translated version.

In short, Rose is a book to enjoy, to learn and to be amused....

However, as soon as I put down the book, I also realized that I had been led by a very deliberate writer to a journey of his design. Eco is likey an atheist who holds something strongly against the Mid Age religion, which he studies as a profession. His opinion is brought out by William of Baskerville, the hero of the book:

"You understand, Adso, I must believe that my proposition works, because I learned it by experience; but to believe it I must assume there are univeral laws. Yet I cannot speak of them, because the very concept that univeral laws and an established order exist woudl imply that God is their prisoner, whereas God is something absolutely free, so that if He wanted, with a single act of His will He could make the world different."...

So the author conjured up a story to illustrate the chaotic consequences of believing in God and to say loudly that there is no God after all - through the mouth of a wise monk.

Not fair, I have to say, even though I am not religious myself. So Rose is a fun book but one does not have to get the message. :-)

If you are not convinced by this "charge", I do have more evidence. :-)

To the Lighthouse

by Virginia Woolf

i have mixed feelings about this book. two thirds into the story, i was taken by surprise and very much impressed by her seemly casual handling of the sudden turns of events and identified with the author of the unpredictability and frailty of life. My expectation went up, too, only to be let down by the final part, which turned out to be tedious repetition of the first section - any melancholic/poetic sentiment cultured earlier was washed away by the end.

Identity

what is it like being a Chinese, feeling proud or inferior? one asks.

encountering the western culture, the gulf that can't be closed for a Chinese, i think, is the sense of alienation, the shocking difference and the un-mixability.

Chinese culture nowadays may be everything that is "crazy, blind, decaying, unconscious and self-destructive", it is also rich and beautiful, because time precipitates beauty and longingness and the incredible continuity by itself is a river that does not drain. such richness and beauty makes us proud. its irrationality makes us feel inferior.

burdened with such a culture is a race of very intelligent people, as can be shown consistently by exams and tests. such intelligence brings comfort and pride. that it is also associated with a lack of any meaningful accomplishements then lends us a sense of inferiority.

and we do look differently. very much so. along with it is our disregard of physicality and celebration of the intricacies of cleverness. together, what we have traditionally valued most is barely noticeable elsewhere while what we may have difficulty to match up is abundantly appreciated by others.

with such complexity at the levels of culture, mentality and genetics, it inevitably brings frustrations and disappointments that we most likely are misunderstood, underestimated and underappreciated. so it goes beyond simple pride or inferority. it may not even be painful, but an agonizing restlessness that one can be so alienly lonely.

Let them grow

O the mother duty is frightful
But the joy is so delightful
And since I'm no expert to boast
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!

They don't show signs of stalling
Like flowers answer spring's calling
I shall be prudent as to know
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!

When they finally kiss goodbye
How I'll hate left home in a gloom!
But if they'll really turn out alright
All in my dream will be their bloom!

The time is quickly flying
O, my dear, I'm still out there trying
But as long as I love them so
Let them grow! Let them grow! Let them grow!

A poem from - a Portrait

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

Vilanelle of the Temptress

Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.

And still you hold our longing gaze
With languorous look and lavish limb!
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Perfect, style-wise, but I don't find the poem particularly good: the poet's emotion was well checked and his expression restrained by the quite restrictive requirement of the form.

Follow your own path - a Portrait

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

- You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too. -248

What I enjoyed most about this book was that I admired Stephen for his extreme sense of individuality and amazing inner strength.

As a little boy, he was shown as obedient and sensitive; yet, when he was wrongly punished by Father Dolan, despite tremendous fear and mental struggle, Stephen took the issue to the rector. Growing up in an exceedingly religious environment, he was being persuaded to become a priest, with earnest expectations from the school and family, and, himself being indeed very dedicated to his faith, he decided instead to follow his own not-yet-defined path. When he was pressured by other students to sign the pledge for "universal peace", an obviously noble goal, he declined firmly and publicly.

Amazing and inspiring.

Home, sour home - a Portrait

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
By James Joyce

he faint sour stink of rotted cabbages came towards him from the kitchengardens on the rising ground above the river. He smiled to think that it was this disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father's house and the stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul. -169

Under tremendous pressure from others and with intense self struggle, Stephen decided not to become a priest. He came back home and noticed the familiar rotten smell of home. This passage delighted me because it depicted life as it is: this earthy imperfection, which is also very endearing and beautiful.

Stephen knew this and me, too. ;-)

Wrestling with languages - a Portrait

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

- I can't understand you, said Davin. One time I hear you talk against English literature. Now you talk against the Irish informers. What with your name and your ideas... Are you Irish at all?- p205
......
A tide began to surge beneath the calm surface of Stephen's friendliness.
- This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.- p205
......
- My ancestors threw off their language and took another, Stephen said. They allowed a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am going to pay in my own life and person debts they made? What for? - p205

The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. -p193

I don't share Stephen's highly emotional disdain against Irish or English; however, I do connect with him through my own confusion about native and learned languages. Of all things, language is what connects us with cultures and cultural heritage. That one would prefer something other than his "own" says far more than what's contained in words. He is inevitably individualistic, an outsider and a loner. Whether he finds peace or disturbance, as a consequence, has more to do with his own sensitivity towards the irony and randomness of life, his own sense of self-identify, and, the cultural and societal pressures he happens to be subjected to.

When I first realized that I could not write Chinese as well as English, it came less a surprise than a disappointment. It was not a surprise, because, at that time, I hadn't read or written much Chinese for more than 14 years and it was a disappointment because it set a definitive low limit to what I wish to accomplish. Of course, the assumption - likely the truth - is that one can only do this much with a foreign language. On the other hand, this little English I know I do enjoy enormously, the fun of the language per se, the literature, the science, and the communication with the like-minded... To some degree, it has defined me: for whatever I treasure most in life, incidentally, I've found much more in this foreign language. The large picture is sad but at the personal level, I shall be grateful and satisfied - the universe of an outsider is certainly distinct from the insiders but is it necessarily smaller?

For Stephen, the emotion seemed much more intense, probably because being a writer, or an artist, he needed more justification and acceptance from others, who happened to be his country men, whom he had to love and whose language he would rather abandon, and the English people, whom he should have hated more and whose language he truly mastered (and not to mention the incredibly intense hatred between the two cultures). So Stephen was engaged in a struggle of truth and denial. Part of his anguish was perhaps having to have this wrestling at all.

To speak or not to speak, hmm, it's a rather big question.

Not in the family - a Portrait

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

He saw clearly too his own futile isolation. He had not gone one step nearer the lives he had sought to approach nor bridged the restless shame and rancour that divided him from mother and brother and sister. He felt that he was hardly of the one blood with them but stood to them rather in the mystical kinship of fosterage, fosterchild and fosterbrother - p107

Stephe began to enumerate gliby his father's attributes.
- A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody's secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past. - p243

It's obvious that Stephen is disappointed of his family. But there is more than that. What is exceptional here is the artist himself. He is the genius sort. He is the one who discerns the pain of the intellectual and emotional gulf which divides him from others. And being close to his own family, he feels it all the more acutely, thus expressing it as disgust, disengagement or indifference to the closest ones. On the other hand, it is not easy to be related to such a person beyond being awed by his talents, because there can be no true appreciation based on understanding, either. So the distrust goes both ways. Their only tie is love, or, in my own words, blood bonding, which can be comforting but not satisfying.

To me, it's a wonder that individuals are so different and diverse intelleactually. Consequently, however, they can only communicate with the like-minded. For the most intelligent, life is often a lonely journey. He couldn't find companionship in the family. He might not even find in the whole world.

What a pity - a Portrait

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce

- Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human suffer. Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret cause. - 207

I find it interesting although I am not sure that I understand these definitions clearly. More an artist's way to connect emotions, I would say.

Reading Joyce with Joy - Dubliners

by James Joyce

Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Fury lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. - from the Dead

I am not particularly fond of short stories but find Dubliners a pleasant read. Joyce's language did the trick, the eloquency of the narrative and the natural flow of tender sentiments. It's seemly simple and absolutely beautiful.

I know this even more clearly by comparison. Just finished reading Annie Proulx's Close Range: Wyoming Stories. They are, I suppose, also fairly well written; yet I could feel the intense manipulation of the style and the laborous choice of words, and I could also discern the earnest intention of the author, which made her work much less elegant or touching.

Makes me wonder about Ulysses, which I abandoned after a few chapters and disliked it since because I felt so lost reading it. Is it just me?

from Hester Prynne to Goodman Brown

by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864)

the "scarelet letter" was about redemption. hester prynne was cast into public humiliation and social exclusion because of an adultery relationship. instead of succumbing to this extreme adverse situation - with justifiable sel- pity or bitterness towards an exceedingly indifferent and increasingly evil husband and the overly consevative and religious society - she developed as a person, drawing strength from her inner intellectual reflection, her fierce love for her daughter and her natural sympathy for others less fortunate in her eyes. consequently, not only was she able to transform from "an adulteress to an angel" (quoted Dr. Liaokang), she also helped her lover to redeem himself and her daughter to grow up a healthy and happy lady.

in contrary, goodman brown's life was ruined after his encounter with the devil in the forest, although he attempted to resist and was somewhat successful. i was for a while puzzled by his downward spiral to misery. by comparing these two characters, though, i've found the answer (so i believe). brown's faith was built upon others and hester was grown within. brown lost his faith while observing or perceving imperfections or evil doings of others, or one can even say that brown never had faith to being with, while hester was true to herself, both for her personal failings and virtures, and her faith only grew stronger, eventually influencing others positively.

the moral lesson? one does not believe because others do or don't. true faith or personal belief is an inner strength.

the elements of (reading) styles

(just a playful piece. to acheive the effects, i've attempted and spent quite some time to search for the desired words.)

so there are two ways of reading. if not more.

"read simple, feel ample" is a naturalist's way of exploring the written world. she may not be prepared; but she is ready to be entertained and enlightened, in a casual way - she has her feel, humility, common sense and intuition, which are nothing short of complexity, to be satisfied. how leisurely she turns the pages often makes even the most gifted writer panic and desperate. such is the elegance of style: complex in a simple way.

"read diligently and think intelligently" is a scholar's way of poring over reading materials. equipped with dictionaries, maps, atlases and (literary) travel guides, he reads within the lines, between the lines and without the lines. he feels, too. specially in the most unsightly sites, being it spine, skull, or scalp. how he offers his own knowledge, interpretation and comprehension moves even the least gifted writer to tears. rumors say such a reader is a writer's best friend. he might as well be the writer. the style? lots of elements.

do i still need to ask the question? which camp are you in?

it's all too human

Amadeus (movie, '84)

not sure what impression the movie was intended to achieve, surprisingly, i really liked Salieri, the insufferable musician, whose wonderful life was cast into shadow and ruined by Mozart, the genius.

i can easily relate to him and share his pain, not under the context of music, but in general. when each individual looks into himself, he simply sees wonder - how much he can do and what potential he really possesses! it is therefore only natural to be inspired that there must be a purpose instilled within. and, needless to say, the more talented, the stronger such sense of destiny. so Salieri, being so gifted and passionate about music, started on a high note.

yet, all gifts are relative - there is always someone better. far better. and any “other-worldly” achievements do not come by matter-of-factly. thus, for the majority of highly ambitious people, instead of feeling achievement, life lends a sense of failure, wasted dreams and bundles of disappointments. to me, Salieri just exemplified such an "all too human" human emotion.

on the bright side, at least, Salieri obviously had enjoyed the beauty of the heavenly music by Mozart, albeit through enormous pain (actually, some are convinced that pain is the ultimate appreciation of beauty, contrasting the latter with its intensity and futility?). A less gifted might be so blindly mad that he couldn't even tell good from bad.

Salieri’s questioning to god, like a whining baby, was cute, too - human beings are entitled to do that, often having to suffer so endlessly and senselessly. his jealousy did lead him to do a few foolish things, which, to be generous, were within the tolerable human weakness.

all in all, i was overwhelmed and enchanted by Mozart’s music but my sympathy went to Salieri, sort of seeing a more comical and tragic self. actually, i felt so much like helping that i wanted him to read my own piece on dealing with failure.;-)

living an ordinary life

(another old old piece i dug out.)

I've just realized, when I sit down to write this piece, that I shall feel grateful to have the luxury speculating on such things as the meaning of life. Life is not necessarily beautiful, sweet, satisfying and promising; in fact, it can be disappointing, ugly, cruel and devastating. If the only unhappiness grows from one's insatiable desire to have more or to beat all, well, that person belongs to a small percentage of lucky human beings. So, if anything, we shall always remember that life is frail and we shall always cherish what we have, right here and right now.

That said, what I want to lay out is my own simplistic view on living a meaningful life. It is certainly not what it is all about and it is not all my original ideas; it is what I consider or accept as important and untradable, thus inviting everybody to lay out his own perspectives.

-Life is a journey of self discovery and self acceptance. It is a miracle to have life at all; it is absolutely precious that each of us is an absolutely distinguishable individual. During the lifetime, we learn to identify and appreciate our uniqueness and bring out the best of it to the world. We also learn to accept own weakness and limitations. Each individual should not normally sacrifice himself for lofty goals.

-Life is about loving and caring. Family (nuclear and extended) is the extension or part of ourselves. Sharing and enjoying as much time together is the most fulfilling thing in the world. It would be a failure to achieve anything at the expense of loved ones. It would be regrettable not knowing the joy of a loving family.

Besides family, friendship is the most valuable thing one owns. It appears that we could choose our friends, but that is just a relative term (as compared to family). More often than not, friends are also bound by love or affection and not by criteria. It is particularly cherishable that of all the people in the world, we would meet and develop friendship with only those special few.

-Life is about prioritizing ordinary things. We can have a lot of fun in life without much hard work: reading a book, having a hobby, going to a movie, smelling a flower, "opening that special bottle of wine" (borrowed from WSJ)... Most often we busy ourselves with "important goals" and ignore such "trivials". Take a moment to think and we may realize that these seemingly ordinary things bring true joy and peace of mind. They are the essence of a quality life.

-Life is about learning and experiencing. One amazing thing in life is that the more we learn, the more we have to learn. There are always things we have just discovered and there are always things we shall know more about. Learning keeps us busy, entertained and fulfilled. Learning also makes us humble and open-minded. Life is a journey, one wants to experience and learn as much as one can.

-Where then are glory, fame and wealth. It takes natural gifts, hardworking and luck to succeed in whatever one's dream is. And it is a lifetime effort (when is last time we feel completely vindicated and satisfied?). The rational way to reach there is to live a well and balanced life, then to try hard, and finally to hope for the best. Trading one thing for another comes with a price. Paying too dearly often buys disappointment and regret.

Life seems this simple.

what to read into/out of a book

(when writers push the limit, reading a novel is no longer a simple leisure activity. i didn't know about this until told recently but found a little piece i wrote awhile ago fit comfortably into this "new way" of reading. still, i am not so sure. what is so hard that can not be brought forth by simple description?)

Lolita
by Vladimir Nabokov

"Lolita" was a story about one of the most hideous desires, or, lusts of man - a middle-aged guy's infatuation with a twelve-year-old girl - a behavior moralistically hard to defend even if it could be understood from a biological point of view. Yet, the book was written in a rather scornful and hilarious way, which more or less lightened the seriousness and nastiness of what it was really babbling about. The narrator/offender (a Mr. Humbert Humbert, intersting name, isn't it?) came across as an extremely self-conscious, self-pity and self-deprecating soul, again lessening one's disgust for his criminal or stealthy activities. Thus, the book was a near beautification of a not-oh-so-glamous desire.

It probably revealed more about the writer, an obviously sophisticated person sensitive to and pondering on complex human emotions and inner cravings. He was also apparently keen on languages, constantly and joyfully playing with words, fun yet sometimes disengaging.

All in all, reading this book was an interesting and curious experience: the exotic story, the unfamiliar emotion, the unexpected development and the somewhat perceivable depth.

A scene by the pond

(this was written as a "payback" to red heron, the humorous/low-key cartoonist on CND. below was the cartoon named after "passerby". not able to come up with anything to match its cuteness and naughtiness, i wrote this poem to lavish my praise, but also hid a little trick of my own between the lines. with the riddle being too obscure to discern, the poem was perceived by others as outright flattering. and i had had SOME explanation to do. ;-)

A scene by the pond

Beyond the Walden Pond
Moved in a lad so handsome
Delicate was his shadow and
The name Red Heron

Excitement in the tranquil water
Stealthy glances darted over
His lowered head
And that exquisite color

"Rather delighted to meet you"
Chirped Grand O'l Cardinal
Nearby lingered Little Chickadee
So jovial Blue Jay sighed and flew

A beloved pond
Up down danced Red Heron

**it's also a riddle and here is the clue:

odd is one
even not two
what rhymes tree?
take with you