星's profileThe Wind from SalzburgPhotosBlogLists Tools Help

Blog


    December 16

    纯属搞笑

    2008)作文卷

     

    学校全称:_______南京大学_____________专业:_________英语__________________

     

    姓名:_______陈星________    性别:____________   年级:_______大三_______

     

    高考成绩____0_____  数学___0_____   语文____0_____    英语 ______0______

     

    作文要求: Currently, there has been a heated discussion on whether it is appropriate for college students to get married. Write an essay about this issue to state your opinions in less than 400 words within 45 minutes; and please write down why you write the way you do in 10 minutes (for this part, you can use either Chinese or English).

     

     

    Some reputedly wise man or another once observed on the subject of marriage that "one cannot be in love and be wise"—probably a good summary of all the reasons a horrified Chinese public put forward against students' getting married while they are still at college. If the happy couple are knocked senseless by the bliss—and perhaps the burden that comes with it—of marriage, there is no chance of their surviving the challenging college and the still-more-challenging society that awaits them: thus the heated debate about the appropriateness of college students' foray into the world of matrimony.

     

    In my most humble opinion, all this fuss (if I may use the word) is rather—sorry about that—pointless and silly when we examine the actual probability of a college-student marriage.

     

    To get married, one first has to have an object of fervent adoration and devotion. Admittedly a lot of the college students today walk around the campus hand in hand with someone of the opposite sex; but I doubt there will be too many of them that are ready to walk hand in hand with this same someone till the end of eternity. It takes serious looking-around and weighing-the-odds to single out the person with whom till death does one part. Scooped up in an area of limited space housing a limited collection of people, college students are yet to enjoy the luxury of choice a real society can offer them.

     

    Even if a chap is emotionally ready enough to put his head on the block whilst at college, there is still much that stands in the way of the execution of his (or her, for that matter) will. A marriage is, by all account, a most expensive stuff. The happy couple would need an apartment to start with—they can hardly expect to convert either of their dormitories into a bridal suite. Despite the good news that housing expenses are dropping straight down under the influence of an economic recession, an apartment is still quite a handful to pay for. With the purchase of an apartment come furniture bills, electricity bills, gas bills, water bills, garbage bills, food expenses, education fees for themselves, and, possibly, educational investment for the next generation—to mention but the very tip of the iceberg.

     

    The Chinese marital law states that the youngest possible legal age for marriage is 20 for a girl and 22 for a boy. So if we have a college-student couple who has achieved all the above mentioned missions—managed to pass all their academic exams, made the decision to commit themselves to one another for the rest of their lives (or, at least, a good part of their lives) plus having enough gold jingling in their pockets to not die of starvation or of cold, and having the good fortune of being born under a set of extremely obliging parents who are willing to give their consent—all by the age of 20 or 22, then who is to stop these prodigies from signing the marriage contract?

     

    But then, the probability of something of this sort occurring in real life is bordering dangerously on zero. In an age when even well-educated and well-paid college graduates hesitate about tying the knot around their necks, we might as well save our breath to fuss over some other issues that are worth fussing over.

    December 11

    Fritz+Hermann+Christmas

     
     
    想要大大地赞美这两个人,我的英文中文水平都不够,才情也不够。所以我要写一篇中英文混杂,颠三倒四,语无伦次的。
     
    我也说不清我为什么那么喜欢Fritz Wunderlich,为什么喜欢听他和好朋友Hermann Prey一起唱二重唱。听到这些曲子的时候,就觉得它们该sound like this--之前听过的任何版本通通被推翻。他们唱圣诞歌,声音里好像就有挂满了亮晶晶球球的绿柏,有暖暖的壁炉里噼噼啪啪的火焰,有屋外剔透的白雪,夜空晶亮的月亮。圣诞节应该这么过:热闹过后,把自己裹成个粽子,坐在花园里听Fritz HermannStill, Still, Still.
     
    前一阵子吵着闹着要的那张碟子Eine Weihnachtsmusik终于到手了:逼着老爸又厚着脸皮麻烦老朋友出马。说起来买这张碟子还颇有点故事。Amazon的英文网站上没有, 而是在Amazon.de上搜到的。美国那边老爸的朋友就把德国发来的一封封邮件转给中国的陈星她爸,老爸再趁着我们MSN的时候把这些邮件发给日本的陈星。陈星用她那磕磕巴巴的德文大概琢磨出意思来之后,能翻过来的用英文直翻,没本事的用中文总结之,告之老爸,老爸再告之朋友。如此如此,五次三番。中间碟子还寄丢了一次,只好和德国人再要。德国人倒也爽快,唰地又寄一张出来,附封信说,要是我们寄重了,请寄一张回来,邮费我们出。等我手里的这张终于辗转到了中国以后,美国那边来email说,我收到先前那张了。。。
     
    说跑题了呢。

    Eine WeihnachtsmusikFritzHermann一起灌的最后一张唱片。1966年六月十日和十一日录制。1966年九月十七日Fritz就去世了,九月二十六本应是他的三十六岁生日(和莫扎特还真像)。1966年十一月,这张碟子首次发行。
    碟子很短很短,总共四十来分钟,两人真正合唱的只有七首,另有FritzHermann各自的一首独唱。听着Hermann Prey美妙的男中音和着Fritz Wunderlich如玉般且温软且刚硬的男高音,再想到Fritz Wunderlich绚丽短暂的一生,以及他俩一样绚丽短暂的一段友谊,便不甚唏嘘。
    所以碟子短归短,却曲曲天籁,摄人心魂。
     
    Youtube的那个连接里有四首。
    2:43开始的那首,美得language fails me,特别是一开头Fritz的那段。 只能说,真的就如他一开口唱的那句"Vom Himmel hoch, o Englein kommt", 天使的确是来了。
     
    Vom Himmel hoch, o Englein kommt!
    Eia, eia, susani, susani, susani.
    Kommt, singt und klingt, kommt, pfeit und trombt!
    Alleluja, Alleluja! Von Jesus singt und Maria.
     
    Kommt ohne Instrumenten nit!
    Eia, eia, susani, susani, susani.
    Bringt Lauten, Harfen, Geigen mit!
    Alleluja, Alleluja! Von Jesus singt und Maria.
     
    Hier muss die Musik himmlisch sein,
    Eia, eia, susani, susani, susani.
    Weil dies ein himmlisch’ Kindelein.
    Alleluja, Alleluja! Von Jesus singt und Maria.

    December 04

    Bill on Will

     
    "Before he came into a lot of money in 1839, Richard Plantagenet Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos Grenville, second Duke of Buckingham and Chandos, led a largely uneventful life.
    He sired an illegitiment child in Italy, spole occasionally in the Houses of Parliament against the repeal of the Corn Laws, and developed an early interest in plumbing (his house at Stowe, in Buckinghamshire, had nine of the first flush toilets in England), but otherwise was distinguished by nothing more than his glorious prospects and many names. But after inheriting his titles and one of England's great estates, he astonished his associates, and no doubt himself, by managing to lose every penny of his inheritance in just nine years through a series of spectacularly unsound investments."
     
    "The Droeshout engraving, as it is known (after its artist, Martin Droeshout), is an arrestingly--we might almost say magnificently--mediocre piece of work. Nearly everything about it is flawed. One eye is bigger than the other. The mouth is curiously mispositioned. The hair is longer on one side of the subject's head than the other, and the head itself is out of proportion to the body and seems to float off the shoulders, like a balloon. Worst of all, the subject looks diffident, apologetic, almost frightened--nothing like the gallant and confident figure that speaks to us from the plays."
    (The Droeshout Engraving)
     
    "The paradoxical consequence is that we all recognize a likeness of Shakespeare the instant we see one, and yet wo don't really know what he looked like. It is this like with nearly every aspect of his life and character: He is at once the best known and least known of figures."
     
    "We are not sure how best to spell his name--but then neither, it appears, was he, for the name is never spelled the same way twice in the signature that survive. (They read as 'Willm Shaksp,' 'William Shakespe,' 'Wm Shakspe,' 'William Shakspere,' 'Willm Shakspere,' and 'William Shakspeare.' Curiously one spelling he didn't use was the one now universally attached to his name.)"
     
    "To answer the obvious question, this book was written not so much because the world needs another book on Shakespeare as becaseu this series does. The idea is a simple one: to see how much of Shakespeare we can know, really known, from the record.
    Which is one reason, of course, it's so slender."
     
     
    Bravo Bill!
    November 10

    An Elegy

    An Elegy
     
    Here lies one Chen Xing
    A most pathetic thing
    Who had the nerve to think
    That her writing didn’t stink
    Who had a cunning plan
    About a play on Japan
    And China of course
    These are excellent source
    If dealt in the right hand
    Out would come something grand
    But no such dream ’d come real
    When Chen Xing was at the wheel
     
    “No, we would not play”
    So the Japanese say
    “Look at what you wrote
    Too much Shakey you did quote
    We young people don’t like
    Such old-fashioned tyke
    Besides think about our age
    We’ve no experience on stage
    It is impossible for us to
    Work it out in a month or two
    To tell you the truth—it’s kinda sad
    None of our actors dares to act
    Therefore, Chen Xing, do you see
    How very unpractical you seem to be
    So off with your poems, off with the prose
    Oops! And there your play script goes.”
     
    Chen Xing stormed all the way back
    And that night died of a heart attack
    (But allow me to say it’s just as well
    Her writing is as bad as hell)
    People, let’s learn from this story
    Never dream for impossible glory
    As to Chen Xing, well, goodbye
    Take heart—even Shakespeares have to die
    November 06

    Dr. Swift, I Salute You

    The Lady's Dressing Room

    Jonathan Swift

    1732

    Edited by Jack Lynch

    Five Hours, (and who can do it less in?)
    By haughty Celia spent in Dressing;
    The Goddess from her Chamber issues,
    Array'd in Lace, Brocades and Tissues.

       Strephon, who found the Room was void, [5]
    And Betty otherwise employ'd;
    Stole in, and took a strict Survey,
    Of all the Litter as it lay;
    Whereof, to make the Matter clear,
    An Inventory follows here. [10]

       And first a dirty Smock appear'd,
    Beneath the Arm-pits well besmear'd.
    Strephon, the Rogue, display'd it wide,
    And turn'd it round on every Side.
    On such a Point few Words are best, [15]
    And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
    But swears how damnably the Men lie,
    In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
    Now listen while he next produces,
    The various Combs for various Uses, [20]
    Fill'd up with Dirt so closely fixt,
    No Brush could force a way betwixt.
    A Paste of Composition rare,
    Sweat, Dandriff, Powder, Lead and Hair;
    A Forehead Cloth with Oyl upon't [25]
    To smooth the Wrinkles on her Front;
    Here Allum Flower to stop the Steams,
    Exhal'd from sour unsavoury Streams,
    There Night-gloves made of Tripsy's Hide,
    Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she dy'd, [30]
    With Puppy Water, Beauty's Help
    Distill'd from Tripsy's darling Whelp;
    Here Gallypots and Vials plac'd,
    Some fill'd with washes, some with Paste,
    Some with Pomatum, Paints and Slops, [35]
    And Ointments good for scabby Chops.
    Hard by a filthy Bason stands,
    Fowl'd with the Scouring of her Hands;
    The Bason takes whatever comes
    The Scrapings of her Teeth and Gums, [40]
    A nasty Compound of all Hues,
    For here she spits, and here she spues.
    But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's Bowels,
    When he beheld and smelt the Towels,
    Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd [45]
    With Dirt, and Sweat, and Ear-Wax grim'd.
    No Object Strephon's Eye escapes,
    Here Pettycoats in frowzy Heaps;
    Nor be the Handkerchiefs forgot
    All varnish'd o'er with Snuff and Snot. [50]
    The Stockings, why shou'd I expose,
    Stain'd with the Marks of stinking Toes;
    Or greasy Coifs and Pinners reeking,
    Which Celia slept at least a Week in?
    A Pair of Tweezers next he found [55]
    To pluck her Brows in Arches round,
    Or Hairs that sink the Forehead low,
    Or on her Chin like Bristles grow.

       The Virtues we must not let pass,
    Of Celia's magnifying Glass. [60]
    When frighted Strephon cast his Eye on't
    It shew'd the Visage of a Gyant.
    A Glass that can to Sight disclose,
    The smallest Worm in Celia's Nose,
    And faithfully direct her Nail [65]
    To squeeze it out from Head to Tail;
    For catch it nicely by the Head,
    It must come out alive or dead.

       Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
    And must you needs describe the Chest? [70]
    That careless Wench! no Creature warn her
    To move it out from yonder Corner;
    But leave it standing full in Sight
    For you to exercise your Spight.
    In vain, the Workman shew'd his Wit [75]
    With Rings and Hinges counterfeit
    To make it seem in this Disguise,
    A Cabinet to vulgar Eyes;
    For Strephon ventur'd to look in,
    Resolv'd to go thro' thick and thin; [80]
    He lifts the Lid, there needs no more,
    He smelt it all the Time before.
    As from within Pandora's Box,
    When Epimetheus op'd the Locks,
    A sudden universal Crew [85]
    Of humane Evils upwards flew;
    He still was comforted to find
    That Hope at last remain'd behind;
    So Strephon lifting up the Lid,
    To view what in the Chest was hid. [90]
    The Vapours flew from out the Vent,
    But Strephon cautious never meant
    The Bottom of the Pan to grope,
    And fowl his Hands in Search of Hope.
    O never may such vile Machine [95]
    Be once in Celia's Chamber seen!
    O may she better learn to keep
    "Those Secrets of the hoary deep!"

       As Mutton Cutlets, Prime of Meat,
    Which tho' with Art you salt and beat, [100]
    As Laws of Cookery require,
    And toast them at the clearest Fire;
    If from adown the hopful Chops
    The Fat upon a Cinder drops,
    To stinking Smoak it turns the Flame [105]
    Pois'ning the Flesh from whence it came;
    And up exhales a greasy Stench,
    For which you curse the careless Wench;
    So Things, which must not be exprest,
    When plumpt into the reeking Chest; [110]
    Send up an excremental Smell
    To taint the Parts from whence they fell.
    The Pettycoats and Gown perfume,
    Which waft a Stink round every Room.

       Thus finishing his grand Survey, [115]
    Disgusted Strephon stole away
    Repeating in his amorous Fits,
    Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!

       But Vengeance, Goddess never sleeping
    Soon punish'd Strephon for his Peeping; [120]
    His foul Imagination links
    Each Dame he sees with all her Stinks:
    And, if unsav'ry Odours fly,
    Conceives a Lady standing by:
    All Women his Description fits, [125]
    And both Idea's jump like Wits:
    By vicious Fancy coupled fast,
    And still appearing in Contrast.
    I pity wretched Strephon blind
    To all the Charms of Female Kind; [130]
    Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
    Because she rose from stinking Ooze?
    To him that looks behind the Scene,
    Satira's but some pocky Quean.
    When Celia in her Glory shows, [135]
    If Strephon would but stop his Nose;
    (Who now so impiously blasphemes
    Her Ointments, Daubs, and Paints and Creams,
    Her Washes, Slops, and every Clout,
    With which he makes so foul a Rout;) [140]
    He soon would learn to think like me,
    And bless his ravisht Sight to see
    Such Order from Confusion sprung,
    Such gaudy Tulips rais'd from Dung.

    Notes

    1. The names Strephon and Celia come from classical pastoral poetry or romance.

    2. Betty is the generic name for a maidservant.

    3. Lead was used as a cosmetic to whiten the face.

    4. Front, "forehead."

    5. Allum flower, or powded alum, is used as an antiperspirant.

    6. Tripsy, a typical name of a lapdog.

    7. Whelp, "puppy."

    8. Gallypots, "jars."

    9. Pomatum, "ointment for the hair."

    10. Hard, "near."

    11. Frowzy, "messy."

    12. Coifs and Pinners, "night caps."

    13. Glass, "mirror."

    14. Machine, "Any complicated piece of workmanship" (Johnson).

    15. "Those Secrets of the hoary deep": See Paradise Lost, 2.890-91: "Before their eyes in sudden view appear/The secrets of the hoary Deep."

    16. Satira, the heroine of The Rival Queens by Nathaniel Lee; quean, "A worthless woman, generally a strumpet" (Johnson). Pocky suggests either smallpox or a venereal disease.

    October 19

    考古发现

    貌似这是上学期帮Lizzy糊的作业。(好好的德语系要写英语诗,北外的老师果然狠。)
     
    发现我也很会酸的。。。
     
    If Only
    If only, if only, I had not caught your sight
    If only, if only, my fancy had not taken flight
    If only, if only, you had not turned and smiled
    If only, if only, your eyes were not so mild
    If only, if only, you had not looked at me
    If only, if only, my heart had not danced with glee
    If only, if only, you had not walked away
    If only, if only, I had not sighed with dismay
    If only, if only, it was not love at first glance
    If only, if only, you had not put me in a trance
    If only, if only, love was not madness none might cure
    If only, if only, passion was not torture none can endure
    If only, if only, I would forget you in a few days
    If only, if only, you might remember my fervent gaze
    If only, if only, we would meet again
    If only, if only, I loved not in vain
    October 11

    What You WILL

    Much Ado About Nothing (1995)
    Director: Kenneth Branagh
    much-ado-about-nothing-DVDcover.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    Possibly the most successful and popular adaptation of a Shakespearean play ever, Kenneth Branagh’s version of Much Ado About Nothing captures the bubbling, sizzling humor and merriment in Shakespeare’s original script. The scene where Benedick and Beatrice are tricked into falling in love with one another is as delightful as it can get. Wonderful music. Excellent casting. Beautiful landscape.
    Some has criticized this version of being too “bright and happy”, that it deliberately overlooks the dark undertone in Shakespeare’s original. Maybe. It’s true that one does not feel so settled after reading the play. But who cares! We mediocre film watchers love green fields and clear fountains, dashing men in regimentals, witty ladies in white muslin. We love melodious melodies, villainous villains, foolish fools, and happy happy endings.
    Call me vulgar.
     
     
    As You Like It (2007)
    Director: Kenneth Branagh
    bryce.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    This film sadly demonstrates the fact that even geniuses do not-so-very-ingenious things once in a while.
    The setting is extremely unexpected to start with: 19th century Japan. Not that I am against innovation of ideas or Japan in any way, but the idea of connecting As You Like It (one of my very favorite Shakespeare plays) with Japan is just…weird.
    OK, I know that Rosalind is still Rosalind even when she wears a kimono and Orlando is still Orland though he turns into a way-too-skinny sumo wrestler, but hanging katakana on the trees? Man, give me a break. (I rewatched the film in my Shakespeare class at ICU again. Judging from the continuing giggling from the students around me—even at the most serious moments—the “Japanese” culture presented here is not so very Japanese after all.)
    Also, it would be more desirable if Orlando could be white. I am not a racist in any way. It is just that somehow I got into my head that Orlando is one of the handsomest of all Shakespeare heroes, whereas the actor playing Orlando in this film definitely has no chance of ever being called handsome (God bless him). In fact, the only really handsome man in the film is the actor playing Silvius (who, though is a genuine Brit, looks very Asian in Japanese costumes). But he only has a few scenes.
    But those problems can be overlooked if the play is nicely adapted. But it is not. Large chunks of important lines are cut, leaving only the main plot. But the problem is, As You Like It does not have a very exciting and clear story line like Much Ado About Nothing. Also, somehow the whole movie makes you feel very heavy. Our professor explained that in the heart of every good comedy, there is a very serious story. The play builds on this story, adding small incidences and witty language to make it a comedy. If you strip all these away, then of course you are left with only a heavy story.
    Also, because of the excessive cutting of the lines, the character of Rosalind is seriously damaged. Most experts claim that Rosalind is the greatest of all Shakespearean heroines. But in this version, she most certainly is not. She’s sentimental, hysterical, overly feminine, and not at all in control of the love game she herself devised.
    The acting also leaves much to be desired. The actress playing Rosalind makes no effort to act like a man when Rosalind turns into Ganymede. Celia is just a silly sidekick of Rosalind’s. Phoebe is too exaggerated. Silvius…well, one does not want to say anything against a handsome young man…but his tone and body language are almost the same throughout the play (perhaps this is what Shakespeare intended? Silvius is but a secondary character, desperately in love and that’s all.)
    On the other hand, the portray of the melancholy Jaques and the court jester Touchstone respectively is masterly.
    But it is still Branagh. And since there is not yet a better film version of As You Like It (pity, pity, pity), it’ll have to do for the moment.
    dd_like2102.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
     
    Twelfth Night (or What You Will) (1996)
    twelfth_night.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    Director: Trevor Nunn
     
    One word: Bravo.
     
    All star performance (though indeed with Britain, you almost always get all-star performance, think of the size of the that country). Imogen Stubbs (who played Lucy Steel in Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility, imagine my surprise…), Helena Bonham Carter (A Room with a View), Sir Ben Kingsley (Gandhi), Imelda Staunton (Sense and Sensibility, Much Ado About Nothing), Toby Stephens (Jane Eyre, Possession, I don’t really like him though, I don’t know why.)
    Amazing casting: Amazingly, Viola and Sebastian actually do look broadly alike.
    Excellent setting: Edwardian
    Wonderful landscape: Cornwall
    Beautiful costume: Viola’s regimental is so…there is no other word for it…attractive. Olivia’s pre-Raphaelic gown makes her looks like a moving masterpiece.
    Wonderful acting: Just look at Imogen Stubbs. When Viola turns into Cessario, you are really convinced that this is a boy. (I perfectly understand how Olivia falls in love with “him”. I would, had it been me.) Ben Kingsley’s portray of Feste is sophisticated. And Mel Smith’s Malvolio is masterly. (I’d like to see how Laurence Olivier acts Malvolio though, that must be a treat for the eye.)
    023-1.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    Perfect adaptation: The original flavor of the play is not lost a bit in the film. The whole film you feel sweet and bitter (not bitter sweet), happy and disappointed. The ending, with the disturbing and pathetic reappearance of poor Malvolio is a bit sad and dark, but that is the same feeling you get with reading the play.
    I am running out of positive adjectives here.
    But I’ve watched it for four nights straight.
    They say action speaks louder than words.
    September 30

    !!!

     
    今年过节不收礼,
    收礼只收:

    Eine Weihnachtsmusik

    von Fritz Wunderlich (Künstler), Hermann Prey (Künstler), Will Quadflieg (Künstler), Traditional (Komponist), Weihnachtsgeschichte Nach Lukas (Komponist)
     
    September 27

    Text Books Can Be Fun

    Cutting, J., (2008), Pragmatics and Discourse: A resource book for students, Rougtledge (London), 2nd Edition, 39-40

    (Italic mine)
     
    Other forms of non-observance of maxims
     
    Grice listed two other ways to fail to fulfil a maxim: to infringe it and to opt out. A speaker infringing a maxim or opting out of a maxim is not implying something different from the words or being intentionally misleading.
    A speaker infringing a maxim fails to observe a maxim because of their imperfect linguistic performance. This can happen if the speaker has an imperfect command of the language (a child or a foreign learner), if their performance is impaired (nervousness, drunkenness, excitement), if they have a congnitive impairment, or if they are simply incapable of speakeing clearly (Thomas 1995:74). President Bush is a master at infringing the maxim of manner:
     
    Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.
    George W. Bush, DC, 5 August 2004
     
    You never know what your history is going to be like until long after you're gone.
    George W. Bush, DC, 5 August 2006
    September 06

    给爸妈看的,与校内上那篇如有雷同,那是当然

    九月五日 晴
     
    东京第五天。
     
    还是只会说两句日语:“谢谢”“对不起”。下一个宏伟目标是学会说“我不会说日语”。
     
    今天把这学期的课选定了:
    English as an International Language
    History of English Literature
    Shakespeare
    Pragmatics and Language Learning
    12个学分,不许再多了。所以说中国的孩子还是更能吃苦。(还是国外的学分更值钱些?)南大这学期课表那么空,不算选修课,还有二十多个学分呢。
    看来是没法把这学期南大的课消掉了。今天晚上给丁主任打份申请,看看能不能函授。然后十一月底回来跟班上课。不行的话。。。
    我大四就要浦口鼓楼两边冲了。干脆全搬仙林去好了,日子好过一点。(想去鼓楼的同志们不要踹我。)
    要不干脆我今年大休,留级算了。
    就算行的话。。。
    估计上课的老师也不会给我好眼色看,分数会压得忒低吧。
    那就毕业在南大门口卖馒头好了。
     
    日本这个地方挺不错的,人民特别热情耐心(不管是不是由衷的,反正让我这种小老外心里很舒服)。前两天去警察局登记,一切顺利极了,工作人员态度极好。和暑假陪日本人在我们这儿的警察局登记的经历一比,绝对是天上地下。
    日本的交通秩序也好极了,三步就能跨过去的小街也有红绿灯。大家都乖乖地等着。自行车道与汽车道离得远远的,于是我这种在国内打死不敢骑车上街的人,现在也是天天骑着车招摇过市。
    就是过日子太贵了,买了两本教材(教材是原版进口的所谓“洋书”,所以分外贵。唉,谁叫我是学英文的),一点纸笔就要了我一万多日元。算算差不多是一吊钱了。把我心疼的。
    还有一件郁闷的事儿,就是总被当成日本人,自然得被认为会说日本话,结果干什么开头都非得说“Sorry I don't speak Japanese"。最可恶的是,路上老碰到些黄头发蓝眼睛的,分不清中国人和日本人长得有什么区别,冲上来就叽里呱啦一通日语问路。ICU因为是所“International School”,老外还特别多。看着这帮学罗马字母长大的家伙日语耍得那么溜,我作为一个说日语鼻祖语言的人,自尊心时时受到强烈的打击。
     
    ICU的风景极好,树很多,住的房子就藏在树林子里,很有点格林童话里的味道。只可惜晚上睡觉时外面的知了实在闹腾得太厉害,有的时候床上还会有奇形怪状的虫子造访。还好我不怕虫子,不然魂不吓掉,嗓子也要叫哑了。日本的蚊子同中国的一样喜欢我。看来必要赶紧攀一个比我招蚊子的。我十分想念吴慧聪。
    这个学校的学生证着实有用。图书馆、打印、电脑房,之类之类的,都靠它,只是买东西都要用现金(很好,不刷卡有助于我省钱)。南大也该学学,发那么一堆卡,收那么多押金,又浪费又麻烦。
    ICU的图书馆是个好地方,书多桌子多,电脑也好用。预备开学了以后,没有课的时候就泡在里面了。有好几大架子原版的英国文学文论,还有一架子Classical Music评论,生活太美好了。
    图书馆有两份中文报纸:《人民日报》《文汇报》。我开始想念《扬子》上的花边新闻了。
     
    学校里上上下下都能说几句英文,我又是不爱出去乱逛的,所以小日子也混得挺滋润。但是估计在这么Japanese free的环境下,我是不要想学会日语了。同志们不要鄙视我。
     
    下周一正式开始上课。一个暑假没好好学习,惰性上来了,老天保佑我还记得上课应该干什么。有人下了指示了,要为“中华之崛起”而读书呢。
    August 10

    Babble, Babble

    The trend nowadays—or has it always been?—is when writing a story, make sure it drags on and expends into an at-least-four-book series.

    Theoretically, I suppose, it makes a lot of sense. Firstly, for a purely literary purpose, this would make it easier and easier for the author to decide how the characters would react to a certain incident, for, having lived through three or more novels, they are more or less real-life human beings on their own. Therefore, in a way, the author’s job switches from creation, which involves considerable rattling of the brain, to recording, which certainly is a good deal easier to manage. Secondly, on a commercial level, this would ensure the author stay on the best-selling list for quite a couple of weeks, as the success of former books would have established an army of enthusiastic and loyal fan. As a reader, even if you are not a fan, consider the uncomfortable suspense and torture an unfinished story would inflict upon you. I bet most people would be willing to pay a few bucks just to satisfy the desire for completeness.

    In practice, however, writing book series has its drawbacks, many drawbacks. Of course, there is no denying that series writers in the 21st century have provided well for themselves and, even more so, their publishers. But most of them lose something in the process of procuring wealth and fame. They lose their good name as a writer. Because it is not easy to write sequels. For one thing, people have greater expectations for the book. Nothing short of masterpiece would do, yet except for Mozart, who can really toss out of himself one masterpiece after another? For another, they constantly face a dilemma: should they keep to the characters “in character” and risk the readers’ boredom, or do they make the characters do things completely “out of character” and risk the readers’ faith? If they follow the first route, then when they are constantly improvising on basically the same bunch of people and the same story, eventually a pattern emerges, and believe me, nothing cools off the critics and readers more than a predicable pattern. If they brace themselves and opt for the adventurous, the hard-to-please public would then feel that these are not exactly a “series” of stories, and that they are cheated out of their favorite hero and heroine.

    Throughout the history of English literature—according to my limited and shallow knowledge of it, that is—there is only one writer who managed to make his “series” appealing from start to end, almost: Mark Twain. Yet, Twain’s series only contained two books: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and the immortal The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the latter, except for sharing roughly the same characters, having almost nothing to do with the former.

    The rest of them all failed—some slightly, some dismally—at keeping up a delicious series. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes ceases to be Sherlock Holmes when he returns from the fight at the waterfall. (Of course, Doyle was conscious of his capacity and tried to kill off our beloved detective at the fight, only the plan was thwarted by the enraged public. He should have resisted public pressure. ) Louisa May Alcott’s Little Woman series is a nightmare right from the second book. Lucy Maud Montgomery, much as I love her Anne and wishes for more, failed to make her later Anne stories live up to the standards of Anne of Green Gables. C. S. Lewis almost managed to make all seven of his Narnia books interesting, except that the ending of the seventh feels so hurriedly and illogically patched up that it seriously damaged the good impression readers have harbored for the earlier stories. J. R. R. Tolkin’s Lord of the Rings series is a bore from the first letter to the last stop, and the same can be said of John Galsworthy’s Forsyte Saga. (True, these two works are profound in every respect, but you cannot say that they are very enjoyable.) J. K. Rowling dazzled the world with the first four of her Harry Potter books, luring children to sit down and read, and adults to pick up children’s books. But starting from the fifth of the series, when she has the whole world holding its breath for her to come up with a book at a speed of four-year-per-book, Harry Potter has turned from brilliant to bad, from bad to terrible, and eventually from terrible to disastrous. And now, Stephenie Meyer, whose alluring Twilight allegedly stems from a dream the authoress has, is slowly and painfully showing us how she is losing her grip with the publication of New Moon, Eclipse, and most recently, Breaking Dawn. (She seems to be contemplating a fifth, Midday Sun. I hope she gets a really good night’s sleep first.)

    Please do not misunderstand me, I am not criticizing. Who am I to criticize? I appreciate everything they have done to make my bookshelves full to bursting point. But honestly, I have more admiration for those who are continually creating new characters and never-heard-of-before stories. In this respect, there is no denying that Shakespeare is the boss. No one afterwards can jump out of the circle he has created. I admire those who gets good reviews not because they have bizarre stories, but because they are artists of words, like Jane Austen, like P. G. Wodehouse. It would even be desirable to get famous with one book, like Margaret Mitchell and her Gone with the Wind, and then disappear (though preferably not because of—in Mitchell’s case—death).

    But hey, why should our series writers stop utilizing this amazing way of getting their voices heard and making money? True, there are jerks out there like me accusing them of killing a good story; but most readers would queue up for the next book anyway. Even jerks like me queue up for the next book, because though it is just a story, though it might be badly written, it hurts not to know whether Sherlock Holmes is alive, whether Anne realizes she is in love with Gilbert, whether Harry Potter blasts the hell out of Voldemort, and whether Bella produces a houseful of the next generation of vampires.
    July 20

    纽约一周

    纽约一周。
    发现:
    本同学真是小强,坚持轻装上阵的一贯作风,背个小包拖个小箱子就去了,弄得美国人连连赞叹这孩子有前途。十三个小时的飞机觉得一眨眼就到了,十三个小时没有睡觉还精神抖擞,根本就没有“倒时差”一说,到了哪儿就按哪儿的时间过,天黑了就睡亮了就醒,开心得很。同行的同胞里有用了六天好不容易倒成了美国时间就又要回家的,可怜可怜。
     
    还发现:
    美国人安排活动真是狠心,七点开始,晚上十点结束(大概是让我们体验体验要在投资银行干是多么艰苦),弄得陈星同学基本没看过纽约白天是什么样,只好晚上逛中央公园(我胆子大吧~),可惜天太黑,拍不下来,不好吹。
    根据活动安排,抵达和离开的两天是我们的自由活动时间,我们中国的飞机是最迟到(到了就要集体吃晚餐了),最早走的(起了床收收包就上机场去了),哪里有活动时间。我能不能把这理解为种族歧视?
    意识形态还真是个挺重要的东西,不管你愿不愿意承认。在老美那儿,和亚洲以及其他第三世界国家的同志们混得就是好一些;和匈牙利、波兰、捷克人话也多些。和发达国家的人就是没话说,就连和发达国家的华裔也没什么共同语言。不过也许这也许是个人原因吧,我们一队中国人里也有到哪里都吃得开的,但给我的感觉就是个flirt。(我错了,太保守了。)
    纽约其实就是一脏兮兮,房子挤房子,车挤车,人挤人的大城市。也许是因为第三次出国了,一点都没有当初看到伦敦那种激动的感觉。到处碰到的服务人员一点都不热情友好,比金润发的收银员态度还差些。于是回来也不觉得有从英国日本回来以后美好极了的印象,不过觉得自己是坐了大半天的飞机去了一个大城市而已。可能是因为行程太紧,没有看到什么东西的原因吧。但在英国日本时,行程也够紧的。
    美国的饭很难吃。天天一盘草,几篇面包,偶尔一块木头渣子一样的肉,浇上些叫人无比作呕的酱,还得用刀叉,真是折磨人。吃过墨西哥菜,难吃。吃过著名的意大利美食,还是难吃。还有人去吃了埃塞俄比亚大餐,自然是难吃。说起来,也就早餐和比萨饼不错。怪不得电影里老美一天到晚打电话定比萨饼呢,敢情他们自己也吃不来美国菜。

    于是:
    决定还是去英国读书吧。拿不到奖学金的话干脆就在南大读研好了,可以天天回家,神仙日子。
    要想出国读书,一点要学会做饭。不然就下决心拿外国饭减肥。
    和中国驻联合国大使助理在UN吃了顿饭,决定不去外交部了。前半辈子都要耗在各类“比亚”各种“斯坦”上,运气好才会被迟迟派到欧洲美国之类的地方。我是自私的小孩儿,这样的日子我不过。
     

    美国还是要再去的,这次就是道开胃菜。连自由女神像都没看到,叫我回来怎么吹牛?
     
     
     
    June 14

    二十岁老

    如题。
    算我双关好了。
    April 12

    Call This Lament

    A literature lover is miserable, pathetic.
     
    A literature lover is never here, she is always somewhere else. She yearns to go out and see the beautiful world, yet something keeps reminding her that no matter where she goes, this world would never be as beautiful and lovely as she feels it to be: her world only exist on a piece of paper, in a fanciful mind, as an ideal that is too flawless to be tolerated in reality.
     
    She enjoys every advantage the modern age has brought her: liberty, freedom, equal rights with men (almost), a chance of higher education, opportunities for competition, fast transportation, abundant information, the Internet, computer, iPod…Yet in her heart of hearts, she does not really feel that she belongs. She clings stubbornly and desperately to another set of values, another form of culture, another stage of civilization, all of which belong to an era that has gone by—nay, worse—an era that is just an illusion, an era when gentlemen bow and ladies curtsy; when it takes forever to rattle from a place to another in a horse carriage; when classical music is popular music; when the sky is always azure and the valley green; when a boy would overlook five years of grudge and hostility and persists in the pursuit of friendship and love; when a man, his dignity mortified, his heart sighing, aching, and bleeding, touches his hat and politely wishes the object of his love a good day and happiness, after his proposal has been turned down; when old ladies spend an entire sunny afternoon on the front porch, sipping tea, drinking in the scenery that is both at once familiar and new, exchanging country gossip; when the school house hides in the heart of a wood, and leaves rustle, birds sing while the teacher goes on and on about Latin and Greek; when going to school is a sheer delight in the prospect of feeding the mind and the soul; when houses are no more than three stories high and every family has a skylight into which stars on the velvety sky beams and giggles; when there is always someone other than a parent—a sister, a bosom friend, a real chum, an understanding elderly aunt—to listen to one’s rapture and delight, sorrow and woe, tittles and tattles; when everything is just as it should be.
     
    She knows that she is being silly and tries to put a stop to this nonsense, but in vain. She has ever so many sublime visions in her mind, they dance around as soon as she loses grip. One minute she sees green fields, another it is the roaring sea. One minute she smells the apples of autumn, another it is daffodils in spring. Her heart leaps up when she behold horses galloping on the greens, flocks grazing, birds chirping, bees buzzing, and a brook laughing gaily through. One minute she is amused to see a furious girl slams a slate over a boy’s head for teasing about her appearance, vowing she would never ever ever so much as to look at him again, another she delights in watching them, as blossoming young man and woman, walking down the woods hand in hand, laughingly recalling that unfortunate slate.
     
    Indulging in these ideals would be delightful, if a sudden vision of herself did not always spring forth. Short-haired, flat-nosed, thin-eyed, large-boned, short and stout, she has not on her a single beautiful feature. True, a girl does not need to look like a goddess to live happily in this world, but she should have at least one nice feature that somehow catches attention and renders her unusual. Mortified, she looks about her for comfort, and finds in dismay that there is always a skyscraper or sort in her horizon, roaring engine within ear shot, and an distinct smell of 21st century in the air she breathes. And she suddenly remembers with a pang of heart that the only boy she has vowed never to speak to again is utterly spoilt, selfish, and dumb…besides, he looks grotesque. Thus, she sighs a little sigh, and retreats again into the brighter side of her mind, stays there as long as she can, until reality tries once again to stare her in the face
     
    Though publicly scorning it, secretly she longs for a taste of romance—how can she not be, when she has witness its sweetness and glory in the other world. Not that she is a hypocrite, but that she believes in romance as an ideal, a Raphael painting protected behind a glass, Mozart’s own ending for the Requiem, something that is somehow unearthly in its earthliness—or is it the other way around? The 21st century version of romance, the campus version of romance all about her, are an insult to the things she holds dear deep down in a corner of her soul. She tosses her head at every boy she meets. Alas, when is she going to meet someone who is irresistibly handsome, incredibly talented, bewitchingly humorous, amazingly warm, wonderously patient, impossibly patient, who plays the piano or the violin or the cello or the harp—no, she should be the one playing the harp—like a maestro, who reads Wordsworth when he is in a poetic mood, A. E. Houseman when in a happy mood, and Tennyson when he is in a dramatic mood, who takes in delight in nature as much as she does and never tire of rambling in the woods, who…But of course, no such person lives on this version of the world. And even if he does, why should he look at her?
     
    Her closest friends are in her mind, characters that comes to life at her imagination. This is not to say she has no real life bosom friends. She has, three. But they are scattered around country, miles away from her, too busy for minute-to-minute conversation. So she makes friends with those that will always be with her, night and day, sleeping or awake, friends that squeeze onto a bus with her, attend class with her, stroll along the river bank with her, with her, forever with her; friends that speak another language, know a different society, brought up for a different purpose, yet have the same desire and imagination, the same taste, the same likes and dislikes, loves and hates; friends that are literature lovers as well, but are privileged to live in literature all their lives.
     
    Sulkily she views her own situation. She cannot live in literature…unless she starts writing, but she does not have the talent or creativity when it comes to that. Or…she might go into the show business. Film industry is earthy, infamous, chaotic, scandalous, demanding, but then she would really get the chance to outlive reality once in a while—quite often once in a while. Yet…her acting skills are just as disastrous as her looks.
     
    If she could, she would dearly love to be something else other than a living human being. She would love to be a book. No, that would be too ambitious. She would be joyous at just being a page in a book, the page where Elizabeth teases Mr. Darcy in the ball, or where Mr. Thornton clasps Margaret to his heart, or where Anne finally makes up with Gilbert, or where Huck and Jim argues about the French language, or where Bertie messes up everyone’s life. No, that would still be asking too much. She could be content with just being a letter in a word…in a name…an e perhaps, or an l, or a z. …But of course, she could not chose.
     
    A literature lover, thus, spends her life shedding many an invisible tear. There is no escape for her, as one can outgrow a fairytale, but never a novel. Outwardly she may be no different from anyone else, though occasionally she might seem a little dreamy. Yet inwardly…she is unreal herself.
    March 08

    Dashed Expectations

    I have spent all my life—all 19 years and a half of it—dreaming of getting involved in a theatrical production, a real drama instead of a stupid giggling school play. I had ample opportunity and experience of the latter, invariably playing the villain in the piece, the one that through ruining the world, ultimately ruins himself—yes, I was always a him.
     
    When such a chance finally came, I waited with trembling anticipation for the director to assign me a part, wondering if I would repeat my fate and end up as the wicked something. Apparently, however, I had too good an opinion of my acting talent. I should have realized that being able to understand and appreciate Shakespeare does not guarantee a Laurence Olivier out of you. Without special looks or talent, I am nothing. I am not the wicked something, the good something, not even the dull something. I am the insignificant something with three lines of my own and five “Rest in peace”s with the chorus. I was exempted from all rehearsals—kicked out in practice, though not yet in theory, owing to the good nature of somebody in charge.
    I guess I could comfort my injured dignity by reminding myself that Audrey Hepburn only had a mute part in her first movie and that Fritz Wunderlich was drowned in the chorus at the start of his operatic career. But then Audrey had that other-worldly air; and Fritz had that other-worldly voice; whereas I have other-worldly nothing.
     
    Perhaps this is God’s way of telling me that instead of trying in vain to portray a Rosalind or a Beatrice, I am much better off reading and analyzing Shakespeare, who, as I now recall, tried acting himself for a while, failed, took to writing, and ended up the best-loved playwright in the whole of human history.
    February 12

    东京几日游

    既然是去的日本,我就用中文写好了。实在是记不住日本地名的英语发音和拼法。惭愧惭愧。
    想来人的命运真不知道是谁掌握的。我叫嚣了许多年就算有人倒贴钱请我去日本我也不稀罕去,但偏偏就真有人倒贴钱请我去日本了。本人由于一向说话不太算话,于是这辈子第二次出国,就去了日本。
    我不喜欢日本,甚至是痛恨。了解我的人都知道这一点。因此,当我得知我得牺牲我短短的寒假里宝贵的十多天时间去一个我既不会说它的语言也不在乎它的文化的地方的时候,我头皮发麻。我的各位哥们儿都说让陈星去日本实在是浪费机会。人家多少日语专业的巴巴地做梦都想去日本,我这么一个“抗日”先锋倒是白拣个机会,被当作贵客请去了扶桑国。
    过日本海关的时候,还没来得及递护照,就被大叔误认做了日本“海龟”。大叔笑眯眯的来了一句“Welcome home”。尽管这种热情似乎是建立在他认为我是他的日本同胞的基础上的,但一样让人心里暖暖的。小日本看来还是有可爱之处的。(我进过三次中国海关,也没有谁欢迎过我回家来么。)
    我要去的ICU(国际基督教大学)在东京西郊,离成田机场有两个小时的火车车程。还没到ICU时,天已经黑透。走在日本窄窄的小巷子里,一边是一堵矮矮的墙,一边是一栋栋小小的日本房子,远处还不时有个小贩唱着“烤山芋卖咯~”(不过人家自然讲得是日文。。),一下就感觉回到了50年代电影中的日本。偶尔背后会响起叮叮的自行车铃声,转过头来看见一点点闪闪的自行车灯。侧身来让自行车先过,骑车的人会在车上鞠个小小的躬,口中念叨着“多谢”(或许是“有劳了”?在日本不懂日语就是痛苦啊。)
    穿过细细长长的小巷,过一条窄窄的街就是ICU的侧门。就这条三步就能跨过的小道居然也有盏红灯管着。一个个过路的规规矩矩地等着交通灯变绿。我这种习惯了龙江小区的小街交通灯基本起照明作用的人也就入乡随俗,耐心等待了。
    初进ICU的第一印象是:这分明是紫金山么。一条不宽不窄的柏油道,两边树木丛生。树木中零星散落着一两幢不高过四层的方方的小楼。顺着柏油道拐进一处古色古香的所在,这便是我接下来12天要投宿的地方,ICU铃木校长的家。
    铃木校长是个可爱极了的老先生(说人家老也不太合适。。不过是比我爹再年长几岁而已。。)。幽默风趣,博学,好客。他与他一样可爱的太太让我立即彻彻底底地喜欢上了这家人。两人也不知道用的什么方法(人格魅力吧。。。),让我很舒服地觉得我是属于这儿的,而不仅仅是个来客。
    接下来的日子便是大大小小的会议。中间抽空听了几节课,结果是导致我不高兴在南大上学了,想转到ICU去。各处碰到的日本老师学生都很热情。还有一帮研究生请我吃了顿午饭。我们在餐桌上大谈南京和广岛,日本的历史书和中国的历史书,中国产的疑似有毒的饺子。其实大部分的日本学生都还是乐意听听对事实的另一种描述的。他们本性一点不坏。只是从小受到的历史教育被政府左右着,自以为得到了很客观的事实。这也是没法子事。我看只有靠中国拼命发展经济和社会文明,成了不好欺负的超级强国,日本政府自然得改态度。
    大部分的日本人民真的是友好的。铃木校长一家是这样;ICU的老师和同学也是是这样;就连一位上门卖鱼的大叔当听说了铃木校长家有个中国学生时,还特地白送了两块豆腐说是表示欢迎。
    在日本逛过几次街。(新宿在日文里叫Shinjeku,嘿嘿,新街口。。。不过我没去新宿,主要去的是吉祥寺,相当于东京的湖南路吧。)百货商场、超市、饭馆、小商铺里的服务员店主一个个都客气至极。就连收个钱都满脸笑容地频频鞠躬,不断地用极阳光的语气说着些什么。陪我逛街的日本同学说这是训练的结果,不代表是日本人脾气好。但对于我来说,这点“装出来”的热情已经很有效了,让我感到他们是由衷地欢迎每一个顾客的到来。我们的服务员就很应该学学这个。我在国内每次去超市都特别诚惶诚恐,一不留神就会被收银台的服务员呵斥了去。
    也特别喜欢日本“立人靠左”的自动扶梯,先下后上的火车,排队上车的公交,井井有条的街道,分类严格到几乎变态的垃圾桶(比如塑料瓶和瓶盖要分开来丢,抽纸盒子出纸口上的塑料皮皮撤下来分开丢。。。)。东京这么大的一个繁华都市,居然也有着相当碧蓝的天空和颇白的云彩(南京只有初秋才会有这样的天,上海貌似就没有过。)。
    说了一大堆“崇洋媚外”的话,想表达的意思就是日本并不似国内媒体播报的那般可恶。我们永远应该分清政府和人民。大部分日本人民是值得结交的。而正是通过民间推动政府才能达到最好的外交关系。而日本作为一个早我们多时崛起的强国,社会中的某些风气也很是值得我们学学的。中国的经济蓬勃发展,若是社会文明跟不上速度,就永远不会真正得到别国的尊重。听说奥运会的准备已经使得北京人民面貌一新,希望这样的风气能传遍神州大地。
    说了半天没有交代清楚我去日本的原因。这次去日本是为INP (ICU Nanjing University Project)制定二期计划。本人稀里糊涂的就成了南京负责人了。。。其实吧,当小头目的感觉。。。还是很爽的!
    January 19

    ...

    Rereading North and South for the 50th time.
    Cannot help but feeling that if BBC had followed the book more faithfully, the production would be even more awesome.
    To owe the truth, I do not particularly like BBC's version of North and South. (Oh, the setting is wonderful and the contrast between North and South is sharp. I love their way of using bright and soft colors to illustrate the South and grey and hard ones for the North; the actors are FABULOUS, though I had pictured Higgins a little bit differently. Richard Armitage as Mr. Thornton is...O My God...BRILLIANT.) The whole screenplay is too rushing, jumping from one story to the next without going deeper into the background and emotions.
    I particulary dislike the part they added in where Thornton is beating the hell out of a worker for smoking in the factory. Mrs. Gaskell did not write such as scene. I am not opposed to adding in scenes to bring out the characters more vividly before the modern viewers (they did loads of that in 1995 BBC Pride and Prejudice and I love that); yet this scene does not seem to me to bring credit to Thornton's character. (Perhaps they think that without such fact-to-face violence modern audience would not understand Margaret's rejection and contempt of a man who seems otherwise perfect in any sense.)
    The riot scene was too carelessly dealt with. It should be the climax of the whole book(movie). I would prefer following the book step by step, word by word.
    I also much prefer the ending in the book to the one suggested by the drama...
    But on the whole BBC has done a wonderful job as usual.
     
    Thus,
    I am currently in my 19th Century mood...
    So, except for Papa and Mama, and my Gang of Four, do not try to reach me via cellphone.
    I live before the invention of it :)
     
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Of course, I realize that indulging myself in this particular mood would be fruitless, as there would certainly be no way  to move back to the 19th century (Anyway, I probably wouldn't like it if we made it: how am I supposed to live without my iPod?); I would never be pretty enough to become a heroine; no Mr. Thornton is going to materialize out of thin air for me; and Richard Armitage is unfortunately 17 years my senior and does not seem to speak Chinese...
    C'est la vie~
     
    That is why I've been applying some self-rescue aid, i.e. not reading 19th Century literature and not watching period drama...
    ....the result being that  I am currently enjoying Shaun the Sheep: a pantomime designed for 3 year olds...
    Hush little baby don't say a word...
    549303vlcsnap48904dk8.png picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    flock_binnoculars.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    December 19

    Sample Speech for Class

    COPY RIGHT 2007, CHEN XING
    ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
     
    How pilgrims felt when they set out to pay homage to their holy land I do not know. But I fancy it should be somewhat similar to mine when I stepped onto my flight, excited, exhilarated, exalted, knowing that I was only 10 hours’ away from my wildest childhood fantasy: London.

    For an ardent lover of English literature like me, London is one of the places that one has visited over and over again through the pages until the urge to be there in person is insuppressible. I longed to explore the dark winding alleyways where my favorite detective might have hurried along in hot pursuit of some deadly criminals, or stroll in one of the royal parks where my favorite hero and heroine might have walked hand in hand, or visit the famous museums and galleries where my favorite writers might have gone to seek inspiration.

    London showed generous hospitality to me. It did not rain a drop for three days straight when I was there. On a particularly fine morning, armed with a map, I set out in the glorious sunshine to make my dreams come true.

    I had planned enthusiastically on the plane that I would spend my first night in London following Sherlock Holmes’s footsteps in the dim alleyways. But alas, being alone and realizing that I was far far away from home made me wary of the dark. So instead, I explored through the alleys in broad daylight. When I finally emerged out of them, I found myself facing the obscure little gate of a beautiful verdant park. Green Park it is by name. And so it is green and full of life. This park has trees and open space, sunshine and shade—a most charming park. It is not large, but exquisite.

    A five-minute stroll across the park brought me to its magnificent front gate. Stepping out of it, my eyes were suddenly dazzled by red and white and gold. Buckingham Palace stood solemn and stately in front of me. This is, of course, where the royal family resides. But it is not closed to public. If you have the money (₤14) and the time, you can very well go into the rooms to see the pomp and circumstances of royal life. And if one is lucky, one might be on time for the famous Changing of the Guard, when tourists get to gape at the bright red uniforms and bearskin hats of shouting and marching soldiers. But mind you, it can get awfully crowded out there. Unless you are there early to find yourself a good position, or you are exceptionally tall for a person, you won’t see much except for the heads of the other tourists blocking your view.

    When I was there I had neither money nor luck, so I hurried on into the famous St. James’s Park. This is generally acknowledged as the most pleasant of London’s royal parks. What impressed me was the harmonious coexistence of man and nature in this park. The scenery is astoundingly beautiful with large lake and waterfalls, green trees and smooth lawns, busy bees and dancing butterflies. You will find up a tree squirrels gaping at the peanuts you are holding, around the bench pigeons strolling lazily past you, and in the lakes swans swim gracefully on, occasionally bestowing on you one of their elegant glances. You can spend a whole day here reading, breathing and feeling the serenity. But I had other wishes to grant myself. So I took a deep breath of the sweetly scented air, waved my hands at the squirrels, and hastened on.

    My next destination was Westminster Abbey—or to be exact, the Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, where many of England’s finest writers are buried and commemorated. Maybe it was the numerous confusing steps and chapels, or the quiet, dark, cold, and solemn interior of the abbey, or the countless tombs and sculptures of kings and queens lying serenely on their deathbeds, or maybe it was because of them all that I felt strange and uncomfortable, shaken and overpowered. Confused, I never did find out where my favorite poet Wordsworth was buried.

    Getting out of the eerie Abbey into glorious sunshine was a most gratifying experience. Warmed by the sun, I walked steadily on, secretly determined to visit the Abbey some time in the future—preferably with a companion.

     I went down Parliament Street, passing government buildings, statues, monuments and other historical bits and pieces. At the end of the street, looking up, I was awed by the towering figure of Nelson standing high on a column against the background of a piece of cloud. I knew that I was approaching Trafalgar Square.

    A dancing fountain and hundreds of pigeons greeted me as I stepped into the square. Nelson looked down from that 52-meter column of his. Nelson’s Column has stood in the center of the square since 1843 and commemorates the admiral’s victory over Napoleon off Cape Trafalgar in Spain in 1805. Many visitors, however, seem less interested in this history than clambering on the backs of the lions at Nelson’s feet.

    I ended my days’ travel in the National Gallery, the largest of its kind in the world with more than 2000 European paintings on display. The shear number of the exhibits made my head dizzy while they themselves took my breath away. I hardly know how to describe my feelings when I found myself face to face with masterpieces that previously I only had had chance to admire in books. Raphael, Gainsborough, Constable, da Vinci, Monet, Holbein…they were all there, alive through the canvas and the strokes.

     

    For one who is interested in western history, London is grand palaces, great halls, and magnificent museums. For one who has an eye for art, London is gallery after gallery of masterpieces in western civilization. For one who grew up reading Charles Dickens, London is miserable winding alleyways and shabby ramshackle houses. For one who spends his time turning over the pages of Vanity Fair, London is a great market place glittering with exotic luxuries and the splendor and grandeurs of the old empire. For one who daydreams in the world of Jane Austen, London is a young girl’s heart’s desire, where she gets to step out of her mediocre county existence to see fashion and the world. For someone like me who falls into all the above mentioned categories, London is a mystery, a light, and a constant yearning.
     
     
     
    December 15

    Chen Xing's New Crush

    New Idol: Jose Carreras~~
    carmen11_M.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    OK, I admit I am more enchanted by his looks, manners , and spirit than I do his voice.  In regards to singing, I still stick to Fritz Wunderlich. 
    But his voice is fine with me. Although he is not a Mozartian tenor (he has never ever sung a Mozart role), he is not entirely a Wagnarian tenor either (thank God..I cannot stand Wagnarian tenors--they are canons, not human beings).
     
    Here is a brief biography.
     
    In 1972, Ovation magazine described the voice of a young man making his debut as Pinkerton in Madama Butterfly at the New York City Opera. It was "a honeyed lyric tenor, richly coloured, clear and true and possessing a sensual beauty that is quite extraordinary." The young man with the sensuously beautiful voice was Jose Carreras.
    He was born on December 5, 1946 in Barcelona, the capital of Catalonia, a region of Spain with a unique cultural life and language. (Carreras’ true first name is Josep, the Catalan version of Jose) The youngest of Antonia Coll-Saigi and Josep Carreras-Soler’s three children, he has described his childhood as happy and completely carefree. This is quite a tribute to his parents, given the dire economic conditions in Spain during the years following that country’s Civil War. The family briefly emigrated to Argentina in 1951 in what proved to be an unsuccessful search for a better life, returning to Barcelona less than a year later. Carerras’ father, his teaching career ruined because he had fought on the Republican side during the Civil War, eventually had to take a job as a traffic policeman, and his mother opened a small hair-dressing shop.
    It has been said of many great singers that they have an almost physical need to sing, a need that can express itself when they are very young. Carreras was no exception. As a child he truly loved to sing. He sang to the passengers on the steamship from Argentina back to Barcelona. He sang to the customers in his mother’s hair-dressing shop. And, after he came home from seeing Mario Lanza in The Great Caruso, he sang to his family all the arias that Lanza had sung in the film - especially la ‘Donna e Mobile’ which seemed to hold a special fascination for him. Whenever his family suggested that his constant singing, although impressive might just be starting to drive them crazy, the six year old happily locked himself in the bathroom and kept right on singing.
    Fortunately for the world of opera (and for the other members of the Carreras family who were waiting to take their baths), his mother arranged for him to channel this seemingly boundless vocal energy. He started voice and piano lessons with Magda Prunera, the mother of one of his boyhood friends. and at eight he started attending the local music conservatory after school. At eight he also gave his first public performance, singing ‘La Donna e Mobile’ on Spanish National Radio. (A recording of this still exists and can be heard on the video biography, Jos?Carreras – A Life Story). At eleven, he was on the stage of Barcelona’s opera house, the Gran Teatro del Liceo, singing the boy soprano role of the narrator in de Falla’s El retablo de Maese Pedro. A few months later, he sang for the last time at the Liceo before his voice started to change. It was perhaps a bit of type casting for the boy who used to drop clothespins onto the heads of the hapless passers-by beneath Senora Prunera’s window. He played the naughty child in the second act of La Boheme who was dragged by the ear from the toy-seller’s cart crying "Vo’la tromba, il cavallin!" ("I want the trumpet and the little horse!")
    By 18, the soprano voice of Carreras the boy had become the tenor voice of Carreras the man. He studied at first with Francisco Puig and later with Juan Ruax, whom he has described as his artistic father. It was Ruax who encouraged him to audition for what was to become his first tenor role at the Liceo, Flavio in Norma. This minor role had major consequences for his career. The beauty of the few phrases that he sang as Flavio was noticed not only by the critics but also by the great soprano in the title role, Montserrat Caballe. She asked that he sing Gennaro with her in Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia, his first principal adult role, and the one which he considers to be his ‘real’ debut as a tenor.
    If Ruax was his artistic father, then Caballe was to become in many ways his artistic mother. She sang the title role in his London stage debut, a concert performance of Maria Stuarda, and the recordings (both commercial and ‘pirate’) of their artistic partnership went on to include over 15 different operas. The English critic, Alan Blyth saw the Maria Stuarda performance at the Royal Festival Hall. Carreras was only 25 at the time but Blyth recalls "It was one of those occasions when one immediately and instinctively recognises that one is in the presence of a new and very special talent. Not only was his a profoundly beautiful tenor, typically dark-hued in the Spanish vein, but its owner knew how to employ it to maximum advantage and, almost as important, had the vital, vivid presence of a born communicator."
    Carreras went on to grow into what Lofti Mansouri, the Director of the San Francisco Opera has called "One of the most complete operatic stars that I have ever worked with...His musicianship, intelligence, dramatic ability, not to mention his gorgeous voice make him a total artist." What is perhaps quite unusual about Carreras’ career is that by the age of 28, when many opera singers are just starting to make their mark, he had already sung the tenor lead in 24 different operas in both Europe and North America and had made his debut at the world’s four great opera houses - the Vienna Staatsoper in 1974, as the Duke of Mantua in Rigoletto; London’s Royal Opera House in 1974, as Alfredo in La Traviata; the New York Metropolitan Opera in 1974, as Cavaradossi in Tosca; and La Scala Milan in 1975, as Riccardo in Ballo in Maschera.
    Ballo in Maschera
    is inextricably linked with both his artistic and his personal life. Carreras had married Mercedes Perez in 1971. Their son Alberto was born in 1972, on the day after Carreras had sung Riccardo for the very first time in Parma. Their daughter Julia was born in 1977, on the day after he had finished recording Ballo in Maschera in London. At the height of his career Carreras was singing over 70 performances a year and was almost constantly travelling around the world’s opera houses. Although an intensely private man, in several interviews he has alluded to the problems of combining an international opera career with a family life – the sense of alienation and the dangers of forming new ties. (He and his wife divorced in 1992 and Carreras has never remarried.)
    In 1987, at the height of his success, Carreras was diagnosed with acute leukemia and was given a 1 in 10 chance of survival. Had it not been for the skills of his doctors in Barcelona and at the Fred Hutchinson Clinic in Seattle, Washington, the Missa Criolla would have been his last recording and his performance in I Pagliacci at the Vienna Staatsoper would have been the last time he sang on the operatic stage. After his recovery, one of the first people he went to see was the great Austrian conductor Herbert von Karajan, a musician with whom he had an almost instinctive affinity. Carreras found it fascinating "how Karajan made you feel that he was like your father, conducting for you alone." Their ten year artistic collaboration has produced some of Carreras’ finest performances and recordings. In an interview shortly before his death in 1989, Karajan said of Carreras "If the crew were here I would play you the video of the Verdi Requiem. Did Caruso sing the ‘Ingemisco’ better? I wonder. He has had this terrible illness, but he is full of hope. From all that he has told me it was a terrible experience, but he has now set up his Foundation to help other sufferers, and this is a great joy to him. He is an adorable person, and as he is still young, we all hope that he will make a new career now."
    Carreras did indeed resume his career, gradually returning to the opera stage and the concert platform as well as to the recording studio. He now concentrates more on concerts and recitals and restricts his opera performances to one or two productions a year. His most recent role debut (Zurich, 1998) was in the title role of Wolf-Ferrari’s Sly. In 1999 at the Washington Opera, he again sang this role for the opera’s North American premiere. It was a performance that moved the Opera Now critic to write "His ardent infusion of grace and lyrical vitality was both poignant and powerful."
    And of course, his Foundation has added a new dimension and purpose to his life. Many of the concerts and recitals that he now gives are benefits for the Jos?Carerras International Leukemia Foundation. The 1990 Three Tenors concert in Rome was originally conceived to raise money for this Foundation and as a way for Carreras’ colleagues, Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti, to welcome their "little brother" back to the world of opera.
    Carreras is now in his fifties. His voice is older and darker, but he still has the vital, vivid presence of the born communicator that Alan Blyth recognised over 25 years ago. For many people, the first time they ever saw or even heard of Jose Carreras was through one of the Three Tenor concerts. He perhaps remains the least well known of the three, or as one of the characters in the Seinfeld Show said, "Pavarotti, Domingo, and...you know...that other one." But those who have discovered "that other one" and have listened to his recorded legacy have also discovered one of the most beautiful voices of this century.
    carmen78_m.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    80_126_m.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg
    80_024_M.jpg picture by AmadeusSalzburg