Thoughts on Home
Almost over! Only the S papers left, and then the whole thing can descend into the mists of ancient history.
Nothing much to report, except that it's heartbreaking to see people brought low like hat by a single symbol on a piece of paper. It's almost totemic, the way we are drawn to that A, the way we seek it like the truth. Well, perhaps not like the truth, but the ardent chasing is rather misplaced, I think. One must remember which things are the important ones, in order not to go crazy over the silliest things.
Honestly, I don't think I deserve the highest marks I've gotten for Lit. The Silas Marner thing was the messiest essay of that paper I think, and the Native piece I was deeply unsatisfied with because I lost my train of thought in the middle. And for Lit S, the novel essay, I've already said how disappointing it was to write. The thing is that I know that I should have written better to do justice to the works I'm writing about. Well, one can say that the marks are not a measure of how well we praise the literature, but how we write essays, but still, it feels decidedly fake if you can get away with plodding without getting to the meat of a book's big ideas. Now and then there are flashes of guilt at having gotten so high for something that I didn't think was that good to begin with.
Lit exam returns don't really make much sense in that way. The worst essays I've written got the higher marks, while A&C was the second-lowest in the range, though I spent the most time on it. The only one I was really satisfied with was the Frost one. Now it's time to figure out why exactly did the teachers think I should have gotten those marks.
Now that almost all the exams are back, it's also time to start thinking of the next round. The priority now is to start memorising enough stuff to write lit essays with, even with a bit of memorisation thrown in to smoothen the process of writing Lit S work. The most urgent of that task is to generate the Quote Thematiser for Heart of Darkness. One last fling at compilation.
* * * * *
What do you do when people you don't know start to stop you in the corridors to congratulate you? Sometimes I don't even know rightly what they're talking about. Strange, very strange. And what can you do but to accept as graciously as possible and hope that they'll drop the subject like a hot coal?
I don't want to be paraded as some kind of academic poster boy. I've got better things to do.
* * * * *
Well, nothing to report really. Yvonne came over today to register for the SATs on my comps. Well, there's an indominable spirit that is well worth admiring. It really does take a lot of determination to stick through Chinese Lit and all it requires. And to pursue French A by herself effectively, it's like taking a third S paper, from what I gather. There is sheer power and potential behind her that sometimes I do find, frankly, unsettling. The only thing now, I think, is for her to find a way to connect her determination with a way to achieve what she wants, and she'll be off to better things.
Thong and I were talking about Singaporeean society and culture today. I agree more or less with what he says, about the deathliness of Singapore society. To be sure, it seems to be a rather fashionable opinion to hold nowadays. But I still have faith in the Singaporean people, as in real people, who don't have the luxury to leave this island like we do. They are the people who are stuck with this place, and this culture, and they are the people who will make it work. Part of why Be With Me was so poignant was because Eric Khoo found enough fragments and scraps in the Singaporean society to weave a story out of; it is these scraps that I think will persist, and will form the bedrock of Singaporean society. The seeds of a Singaporean character, even if they are tiny and weak. I don't think all hope is lost for Singapore's society yet.
I don't really understand how some people can think of leaving Singapore permanently so lightly. How is it that some people can divorce themselves so easily from all that bind them to this little island, the memories, the quirks, the people? Singapore definitely has its drawbacks, that is undeniable, but all things considered, I will not leave this place unless I can take all of my people with me at least, if I can't take all parts of what has so far constituted my life. My family, my friends. I will not be able to bear to leave them all, if leaving Singapore entails that.
Heh, speaking of homes, Claud's housewarming tomorrow. Looking forward to it =) It'd be nice to take a breather after these two rather gruelling days.
A Sense of Perspective
So many distressing people today, it's really quite unbearable. Practically haven't been able to relax in school, because I feel compelled to be on my guard against other people who seem only to want to dissect me and my work. How do I say this without sounding arrogant? I am proud of what I have done, I did not expect to do nearly as well, I am still trying to figure out what I did right, but seriously, this is a sad reason to get an aneurism over. It's only an exam, for crying out loud! It's not even the real thing! If you're not going to America no one will remember what you got.
I cannot deny that it feels good to have concrete rewards for my labour. But I have to keep it in perspective, and I don't think that I am licensed to say that I deserve all that I got. And everyone also should put things in perspective. Please, I will appreciate it if people stopped looking at me like a threat. It's unsettling, unwelcome, and wholly unnecessary. And so I find myself in the rather strange position of having to defend my private space against this horde of people who want to vivisect every essay I've written.
It does seem that people suddenly lose sight of their sense of perspective when the papers came back. To be fair, it was definitely not a good idea to pile all the papers on us at once. And of course, it is only proper to mourn and reflect as necessary. But to wallow in it? Today's most preposterous sentence, moaning about being doomed to go to NUS. People forget that thousands of others would give a lot to get into NUS.
But then again, I probably exaggerate for effect. Unease only applies to people who make a big deal about it, mainly the people who are really close to beating me anyway. To tell the truth, for the most part people have at least been discreet about it. And as for the adverse reactions, it's not like I didn't expect it. But to prepare for it and to have to deal with it are different things. It does feel partly like a barrier is descending between me and everyone else. Now I don't feel safe discussing the exams at all...it feels inappropriate, and it'd probably come off as insensitive, knowing my way with words...
But yeah...there will still be nice people around which I can start to relax. For them, I am deeply grateful, probably more grateful than I can tell them. It's only among them that I find that I can step back and take stock, reassess my position, maintain my sense of perspective. And that sense of perspective is exactly why I totally and unreservedly refuse to be placed on a pedestal and worshipped. If you must, go worship God instead, he can reward you better for it.
* * * * *
But yes...rant aside, the last three days have been rather pleasant. Had Pui Man over on Tuesday to play the guitars. Heh rediscovered the delights of that instrument, and am now learning how to play Stairway to Heaven. Once again I'm rather surprised at how a really simple chord progression can be made to sound so nice. Of course, the singing and the guitar solos (which I can hardly begin to approach) probably have some part to play in it =P
After fiddling around with the guitars for a while we ended up playing Uno Attack with Marcus (which I kept winning, for some reason =P), and then he obligingly taught us how to play Beyblades, which is in fact rather an intriguing sport. Lots of physics and engineering principles hidden in the guise of a game of tops, actually. And then Marcus challeneged me to a game of Chess as she watched. Hehheh, he's so good at it that it's spooky. Or maybe it's just that I'm still a lousy player. But it must be some kind of gift for him to pick up the game so quickly, and practically badger me into fighting for my life. One of his weaknesses is that after half an hour he gets bored and starts making some strange moves. But beyond that I find it rather remarkable.
So it turns out that lazing around at home also has its merits. Heh, haven't had the chance to relax like that at home for a long time, usually because if no one's home I'd be playing on the comp. Good to have some human company to remind me that real life is still worth living =P I can't really describe here the peculiar quality of the comfortableness of sitting in the living room with a hand of Uno cards, and your brother on the one hand and a great friend on the other. Usually my visions of wellbeing include a fireplace and squashy armchairs, but this comes close enough =P
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Wednesday, being the last day of our hiatus, needed to be lived to the maximum, so I was out of the house at 0830 on the way to East Coast to meet up with the Guitar Exco. We were planning to spend a day at the beach, and in the end we adjourned to a bike rental shop, where Lixin convinced practically all of us to try out rollerblades. Heh, I discovered that I can actually move in those blades! And quite smoothly too, if I do say so myself. There is a certain rhythm that you have to find, a certain posture and pattern of precise body movements, to control your CG and propel you forward with the most economy of energy and grace. The amount of coordination and concentration is really quite a mental workout. The only thing is that I held my body so rigid throughout the thing that I started to get a backache after a while...
Poor Shuching kept falling off her skates. Was staying back to keep her moving towards the pier that was our final destination, but she ran out of time before she could reach it. On the way back we discovered her problem: not a coordination fault, not a balance problem, but a wheel missing from her right skate =P
After that, because the weather was looking worrisome, we adjourned to Marina Square for a movie. They went to watch A Sound of Thunder, while I parted ways with them to go catch Be With Me at PS. What a haunting movie. It must be Eric Khoo's best work to date, and by far the best Singaporean film I've ever seen, though it was a ripoff of the concept from Love Actually, just as Home Run ripped off Children of Heaven. The film's strong point was its use of a specifically Singaporean lexicon of images and metaphors, specially intended for a Singaporean audience. Like the contrast between an old provision shop and the skyscrapers in the distance. A security guard ogling a sleek businesswoman through the security cameras. The prolific use of MSN and SMS to communicate between two lovers (I think Singapore's the only place where text messages can be used as a viable communication medium like this believably). Chinese food from a can, high-rise apartment blocks in which people sleep on mattresses on the floor.
But what was particularly haunting was its examination of communcation. It's not really a film about love, I think. In the whole film, there must've been less than thirty seconds of speech, and none of it in dialogue. There were the two lovers communicating by SMS, and then there was this deaf-blind woman, living in an antiseptically bare apartment, speaking in a high-pitched voice, and having speech palmed into her hands and fingertips. Can you imagine that sort of isolation, communicating only through touch? But even for her the isolation was broken, through taste. Food plays a big part in the movie. And the remarkable thing about that woman was that she types out perfect English on her Braille writer, a whole autobiography, which is used as the inspiration for the movie, and appears in subtitles during the many poignant silences.
Most jerking moment - one of the girls committing suicide. Or attempting to do so. I thought that was a really stupid reason to die for, but what really made me cringe was the familiar settings. In fact, the movie's setting makes it really much more remarkable than it would have been, I think. Because it's set here, and uses the Singaporean lexicon, you really do get the feeling that the love stories really did happen, or if they did not, then they probably can happen. It's this credibility that made me cringe when she jumped, because she seemed so much like a believable, real person.
The most moving moment was the end. I shall not spoil it, I shall only say that I empathised with it most painfully. It was one of those things that I never expected would happen to me, and yet that type of moment of connection, I believe I have experienced before. And the fact that it is so close to home...this was one of the very very few movies that actually jerked tears. Perhaps partly it's also because I haven't had a cathartic cry in more than a year, but I thought that I was perfectly capable of dissolving into sobs right in that cinema.
Heh I bet Chern was rather bemused. After that I was not really in the mood to talk, frankly. It sparked off a lot of questions about our Singaporean life. Pointed out quite a few things that I must admit are actually screen-worthy. Things that are worth recording, expanding on artistically, communicated to the rest of the world. Maybe now's the time when we develop a culture worth preserving.
After that was a jump down to Adam Road for dinner with Andre and gang, the people who were at Kats's house all day. Heh I can only repeat that being with these people has a particular grounding effect that I find really reassuring. There is an assurance that real life goes on, there's only so much that can be ruined by you, thaqt after all the reminiscing and reflection people will still be there waiting for you. Seeing them again was really good for the spirit, if nothing else. One must remember what the important things are.
* * * * *
Again today I am struck by what good friends I really have. People I sincerely feel comfortable with, people that I trust. People that I can approach in total frankness, who do not expect the world in return. Seriously, faced with such people, why do people still look for this elusive and slippery thing called "love"? I have yet to see a loving relationship outside of marriage that surpasses some of my friendships.
I will not say more, it'll probably nauseate you if it doesn't bore your pants off. But I continually see reassurance that people are what matter most, and that Eliot is right: the divine is approached through the human.
Update
Hmm, to Oh-san, depravity is all a matter of perspective. People are more often designated mad not because of a biological defect but by the force of conviction of everyone else agreeing to treat that guy as mad. Personally I'd rather like to think that I'm not depraved =P And anyway, it may not be very useful to condemn society for being depraved, because of the strength in numbers, and because they're only guilty of being afraid of something different, that's all.
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Everybody! Have a peek at the newly refurbished homepage! Click on "network" below to have a gander. Originally it was meant to be an after-exam present for myself, and because Soph said that the old page looked too amateurish. In the end total development time was like 3 days. Two to come up with a workable idea, and only one afternoon today to code and draw everything. The problem with my host is that it doesn't allow Java applets, and I don't have something fancy like Flash, so everything is in animated gif form. Drew every single frame on that page meself =P
Except for the cow. That's a photo of the one that was given to me by Young. I figured that since Frexprog One is enshrined in my MSN pic (which is rarely seen nowadays since I no longer log on regularly), I should put something from Texprog somewhere prominent (but all things considered, people don't usually visit my homepage, so it'll be sequestered away in obscurity equally).
And on top of that, major update to paleblack. Realised that I haven't updated it in a heck of a long time, and I didn't realise that I had been writing so much stuff in the meantime, which meant that a lot of stuff had piled up. And I'm noticing that the categories that I created for all the works are proving to be inadequate...but it's interesting, to see what I envisaged I would write about in the future, and now seeing how mistaken I'd been. Quite funny actually...
Greg's friends were over just now for a studying party. Heh, well, I think they were trying to study, but this house has five guitars, and their group had three guitarists at least, so that more or less scuppered their studious tendencies =P Normally I would be rather annoyed by the racket of three guitars being whacked at once, but I have the luxury of time now, and it struck me that I should be merciful to other people who have to face exams =) Okay, I should not gloat at my brother. But to have all this time now...sheer bliss!
Quills
Hehheh such hedonism yesterday...delightful, delightful. Having finished prelims two days later than most other people, now I have a lot of catching up to do =P
Well, nothing much to report for Hist S. It went much more smoothly than Lit S, I must say. Rather had fun yesterday doing the paper, did one question on history as science, and the globalisation question for Section C. I think 1.5h per essay is really reasonable, considering how we have to think on the spot. In fact, compared to the normal History A, I think the S Paper is in fact easier. At least you're given some breathing room.
Well, after that went out with the 13A people to Cine to have lunch at Phin's. Hehheh, Zhi An has the quirkiest eating habits =P Anyway, we were going to watch The Brothers Grimm, and to burn away the excess time after lunch we sauntered down to Kino, because there are only so many places that you can go in Orchard. And of course, since it's only one of the two really good bookstores on our delightful little island, also ran into practically the whole world there...let's see...HC Humans' Rui Min, Clarisse, and others who I don't know personally, then Weijie and Lilian, all in the space of walking from the Finance section to the Econs section. And then, on the way back to Cine, bumped into more Guitar people. In fact, bumped into 1B people too in the course of that afternoon. Yep, the whole world was celebrating the end of the Prelims, and everyone was in town.
Hmm The Brothers Grimm was all right as a movie, but didn't strike me as particularly brilliant, though. Maybe it's because it merged together practically every fairy tale in the book, with the exception of Snow White, perhaps. Some parts were really bizarre, like this mudball that comes to life and consumes this child before morphing into the gingerbread man and jumping into a conveniently located well of its own accord. And towards the end I think the farce was a bit over the top. But it was entertaining to spot the fragments of all the fairy tales in the movie, to see how all these fantasy elements can fit together so nicely into a (somewhat) coherent plot. And I swear, there was even a shout-out to R&J in there! An Italian biting his thumb at the evil witch queen. It was also rather amusing to see the blatant historical symbolism in there...taking place in the backdrop of the Napoleonic Wars, you see the arch-rationalist French Army bombarding this enchanted forest, and then the witch queen just blows a breath and the whole lot of them is swept away.
After that, no time to breathe, shuttled down to Clarke Quay to meet Ian, Thong and Vaish for dinner. She brought us to this rather quaint riverside restaurant called Cafe Iguana, and everything was Mexican-themed (afterwards it turned out that she brought us to the wrong restaurant, but ah well, it was rather nice, as far as mistakes go...). It strikes me that the Clarke Quay area has really been ruined by the sort of layering of modern architecture over the old shophouses. There's some really garish development there. Anyway, I think I can learn to like Mexican food...the chili and beans and fragrant rice with soft tortillas was really good! Hehheh, thank God for Mexicans, who invented such charming food. Oh, and for some reason, Vaish thought she recognised two of the staff there, and we met an RJ kid part-timing it there too.
Then it was scooting off for the cherry on top of the hedonistic cake, Quills at the DBS theatre. My gosh, it was the most brilliant play that I've watched in a long time, and also the most terrible play ever, arguably. The stage design was a veritable stroke of genius, designed diagonally so you can see more of the scene, and that design makes it harder for the deliberate diagonal stage positioning of the actors to look so choreographed. And the lights...the lights! Sublime. Liberal amounts of smoke, strategically placed spots to cast spooky silhouettes, and the pillars of the set, which under normal lighting look like they're melting, turned into visions of the Inferno. And then there was a point in time when suddenly, the whole set was pulsing with red, and you realise that the pillars also double as blood vessels, the channels of human passion and brutality. And twinkling little lights create starry backdrop, while candlelight on the floor marks out a cross, and against the positively hellish setting, these elegant touches were shockingly incongruous. They did not enooble Hell; Hell debased them.
And then the visual effects were further enhanced by the acting. The notorious Marquis de Sade in full white clothes, his writing in red wine, or even blood at one point. And as the play progresses, the Abbé tries to exorcise him of his depravity by stripping him of all civilised dress, which of course produces a very ironic effect considering what he is trying to do. Give the Marquis a scrap of civilised clothing, and he'll find a way to write his terrible tales on it. Strip him of every stitch, and he becomes his tales, the embodiment of the naked, primal, depraved human being.
Of course, the presence of a naked actor on stage has its visual impact (I still admire that actor deeply - what must it take to be able to keep your wits about you when hundreds of people are staring at your nudity?), but the play was more than an eyeful: it was a seamless melding of sensory inputs, an experience experienced at all levels of consciousness and perception. The sound carefully blended with the light to create a most exquisitely tense mood, the alluring lines drawing the audience unwillingly into the moral mire, until the point when they realise that they are actually willingly following the Marquis through the depths of the human soul.
There were some positively brilliant moments. First, at the end of the first act, was a story, whispered by the naked Marquis through the corridors of the asylum, another tale of terrible sexual appetites. And, as the actors on stage start to whisper in chorus, and the Marquis, caught up in the terrible beauty of the horrors, starts yelling the tale, so no one in the audience can avoid being buffeted by the full attack of the shouted words and the insiduousness of the whispers, there is a piercing scream, the stage blacks out - and a woman drops from the ceiling, hanged. That was the climax point of sheer terror, a flash of depravity in the halls that draws the audience in, and where the tale leaves room for the imagination, the audience experiences the unpleasantness of being able and willing to fill in the blanks. And though the dummy struck me as rather cheap after the interval, there is still the lingering discomfiture, because the Marquis was able to plough my own mind and reap a crop of its own horrible images.
Then there was this scene, in the second act, where the Abbé was pleading with the dead body of a girl for forgiveness, because he had not been able to restrain the Marquis from telling that tale, which drove an inmate mad enough to kill her and reenact the story on her gutted body. And then, in a rather surreal moment, the body wakes up, and begins an account of how she ascended into heaven and met Christ, who kissed her wounds and made them whole. And as she speaks in this reverent tone, smoke billows from the pillars, and out of it materialises, spookily and utterly silently, a figure in white with arms outstretched. As the smoke clears, you realise, sickeningly, that this Christlike figure is the Marquis in a full flowing robe suspended between two pillars. At this point, the girl's tale turns horrific, and she starts describing the sexual ministrations of the Almighty, and when she reaches the climax, the Marquis is bathed in red light, and bellows, "There is no God but me!". And then he disappears in another cloud of smoke, while the girl starts to seduce the Abbé, and in the end provikes him into penetrating her virginal body - at which time the scene returns to normal, and the Abbé realises he has been rutting with a cadaver.
It was utter poetry on stage. But the message it carried was utterly terrible. When the second act was playing itself out, there was this constant sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach, and yet I was at the edge of my seat watching because I could not but watch, and because a part of me actually does want to know. And there was not only the vision of the anti-Christ to contend with. The Abbé, in an effort to silence the depraved tales of the Marquis, first strips him and his room, then cuts off his tongue, and then chops off his fingers, toes and penis, and finally, when the Marquis is just a lump of flesh, flailing about helpless on the floor of his cell, "more meat than man," as the Abbé says, he finally cuts off his head to silence his thoughts. And as the boxes of disassembled body parts pile up, one can see the Abbé, in his devotion to delivering the Marquis from evil, unknowingly sacrificing his own goodness and descending to the Marquis's level of morbidity. It reminds me of that movie in which a murderer baits a cop to commit all seven deadly sins, the last of which is murder, because the cop has to kill him to stop him killing more people. It is this image, of goodness pouring itself into a void of deepest darkness to try to fill it, that is disturbing, because in the end, when all the goodness is spent, the darkness still proves as unfillable as ever. Lots of people noticed the parallels between this idea and Conrad's, but I think this play puts it across much more eloquently and chillingly. The idea is not new to me, this uncomfortable notion that human goodness is wasted in a world of unfathomable depravity, but it was the immediacy of the experience in the theatre, the impossibility of detaching yourself from the stage, that was so deeply unsettling.
The most disturbing idea is arguably what the Abbé says at the end. Driven mad by the Marquis's spectre lingering in his (and all of the audience's) mind, he ends up interred in his own asylum, and in the closing scene, paints the image of a lone man, standing on a sheer cliff at the end of the earth, with no angels to guide him and no devils to lead him astray. "Would that there were," he cries, "would that there were!" This, of course, is the idea that there is no utter morality or immorality, and without gods and devils, all goodness and evil must come from man himself. Without Satan, who can we blame for our own sins? And again, the idea is not new; Eliot and Hardy and Conrad all say it, that God and the Devil are equally just figments of our own reality-constructs, and nothing more than our own creation, and in the soul of man lies all the potentialities of abject evil and divine good. But it was the intimacy of the experience that was so unsettling. In that theatre, I came to the conclusion that if I were in the Abbé's shoes, I would be driven to come to the same conclusion too.
It is not God that I doubt; last night, while ruminating, I still felt that there is a God. It is my capacity to believe in Him that I must question.
After that play, I was really numbed, stunned, even drained. More or less deadened for most of the trip home. Partly, I guess, was because I'd been awake since 0530, but mostly I think because of the psychological exertions in Quills. I wonder what it is like, to be able to shrug off the impact of that play so easily. Maybe concentrate on the technical excellence rather than the message? But I thought that I needed to stew in all its implications for a while. It was not a pleasant play, but I must still give it laud for its technical and psychological mastery. It is plays like this that reaffirm my belief that the theatre is a superior form of art, the blend of all mediums of experience. The theatre is a potent psychological force indeed, and wielded in the hands of masters, brings the audience to face the limits of their own existence.
Well, so that was yesterday. A most brilliant day, I must say, even given the rather disturbing play at the end. in fact, perhaps it owes a lot to Quills to make it so doubly memorable. Hehheh, well, now that prelims have ended, and we have our time back, I plan to start reading a piece of fiction, and I plan to start playing the guitar again, and I plan to get bored and like it. This afternoon, going off to Kats's place for his birthday. Mmm...more hedonism to come, it seems =)
Historian's Craft
Heh yesterday's lunch was really fun, thanks Oh-san and everyone else =) Went to Billy Bombers at Bugis Junction, which was a good atmosphere to unwind after a bout of prelims. Our table practically ordered every drink there was on the menu, which gave rise to all sorts of lewd allusions =P Heh, it's at moments like these when you're glad that you're young, because after a certain age how can you be so forward?
* * * * *
Today, spent the whole day studying Hist S. I must say I've never felt so strongly about history before, but after reading all the stuff about the Annales historians, it hits you that for some people, History is not only a profession or a pastime, but a matter of life and death. Was reading today, in the National Library, a book about the end of the Cold War, and the introductions to Braudel's Mediterranean in the Ancient World, which is different from his other, vastly famous, Mediterranean, and to Marc Bloch's The Historian's Craft. The Cold War essays were informative, one of them was particularly acerbic and amusing, but the ones that really struck me were the Annales historians.
When you read their words, you feel a sense of power surging through the pages, you get a sense that this work means a lot to them, and every page vibrates with that kind of passionate intensity. And there must be that kind of intensity, when you're writing historical tomes thicker than the average Bible. But beyond the care and detail with which they carry out their research and writing, there is also a sense of sincerity of belief in the meaning behind what they are doing. That was the time before postmodernism made its entry into the historiographical arena, when there was still a strong sense that every work of history was one step closer to the truth (even now, I think the postmodernist stance is too extreme, at least for practical purposes; history as an intellectual endeavour may never reach the nirvana of truth, but the meaning lies in the effort to work towards it nevertheless). And when they speak of history, it is with an obvious tinge of love.
Not that, of course, only Annales historians are that enthusiastic about their work. Eric Hobsbawm has that type of passion too, I think, even if it's not so intense. It's just that Bloch and Braudel's conviction is so thick throughout the bits of their work I read. And it's also remarkable how they combine the conventional rigour of Rankean history with their structural interpretations, all held together with doubtless flair in style. They use narrative, but not as an end-all for historical writing, but as a tool to make their structural point. And what narrative! Gripping stuff, that, as far as historical writing goes. I guess part of that style comes from being French (some of their extreme politeness may be the side-effect of literal translation), part of that passion comes from being in the War, and they do owe something to Ranke for inspiring their anti-establishment interpretations. It's just rather compelling to see all these elements coming together in a historical rather than literary work.
In fact, it's rather intriguing how they continually refer to themselves as craftsmen. Bloch especially calls himself an artist, a craftsman, an artisan, a journeyman. Probably there's a tinge of the early Annales preference for the peasantry in there, but I think he has hit it. A historian is necessarily an artist because of the medium he uses to conduct his science in - language. I found something that Bloch said rather compelling: that a historian, while having to conform with scientific-esque rigour in handling his sources, should not be ashamed of his artistic leanings, and indeed should acknowledge them openly, in order to disabuse the readers and each other of dangerous assumptions of impartiality and omniscience, and to acknowledge that history cannot be blandly objective (and that indeed it should not be, otherwise the fun would be lost). It is the combination of intelligent analysis and comprehension, and artistic flair and expression, that is really striking.
So there I was, near the top of the Library, overlooking the city as the sun set, reading Bloch's slim volume. Then it occured to me that the volume was too thin to be a complete Annales work. And flipping to the contents page, it's obvious that the work has been truncated. And it turns out that Bloch was executed by the Nazis before he could finish the book. Febvre, in editing the unfinished manuscript for publication, wrote a moving memorial for his friend, just as Bloch wrote a touching tribute to Febvre in way of a dedication for the book. One always hears of how the World War tore apart families, societies, whole civilisations, but to have evidence of such a sundering in your hands...it was jolting.
"For, as soon as we admit that a mental or emotional reaction is not self-explanatory, we are forced to turn, whenever such a reaction occurs, to make a real effort to discover the reasons for it. In a word, in history, as elsewhere, the causes cannot be assumed. They are to be looked for..."
I have to say that the truncated ending to that book, in the chapter about causation, is most uncanny. And it's hard to explain why that ellipsis at the end of the book, followed by the few blank pages, were the most saddening thing I've read in a long time, certainly since the first time I finished Atonement. It is like Bloch put his life into the book - he said that it was an escape from the daily life under occupation. And to have the book cut off like that...it's like holding evidence of a murder. The thought path abruptly truncated. The ink that did not flow, I wonder what it would have said.
Lit S Aftermath
Bleah today's Lit S paper was heartbreaking. I was thoroughly dissatisfied with my treatment of one of the essay questions. The PC was okay, and so was the question I did Olds on, but neither was fantastically insightful, in my opinion. In fact, the Olds poems I used were probably too well-matched, so they end up saying practically the same thing. No point of contradiction on which to build a satisfying synthesis. Anyway, the novels question was a complete washout, I think. The question was on the treatment of time, memory and loss, which is exactly the perfect question for Atonement and Gut Symmetries. But the PC was on memory too, and I think I used up all my big ideas for the PC. Which meant that I should have chosen another question. But started on it because it was one of only two questions well matched to my material.
This paper seemed almost tailor made for my works. One question on family relationships pointing obviously to Olds poems. Another on temporality pointing obviously to the novels. And a PC that touches on one of my favourite topics to boot. But in the end, the showing was really not impressive. The novels essay was so pathetically disordered that I had to stop myself halfway in order to reset my train of thought, to prevent it from going in circles. And at the end, I have the feeling that I only managed to scratch the surface of this issue.
The thing is that with regards to memory, I seem to be obsessed with its impact on life, but not on how it's created, or what actually constitutes it, and what is its function in life. As such, my interest in memory is mainly self-indulgent, reflecting always on my own memories, not questioning how they come to pass, or why they have such an effect on me. So, when it comes to doing an entire essay on them, I end up basically saying how memories are good and powerful and poignant, but I don't consider why they are so, what function they serve in a book. Added to that are the really good quotes that are scattered throughout both books; there are so many quotes that I don't know which to use, and only write randomly, depending on which quote I happen to come across when flipping.
It may be that the novels are too dense to lend itself to such detail for 1 hour of work. What I know now is to do the novels question first, to make sure that I have all my big ideas available to be employed in the essay. And not to do something that I like too much, because it could get self-indulgent and blind me. It's very hard to impose order and clarity when your material is so bountiful, and you like the topic so much that you try to include everything. All in all, today was very bad essay-writing style. And all that novel-preparation wasted. I have this disgusting feeling towards myself, for trying to show off too much and in the end ending up not doing justice to two great works.
Bleah...hopefully Hist S will be more forgiving. One good thing is that the remaining papers are in the morning, which should protect me from my usual afternoon drowsiness. After Lit S today I realised I could not unfocus my eyes, they had been locked on to the paper for so long. Really fathiguing, the need to construct so many ideas into so many essays in such short notice.
Oh well...prelims coming to an end soon. Two papers left. Now that deliverance is in sight I guess we should make plans, start talking Yalta so the postwar world will not have its power vacuums. I know what I'm going to do immediately: pick up my guitar again and spend at least one afternoon doing nothing but playing it. I miss that six-stringed instrument. And I want to play Risk again too...And there's Kats's party, and perhaps a peek at Be With Me too. Ooh Harry Potter 4 has a new trailer out, and it looks fantastic. I thought Cho Chang was Vietnamese...she looks positively Chinese in the trailer. But at any rate, I must say that she is rather pretty. I wonder where they found her from...
In other news, this morning got a pleasant surprise SMS from Taiwan. Heh, I can't say that I managed to understand all of it...there were two ci2yu3s that I couldn't figure out, even when translated into jian3ti3. But still, it's nice to hear from Texprog Yvonne again. Apparently the shirts I sent off a month ago have arrived. Hmm...everytime I send sea mail it seems to get slower. But all the same, I can't think of a better time to receive it. It's a good counterpoint to a rather bleak afternoon.
I wonder how they are now, the Taiwanese. They should be approaching their big university exams too...sometime next year if I'm not mistaken. I do hope they're keeping safe, and keeping happy. Lately have been plagued by bouts of moroseness...reflecting on all these people that are so far away, and yet still connected in memory (here I go again). And at times, I really really want to see them again, to step out of this Singaporean way of life and slip into the exciting, fast-paced, and most importantly, unknown Taiwanese mode of living. Those were good times indeed, especially compared against the current situation of prelims.
I have a feeling, I think, that I need company, to dispel the gloom of the exams, to ensure that the real world still exists outside of school, the real world that continues unperturbed by our exertions. To Conrad, the implacable jungle was disconcerting. Right now, I find it rather comforting; that I am not capable of changing some parts of existence and thus don't need to be responsible for them. It's a nice feeling, to know that however much you screw up, life will still go on, and there are limits to the damage you can do.
Lit S
Hehheh been doing Olds this weekend. Well, mostly been playing Red Alert and redesigning my website, though neither one has been completed. But this afternoon really got down to doing Olds. Phwah, her stuff still packs a mighty punch. Especially when you read her work in chronological order. It's like reading a condensed autobiography. And the thing is her precision in description. I mean, I'll never experience childbirth, but the attachment between mother and child is crystal clear in her poems. In her powerful and frank way, she manages to leapfrog over conceptual boundaries. Puissant work.
A note on her tone. I don't know why it works so well. Most of the time it's frank, urgent, earnest. Yes, earnest. And yet it manages to fit all sorts of situations, from describing the poetry in her daughter's body to her first time in a flophouse and then to her feud with her dying father. It's the frankness in her writing that allows all the emotions to surface so easily, I guess. She's baring herself to her reader, unabashed, unpretentious. In her tone, there is a quality of respect, because she doesn't shy away from describing things as they are out of consideration for her reader's sensibilities. There is also a quality of trust, as must be the case when you're discussing things as intimate as sex and childbirth. And there's an element of intimacy, too. A naked soul burns on those pages.
I wonder how she can bear to do it, to write herself down and present herself to the world like that. How can her whole family take it, her exhibition of her feud with her father, her graphic descriptions of sex with her husband and her previous boyfriends? Of course, it may be that all of it is fiction. To be sure, her poems read like a storybook after a while, with plottable plotlines and linkages between poems. But the sincerity adds such a strong impression of authenticity that I think this stuff really happened. Such intense experience in the hands of such a good writer; a coincidence of the two doesn't happen often. What is remarkable is that these things really happened, and what is doubly remarkable is that in reading her work, you can see her life experience materialising in front of you in terms you'd understand.
Heh, real decadence, this is. Studying for Lit S. I wonder if the people doing Econs S can ever rave like this. There is really nothing more liberating or satisfying than such good reads, I think.
Reading Olds's work this afternoon, a wave of moroseness suddenly struck me. I find that I am learning a lot from these books, and when reading a poem about the aftermath of lovemaking, there was a sudden need to reach out to other people. It struck me then, the weight of all those people that I have left behind over the years, the people who did not follow this path that I walk on. These people, crystallised, distilled, romanticised even in the balm of memory, each one representing a tangential path that I could have followed instead. Why is it that the intersections between our individual experiences must be so temporary? And it makes it even sadder that the world gives us so many obligations that eat into the time we have to spend with other people. Especially now; exams are lethal for society.
Anyway, at any rate, it will be all over soon. Already I feel myself on the downslope of the exam experience. Two Econs papers and the two S papers remaining, and then we'll be free to replan our time, regroup and plan our next big offensive. And the best thing is, around this time, everyone will be finishing their exams. Not only the other JCs, but also the people in the polys. Reading all these blogs, and seeing all the happy happy posts about exams ending, one cannot help but be infected by the spirit. This is one of the best times in the year, an islandwide coincidence of relief and satisfaction.
Lately my family's been considering a possible holiday at the end of the year. Slotted precariously between the A Levels and enlistment, somewhere in the middle of December. The possibilities ranged from a return to the free-and-easy of Australia, to a packaged tour to the snows of China, and the latest one, a visit to Oregon to drop in on my mum's old friend. But one that I really like is the idea of a cruise. The only one so far was when I was about to go to P1, on the Superstar Aquarius. (For some reason I always remember meeting my kindergarten classmate on that ship in a lobby with a sculpture of the waves of the sea, a girl called Grace. I'm pretty sure that never happened, but somehow or other my memory says otherwise.) The sea always has a special allure, and the notion of being on a ship is really enticing, especially after Gut Symmetries. Imagine...being on a cruise, tacking along the Asian coastline, every day waking up to a new town, a new port. I'd love to go on a trip like that!
Catharsis
Woots! The major bulk of the papers are done, we've passed the turning point, the enemy is on the run, and all that's left now is a clean-up operation to mop up the remaining resistance! Heh well, that may be a tad premature, considering that the enemy hasn't surrendered yet, but the battle is more than half won! Heeheehee, it's been so long since the last time I came home without studying to look forward to. It feels really good!
All the papers were all right. If I had to rank them, though, I'd say that Lit was the most uncertain. Rather dissatisfied with my PBQs. The essays were really all so easy to do, I sould have studied more for the lit papers to take advantage of the essay titles. I was only satisfied with Frost and A&C, because they were the essayed questions. For the PBQs, they were not fatal, per se, but I get the feeling that I didn't cover everything I wanted to.
And in the middle of Heart of Darkness PBQ today, my pen ran out of ink. I never realised that exams use ink at such prodigious rates. The effect was to derail my train of thought as I fretted about how to continue writing the remaining essay. In the end Mr. Evans and Mr. Batchelor were kind enough to lend me pens, and in the end managed to finish all the essays, but the disruption of the stupid pen practically shot any hope of a nicely flowing essay.
History was rather good, I think. Both papers. Though I really do have to polish up my UN contextual knowledge. Econs was nice, because for the first time I actually had more to write than I had time for. I just hope that it all makes economic sense now. Maths...okay, no complaints, though the stats section was a tad fiendish at certain points.
So that was this week over. Next week got the last of Econs and the S Papers. I shall enjoy myself this weekend compiling more Olds poems for next week. And I've got a bit of Annales history to read, which should be interesting. But all that will be kept till next week. Now, I'm faced with a night of free time. Should I read Coetzee's Youth or play Red Alert?
Just now me and Yvonne took a lift from YS home, and were talking about universities. I realise once again how lucky I really am to have parents that give me so much leeway to do what I like. Sometimes it's harrowing, but it's times like these when the value of that freedom is made clear. The thing is to be prepared to take advantage of it when the opportunities arise, so you won't be caught out when you have to make a choice. And in the long run, even if you make the wrong decision, at least you won't have to blame someone else. And you'll at least have the distinction of getting to that point in life all by yourself.
Listening to cinema soundtracks on inernet radio now, and feeling serene and unoppressed for the first time in a month or so. Free time really feels sublime! Hehheh I wonder how long it'll take for boredom to set in?
* * * * *
How do you give someone older than you careers advice, particularly if you haven't had a career yourself?
Today's Note
Hmph should have studied more for Lit. Clearly today's essays were easier than the passage-based, but as things stood only had enough material to do the essay for A&C. Ironically, if I had stuck with my study pattern for the last test, then all those quotes would have come in useful for Hardy. But, as it were, was stuck with the PC, and had to do a passage-based on a Mrs. Yeobright passage that I had decided not to look at this morning before the exam precisely because I didn't think it was interesting enough or had enough in it for a PBQ. Heh, so much for my intuition.
I have a notion that I should start preparing for the remaining Lit essays too, but at this point, two days before they happen, I don't think I'd be able to memorise enough material to make the attempt worthwhile. Ah well. There's a grand plan for the actual As then...to memorise enough of each book to be able to do an essay for each. Right now I'm only equipped to do a Frost essay, though I'm itching to sink into the convoluted reality-manipulations of WAVW.
Anyway...the funniest Frost poem that I've come across, and the latest one memorised:
Fire and Ice
Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
I wonder what's the point of this poem. The destructiveness of love and hate, the apocalyptic scales that these intense emotions can get to, à la Eustacia Vye? A doomsday warning, of Frost's attempt at writing a commentary on science's sensationalism? Is it just a joke? I tend to favour the latter, which means that this quaint little thing will be useful only in an essay about Frost's sense of humour. But it was fun to memorise at any rate.
Been a tad sleepy as of late. I wonder why. Exams are a very unhealthy time, at any rate. The dengue epidemic notwithstanding, sitting around all day reading is not good for the body's equilibrium. And also have seen my fibre intake falling. Though I have been drinking more water than usual. Oh well...shall be off to bed now, I think. Maths 2 tomorrow. P and C. Bleah. I hope I see the correct patterns tomorrow.
* * * * *
Oh, one more thing. The form's beyond recall now, and hopefully, it's on its way to England safe in the belly of a plane. I wonder how much safety a $4 stamp can buy for a piece of mail. Heh, anyway, it is a relief, after all. It's rather amazing how much tension that few blue sheets of paper can cause. Now's the time to shift the focus to more urgent needs (prelims), and not bother about universities until the beginning of October, when hopefully I'll be in a better position to say where I'll probably end up.
Thunderstorming
I should be studying, to be sure, but it's storming outside now. When it's raining so thickly that everything beyond a few metres dissolves into a shimmering whiteness like the air is dissolving into static, when the drops don't fall but ram, when the rain is a percusion artist on the car roofs, the house roofs, the roads, the trees, everything, when the lightning is so white it's purple, when bolts of power explode directly over you, you have to take a moment and stop and stand in awe, and stick your arm out into a wall of water.
When was the last time you touched water pouring from the sky?
Well, besides this once-yearly enormous thunderstorm that paints everything neon, nothing remarkable has happened. Been pushing myself through a grueling study routine, and been extremely antisocial towards my family. They had a gathering yesterday for the Mid-Autumn Festival, and I didn't have time to talk at all. And when I went to church, it was such a relief to be reciting other stuff besides history quotes. I think I'm in danger of losing my sense of perspective on this exam.
Papers today were fine. Nothing remarkable, except that the SBQ was more doable than usual.
Back to econs then...Everyone! Keep your sense of perspective! It's really too precious to lose.
And it seems like I'll end up in St. John's after all, after this big convoluted detour.
More Scraps
Bleah I'm embarrassed with the quality of the last post. Didn't do MFA the justice that it deserves. But I was distracted yesterday...first Marcus showing me his discovery of swaths of stick-figure mutilation animations on the net (really quite funny...you simply cannot feel sorry for the little buggers, even if they get their brains ripped out. Dehumanisation at its best =P), and then Greg showing me his newly downloaded Who's Line is it Anyway? clips. And a South Park cartoon about Michael Jackson. Hehheh, I realise I never watched a full South Park clip before, and it's pretty good; funny, but still good. Incisive stuff.
So you see, I really didn't have the concentration to write coherently. The highlight for yesterday was laughing all the way till 0130 this morning.
But yeah. I want to work at MFA. Just filled that in for the section about career plans for the Cambridge form. Shall finish preparing all of the paperwork tonight, no matter what. Then...it'll be off, and the next stage will begin. And hopefully, with the forms beyond recall, life will return to a higher degree of normalcy.
Had a strange dream again this morning. For some reason was back in CHS. And there were some of the Humans people there too, and everyone was in CHS uniform. And, most inexplicably, Stalin was there. We were talking about doing something or other for his son, I can't remember now. But he took me to visit this bookshop, and I had that sensation again, of being in a familiar place. Though the bookshop doesn't exist in real life, it featured in another dream before, I'm sure of it. And Stalin was telling my about his childhood and how he would hang out at that bookshop all the time. And then, we go back to the classroom, there was a scream, and we found Benuel shot in the corridor. And then I woke up.
In other news, was memorising Two Look at Two today. These lines strike me as particularly significant.
Love and forgetting might have carried them
A little further up the mountainside...
...They must have halted soon in any case
With thoughts of the path back, so rough it was
With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness...
...One last look at the way they must not go,
On up the failing path...
Unfortunately in Singapore you can't have an experience like that. It's only when you're wandering an unknown place that you'll get that kind of feeling, the simultaneous urge to go forward and nagging pragmatism always at your back. The thing is that you know that your fears are unfounded, but you don't know exactly to what extent they are unfounded. A delicious feeling, it is, to walk that tightrope and tempt fate. No, not tempt fate, tempt yourself.
"Love and forgetting..." Hmm. Perhaps I read too much into those two words. What happens when the poet's message intersects with your personal experience to produce a whole new meaning? It's so easy to be led astray by one's own self-indulgence.
MFA
Burnout today was reached at nine-thirty this evening after a more than optimal dose of Econs MCQs. Heh...nothing really remarkable about today, except that I went downstairs for a spot of fresh air and discovered that the jackfruit trees in the park are bearing fruit. How rare it is to be able to touch fruit still on the tree. There were fruits on trees in Thailand, but they were too high up to get too. The last time that happened was on the slopes of the Janfunsun hills in Taiwan. Tangerines shrouded in mist. Today suddenly noticed the peculiar smoothness of jackfruit tree bark, and the deep green smoothness of the leaves. And when you're handling the budding fruit, still soft and finely textured, and when you run your hand down the bark, with its layer of dust and its intimate grooves, then something in you is reawakened. Was it a rebirth, a return to nature? I don't know. That would be too sentimental. But it did feel natural, to do a Li Bai or something and start running through Frost's For Once, Then, Something under that tree =P
For Once, Then, Something
Robert Frost
Others taunt me for having knelt at well curbs,
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper into the well, past where the water
Gives me back, in a shining surface picture,
Me, myself, in a summer heaven godlike,
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well curb,
I discerned, so I though, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths - and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too-clear water.
One drop fell from a fern - and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was that lay at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.
* * * * *
MFA talk on Monday was very very enjoyable! Hehheh, the MFA premises itself is a splendid building, well-furnished, well-finished, with beautiful landscapes. It's almost like an exclusive club...all those splendid facilities, paid for by tax dollars, and accessible only to civil servants and other notables. And they had a not refreshments laid out for us to top that off. My group was the French-speaking one, and they got a Mr. Umej Bhatia to talk to us, and that guy is amazing, speaking Arabic, Punjabi, English and French.
It didn't really feel too stuffy at all. Started off on an awkward foot, when they passed around a questionnaire for us to fill in. Three questions: "What are some of the challenges and key interests of Singapore's foreign policy?", "Why do you deserve a PSC-MFA scholarship?", and "What qualities are essential in a good MFA officer?". It's times like these when SS suddenly comes back to you, and you realise it's not entirely a waste of time; no matter how anti-intellectual the whole exercise is, they can't stop us from raising questions about what they teach. Hmm...but still, this exercise caught me off-guard, so the natural thing was to tell the truth. I wonder what they thought of my answers, though. Was arguing myself whether or not to include what was effectively a self-denying ordnance. But in the end, decided to stick it in, since I couldn't think of much else to say for the second question.
But yeah...beside that, the session was rather relaxed, really. Their HR director was careful to come prepared with a series of topics he wanted to chat about, but beyond that, we were allowed to take the session wherever we wanted, mostly. Ranged from Katrina (naturally) to terrorism to ASEAN and the UN. It was rather pleasant, to spend a morning and a bit of the afternoon discussing not universities but current affairs, and more specifically international relations. Throwing ideas around in a rather civil and frank atmosphere. I wonder if that's typical of diplomatic work. After a while, you can start to forget that you're facing what is effectively a scholarship committee. But I guess creating an atmosphere conducive to discussion and openness is a necessary ability of a diplomat...
The MFA people came across as very intelligent...well, the HR Director and Mr. Bhatia, at least. The HR-AD was busy taking notes and didn't say much, though I think she did smile knowingly once in a while. And from the way they talk, I could get a sense of the working environment they in MFA, and the impression I got was very exciting. That level of frankness and intelligence, that degree of clear and incisive analysis, is enticing. And the way that they go on about their work, I do find it credible that they really do have unpredictable days everyday. Mmm...I do feel like I want to be part of something like that. Heh, even if they're still part of the civil service and are liable to go round and round in bureaucratic circles, at least they make the effort to be frank about it, and actively try to make themselves go somewhere at least.
Heh, they are the most intelligent civil servants that I've seen outside of the MOE. I guess the intellectual inbreeding of such a small ministry does help.
Bread Pudding
Yes, some things have changed, but I am always surprised by how much has stayed the same despite everything that has happened. It was the one catastrophic decision of these two years...well, the only one so far at least. I can't bring myself to say that it was a bad decision, an outright mistake. No...what I feel is not regret per se, though sometimes in the nights one wonders the age-old question, "What if..." I think I would have taken that decision anyway, at this point - there really wasn't a viable alternative open to me. It's not personal, just self defence. I'm still telling myself that it had to happen sometime, so I can slip into the familiar groove of drawing comfort from the assurance that it will never happen again. But if there is anything to regret, it is that it had to happen with other people on the scene. Other persons.
But still...yes, I'm glad that not everything has changed. Maybe what we had all that time ago is only maintained now because we all agree to prop it up, this ramshackle reality rehabilitated by willing memories and sentiments. Perhaps we are just holding up one last candle against the winds of time, that whisper in our years that our time is up. Maybe we all know, on some deep level, that this is only temporary.
But the attempt is all. And I appreciate the attempt. Thank you.
* * * * *
Winterson's really affecting me. It's a brilliant book. Just finished the redocumenting today, which means that now I'm marginally enabled to do the Lit S paper. Have to take a look at more Olds before the time comes, but perhaps I can put it aside...ration it over the next two weeks. But yeah...there are points in the book that never fail to strike a chord in me. The two death scenes (put one on waystation), the cannibalism scene, and the last union of timelines and memories. Such intense emotions invoked. These two books are the best books I have ever read, in terms of emotiveness. It's because of the remarkable amount of sympathy that I seem to find in them. I'm still not done marveling at the uncanny luck that had me picking up these two books at a second-hand shop for $3 total, and then having them carry me all the way to this spot. The two books must be the most worth-it things I have ever bought. The consumer surplus goes through the roof.
Now, attention turns towards Econs and EHist, the first biggies that are coming up. One week left. Everything in its proper perspective? Good. Then let's get this show on the road.
* * * * *
Was rather peeved after the PSC talk. It was wholly pointless...didn't learn something I didn't already know. And there were so many people there. The sheer number of prospective applicants is daunting. And frankly, I find myself recoiling from the perspective of fighting with all of them for the scholarships. In the eyes of many of them was the glint of determination that shows that they want it at almost any cost. All those people scrabbling and bustling each other for the scholarship. The ultimate cesspit of politics and backstabbing. When that much money and prestige is up for grabs, all bets are off.
Though I am being unfair. I should not be this hostile. There are plenty of good people who are going too for the scholarship. This is where another conflict erupts. I hope each and every one of them gets the scholarship they deserve, but I know that that is not possible. Yesterday, I realised that seeing all those familiar faces, it was not hard to cheer them on in this race, even if they will be my competitors. In fact, I'd like to think that I would be able to be happy for their success even if I myself am not able to join them. The difficult part comes in the case where I end up knocking out someone worthy. A variation of survivor's guilt, perhaps.
In church that afternoon I experienced a deep pang of guilt...no, sadness. The sermon, coincidentally enough, was about cooperation and community spirit. How, as a church, the objective is not only to get to heaven, but to take as many people with you as you can. The thing is to support each other so the most people can get there. Of course, this is different from the scholarship race in a few ways. Firstly, one's place in heaven is confirmed, and all one has to do is to get there and take it. Secondly, there's no limit to the number of places. That does make it easier to be altruistic. But still, it struck me that there was so much competition that was frankly unnecessary. If only everyone would cooperate. If only people were able to look beyond immediate personal interests, which are doubtlessly important, to consider your neighbour.
It's really frustrating...the arrangement is such that anyone who tries to change the way the system works will be swamped by other people's indifference. People will have the incentive to cheat. And everyone at the PSC briefing was smart enough to figure that out, to rationally conclude that self-interest is not compatible with charity. Yes. Sometimes it's pointless to try. Was about to cry, practically (okay, exaggeration for effect), but thankfully, Yiting was there to put things in perspective. Yes, we may not be able to help. And anyway what right have we to impose help on someone? But the thing is to be ready to step in, to be available when needed, to be there waiting to be called (there's something that FEMA could have figured out before Katrina).
Yes. Everything in the proper perspective. She is a levelheaded and goodhearted person. Kind of like Dolly Winthrop...
* * * * *
Yesterday Grace came over again to do the usual mix of Econs and Hist. I was busy finishing off Silas Marner and Gut Symmetries. Heh, is it really that indulgent to devote an entire day to literature? Okay, yes it is. I admit. It was positively sinful. But it sure felt good. And anyway, I needed to get the two books out of the way sooner or later. As things happened, I was positively euphoric to reach the enlightenment points of both books on the same day. The feel-good effect of good literature. Yes. Definitely indulgent =P
We had quite a spread for dinner yesterday...Mum cooked shepherd's pie (a first, to be sure...I didn't even have an idea of what shepherd's pie was...), made a really good salad (with baby tomatoes...mmm...Fruits and Veggies should enshrine them in a song) and even threw in a bread pudding. And while we were tucking into this peasant meal that even Silas Marner would have been proud of, she took out her laptop and told the whole story of her Europe trip in photos. The trips from Bern to Interlaken to Glasgow and then Stratford and Oxford and enchanting London. Heh...these stories I myself have never heard of.
To be sure, my family seems to come alive whenever my friends come over. I find myself sometimes learning more things about my mum when my friends are around. Like they are a catalyst to the chat. But don't get me wrong...I'm not resentful. Far from it. I'm glad for any opportunity to talk to my family, my far-flung and high-flying humble family. And if someone beyond my family can enjoy it too, who am I to begrudge them that? Heh, I guess I should feel a bit sad that such chats don't happen more often, without the help of my friends. I should. But I don't. It's just the way my family is. If there's anything that this home encapsulates, it's privacy. And we grow our own type of love that does not need expression to sustain itself. Sort of like...familiarity. Comfort. And security, total security.
Yes, so we had an hour split between Dr. Dolittle on the telly and snapshots of Europe on the laptop, as we waited for the bread pudding to set. Really really good, the feel-good of the movie, and the glimpses of a place where we could very well be in a year's time. I can't really describe the feeling...something approximating pride. I was proud to have such a family, if that makes acceptable sense.
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Had the strangest dream last night...I dreamt that I woke up in Lyon, back in the old room in the Tills'. And Mrs. Till looked in and woke me up, told me to remember my meeting. So I dressed quickly, and departed to head down the street to go and meet...Young. Before I knew it I was walking down the side of a Taiwanese highway, and since it was a long way to go, I decided to stop at this rest stop. There was a carpet shop in there, and a lamp shop, and the lamp shop had such strange and wonderful lamps that I had to stop to take a look. And then it occured to me that I'd seen that shop before. It was at the Night Market in Bangkok. And then I turned around and walked up a highway viaduct and found myself in Silom.
It didn't occur to me that it was strange that Lyon should be so close to Taipei and Bangkok. It was utterly natural. Maybe it's because conceptually, all these places and experiences are equally distant from everyday life. Miles and metres don't matter in the mind, where every centimetre can encompass whole realities. But what was striking to me was that my dream self had its own memories. I actually remembered a previous dream. It was a memory that only existed in the subconscious - I was wholly unaware of it on a conscious level until last night. And yet, I'm sure that it was a memory, that I had walked that dreamscape before, because of the feeling of familiarity that I felt on those highways. I knew the way. I had been that way before. And so, this subconscious memory was brought to my conscious surface.
And I was walking alone. It was natural, utterly natural. It didn't occur to me to look for someone to journey with me. I knew that there would be people waiting at the end.
What does this mean?
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Went to the MFA talk today too. It was brilliant...and I am eager to join that ministry now. It strikes me as having some of the most intelligent civil servants in Singapore. But will talk more of that tomorrow, perhaps. That deserves an entry of its own.
Just Some Thoughts
Eugene: Heh, in view of this warning, do you think that Singapore would be affronted if it doesn't get bombed, since that indicates that it's not in the big league for financial centres?...
Ian: Yes! Lush are delicious. Heh apparently you can send an SMS to them to get a playlist, but it does cost quite a lot, as SMSes go.
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Hmm...I find it very ironic that the Federal Government seems to be more capable of sending National Guardsmen and army units to Louisiana and New Orleans, while people there are still dying for want of medicine, food and water. One wonders what they're thinking, to enforce law and order from the gun while people are literally starving and dangerously desperate. Bullets aren't going to feed the refugees, after all. A bit of ying2ren4er2jie3 seems to be in order. And if they actually begin to fire on Louisianians, then that would be disastrous on a whole new level.
It's rather shocking how easily Americans can be unhinged. One tends to think of them all as smug and complacent. But then something as momentous as Katrina happens, and you're reminded of the common human fear that unites us all. And, to be fair, most of the people stuck in New Orleans are poorer families, mostly black. Probably those who can afford to be smug and complacent had been able to evacuate before the storm arrived. But yeah...if anything, the tragedy reaffirmed the humanity of the Americans. Helped to erode their otherworldliness.
In a disturbing coincidence, hundreds died in Baghdad too, because of that stampede. A human storm to match the cataclysmic power of nature. The scenes of grief there are wrenching too, with people collapsed across coffins, a family crowded around not one but several simple wooden boxes, and the scene repeated as far as the eye can see. A city gripped by mourning. And yet, intermittently, one sees even more disturbing scenes: people who are dry-eyed. Those are the hardy ones, whose suffering and loss have been so great as to exceed any sense of human scale. They are positively transcendental, serene in their anguish. They took it and took it until all they had was this.
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Bah, I'll be happier once the 12th comes. Then this tiresome studying will be put to good use. And the Cambridge applications will be going out beyond recall, and we can go back to worrying each other without the overt sense of political wrangling. Worrying without ulterior motives.
I wonder, if it were not for the twist of fate that put me in this strategic position, whether I would be so caught up with the maintenance of a semblance of fairness in this race. In the case that I actually will, I wonder if it is a good thing, or just a noble, suicidal and naive gesture. It is becoming really clear to me that fairness is a luxury, and when people's desire for something at any cost is married with the actual necessity of extreme measures, then all bets are off. It is important to remember all these lofty aspirations are highly conditional - I imagine that if circumstances were right, I would be able to justify being cutthroat too.
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Well...a few happy things to report now. Silas Marner continues to be highly entertaining. Eliot's dry pastoral tone is really quite funny. And I find that, after doing Hardy, I'm able to interpret Eliot's language more easily, which really does facilitate the comprehension of her more complex ideas. Now that I reread it, everything seems to be in sharper shades of colour - Silas more pitiable, Dunsey more loathsome, Dolly more remarkable.
And finally I started redocumenting Gut Symmetries. Hopefully I'll be equipped to do the Lit S exam by Monday. Hehhehheh, Gut Symmetries is an excellent work! The starting is hilarious...her dry tone combines brilliantly with an impressive flurry of alliteration to great effect. Was doing it in the library, and sniggering away at every paragraph practically. Heh...it would be very odd if I started breaking out into giggles in the middle of the exam hall...but it's just that brilliant! And I find myself highlighting practically every other sentence, which raises the question of why I'm highlighting at all. But the book is just that rich...very much PC material. You'd be writing about her one paragraph for pages and pages.
Speaking of the library, it's rather surprising how many people go back to the school library to study. Met Kels and Soph and YS today there. And it's a rather pleasant environment, actually...for some reason they decided to turn down the aircon so the library isn't positively arctic. But it's so bleeding far away. Only went back today to renew library books, and to get the copy of Gut Symmetries from downtown, and because I desperately wanted a change in scenery.
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Perhaps I was too hasty to regard that particular instance as unrenormalisable. As things have turned out, we've managed to slip into some sort of understanding that is not based on the extraordinary circumstances that founded our original sympathy. To my surprise, it does seem that that degree of comfort and sympathy and frankness and trust can actually be transplanted from one context into another, more sustainable, one. And it does seem that we can continue - it turns out that what we have is based not on circumstance but on something that transcends that. Or maybe it's just the trauma of relocation that has forced that transition to a higher plane to occur.
Hmm...such mystical and astrological language. I detect the influence of Winterson here =P
Pitstop
Shucks. It reeks to feel guilty about being bored.
I think I've been sitting in front of the computer too much lately. Tried to start on the Heart of Darkness Quote Thematiser today, and was really bored, so bored I couldn't concentrate. And I'm beginning to question whether it's really feasible, since I'll end up quoting whole paragraphs. The book is very rich, good to PC, great for essay-writing, because the textual material lies thickly on the ground. But if you try to categorise every scrap of essay material, you'll end up with a set of notes longer than the book.
Started on Silas Marner today too. I didn't notice Eliot's rather dry humour the first time round. Was reading the first chapter, and it struck me as really funny, her seeming earnestness hiding wryness and even sarcasm at points. But she is still very compassionate, I think...at least I noticed that the first time round =P Rereading my old notes, and found them rather...innocent. Chern's right...looking back now at the book, I'm spotting whole new patterns, and appreciating it at a deeper level. After two years, we've picked up enough of Purvis's thought mode to be able to crack apart more of the book.
Ah well...nothing much more remarkable to report, really. Shall be off to do more Silas Marner. Or maybe I'll just relax. Had a nap this afternoon, and woke up with a splitting headache on the left side of my forehead. Initially I thought of those mini-strokes that Briony has in Atonement, but no such luck, apparently...it still twinges now and again, though. Maybe it's an eye thing...
