nirinia: (Default)
I love the fact that someone quotes Orsino's opening lines in Twelfth Night, and wants love. Quoting Orsino when you are in love is perfect stupidity; Orsino does not love Olivia, of whom he speaks in that opening scene; he loves himself, and himself as he acts when in love. Thus "If music is the food of love, play on,/ Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,/ The appetite may sicken, and so die ..." is pointless. He wants to fill himself so with love that he will no longer love Olivia, whom he convinces himself he loves. And, was it not Orsino speaking of it, it is indeed a silly quote in its own right: give me so much love, the appetite for it sickens and dies. Love me so I cannot ever love again, and will cast you from me. Bah!
nirinia: (Default)
I love the fact that someone quotes Orsino's opening lines in Twelfth Night, and wants love. Quoting Orsino when you are in love is perfect stupidity; Orsino does not love Olivia, of whom he speaks in that opening scene; he loves himself, and himself as he acts when in love. Thus "If music is the food of love, play on,/ Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,/ The appetite may sicken, and so die ..." is pointless. He wants to fill himself so with love that he will no longer love Olivia, whom he convinces himself he loves. And, was it not Orsino speaking of it, it is indeed a silly quote in its own right: give me so much love, the appetite for it sickens and dies. Love me so I cannot ever love again, and will cast you from me. Bah!
nirinia: (Default)
I finished Shakespeare, I finished Shakespeare! Haha. But I loathe Twelfth Night. I am sure it is all very enjoyable on-stage, but I cannot stand it in its written form. Now all I have to do is analyse and understand it. Right.

I am also convinced the Sir Toby of Dinner for One is a rip-off/allusion to Shakespeare. Blargh, why must he be everywhere?
nirinia: (Default)
I finished Shakespeare, I finished Shakespeare! Haha. But I loathe Twelfth Night. I am sure it is all very enjoyable on-stage, but I cannot stand it in its written form. Now all I have to do is analyse and understand it. Right.

I am also convinced the Sir Toby of Dinner for One is a rip-off/allusion to Shakespeare. Blargh, why must he be everywhere?
nirinia: (Default)
London was stunning, again. Despite a bout of gastric flu ("omgangssyke", in Norwegian), it was oh-so worth the trip in Aurora's smoked car and perpetually late Ryanair. And despite my disregard of Shakespeare, the Globe was fantastic. Our guide was marvellously British, with a penchance for "indeed", noted by most of my class-mates. I did not bat an eye, and had no idea 'til Erik made me aware as I said it myself. It is a bloody brilliant word, get over it!

And, haha, we got drunk with our teachers. The plan was to go pub-crawling, but after having "vorsed" in our rooms - with several of us complaining of light-headedness (we later decided to blame lack of sleep and nutrition) - and drinking a rather lot, the crawling never did happen other than to our hotel, several hours later, all of us inappropriately drunk. Someone looked a bit baffled when they heard we were a sixth-form college from Norway on a study-trip, so we were forced to add that it did involve a bit of alcohol. Drinking with teachers is weird, very weird. Doubly so when you've just seen a play partly about teacher-student relationships.

I am having a problem with justiying my disregard of Shakespeare, by the way. I belive that a writer's mastery of his craft does not go hand in hand with social and literary impact. Further, all literature is written for an audience. Be they ideal, imagined or average. And plays for both audience and stage. Shakespeare's audiences knew Plutarch, and his plays were deviced for the Renaissance stage. The average modern audience does not know Plutarch and the stage is not that of the Renaissance, and that must be taken into account when considering Shakespeare. Thus we cannot judge him purely by his writing, for most of us do not understand his writing. And we do not see it in its original form. There is no doubt that his impact is considerable, and that his writing was great then, but I do not think he is for all time. The language has changed too much, it is too inaccessible. Though I can accept the fact that to know English culture and literature, we most acquaint ourselves with Shakespeare.

We saw The History Boys at Wyndham's on Monday. I am in love! The allusions, the critique, tristesse, humour, irony and heart-breaking ending. I was under the impression that we were seeing something much along the lines of Dead Poets Society, and while I can see the parallels, it is vastly different. This is a much more demanding story, almost too high-brow for its own good. Particularly the satire and open critique of grading and modern teaching was a delight (forgive me, it was so wonderful I lapse into italics). I got some - or most, if I am optimistic – of the allusions, yet felt completely inadequate. If you have no knowledge of English university and cities, and have not read a plethora of more or less obscure literature, you are lost. With my bad school French I got most of the part spoken entirely in French. And I feel so sorry for most of the class, I know they did not get not only the French, but the play. The two to my left most certainly did not understand a thing, they laughed when Katrine and I did, with a few seconds of added delay. Poor things. It was not, of course, intended for half-witted Norwegians with lacking knowledge, a smattering to no French, and no culture for homosexuality (ie, prep-schools and oxbridge), but still. It was scarily high-brow, and not at all what I was expecting. Did the audience know what to expect, I wonder?

I want to run around hitting people in the head with exercise books, like Hector. " The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours." Also Hector's, though I am not so sure I agree with him. The most wonderful part of reading is new ideas, not the recognition.

The Photographic Portrait Prize 2007 exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery was fantastic. I only wish they had the catalogue, so I could look more closely at some of the shots.

And oh, this country fails at everything.
nirinia: (Default)
London was stunning, again. Despite a bout of gastric flu ("omgangssyke", in Norwegian), it was oh-so worth the trip in Aurora's smoked car and perpetually late Ryanair. And despite my disregard of Shakespeare, the Globe was fantastic. Our guide was marvellously British, with a penchance for "indeed", noted by most of my class-mates. I did not bat an eye, and had no idea 'til Erik made me aware as I said it myself. It is a bloody brilliant word, get over it!

And, haha, we got drunk with our teachers. The plan was to go pub-crawling, but after having "vorsed" in our rooms - with several of us complaining of light-headedness (we later decided to blame lack of sleep and nutrition) - and drinking a rather lot, the crawling never did happen other than to our hotel, several hours later, all of us inappropriately drunk. Someone looked a bit baffled when they heard we were a sixth-form college from Norway on a study-trip, so we were forced to add that it did involve a bit of alcohol. Drinking with teachers is weird, very weird. Doubly so when you've just seen a play partly about teacher-student relationships.

I am having a problem with justiying my disregard of Shakespeare, by the way. I belive that a writer's mastery of his craft does not go hand in hand with social and literary impact. Further, all literature is written for an audience. Be they ideal, imagined or average. And plays for both audience and stage. Shakespeare's audiences knew Plutarch, and his plays were deviced for the Renaissance stage. The average modern audience does not know Plutarch and the stage is not that of the Renaissance, and that must be taken into account when considering Shakespeare. Thus we cannot judge him purely by his writing, for most of us do not understand his writing. And we do not see it in its original form. There is no doubt that his impact is considerable, and that his writing was great then, but I do not think he is for all time. The language has changed too much, it is too inaccessible. Though I can accept the fact that to know English culture and literature, we most acquaint ourselves with Shakespeare.

We saw The History Boys at Wyndham's on Monday. I am in love! The allusions, the critique, tristesse, humour, irony and heart-breaking ending. I was under the impression that we were seeing something much along the lines of Dead Poets Society, and while I can see the parallels, it is vastly different. This is a much more demanding story, almost too high-brow for its own good. Particularly the satire and open critique of grading and modern teaching was a delight (forgive me, it was so wonderful I lapse into italics). I got some - or most, if I am optimistic – of the allusions, yet felt completely inadequate. If you have no knowledge of English university and cities, and have not read a plethora of more or less obscure literature, you are lost. With my bad school French I got most of the part spoken entirely in French. And I feel so sorry for most of the class, I know they did not get not only the French, but the play. The two to my left most certainly did not understand a thing, they laughed when Katrine and I did, with a few seconds of added delay. Poor things. It was not, of course, intended for half-witted Norwegians with lacking knowledge, a smattering to no French, and no culture for homosexuality (ie, prep-schools and oxbridge), but still. It was scarily high-brow, and not at all what I was expecting. Did the audience know what to expect, I wonder?

I want to run around hitting people in the head with exercise books, like Hector. " The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours." Also Hector's, though I am not so sure I agree with him. The most wonderful part of reading is new ideas, not the recognition.

The Photographic Portrait Prize 2007 exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery was fantastic. I only wish they had the catalogue, so I could look more closely at some of the shots.

And oh, this country fails at everything.

Enjambment

Feb. 4th, 2008 06:19 pm
nirinia: (Default)
"Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw', that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs." - The Secret History, Donna Tartt.

We spoke of the fatal flaw in English today, and I have to abolish Shakespeare from my mind before I can successfully do anything else. Does the fatal flaw exist outside of literature? I caught myself half-wishing it does on my way home, as I was reading "the egg book" (The Melancholy of Anatomy, Jackson), and wondering what mine is. Arrogance? A longing for the, if not picturesque, intellectually picturesque at all costs? Julius Caesar as a comment on ideology as justification? And I cannot decide whether Brutus' fatal flaw is idealism at all costs, or naivity? I do not quite dare to speak up in the group (university) yet, but I will have to get a grip and participate. If I am to present myself as one of the brightest students, I will have to speak.

I want to read T.S. Eliot, not history. And I am restless and feeling more than slightly petulant - I wanted to throw books around yesterday. PMS is a most intriguing thing. At the very least, I do not feel like a buoy that has been pumped too full of air, today.

Enjambment

Feb. 4th, 2008 06:19 pm
nirinia: (Default)
"Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw', that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs." - The Secret History, Donna Tartt.

We spoke of the fatal flaw in English today, and I have to abolish Shakespeare from my mind before I can successfully do anything else. Does the fatal flaw exist outside of literature? I caught myself half-wishing it does on my way home, as I was reading "the egg book" (The Melancholy of Anatomy, Jackson), and wondering what mine is. Arrogance? A longing for the, if not picturesque, intellectually picturesque at all costs? Julius Caesar as a comment on ideology as justification? And I cannot decide whether Brutus' fatal flaw is idealism at all costs, or naivity? I do not quite dare to speak up in the group (university) yet, but I will have to get a grip and participate. If I am to present myself as one of the brightest students, I will have to speak.

I want to read T.S. Eliot, not history. And I am restless and feeling more than slightly petulant - I wanted to throw books around yesterday. PMS is a most intriguing thing. At the very least, I do not feel like a buoy that has been pumped too full of air, today.
nirinia: (Default)
I complained that there was no snow, and I got a snow-storm. But, at the very least, the world is white again. Snow is a marvel, it makes the ugliest of things astounding.

And, apropos, how did I land the role of demi-psychiatrist at parties? Is there something about me that invites people to relate how tear-stainedly miserable they are? I know that I have a talent of sorts for pretending to listen, but I cannot possibly look inviting whem I'm drunk and dancing around, or laughing, bedraggledly, on the floor. In the past week I have had two people confess the most bizarre things to me, completely un-asked for. It is not so much that I mind, but that I am astounded, and curious. Why on earth do people tell me these things? And why will no one discuss literature with me when they are drunk, instead? Why me, and why when I really do not know you?
Perhaps the universe is making obscene hints, or just trying to tell me that languages and social science is not the education I should be looking at, at all. Perhaps I should just get a card saying "Alex - Wannabe intellectual and party psychiatrist. Especially fond of bad discussions".

The interim between the two world wars is particularly boring today, too. I would much rather be reading the introductory essay to Julius Caesar.
nirinia: (Default)
I complained that there was no snow, and I got a snow-storm. But, at the very least, the world is white again. Snow is a marvel, it makes the ugliest of things astounding.

And, apropos, how did I land the role of demi-psychiatrist at parties? Is there something about me that invites people to relate how tear-stainedly miserable they are? I know that I have a talent of sorts for pretending to listen, but I cannot possibly look inviting whem I'm drunk and dancing around, or laughing, bedraggledly, on the floor. In the past week I have had two people confess the most bizarre things to me, completely un-asked for. It is not so much that I mind, but that I am astounded, and curious. Why on earth do people tell me these things? And why will no one discuss literature with me when they are drunk, instead? Why me, and why when I really do not know you?
Perhaps the universe is making obscene hints, or just trying to tell me that languages and social science is not the education I should be looking at, at all. Perhaps I should just get a card saying "Alex - Wannabe intellectual and party psychiatrist. Especially fond of bad discussions".

The interim between the two world wars is particularly boring today, too. I would much rather be reading the introductory essay to Julius Caesar.

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