Easy

So it’s that time of the year—

The time when everything gets easier. If I could, I would construct an entire analogy for this year (in Cambridge) around my bike:

At first, there were a few kinks in the bike-as-transportation system. For example, at times water soaked into the seat of my pants from the porous seat of my bike. Or the chain lock would take forever to lock/unlock. Or I would forget my bike lights and ride through the streets illegally at night.

Then, over time, I got a shower cap, a D-lock, and brackets for my lights.

In other words, life got easier.

Of course, it’s only at the very end that this happens. Soon, I’ll have to leave. Again. And come up with something else someplace else.

Ethnicity and Language

Recently, in a bid to make a small amount of British currency (£6), I donated myself to two different linguistic experiments.

For the first experiment, the experimenter asked me a series of language background questions—What languages other than English did I speak? Mandarin Chinese. At what level? Intermediate. How did I acquire the language? I lived in China as a kid and went to local schools.

Then he asked, or more like stated: “One of your parents is Chinese.”

Yeah. My dad.

The incongruity of this question/statement struck me at the time: What does my ethnicity have to do with my language?

I imagine myself being born some twenty odd years ago, with one half of my language-genes programmed to “Chinese” and the other half to…uh, “German-American.”

Mark you, I wasn’t offended, only confused. I hoped that he hadn’t written down in his notes some version of, “Speaks Chinese because parent is Chinese.”

Surely a linguist, more than say—a non-linguist—knows the difference between language and ethnicity.

Perhaps we could have a brief moment of remembrance for those who are ethnically Chinese/Korean/Mexican/Filipino/Norwegian and cannot speak Chinese/Korean/Mexican/Tagalog/Norwegian.

I suspect that the question of parentage had more to do with personal curiosity than scientific interest—

That doesn’t bother me. I accept that being mixed-race means foregrounding the issue of race itself—if not for other people, then to my own benefit/detriment.

The second experiment appeared to be about gendered language. I rather enjoyed it.

Things to do before leaving Cambridge

1. Go see a movie at the Arts Picturehouse.

2. Go see a play at the Globe, groundling style.

3. Make a few good videos.

4. Tea.

5. British Museum.

6. Cambridge Botanic Garden.

7. More donating of body to science.

8. Sweatshirts.

9. Wren Library.

10. Attend evensong at King’s College Chapel.

Henry

One of the highlights of last term was my interview with screenwriter/author William Nicholson.

My favorite, favorite part of the interview (and it was a really good interview) was when he talked about Henry James.

Now, I’m something of a James fan. But what got to me about the interview was how Nicholson addressed him as if he were a real person. That sounds weird, I know, but I’ve never felt that kind of temerity when it comes to great writers—

Especially with someone like James.

I’ve pasted that part of the interview below. It didn’t make the final cut in my article for TCS.

A little background: Henry James attempted a career as a playwright and failed quite miserably.

I read somewhere that most writers tend to be good at one genre. For example, Henry James was a horrible playwright. What do you think has enabled you to have success across genre and which genre do you prefer?

I think anybody could work across-genre. Henry James could have done it as well. The thing is—it’s no good to write the intensely, psychologically internalized novels he writes and then to think that they’ll transfer to stage, because they won’t. And that’s fine. So what he should have done is done his first draft, taken it along to some actors and said, “Tell me about this.” And they could then say, “Well, nothing’s happening here, Henry! I’ve got nothing to act! I’m just sitting here reading out a book, please give me something to act, drama means drama, things have to happen.” And he would have said, “Oh, what do you mean?” And if he’d followed that line for a bit, he probably would have written fabulous plays.

But that takes a kind of surrender of the ego, which is hard to do, as you get older. And after all, he was a remarkably good novelist. The sadness I feel is not that his plays failed but that he minded so much. I want to say to him, “Look Henry, just relax, you’ve done well. You’ve done some good books. Enough already.” But that’s how people are, they always don’t respect the things that they get their success in and yearn after something else.

Variations on a theme

I used to believe in change.

Traditionally associated with “mutability” as opposed to “immutability,” change or the possibility of it means imperfection—reaching, becoming.

I used to want to change.

But then I realized that I wasn’t sure if I could. I wasn’t sure if change was really a possibility—the same things kept coming up over and over again, just in different forms.

And then someone suggested to me the idea of “variations on a theme.” And this is what I wrote:

“Variations on a theme—a theme that gets better and better, more and more resonant, aching, beautiful—constantly rewritten into something that is me (not me), expresses me (does not express me). In its entirety, it is powerful beyond belief.”

Now, on an essential level—I have no desire to change.

Milton’s Sexism

The second paper I ever wrote was entitled “Sexism in Paradise Lost.”*

Like it says on the tin, I wrote about all the instances in Paradise Lost when Milton says women are inferior to men. If you haven’t read the book, this happens a lot.

Well, as it so happens, I just wrote another paper on Paradise Lost and I really, really wanted to write about sexism again. But this time, I wanted to write about the reader’s response to said sexism—

To explore how a female reader’s response to Milton reveals something about her own conception of fallen gender relations.

One of Milton’s pervasive themes is that freedom is on the inside—freedom of the soul is true freedom. In other words, you could be politically “free” to write or speak against the War in Gaza but mentally or spiritually enslaved by fear or ignorance.

Which is to say that merely rebelling or reacting to perceived inequality in gender relations does not necessarily a free woman make.

True freedom is on the inside—wow, that sounds like such a cliche.

But as someone who is well aware of the fallen-ness of this world and of the gender relations in it—

I know I’m not free.

*The first was about the idea of guilt in Oedipus Rex. We don’t mess around in Homeschool.

Milton’s Eve

Poor Eve with her “wanton ringlets.” If only she had invested in a hair straightener, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.

Milton’s God

The professor—speaking on God’s sadistic behavior in Paradise Lost—called God “not a well person.”

One of my favorite lecture moments, ever.

Dorothea

Oh—

I came up with a reason why Dorothea Brooke is actually not the most perfect character to ever exist within a fictional universe.

She could never write satire.

So there.

A Quiet Day

It’s been a quiet day here in Queen’s wing—even though I feel like I’ve done a lot.

I started off the day early at 7am finishing my paper for my early modernists supervision. I was writing about The Ambassadors by Henry James. I finished that then went to my supervision at 12pm. In between, I ate some soup (Scottish broth) and drank some Dr. Pepper. I like Dr. Pepper.

After my supervision (which was good), I hung out for a while until it was time to go to my practical criticism supervision. My prac. crit. supervision is fun because I get to have it with real, live British students! No really! They are third years at Homerton and very nice.

My prac. crit. supervision is kind of far from Homerton—well, it feels far, at least. It’s at Lucy Cavendish College, which only admits women students.

After that supervision, I rode back to Homerton—and found out I got an interview with a famous screenwriter who went to Cambridge! Well, I suppose he’s as famous as screenwriters can be, which is to say not that famous in terms of name recognition.

My interview is on Wednesday, and I’m writing it up for The Cambridge Student, one of two newspapers here. I’m pretty psyched.

I typed up some interview questions, then went to Subway where I ran into the Australians.

That’s about it. This week I’m going to try to stay on top of my reading (yeah right). I have an essay due Friday on Aristotle’s four causes. I’m going to the Union sexism debate on Thursday.

And this weekend I’m hoping to get out of Cambridge and go on a trip somewhere! Maybe with the caving society. They’re going to Wales.

I feel like a tremendous weight has been lifted—probably because I finished my paper.

That’s it.