All is Vanity

Recently I have read through the book of Ecclesiastes. When I was younger I got the impression that Solomon was fumbling his way through to the conclusion, where 'all counts' where of course I thought he was right there, but not so right in the rest of the book. How could he be right, a Christian, a Jew, saying 'Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow you die. All is vanity!' He sounded like a crazy magician at a feast with an open bar.

However, this round, this verse caught my eye: "Behold, what I have seen to be good and fitting is to eat and drink and find enjoyment in all the toil with which one toils under the sun the few days of his life that God has given him, for this is his lot. Everyone also to whom God as given wealth and possessions and power to enjoy them, and to accept his lot and rejoice in his toil-- this is the gift of God. For he will not much remember the days of his life because God keeps him occupied with joy in his heart."

I found this scandelous. A rich man, a God-fearing rich man, enjoy his wealth? He shouldn't, like the pious saints and monks, give it away to the poor and live as a hermit in the desert? A gift of God to enjoy possessions? A gift of God to enjoy life? A command to eat and to drink (alcohol?!) and most shockingly Be Happy? I'm not supposed to go around thinking about the passion of Christ all day and be sad I'm not as good as I ought to be?

This will sound very silly, but for a long time I thought only stupid people were happy. Pure gothic romantic that I was, I didn't think Christians were allowed to be happy, and that if you were, it was only because you were to dim to see the enormous suffering present in the world. How dare you be happy when there are people dying in Africa?

I laught to think of myself in high school. I had a crazy ambitions list: I wanted to see all 7 wonders of the world; I wanted to learn 7 different languages; read the complete works of Sherlock Holmes and Shakespeare; to climb the Appalachian trail, to learn how to install a carburator, to become ambidexterous.

College tempered that. Professor Goldberg used to say college was about finding your limitations, and then build yourself up within those limitations to achieve what you needed to. I found my limits and I've rather neglected the ambitions list, but I found, despite it all, that I don't remember much. I don't remember much of high school, or even of college: of friendships, or past relationships, or heart-aches, or despairs. I find that Solomon is right, that I have not remembered the days of my life, because 'God keeps him occupied with joy in his heart.'

And, as hedonistic as it may sound, in the past year, well-apart from this verse, I have striven to be joyful in the present day. I'm a much calmer person. I'm no longer freaking out, as I probably should, about the fall ["omg i don't have any solidified plans"]; I'm worried about my dissertation, with my present task as I should be.

I found the book of Ecclesiastes so intruiging, I asked a lady in my church to read through it with me, as I am sure there are many more gems hidden within this work to further instruct me in wisdom. Perhaps I am horribly naive, but I've always approached books with, what can I possibly learn from this? What does this have to teach me? Even if I'm being stupidy fooled, its a delicious way of doing so.

I feel it all

I can't say I actually 'feel it all' or even 'feel it all a little bit', but about some things I feel very strongly. Especially when I read secondary articles on books I love. The other day I was reading something on a story called "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight" and if you can dig out Eng Lit 101 Norton Anthology, I highly recommend 30 minutes of your life to scour that poem. Well, I was reading what some scholar had written about it, and I felt like this person was distorting absolutely everything I loved about SGGK. They were saying awful things, distorting, what I perceived to be the real intention of the story, and I got so angry. At first I was seething with anger and started to call this author all sorts of bad names for the harm they were doing to Gawain's repuation. But then, I surprised myself by bursting into tears. Showers of them. I was so angry, but at the same time, so sad this person refused to see such beauty in a work I thought was obvious, made me cry at first in anger, and then, in sadness for them. Now, its rather silly to cry over something someone else wrote, when it hardly concerns me, only the text I'm reading.

My advisor has suggested a different route I take with my thesis, and while I know this will ultimately prove beneficial, I have found it initially frustrating. I was venting my frustrations to poor Fran, to which he replied, "Well, everybody hates work, Nat. Just buckle down and it'll be over 'for you know it." [Fran usually hits my moods spot on, so it was quite surpsingly when] I found myself replying, "But I don't hate work. I love what I do. I really love it, and its so odd for me to dislike what I'm doing, as I've never disliked a days work of this in my life." Frustrating, yes. Very frustrating. But do I love it? Yes, I really do. It strikes a chord somewhere that inspires my entire being. I often think its with my faith. However, with this resonance, with this love of my subject, with this frustration in work, I can't help but think of my other, dare I call them colleagues?, who are also plodding along in their Medieval History and Late Antiquity dissertations along with me, and I can only raise the ever-essential glass of wine to them in a warm-hearted and like minded toast, that they may find deep fulfillment in their dissertation and lasting oh-so-deserved pride in the work of their hands; that they not find it vanity, but surprising joy, and that their minds uncover the nature of the medieval mind.

Humiliations Galore

Imagine, having a body you always thought was slim, then waking up one morning to find that size 's' of your underwear won't even make its way around your thighs, and instead of mercifully bursting a seam to allow you to dress in dignity, refuses to stretch full on, and you now have to welcome the day commando, as there is nothing clean in your drawer.
That, ladies and gentlemen, has been my experience as a master's student at Edinburgh.

Don't get me wrong: in class I was brilliant. I could answer every question, guess every analogy, make out every line of hazy 12th c. Middle English, but the papers and the grading system! All my bests efforts at UNC combined would not have allowed me to PASS a single essay at Edinburgh. The first grade I ever got back was a '58' in Latin Paleography, with the instructor adding, 'Thats a very respectable mark.' I had poured hours into that project only to get a 'C' and that was respectable?! The second mark I got back, I poured and poured over researching an essay. My mark? a 50. I barely passed. My main instructor had failed me, but the kind marks of the second marker thought it a bit harsh. But still a 50! To barely pass! Me, who had always gotten straight A's my entire life. To nearly fail. The resounding question in my mind was "WHO DO I HAVE TO SLEEP WITH TO GET AN A IN THIS COUNTRY?!" Now, those of you who know me will laugh as you know I'm as frigid as my mema's 6 foot deep freezer. But still the question remained: what do these people want?

My next essays I received 'respectable marks' again and jumped into the air dancing when I received a 68 - 'just two points from an 'A'. In the throws (or the bowels?) of my dissertation the question I keep facing, is what do they want from me? And will it be good enough?

The best answer I have found is to pretend. Have you ever driven in your car, listening to NPR and pretend that you're giving the answers to the person their interviewing? I can remember doing that in a storm once. "And Dr. Moore, what were the influences of your world changing novel?" "Well, Ira, I can truly say King Arthur and Oscar Wilde were in my thoughts when I composed the pivotal scene..." Anyhow, when I sit down to write my thesis, I pretend I'm as famous as JK Rowling and as brilliant as C.S. Lewis and as alegorical as Dante and forthright as mother, and write like I am somebody and speaking to a room of brilliant scholars, and as stupid as it sounds, it helps. It helps me achieve my most complex sentences and link two- and-two together. It helps me grease those intellectual axels. Sometimes, I even propose a scathing toaste to academics I despise (sort of like Screwtape's toast at the end of the Letters). Speaking of which, I will rant about that next...

ARO

- I am proud of myself for facing my fear of the library and tackling a ton of books for my dissertation today. However, my brain doesn't seem to have exercised this muscle much for now looking at this pile of books after a break, its refusing to work. It jumps straight into 'panic' mode. Not the gasping for breathe, hyperventilating sort of panic, but the ah my brain is too full of information and I can't figure out how to sort it panic, so that I literally can't read non-fiction anymore. Hence the last hour I've been reading up on how to approach slightly aggressive rabbits and getting really excited for Harry Potter 7 Pt 2. WEll I have a whole pile of books I suddenly want to read, but now have to wait until after dissertation.

+ Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell-- a book about magic, leant to me by Fran's mama. Its huge, but it looks fascinating
+ Virginia Wolfe, Women and Fiction-- its music to my soul, but I've only had it in snatches. Can't wait to devour this book.

When I first read Virginia Wolfe, I was very skeptical. When I read A Room of One's Own, I was still uncertain. I found the style beautiful, lurid, lyrical. But I wasn't sure it was true. After four weeks on the move, with no room, with no place to put down my books, to sit down and write, to compile my thoughts or compose my infamous to-do lists, I've found Wolfe to be spot on. I'm not sure how it is with others, but for me, to truly write, to truly tackle a literary subject, I must have a space of my own, to unpack and uncoil, dive-- both into the subject I'm reading and to find what my thoughts are about this subject. To discover what I think, is by far, the most suprising and most rewarding. So. Has been galloping off to another country, constiuting a debt the size of the Malfoy Manor, to struggle against an academic system unfamiliar and humiliating-- has it been worth it? Moments with my window open, a light breeze nosing through, the sun setting behind the church steeple, and to be entirely at the beck and call of only to myself is utterly luxurious, and seem like rich rich soil in which a foundling plant is to thrive.

A Bit of Home

For Chrismas, Abby created this for me, which was one of the sweetest presents I've ever received. At Christmas, I couldn't bring it back with me as I didn't have enough space, but it was top on my list to bring back this time. On it are lyrics from the Mumford song "After the Storm" and on its side is a flower in the shape of the continent of Africa. I know Abby's heart is in East Africa and I think one day, she'll manage to tear her way back there again. In the meantime, its a good way to keep my sister near and the East of Africa in my thoughts and prayers, especially in light of the awful drought that threatens yet again to rip away any possibilty of stability or sustainability: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-14060545

Variations Upon a Theme: Shakespeare Part II

When we went to the Globe, I picked up a facsimile of a first edition print of Shakespeare's Loves Labour's Lost. I've never read this play and thought I'd give this copy a try, but found this edition far too difficult to absorb at midnight on a train headed home. The folios were first published in 1623 and I found the replication of print styles intriguing. I've included the first photo to give an idea of the size of the thing: loads longer and wider than any regular book, which oddly gives the book a sort of pathos. The second photo is to demonstrate the style of the print, which is surprisingly challenging to read, and tests an ability to read 17th c. typescript.

The Globe Theater

This is in the standing area of the globe, me clutching an edition of hamlet.

Here are Dr. Simon, Professor Karen, and the ever-photogenic Fran.

Yesterday the Goodisons took Francis and myself to the Globe Theatre to see a production of Hamlet- which was one of the single best experiences of my life. [The other that ranks was when the Avett Brothers performed at UNC.] I think every theater should be shaped like the Globe. It was three stories of seated sections shaped in a semi-circle that surround the stage that jutts out of the back wall. In addition to the risers, there is also an enormous standing section where people are on just about chin level with the stage. Its also outdoors-- with an open roof-- which allowed a gentle breeze to constantly lick our faces and even twittering birds to land on the thatched roof. With so many people, especially the standing audience the atmostphere is one of energy which the actors thrive off.

The troop was amazing opening and ending the show with songs and dance which they played themselves on a violin, mandolin and guitar, all singing and dancing. The dialogue moved rather quickly which kept our attention and it was astonishingly easy to follow the plot and charachters. Hamlet himself was superb, providing a funny and lively performance and never failed to hold our attention. Rosencrantz and Gildenstern were funny, and the cast managed to bring new life to a very popular drama. As far as criticism, I found they had cut a bit of dialogue (though understandably) but in a rather important section in the "repentance" of King Claudius, which is a pivotal moment of the play. Also, the woman who played Ophelia was dynamic and loud, and I am of the opinion that the actress should approach her charachter with a sensitivity that this one failed to show. However, it was such an elating performance that I couldn't stop smiling the entire time and am so thankful for the privilege to have attended.