Last night, Kristin, Jim, Melanie, and I gathered at Todd and Mia’s house. The evening’s purposes were threefold: to begin the process of saying good-byes (half of those present will be gone rather permanently from Ithaca within a week, and the rest will be gone less permanently within a month), to eat dessert (no explanation necessary), and to hold the inaugural game of the recently invented Abstractionary.
Abstractionary, as its name implies, is a kind of Pictionary™ with abstract concepts. It was created by Jim, Melanie, and Kristin as a wedding present for Todd and Mia. The rules are rather loosely written, by intent, so I’ll describe the game as we played it. We split into three teams; on each round one team draws and another team guesses. If the guessers hit exactly on the word, both teams get 5 points; if a variant is guessed, both teams get 3 points; if a synonym is guessed, both teams get 1 point. If the word is not guessed, the remaining team could try to “steal” for 3, 2, or 1 points, according to the same system as before. The first team to 12 points wins the game.
As one might expect, the game quickly turns to a sort of pictorial charades. The first word was “villainous”. It’s not difficult to get plain ol’ “villain”; a stick figure with a handlebar moustache standing next to a railroad track suffices. But there’s that stipulation about exactness in the rules, so we kept going to try to get the last syllable. How does one convey an adjective? I’m sure there are lots of effective ways, but we simply tried to generate the word “us”. I drew a picture of two groups with an arrow between them, to represent “us” and “them”, then marked out the arrow and circled the first group. This picture didn’t make much sense at the time, but it became the standard way to represent the syllable “-ous” over the course of the game. 3 points that round.
Later, we had to draw “effervescent”. A glass of bubbly water accurately represented the concept, but was useless for eliciting guesses. We broke down the word into constituent syllables. “Scent” was not hard, with a nose and a flower. Since we’re all teachers, a piece of paper with lines of text and marks suggested “grading”, and a large X over the page with a sad face adjacent eventually led to “F”. Unfortunately, these clues were not enough to lead to a correct, or even relatively nearby, guess. No points that round.
“Self-referential” was not nearly as difficult as the drawing team initially feared: a stick-figure with a curved arrow leading both away from and back towards the figure finished that off. “Sadistic” led to some interesting pictures of intercontinental ballistic missiles (going for the rhyme, you know), although it was the person in manacles being whipped which succeeded. There was a curious occasion of splitting the single syllable word “hope” into two parts: “hoe” and “pea”, which almost succeeded.
Possibly the most educational round occurred with “jovial”. A cup of coffee (“java”) was intended to compound with a test tube (“vial”) to make the word, but we never got the second half. The coffee led to a happy face, which took us to “joy” and all its variants. (I thought the idea was that coffee brings joy—a sentiment I have often expressed in the office.) At the end of the round, a debate ensued as to how synonymous “joyous” and “jovial” are, and whether they have a common etymological root, given how similar they appear. (We eventually got 1 point for the synonym.) This was a perfect occasion to use one of my new favorite websites: the Online Etymology Dictionary.
You can check out the entries on joy and jovial for yourself if you like, but I’ll summarize the discussion here. “Jovial” comes from “Jove”, that is, Jupiter; “Jupiter” in turn comes from two roots, meaning “god” (related also to the French dieu and the Greek Zeus) and “father” (like pater). That’s right: Jupiter is the Godfather. “Joy” comes from the Latin gaudere, meaning “to rejoice”. The etymologies of the words are completely unrelated. But the meanings are indisputably similiar. After all, Holst subtitled the “Jupiter” movement of The Planets with “Bringer of Jollity” (“jollity” also arising from the root gaudere).
This discovery led into a discussion of favorite etymological coincidences. Jim said he’s seen the similarity of the English day and the Latin dies given as an example of how words with a similar meaning and a similar appearance may not have the same origins: day probably comes from a root meaning “to burn”, whereas dies comes from a root meaning “to shine”, also related to the root of dieu mentioned above. I personally like the fact that Latin has the same word—liber—for both “book” and “free”, even though their origins are completely different.
The game was exceedingly entertaining. A few wrinkles had to be smoothed out: the rules stipulate that which teams play in each round be determined by the digits of some irrational number. We chose π (pi, if the character won’t display properly for you), and since we had three teams, took the digits modulo 3. Unfortunately, it’s not uncommon for adjacent digits in π to be equivalent mod 3 (so that a team would be drawing for itself), nor for one team to be neglected for long stretches if we took the digits in their strict order. We stayed flexible on this point, so that everyone got a fair chance. The tag-team drawing was an on-the-spot innovation, and worked quite well most of the time.
If it weren’t for the game of Math Charades that a group of freshmen started up at a Christmas party last year, Abstractionary would probably also be the nerdiest game ever played in that house.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
O For a Thousand Books... Part 2
I purchased nine more hymnals today, as well as Everybody’s Song Book, which contains many hymns (along with school songs from Cornell, Harvard, Yale, and Rutgers, and other secular songs).
While at the Commons, I visited the Bookery, where I got the first two Catholic hymnals for my collection; one of these is also the first French songbook I have. The gentleman working there suggested I look at another used bookstore: Phoenix Books, which I can now heartily recommend to any bibliophiles in the Ithaca area. He said they usually have a good selection of religious books. (Many used-book stores place hymnals in the religion section.)
Phoenix actually had the hymnals in the music section, next to opera scores, textbooks on Gregorian chant, and histories of Western music. I was unprepared for the great number of hymnals they had. So I had to face an interesting, heretofore unstated, question: am I collecting hymnals or hymns? Many of the books they had were old and not in particularly good condition. A practical question then is, do I want to deal with the upkeep of these worn-out books now, right before I leave the country? If the hymns they contained looked worth it, I probably would have. But on a first lookover (all I had time for, as the bookstore was only open for 40 minutes after I arrived), I didn’t see anything particularly promising which I don’t already have in my collection. (I will go back and look again sometime, when I have more time.) Even one of the books in relatively good condition, a collection of songs and arrangements for men’s voices, didn’t really catch my attention.
Conclusion: for now at least, I’m collecting hymns. More precisely, I am collecting both hymns (the texts) and hymn tunes; the distinction is important for many reasons, but the practical meaning for my collection is that I have two hymnals without any music included, which I purchased because the selection of lyrics looked very good.
I started this collection because I wanted to discover hymns I had not known, and to have available many I have loved since youth but are less common. The actual book itself carrying the hymns is less my concern. I guess this is consistent with the greater emphasis I tend to place on knowledge rather than the medium of conveying that knowledge.
The current state of the collection:
It also appears there is honest confusion about who wrote the tune “Manoah”—Rossini or Haydn? In earlier hymnals it could be attributed to either. (And as I’ve mentioned before, I have at least one hymnal that attributes it to both, at separate times.) I don’t think any of my more modern hymnals attribute it to Haydn. The Cyberhymnal, which generally seems to be well-researched, lists Rossini as the composer, with no further commentary. However, the Christian Classics Ethereal Hymnary (which I’d never seen before tonight) lists both. It would seem that the only way to solve this mystery is actually to find a place where either Haydn or Rossini used this tune. Does anyone out there know of one?
While at the Commons, I visited the Bookery, where I got the first two Catholic hymnals for my collection; one of these is also the first French songbook I have. The gentleman working there suggested I look at another used bookstore: Phoenix Books, which I can now heartily recommend to any bibliophiles in the Ithaca area. He said they usually have a good selection of religious books. (Many used-book stores place hymnals in the religion section.)
Phoenix actually had the hymnals in the music section, next to opera scores, textbooks on Gregorian chant, and histories of Western music. I was unprepared for the great number of hymnals they had. So I had to face an interesting, heretofore unstated, question: am I collecting hymnals or hymns? Many of the books they had were old and not in particularly good condition. A practical question then is, do I want to deal with the upkeep of these worn-out books now, right before I leave the country? If the hymns they contained looked worth it, I probably would have. But on a first lookover (all I had time for, as the bookstore was only open for 40 minutes after I arrived), I didn’t see anything particularly promising which I don’t already have in my collection. (I will go back and look again sometime, when I have more time.) Even one of the books in relatively good condition, a collection of songs and arrangements for men’s voices, didn’t really catch my attention.
Conclusion: for now at least, I’m collecting hymns. More precisely, I am collecting both hymns (the texts) and hymn tunes; the distinction is important for many reasons, but the practical meaning for my collection is that I have two hymnals without any music included, which I purchased because the selection of lyrics looked very good.
I started this collection because I wanted to discover hymns I had not known, and to have available many I have loved since youth but are less common. The actual book itself carrying the hymns is less my concern. I guess this is consistent with the greater emphasis I tend to place on knowledge rather than the medium of conveying that knowledge.
The current state of the collection:
- 34 hymnals, 32 with music included
- 2 collections of a mix of hymns and secular songs (one of these in shaped notes)
- 2 survey books of hymnody, with both historical essays and large numbers of hymns
It also appears there is honest confusion about who wrote the tune “Manoah”—Rossini or Haydn? In earlier hymnals it could be attributed to either. (And as I’ve mentioned before, I have at least one hymnal that attributes it to both, at separate times.) I don’t think any of my more modern hymnals attribute it to Haydn. The Cyberhymnal, which generally seems to be well-researched, lists Rossini as the composer, with no further commentary. However, the Christian Classics Ethereal Hymnary (which I’d never seen before tonight) lists both. It would seem that the only way to solve this mystery is actually to find a place where either Haydn or Rossini used this tune. Does anyone out there know of one?
Friday, July 28, 2006
Geistliches Lied Part 3b
And now for the more traditional pose… What a team of singers! Thanks, everybody, for a great concert and a great summer of rehearsals!
Geistliches Lied Part 3a
Next, the pre-silly picture. (These are getting posted separately because I’m trying to learn Picasa.) This actually looks sillier than the other one, in my opinion, because it totally looks like the women of the choir are checking me out. But I think they’re actually considering whether or not to carry out the suggestion of lifting me up.
Of course, they could be checking me out. One of them said I should tell y’all about how they decided they were tired of women being treated as objects, and started objectifying all the men of the choir. I wasn’t complaining. :-)
Of course, they could be checking me out. One of them said I should tell y’all about how they decided they were tired of women being treated as objects, and started objectifying all the men of the choir. I wasn’t complaining. :-)
Geistliches Lied Part 3
I asked the members of the summer choir if I could post pictures, and they all agreed, so here goes…
First, the silly picture. The friend who was taking the pictures suggested the others hoist me up in celebration of the premiere of my song. So that’s me—the one without my feet on the ground.
First, the silly picture. The friend who was taking the pictures suggested the others hoist me up in celebration of the premiere of my song. So that’s me—the one without my feet on the ground.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Geistliches Lied Part 2
The main reason I chose the title “spiritual song” for this series of essays is not that we sang a beautiful, relatively obscure work by Brahms last Thursday night (although that piece is certainly the source of the title). It is that singing is such a spiritual activity for me, always. My attention is constantly drawn to it, and to music in general. My friends can tell you I am rarely without music in my head, and when out in public I will invariably start asking my companions questions about whatever music is in the “background.” In truth, I do not think I am any longer capable of consigning music to the background—I will relate a brief philosophical story about that later.
I can be enrapt by almost any kind of music, as long as it’s of good quality. I enjoy art music from any era; my own collection reaches from the mediaeval period to the last few years, with a heavy bias towards the 20th century. (The recordings I have of Messiaen outnumber those of Mozart by two or three to one.) My collections of jazz and folk music are growing (the latter being helped by a strong folk community in Ithaca). My collection of so-called “world music”—a catch-all which includes Edith Piaf, Bob Marley, and Värttinä, and could also include a great deal of what I call “folk”—is remaining steady; I would welcome suggestions here. I’m weak on rock music; while I would like to develop a taste for classic rock, whatever that means, I haven’t quite succeeded.
A couple of side notes: I was originally going to say that I thought the art music of the past centuries comprises the bulk of music, and I’m astonished how often I hear someone say they like all kinds of music and omit any mention of anything written before 1960 in the list of genres they listen to. But I suspect that art music has always been outweighed by more popular—dare I say populist—and less sophisticated music. (I don’t mean “less sophisticated” as an insult; being more complex doesn’t inherently make something better.) Hence the current world of commercial music is probably the inheritor of a larger legacy than the symphonic concert hall. Still, our best records of past music lie in the scores of art music, and it seems silly to disregard hundreds of years of extant music while claiming to be a music lover.
The other note: I only recently began to appreciate opera, in the sense of listening to more than a handful of pieces from its vast literature. This is another area I’m seeking to expand in my collection. But that’s a whole other story.
Beyond the pleasure I get from listening to music, I love performing it. Not so much for the sake of the audience, though it’s nice to give them something to enjoy. I love engaging the music. Music, to me, is tactile. I've been singing since I was very young. (Becky may have me beat on this point. Her parents say that in her crib she would sing to herself rather than cry when she woke up. My parents say I would look at the books placed in my crib.) The earliest song I wrote was on the playground in kindergarten—although I’ve kept it in my head since then, and I’m not sure I’ve ever shared it with anyone. It’s called “It’s a Beautiful Day,” and it sounds like something from Sesame Street. The earliest I remember singing in public was a duet version of “Lavender Blue,” in first or second grade. I started playing the tuba in the 7th grade, and that was my main instrument for ten years. The tuba carried me to Norway with the St. Olaf Band and to Eastern Europe with the St. Olaf Orchestra. It immersed me in Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2 and Holst’s suites for military band. Yet the greatest joys I have had in performance have, I believe, been while singing.
I can recall exactly when I realized how important singing is to me. At St. Olaf, the annual Christmas Festival brings together the orchestra and the five main choirs. I was in a choir every year I attended; I was the tubist for the orchestra starting sophomore year. I remember vividly the first dress rehearsal of Christmas Festival my first year; every moment was charged with a musical intensity I had never known. That’s not the story I’m going to tell. This story occurred in my junior year.
Junior year was the year I sang the least in the Christmas Festival. Those of us who belonged both to the orchestra and to a choir would have to change in and out of our robes behind the choral risers, and run up and down ladders to get in and out of our places among the singers. Each choir had two or three feature numbers, and for those of course we had to be with our choir. We could sing as much of the “massed pieces” as we felt like and our orchestral parts would allow. It so happened that, unlike the previous year, most of the pieces with orchestra included a tuba part, often a quite short one. For the sake of playing eight bars with the orchestra in an adjacent piece, I was unable to join the a cappella performance of F. Melius Christiansen’s setting of the hymn O Day Full of Grace.
O Day Full of Grace is one of my favorite songs ever to sing. We had performed it at the Christmas Festival my first year. In the weeks leading up to the Christmas Festival, I attended all the choir rehearsals, even those from which orchestra members were excused. Well, that’s not quite true—at times the orchestra rehearsals overlapped with the massed choir rehearsals. One evening I left the orchestra room and passed Urness Recital Hall, where the choirs rehearsed together, on my way to dinner. I stood at a window, and sang O Day Full of Grace with all my heart as Anton Armstrong conducted those who were “supposed” to be there. I knew then that singing and connecting words to music were far more important to me than being an instrumentalist. I miss playing the tuba from time to time, but I am pained when I go too long without singing with friends.
I could very nearly worship music. She has been the source and expression of much of the exultation and sorrow in my life. Yet I sense my unworthiness to serve at her altar. I do not really know how to sing well. I figure I can sing better than about 95% of the population, which is fine for entertainment, but is not what music deserves. Fortunately, music is also a great democratizer, making art and the expression of a vast range of thoughts and feelings accessible to anyone willing to listen or participate.
As for the philosophical story I mentioned earlier: this comes from one of my choral directors. He observed once during a rehearsal that the word “music” derives from “Muse,” referring to those great Greek goddesses who managed the arts. This connection, he noted, is incongruent with music’s contemporary and prevalant role of a-musement, which he took to be a negation of “musing” or thinking. I’m not sure that’s the correct etymology, since a brief search indicates that “amusement” originates from causing someone to think about something, in a distracting sense. But his point is well-posed. Socrates, according to Plato’s account in The Republic, believed that music could be a powerful force for instilling virtue or vice. He thought it would have to be regulated. Many composers have had to cope with actual regulations by their governments, who knew that music, even without words, could be patriotic or subversive; Shostakovich is well-known to have fallen in and out of favor with the Soviet government over his career. Today, however, we are aurally glutted on music, and it is cheapened by being placed where we are only dimly aware of it—in the “background.” (For contrast, check out Satie’s Musique d’ameublement, literally “furniture music,” which was intended to be remain unnoticed.) As with many other areas of modern life, the music we have available to us at any time would in the past have been beyond the reach of kings. We need to treasure it.
(I’ve become intrigued by a certain fact as I write this essay: we have nearly no synonyms for “music” in our language. We can talk about parts of music—melody, harmony, counterpoint, etc.—but there seems to be no other way to express the totality of music than with this one word.)
Lest the reader think I’m slipping into paganism with my adulation of music, let me close with the following poem by George Herbert—a coda, if you will, to the thoughts above. This comes to mind each time I am tempted to idolize such natural things beyond their eternal worth.
I can be enrapt by almost any kind of music, as long as it’s of good quality. I enjoy art music from any era; my own collection reaches from the mediaeval period to the last few years, with a heavy bias towards the 20th century. (The recordings I have of Messiaen outnumber those of Mozart by two or three to one.) My collections of jazz and folk music are growing (the latter being helped by a strong folk community in Ithaca). My collection of so-called “world music”—a catch-all which includes Edith Piaf, Bob Marley, and Värttinä, and could also include a great deal of what I call “folk”—is remaining steady; I would welcome suggestions here. I’m weak on rock music; while I would like to develop a taste for classic rock, whatever that means, I haven’t quite succeeded.
A couple of side notes: I was originally going to say that I thought the art music of the past centuries comprises the bulk of music, and I’m astonished how often I hear someone say they like all kinds of music and omit any mention of anything written before 1960 in the list of genres they listen to. But I suspect that art music has always been outweighed by more popular—dare I say populist—and less sophisticated music. (I don’t mean “less sophisticated” as an insult; being more complex doesn’t inherently make something better.) Hence the current world of commercial music is probably the inheritor of a larger legacy than the symphonic concert hall. Still, our best records of past music lie in the scores of art music, and it seems silly to disregard hundreds of years of extant music while claiming to be a music lover.
The other note: I only recently began to appreciate opera, in the sense of listening to more than a handful of pieces from its vast literature. This is another area I’m seeking to expand in my collection. But that’s a whole other story.
Beyond the pleasure I get from listening to music, I love performing it. Not so much for the sake of the audience, though it’s nice to give them something to enjoy. I love engaging the music. Music, to me, is tactile. I've been singing since I was very young. (Becky may have me beat on this point. Her parents say that in her crib she would sing to herself rather than cry when she woke up. My parents say I would look at the books placed in my crib.) The earliest song I wrote was on the playground in kindergarten—although I’ve kept it in my head since then, and I’m not sure I’ve ever shared it with anyone. It’s called “It’s a Beautiful Day,” and it sounds like something from Sesame Street. The earliest I remember singing in public was a duet version of “Lavender Blue,” in first or second grade. I started playing the tuba in the 7th grade, and that was my main instrument for ten years. The tuba carried me to Norway with the St. Olaf Band and to Eastern Europe with the St. Olaf Orchestra. It immersed me in Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2 and Holst’s suites for military band. Yet the greatest joys I have had in performance have, I believe, been while singing.
I can recall exactly when I realized how important singing is to me. At St. Olaf, the annual Christmas Festival brings together the orchestra and the five main choirs. I was in a choir every year I attended; I was the tubist for the orchestra starting sophomore year. I remember vividly the first dress rehearsal of Christmas Festival my first year; every moment was charged with a musical intensity I had never known. That’s not the story I’m going to tell. This story occurred in my junior year.
Junior year was the year I sang the least in the Christmas Festival. Those of us who belonged both to the orchestra and to a choir would have to change in and out of our robes behind the choral risers, and run up and down ladders to get in and out of our places among the singers. Each choir had two or three feature numbers, and for those of course we had to be with our choir. We could sing as much of the “massed pieces” as we felt like and our orchestral parts would allow. It so happened that, unlike the previous year, most of the pieces with orchestra included a tuba part, often a quite short one. For the sake of playing eight bars with the orchestra in an adjacent piece, I was unable to join the a cappella performance of F. Melius Christiansen’s setting of the hymn O Day Full of Grace.
O day full of grace which we behold,
Now gently to view ascending;
Thou over the earth thy reign unfold,
Good cheer to all mortals lending,
That children of light in ev’ry clime
May prove that the night is ending.
How blest was that gracious midnight hour,
When God in our flesh was given;
Then flushed the dawn with light and pow’r,
That spread o’er the darkened heaven;
Then rose o’er the world that Sun divine
Which gloom from our hearts hath driven.
Yea, were ev’ry tree endowed with speech
And every leaflet singing,
They never with praise God’s worth could reach,
Though earth with their praise be ringing.
Who fully could praise the Light of life
Who light to our souls is bringing?
With joy we depart for the promised land;
And there we shall walk in endless light.
O Day Full of Grace is one of my favorite songs ever to sing. We had performed it at the Christmas Festival my first year. In the weeks leading up to the Christmas Festival, I attended all the choir rehearsals, even those from which orchestra members were excused. Well, that’s not quite true—at times the orchestra rehearsals overlapped with the massed choir rehearsals. One evening I left the orchestra room and passed Urness Recital Hall, where the choirs rehearsed together, on my way to dinner. I stood at a window, and sang O Day Full of Grace with all my heart as Anton Armstrong conducted those who were “supposed” to be there. I knew then that singing and connecting words to music were far more important to me than being an instrumentalist. I miss playing the tuba from time to time, but I am pained when I go too long without singing with friends.
I could very nearly worship music. She has been the source and expression of much of the exultation and sorrow in my life. Yet I sense my unworthiness to serve at her altar. I do not really know how to sing well. I figure I can sing better than about 95% of the population, which is fine for entertainment, but is not what music deserves. Fortunately, music is also a great democratizer, making art and the expression of a vast range of thoughts and feelings accessible to anyone willing to listen or participate.
As for the philosophical story I mentioned earlier: this comes from one of my choral directors. He observed once during a rehearsal that the word “music” derives from “Muse,” referring to those great Greek goddesses who managed the arts. This connection, he noted, is incongruent with music’s contemporary and prevalant role of a-musement, which he took to be a negation of “musing” or thinking. I’m not sure that’s the correct etymology, since a brief search indicates that “amusement” originates from causing someone to think about something, in a distracting sense. But his point is well-posed. Socrates, according to Plato’s account in The Republic, believed that music could be a powerful force for instilling virtue or vice. He thought it would have to be regulated. Many composers have had to cope with actual regulations by their governments, who knew that music, even without words, could be patriotic or subversive; Shostakovich is well-known to have fallen in and out of favor with the Soviet government over his career. Today, however, we are aurally glutted on music, and it is cheapened by being placed where we are only dimly aware of it—in the “background.” (For contrast, check out Satie’s Musique d’ameublement, literally “furniture music,” which was intended to be remain unnoticed.) As with many other areas of modern life, the music we have available to us at any time would in the past have been beyond the reach of kings. We need to treasure it.
(I’ve become intrigued by a certain fact as I write this essay: we have nearly no synonyms for “music” in our language. We can talk about parts of music—melody, harmony, counterpoint, etc.—but there seems to be no other way to express the totality of music than with this one word.)
Lest the reader think I’m slipping into paganism with my adulation of music, let me close with the following poem by George Herbert—a coda, if you will, to the thoughts above. This comes to mind each time I am tempted to idolize such natural things beyond their eternal worth.
“The Pulley”
When God at first made man,
Having a glasse of blessings standing by;
Let us (said he) poure on him all we can:
Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.
So strength first made a way;
Then beautie flow’d, then wisdome, honour, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone of all his treasure
Rest in the bottome lay.
For if I should (said he)
Bestow this jewell also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts in stead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.
Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlesnesse:
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least,
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse
May tosse him to my breast.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Geistliches Lied
Last night the Cornell University Summer Choir gave its fourth annual concert. I have sung with this group for the last three summers. It has traditionally been composed primarily of members of the Glee Club and Chorus. While I have never belonged to either of those organizations (the Glee Club because I haven’t been able to commit the time, and the Chorus because—well—it’s a women's ensemble), they have been kind enough to permit me to join them in music-making. I think the fact that I sang at St. Olaf was my “in” the first year, and thereafter I had the benefit of a precedent. This year, for various reasons, we ended up with only six singers (hence one member billed the choir to her friends as the “Summer Sextet”). Good musicians all, and we had a great time rehearsing and delivering the performance.
As almost any proper choral concert should, ours included a mix of music reaching back into the Renaissance, up into the 21st century, with both classical “art” songs and folk songs. The second piece we performed was Brahms’ Op. 30, Geistliches Lied, whose title means “spiritual song.” It is a marvelously composed work: slow, peaceful, yet highly contrapuntal. Each section is a double canon—one canon between the soprano and tenor, the other between the alto and bass. The text is by Paul Flemming, and is apparently difficult to translate properly; one choir member described Flemming as a “German John Donne,” with whom he was contemporary. Below is the German text and a decent translation I found online.
The rest of the program:
As almost any proper choral concert should, ours included a mix of music reaching back into the Renaissance, up into the 21st century, with both classical “art” songs and folk songs. The second piece we performed was Brahms’ Op. 30, Geistliches Lied, whose title means “spiritual song.” It is a marvelously composed work: slow, peaceful, yet highly contrapuntal. Each section is a double canon—one canon between the soprano and tenor, the other between the alto and bass. The text is by Paul Flemming, and is apparently difficult to translate properly; one choir member described Flemming as a “German John Donne,” with whom he was contemporary. Below is the German text and a decent translation I found online.
Lass dich nur nichts nicht dauren mit Trauren,We also premiered a piece I wrote, entitled Promised Land. It was the last big number of the concert (not quite the closer, since we sang two lullabies by Charles Ives afterwards), and was well-received. There’s a story to how this song began: early one Saturday morning around March of 2005, I was awoken by the cold wind blowing in through my window. Almost immediately the first line of the second verse below started going through my head. A little while later (still lying in bed), I came up with the first verse and a second tune, which is intended to be a “walking” tune. The words throughout tell of hope, of reaching a final destination. For me, this song captures how I was feeling that morning—a bit chilly, increasingly dealing with life’s struggles, but sure of God’s providence.
sei stille, wie Gott es fügt, so sei vergnügt mein Wille!
Was willst du heute sorgen auf morgen?
Der Eine steht allem für, der gibt auch dir das Deine.
Sei nur in allem Handel ohn’ Wandel,
steh’ feste, was Gott beschleusst, das ist und heisst das Beste.
Amen.
Do not be sorrowful or regretful;
Be calm, as God has ordained, and thus my will shall be content.
What do you want to worry about from day to day?
There is One who stands above all who gives you, too, what is yours.
Only be steadfast in all you do,
stand firm; what God has decided, that is and must be the best.
Amen.
Though the road is harder now, I feel like I can make it,
Feel like I can make it all the way;
Though the road is harder now, I feel like I can make it,
Like I can make it to the promised land.
The wind blows colder now, and I feel like I’ve been walkin’,
Feel like I’ve been walkin’ for so long;
The wind blows colder now, but you know I'll keep on walkin’.
I'm gonna make it to the promised land.
One day my Lord called; He said, “It’s time to make the journey,
Time to make the journey of your life.”
I said to Him, “Oh, Lord, I pray it won’t be too long.”
He said, “My grace is enough for you.”
I'm goin’ stronger now, ’cause His Spirit lives within me
To lead and guide me all the way.
I'm goin’ stronger now, ’cause His Spirit lives within me,
And He will take me to the promised land.
Glory, Hallelujah,
I'm singin’ glory, Hallelujah!
The rest of the program:
- Ave Maria, Jean Mouton
- The Well-Beloved (Armenian folksongs), collected by H. Gudenian, arr. Deems Taylor
- Anthony O’Daly, Samuel Barber
- Locus Iste, Anton Bruckner
- Blessed is the Man that Trusteth in the Lord, Alan Hovhaness
- Poor Pilgrim, collected by R. Nathaniel Dett
- Tryin’ to Get Home, trad.
- City Called Heaven, arr. Josephine Poelinitz
- Berceuse and There is a Lane, Charles Ives, arr. H. Haufrecht
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Gah. Why can't they try respectable advertising methods?
My apologies to those who wish to post comments without signing up for a Blogger account. I'm happy to let you do so, but you'll now have to pass through a word verification test. Several of my entries got spammed this evening.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Øieblikket Part 3
One might wonder why I haven’t been talking much about France. Why am I still prating about philosophy, eternity and politics? Don’t I realize I have to prepare for a big trip?
I do, actually. Sarah and I are currently gathering the necessary documents for our visas. We’ll have to get temporary (3-month) visas, then apply for student visas once we’re in the country. We’ve decided to look for an apartment once we arrive; Dr. and Mrs. Hubbard have generously agreed to let us stay with them while we search, and word on the street is that the best way to find a good place is to make contacts who’ll know about places you can’t find online. The Ithaca practice of signing a contract to lease an apartment 4–6 months before you move in is apparently unheard of in Marseille. Once you’ve got a place, you move in right away. That’s what we hear, anyway. We’re playing this by ear; it’s only 9 months of living, after all.
The thing is, time and transience are on my mind precisely because of the upcoming trip. I have gone through several moves in my life, and I was sure some of them would carry radical changes. I’ve learned that I adapt quickly to a change in environment. But I’ve also observed that the change is never quite as sudden and shocking as I expect it to be.
Take Peace Corps. I was more nervous about teaching than I was about living in an African village. Living just means taking care of myself; teaching means the responsibility to imbue (or preferably educe, as some of the Cornell faculty would have it) understanding in whole classes of students. “Begin teaching” was the great barrier. But you don’t become a teacher all at once, as I was afraid I’d have to do. During training, one day in the first few weeks, I went from being someone who’d never stood in front of a classroom before (not entirely true; I did audit the math teaching methods course at St. Olaf, where I had to give a couple of sample lessons—thanks, Dr. Wallace) to someone who’d given a ten-minute lecture on some 8th grade algebra topic. By the end of training, we’d had to plan four week-long courses, two at a time, on fuller topics (one of which was Thales’ theorem for 10th grade, as I’ve mentioned before; the others were a 7th grade session on decimal numbers, an 11th grade session on analytic geometry, and a session on probability for Terminale—like 13th grade). Moreover, we’d practiced writing out a plan for an entire year. When I got to Kérouané, I still didn’t know what I was doing. But neither did my students; I didn’t find out until a couple of months into school that my 9th graders had not had a math teacher in 8th grade, and after I learned that I was amazed they were doing as well as they had been. We seemed to be able to guide each other in useful directions. No moment came that declared, “Now you are a teacher.” Being a teacher came in small steps.
I use this as an example of adaptation. It’s not sudden; it’s not a time when everything must come together in an instant. I’m having to remind myself of that. I expect adjusting to France will take almost as much effort as adjusting to Guinea did, particularly since the time in which I’ll have to do so is more compressed. But I don’t have to fit in immediately. The necessary steps will come. One day I’ll look back and realize, “Hey, I’ve become a French grad student.” Which isn’t nearly so great as becoming a teacher, but will be nice to reach anyway.
I do, actually. Sarah and I are currently gathering the necessary documents for our visas. We’ll have to get temporary (3-month) visas, then apply for student visas once we’re in the country. We’ve decided to look for an apartment once we arrive; Dr. and Mrs. Hubbard have generously agreed to let us stay with them while we search, and word on the street is that the best way to find a good place is to make contacts who’ll know about places you can’t find online. The Ithaca practice of signing a contract to lease an apartment 4–6 months before you move in is apparently unheard of in Marseille. Once you’ve got a place, you move in right away. That’s what we hear, anyway. We’re playing this by ear; it’s only 9 months of living, after all.
The thing is, time and transience are on my mind precisely because of the upcoming trip. I have gone through several moves in my life, and I was sure some of them would carry radical changes. I’ve learned that I adapt quickly to a change in environment. But I’ve also observed that the change is never quite as sudden and shocking as I expect it to be.
Take Peace Corps. I was more nervous about teaching than I was about living in an African village. Living just means taking care of myself; teaching means the responsibility to imbue (or preferably educe, as some of the Cornell faculty would have it) understanding in whole classes of students. “Begin teaching” was the great barrier. But you don’t become a teacher all at once, as I was afraid I’d have to do. During training, one day in the first few weeks, I went from being someone who’d never stood in front of a classroom before (not entirely true; I did audit the math teaching methods course at St. Olaf, where I had to give a couple of sample lessons—thanks, Dr. Wallace) to someone who’d given a ten-minute lecture on some 8th grade algebra topic. By the end of training, we’d had to plan four week-long courses, two at a time, on fuller topics (one of which was Thales’ theorem for 10th grade, as I’ve mentioned before; the others were a 7th grade session on decimal numbers, an 11th grade session on analytic geometry, and a session on probability for Terminale—like 13th grade). Moreover, we’d practiced writing out a plan for an entire year. When I got to Kérouané, I still didn’t know what I was doing. But neither did my students; I didn’t find out until a couple of months into school that my 9th graders had not had a math teacher in 8th grade, and after I learned that I was amazed they were doing as well as they had been. We seemed to be able to guide each other in useful directions. No moment came that declared, “Now you are a teacher.” Being a teacher came in small steps.
I use this as an example of adaptation. It’s not sudden; it’s not a time when everything must come together in an instant. I’m having to remind myself of that. I expect adjusting to France will take almost as much effort as adjusting to Guinea did, particularly since the time in which I’ll have to do so is more compressed. But I don’t have to fit in immediately. The necessary steps will come. One day I’ll look back and realize, “Hey, I’ve become a French grad student.” Which isn’t nearly so great as becoming a teacher, but will be nice to reach anyway.
Øieblikket Part 2
In the last couple of days, the following lines have come to mind, and I realized it would have been most appropriate to include them in my last essay on time. From William Blake's “Auguries of Innocence”:*
Blake finds a completely practical meaning to the apparently mystic notion that a grain of sand can hold the universe: respect. All the worth of the world is poured into each and every living being you encounter. He does not say it here, but I suspect he’s thinking of our being made in God’s image. This is not mere confusion of scale, but a reflection of what we know, when we take the time to consider such things, about ourselves (for we know our own worth) and morality (for we know how dreadfully important it is to treat others properly). In the middle of the poem, immediately following the lines about truth and lies, Blake turns from the particular to the general:
I was even more struck by the content of the poem because it highlights the importance of using the moment well, as I was discussing in my previous essay. This topic has arisen also in several conversations I’ve had with friends over the last week, some occasioned directly by my essay, others by world events. For hardly anywhere is the moment more important than in the world of politics.
In each of my (lamentably infrequent) forays into studying history, I have become more convinced that people do not change. Individuals change, and cultures change, but the middling ground of “human nature” does not. (I call human nature “middling” because it affects both individual and cultural behavior, and seems to provide a link between those two.) Politics will always be necessary to manage the gap between cultural forces and individual lives, and it must do so by taking into account the immediate situation.
I will relate a story here, which is relevant to the current political state, and which also is an archetypical example of how great an impact a moment can have. Two conversations in the last week have led me to tell my experience of September 11. That was a day when the whole world was changed in an instant, and you knew it. I think my experience was different enough from that of most people I know that it bears retelling here.
In the summer of 2001, I was halfway through my Peace Corps service. Classes were not due to start until late September, so I was planning a trip to the capital, Conakry, to work on my secondary project: providing lab materials to the school. Guinea is about five hours ahead of New York time. In the early afternoon of the 11th, after lunch, I was getting ready to take a nap (as one generally must do while living in Africa). Just before lying down, I had BBC playing on my shortwave radio, and I heard unclear reports about a plane having hit the World Trade Center. No one knew what was happening at the time, and at that point it was still assumed that a poor pilot of a small private plane had had a terrible accident. Unfortunate, I thought, and turned off the radio.
Four hours later, the proviseur (analogous to the principal) of the school I taught at was visiting my hut to write letters for me to take to Conakry. As he was preparing the letters, I turned the radio back on.
Chaos.
By that point, the towers had collapsed. Reporters on the scene were managing to describe something of what was going on—but what was going on was panic and horror. The sounds in the background were awful. For ten minutes I stood over my radio, the proviseur writing at my desk, and I tried to listen and learn what had occurred, while translating what I heard into French for the proviseur’s benefit. He was silently stunned and incredulous. How could either of us have expected a routine meeting to become the occasion of such terrible news? Finally, I insisted on leaving to find my sitemate, another Volunteer who was teaching English at the school.
She was cleaning her hut. She had not had the news on; she was listening to music. Still in shock, I told her she must turn the radio on. And we sat and listened.
The world had changed.
My most desperate desire at that moment was for more connection to Americans in general, and to the immediate events in particular. We would not leave town to meet other Volunteers for another day or two. Our search for more information took us to the compound of the diamond mining company Rio Tinto. In Kérouané, our village, Rio Tinto has an office and a compound, where we had occasionally been invited for dinners as fellow expatriates. (Their staff come from various nations of the Commonwealth—the United Kingdom, South Africa, Australia, etc.) They had a satellite TV. We rushed across town on our bikes to find out if they would let us watch. Once we found someone we knew, we had difficulty explaning what was happening. How do you tell someone in the middle of an ordinary workday that Washington and New York City have been attacked? A bit perplexed, he gave us permission to go in and watch. A little while later, he came and joined us to find out what we were talking about. We spent the evening watching news and replays.
I know many people have said those images looked unreal, like scenes from a movie. That’s not how I saw them. To me, they conveyed a truth that I couldn’t believe. My mind refused to accept that it was seeing what it saw. Nothing changes that much that quickly. No one has the power to alter or end that many lives that completely. Yet they did.
Not all of the Volunteers in Guinea learned of the attacks that day. I know of at least one who didn’t hear until a week later. She had been traveling in Côte d’Ivoire, and while she was crossing back into Guinea, one of the border guards asked, “Did you know your country is under attack?”
For about a month, it seemed, we were fully galvanized and unified. We would brook no discord, and we needed to mourn, to act, to pray, all at once. Nor were we alone; the world was with us. An editorial in Le Monde declared “Nous sommes tous Américains.” Of course our friends in our villages supported and grieved with us, but even when we went to the regional capital of Kankan, people would stop us and say, “Are you Americans? We are all touched by what happened to you, and we are saddened and sorry.” Incidentally, we lived in a heavily Muslim region.
This is how it seemed from overseas. I’m sure the situation was more complicated here.
The world may have changed that day, but people did not. The last five years have borne away the unity which was forged so quickly, and divisiveness and acrimony seem to rule. It is worse in some nations other than our own. I cannot bear to retell the stories I have read recently about the battles between Israel and Lebanon, or of Sunnis and Shi’ites and vendettas. A friend asked me last weekend, among several other “on-the-spot” questions, what I thought of the situation in Iraq. After substantial thinking, and relating the story above, I answered (not very well at the time) that I don’t believe any military can stop the hatred there. There is no reason, no rationality behind that hatred. They and we urgently need diplomacy of the finest kind, and that is not what the situation is getting. I admire those who serve in our military, and I mean them no disrespect, but I think Blake was right that it is no honor to us that “Armours iron brace” is necessary.
So I come back to politics. But I have said enough about these matters. I am the world’s least qualified person to discuss diplomacy in the Middle East. I know the importance of politics, however, for it is what gives civility to the horrendous state of relations that people seem naturally to attain.
At the other end of the spectrum from a moment that fills the world with sorrow, and no less important than it, is a moment that fills an individual with joy. A friend of mine was baptized this weekend. I have never seen a live childbirth, but I have witnessed this second birth many times. It is awesome every time. It is, in fact, one of the most beautiful sights I have beheld. To watch God’s family in Christ growing. To gain a new spiritual sister or brother.
I was not able to witness this friend’s baptism, but I know she received it with excitement, a bit of trepidation, and happiness. Anyone who remembers their baptism (I am among them) can tell you that it is a sharp moment, full of anticipation and longing and thankfulness. I do not mean to say that baptism is the advent of salvation. That is an entirely different theological discussion. But in that moment, you know you are sealed by God. You have confessed your willingness to join a worldwide, timewide family, and that family accepts you marvelously. As the hymn says, “How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed!”
In this case, the baptism is especially wonderful, because a year ago my friend did not believe in God at all, or only hardly. She and I have talked about the difficulties of believing, and about how religion cuts to the marrow of the self, reaching mind, heart, and spirit. Of all the things I do with friends, worship is the most important, and I am thrilled to be able to join another in praising God.
I am often amazed that what a person experiences most intimately and intensely is precisely what is most universal among humans—such as love and faith, or unfortunately also hate and doubt. It seems a great joke of God that our individuality can only lead us to our commonality. Because He has chosen to order things that way, Blake is not mistaken that eternity lies in an hour.
* I have followed The Norton Anthology’s practice of printing the poem as Blake printed it, without editorially adding punctuation or changing spelling and capitalization.
To see a World in a Grain of SandI had always assumed, since hearing these lines in high school, that they were the end of a sentence, perhaps the end of the poem. But I was surprised when I looked them up and found that they are the opening lines of the poem. And I was even more surprised to find what follows. It is not some mystical jaunt; most of the rest consists of couplets essentially instructing the reader in various ways to take care of the world and its creatures. A few selections:
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the state
A Horse misusd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belovd by Men
He who the Ox to wrath has movd
Shall never be by Woman lovd
A truth thats told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death
The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall neer get out
He who respects the Infants faith
Triumphs over Hell & Death
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like to the Armours iron brace
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plough
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow
Blake finds a completely practical meaning to the apparently mystic notion that a grain of sand can hold the universe: respect. All the worth of the world is poured into each and every living being you encounter. He does not say it here, but I suspect he’s thinking of our being made in God’s image. This is not mere confusion of scale, but a reflection of what we know, when we take the time to consider such things, about ourselves (for we know our own worth) and morality (for we know how dreadfully important it is to treat others properly). In the middle of the poem, immediately following the lines about truth and lies, Blake turns from the particular to the general:
It is right it should be so
Man was made for Joy & Woe
And when this we rightly know
Through the World we safely go
Joy & Woe are woven fine
A Clothing for the Soul divine
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
I was even more struck by the content of the poem because it highlights the importance of using the moment well, as I was discussing in my previous essay. This topic has arisen also in several conversations I’ve had with friends over the last week, some occasioned directly by my essay, others by world events. For hardly anywhere is the moment more important than in the world of politics.
In each of my (lamentably infrequent) forays into studying history, I have become more convinced that people do not change. Individuals change, and cultures change, but the middling ground of “human nature” does not. (I call human nature “middling” because it affects both individual and cultural behavior, and seems to provide a link between those two.) Politics will always be necessary to manage the gap between cultural forces and individual lives, and it must do so by taking into account the immediate situation.
I will relate a story here, which is relevant to the current political state, and which also is an archetypical example of how great an impact a moment can have. Two conversations in the last week have led me to tell my experience of September 11. That was a day when the whole world was changed in an instant, and you knew it. I think my experience was different enough from that of most people I know that it bears retelling here.
In the summer of 2001, I was halfway through my Peace Corps service. Classes were not due to start until late September, so I was planning a trip to the capital, Conakry, to work on my secondary project: providing lab materials to the school. Guinea is about five hours ahead of New York time. In the early afternoon of the 11th, after lunch, I was getting ready to take a nap (as one generally must do while living in Africa). Just before lying down, I had BBC playing on my shortwave radio, and I heard unclear reports about a plane having hit the World Trade Center. No one knew what was happening at the time, and at that point it was still assumed that a poor pilot of a small private plane had had a terrible accident. Unfortunate, I thought, and turned off the radio.
Four hours later, the proviseur (analogous to the principal) of the school I taught at was visiting my hut to write letters for me to take to Conakry. As he was preparing the letters, I turned the radio back on.
Chaos.
By that point, the towers had collapsed. Reporters on the scene were managing to describe something of what was going on—but what was going on was panic and horror. The sounds in the background were awful. For ten minutes I stood over my radio, the proviseur writing at my desk, and I tried to listen and learn what had occurred, while translating what I heard into French for the proviseur’s benefit. He was silently stunned and incredulous. How could either of us have expected a routine meeting to become the occasion of such terrible news? Finally, I insisted on leaving to find my sitemate, another Volunteer who was teaching English at the school.
She was cleaning her hut. She had not had the news on; she was listening to music. Still in shock, I told her she must turn the radio on. And we sat and listened.
The world had changed.
My most desperate desire at that moment was for more connection to Americans in general, and to the immediate events in particular. We would not leave town to meet other Volunteers for another day or two. Our search for more information took us to the compound of the diamond mining company Rio Tinto. In Kérouané, our village, Rio Tinto has an office and a compound, where we had occasionally been invited for dinners as fellow expatriates. (Their staff come from various nations of the Commonwealth—the United Kingdom, South Africa, Australia, etc.) They had a satellite TV. We rushed across town on our bikes to find out if they would let us watch. Once we found someone we knew, we had difficulty explaning what was happening. How do you tell someone in the middle of an ordinary workday that Washington and New York City have been attacked? A bit perplexed, he gave us permission to go in and watch. A little while later, he came and joined us to find out what we were talking about. We spent the evening watching news and replays.
I know many people have said those images looked unreal, like scenes from a movie. That’s not how I saw them. To me, they conveyed a truth that I couldn’t believe. My mind refused to accept that it was seeing what it saw. Nothing changes that much that quickly. No one has the power to alter or end that many lives that completely. Yet they did.
Not all of the Volunteers in Guinea learned of the attacks that day. I know of at least one who didn’t hear until a week later. She had been traveling in Côte d’Ivoire, and while she was crossing back into Guinea, one of the border guards asked, “Did you know your country is under attack?”
For about a month, it seemed, we were fully galvanized and unified. We would brook no discord, and we needed to mourn, to act, to pray, all at once. Nor were we alone; the world was with us. An editorial in Le Monde declared “Nous sommes tous Américains.” Of course our friends in our villages supported and grieved with us, but even when we went to the regional capital of Kankan, people would stop us and say, “Are you Americans? We are all touched by what happened to you, and we are saddened and sorry.” Incidentally, we lived in a heavily Muslim region.
This is how it seemed from overseas. I’m sure the situation was more complicated here.
The world may have changed that day, but people did not. The last five years have borne away the unity which was forged so quickly, and divisiveness and acrimony seem to rule. It is worse in some nations other than our own. I cannot bear to retell the stories I have read recently about the battles between Israel and Lebanon, or of Sunnis and Shi’ites and vendettas. A friend asked me last weekend, among several other “on-the-spot” questions, what I thought of the situation in Iraq. After substantial thinking, and relating the story above, I answered (not very well at the time) that I don’t believe any military can stop the hatred there. There is no reason, no rationality behind that hatred. They and we urgently need diplomacy of the finest kind, and that is not what the situation is getting. I admire those who serve in our military, and I mean them no disrespect, but I think Blake was right that it is no honor to us that “Armours iron brace” is necessary.
So I come back to politics. But I have said enough about these matters. I am the world’s least qualified person to discuss diplomacy in the Middle East. I know the importance of politics, however, for it is what gives civility to the horrendous state of relations that people seem naturally to attain.
At the other end of the spectrum from a moment that fills the world with sorrow, and no less important than it, is a moment that fills an individual with joy. A friend of mine was baptized this weekend. I have never seen a live childbirth, but I have witnessed this second birth many times. It is awesome every time. It is, in fact, one of the most beautiful sights I have beheld. To watch God’s family in Christ growing. To gain a new spiritual sister or brother.
I was not able to witness this friend’s baptism, but I know she received it with excitement, a bit of trepidation, and happiness. Anyone who remembers their baptism (I am among them) can tell you that it is a sharp moment, full of anticipation and longing and thankfulness. I do not mean to say that baptism is the advent of salvation. That is an entirely different theological discussion. But in that moment, you know you are sealed by God. You have confessed your willingness to join a worldwide, timewide family, and that family accepts you marvelously. As the hymn says, “How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed!”
In this case, the baptism is especially wonderful, because a year ago my friend did not believe in God at all, or only hardly. She and I have talked about the difficulties of believing, and about how religion cuts to the marrow of the self, reaching mind, heart, and spirit. Of all the things I do with friends, worship is the most important, and I am thrilled to be able to join another in praising God.
I am often amazed that what a person experiences most intimately and intensely is precisely what is most universal among humans—such as love and faith, or unfortunately also hate and doubt. It seems a great joke of God that our individuality can only lead us to our commonality. Because He has chosen to order things that way, Blake is not mistaken that eternity lies in an hour.
* I have followed The Norton Anthology’s practice of printing the poem as Blake printed it, without editorially adding punctuation or changing spelling and capitalization.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Sigs
Because I’d like to have them all in one place, here are the quotes I've used for email signatures:
I also sign off with an “ASCII ichthus”: <><
which I haven’t really seen elsewhere.* I avoid bumper stickers, so I won’t put it on my car, but at the end of an email works for me.
*Addendum (15 July): Last night, I encountered the ASCII fish on the package of a spicy chicken sushi roll I got at Wegmans, in the following context: “<>< Raw not used.” Who’d’ve thought sushi packaging would meet Christian symbolism? One of life’s little inevitabilities, I guess.
The biggest danger, that of losing oneself, can pass off in the world as quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc., is bound to be noticed.
—Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death
Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me I pray.
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And fit us for heaven to live with Thee there.
—John Thomas McFarland
The perplexity of life arises from there being too many interesting things in it for us to be interested properly in any of them.
—G. K. Chesterton
If we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us. … We are far too easily pleased.
—C. S. Lewis, “The Weight of Glory”
If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.
—Romans 12:18 (NIV)
Among all vanities of life, there is only one thing that the spirit loves and craves… It is an awakening within the spirit; he who knows it, is unable to reveal it by words; and he who knows it not, will never think upon the compelling and beautiful mystery of existence.
—Kahlil Gibran, “The Tempest”
This event advertises me that there is such a fact as death,—the possibility of a man’s dying. It seems as if no man had ever died in America before; for in order to die you must first have lived. … Only half a dozen or so have died since the world began. … These men, in teaching us how to die, have at the same time taught us how to live.I don’t change them very often. Perhaps with a storage space for them, I will.
—Henry David Thoreau, “A Plea for Captain John Brown”
I also sign off with an “ASCII ichthus”: <><
which I haven’t really seen elsewhere.* I avoid bumper stickers, so I won’t put it on my car, but at the end of an email works for me.
*Addendum (15 July): Last night, I encountered the ASCII fish on the package of a spicy chicken sushi roll I got at Wegmans, in the following context: “<>< Raw not used.” Who’d’ve thought sushi packaging would meet Christian symbolism? One of life’s little inevitabilities, I guess.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Øieblikket
It may sound strange, but I’m not sure I have reconciled myself with Time. I don’t mean that I’m bothered by getting older; I am relatively comfortable with the passage of days, hours, and years. What discomfits me is Time as a rapid succession of moments. I find it hard to believe, despite numerous historical and literary events to support it, that a person’s life is sometimes changed by instants rather than by carefully measured choices. The concept of “irretrievable” is alien to my basic philosophy. What is broken can be mended; what is lost can be found. Nothing is truly past doing.
This position may seem even stranger coming from a purported amateur musician. Much of performance is about timing—exact timing (aleatoric compositions notwithstanding). And a musical moment is nearly the most transient thing imaginable. (I’m going to reference Kierkegaard later, so I may as well invoke him now: in Either/Or, the unnamed personage A observes that “music always expresses the immediate in its immediacy.”) It is possible that my difficulty with Time is related to some underlying reason that I entered mathematics rather than music. In my field of study, the truth exists, and it will be found. Mistakes will be made and corrected, and each piece will be uncovered in due course.
This philosophy has its practical benefits. It makes patience easy. When nothing passes away forever, there is no need to rush to anything. It makes recovery easy. Whatever has gone before this point, from here we can and must weigh and determine what we should do next. It even makes forgiveness easy. The harm my neighbor has done me is temporary, or if it is not, bearing a grudge will not help me or them in the weeks ahead.
My reluctance to accept the significance of moments also flies in the face of evidence and experience. The family heirloom that falls and shatters ends its existence there. The secret that is discovered changes, clarifies, perhaps ruins everything suddenly. Most seriously, the life that is struck down by will or whimsy cannot be restored so that those who love it do not grieve.
For Kierkegaard, I think, faith turns on an instant. On every instant, in fact: the “knight of faith” he describes in Fear and Trembling is “continually making the movement of infinity”, “purchasing every moment he lives, ‘redeeming the seasonable time’ at the dearest price”, by which SK means complete resignation and trust in God to provide. One might say that faith is where eternity and instantaneity meet. An instant is also the time of action: the last works of SK were the 10 issues of his self-published journal Øieblikket (The Instant). The purpose of these journals was to call the Danish population to reject the state church and turn to true Christian faith. He desparately wanted his fellow Danes to believe the promise of Jesus, that He will give rest to those who turn to Him, and to do so every moment of their lives.
The will can only act in the present; when the immediate is pushed backward or forward in time, it becomes either history or conjecture, inaccessible to the will. How can this be balanced with a longer view of time? I measure events and decisions in my head, and as I’ve said, measuring has its benefits. It is even necessary for some events: practice and preparation bring premeditation to bear on performance, which of itself happens in a moment. One carefully plans what one will do with one’s life, say in one’s speech, teach in one’s class.
Immediacy is essential to some parts of life, however. I’ve learned that it’s difficult to dance when you’re constantly measuring your steps. Have a glass of wine, suppress the analytical urge, and you’ll flow with the dance more naturally. Do not think too hard about the sunset; the colors are not made richer by the light of your thoughts. And avoid what is worst of all—to be immobilized by mediating too much on what has been or what is to come. This is my failing. Prudence can only get you so far. Self-congratulation and self-flagellation can get you nowhere at all.
Life moves in moments. Time bears away all things, but to grasp them at all, you must grasp now. Let the long view of life give you patience and perspective, but do not neglect the immediate or it will neglect you. I speak to myself.
This position may seem even stranger coming from a purported amateur musician. Much of performance is about timing—exact timing (aleatoric compositions notwithstanding). And a musical moment is nearly the most transient thing imaginable. (I’m going to reference Kierkegaard later, so I may as well invoke him now: in Either/Or, the unnamed personage A observes that “music always expresses the immediate in its immediacy.”) It is possible that my difficulty with Time is related to some underlying reason that I entered mathematics rather than music. In my field of study, the truth exists, and it will be found. Mistakes will be made and corrected, and each piece will be uncovered in due course.
This philosophy has its practical benefits. It makes patience easy. When nothing passes away forever, there is no need to rush to anything. It makes recovery easy. Whatever has gone before this point, from here we can and must weigh and determine what we should do next. It even makes forgiveness easy. The harm my neighbor has done me is temporary, or if it is not, bearing a grudge will not help me or them in the weeks ahead.
My reluctance to accept the significance of moments also flies in the face of evidence and experience. The family heirloom that falls and shatters ends its existence there. The secret that is discovered changes, clarifies, perhaps ruins everything suddenly. Most seriously, the life that is struck down by will or whimsy cannot be restored so that those who love it do not grieve.
For Kierkegaard, I think, faith turns on an instant. On every instant, in fact: the “knight of faith” he describes in Fear and Trembling is “continually making the movement of infinity”, “purchasing every moment he lives, ‘redeeming the seasonable time’ at the dearest price”, by which SK means complete resignation and trust in God to provide. One might say that faith is where eternity and instantaneity meet. An instant is also the time of action: the last works of SK were the 10 issues of his self-published journal Øieblikket (The Instant). The purpose of these journals was to call the Danish population to reject the state church and turn to true Christian faith. He desparately wanted his fellow Danes to believe the promise of Jesus, that He will give rest to those who turn to Him, and to do so every moment of their lives.
The will can only act in the present; when the immediate is pushed backward or forward in time, it becomes either history or conjecture, inaccessible to the will. How can this be balanced with a longer view of time? I measure events and decisions in my head, and as I’ve said, measuring has its benefits. It is even necessary for some events: practice and preparation bring premeditation to bear on performance, which of itself happens in a moment. One carefully plans what one will do with one’s life, say in one’s speech, teach in one’s class.
Immediacy is essential to some parts of life, however. I’ve learned that it’s difficult to dance when you’re constantly measuring your steps. Have a glass of wine, suppress the analytical urge, and you’ll flow with the dance more naturally. Do not think too hard about the sunset; the colors are not made richer by the light of your thoughts. And avoid what is worst of all—to be immobilized by mediating too much on what has been or what is to come. This is my failing. Prudence can only get you so far. Self-congratulation and self-flagellation can get you nowhere at all.
Life moves in moments. Time bears away all things, but to grasp them at all, you must grasp now. Let the long view of life give you patience and perspective, but do not neglect the immediate or it will neglect you. I speak to myself.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Name change and originality
I originally launched this blog as “My Thirtieth Year.” Because, y’know, that's when I started writing it, and as I mentioned in my first essay, my travels over the next year are the main reason for having it. But it turns out a lot of other people turn 30, too, and think about turning 30, and think it’s a good idea to blog about it. Also, who knows but that I might keep writing once I’m back from France? So I went looking for a more “individual” name for my blog, one that wouldn’t end up leading people to someone else’s musings.
The blog world is bursting right now. Hundreds of thousands of people are writing about their lives. And a lot of them are quite creative. Just so you know: you may be unique, but each small part of the unique you is probably duplicated in someone else. It’s nigh impossible to do something clever or original when you’re competing with everyone on the Internet. Here are the other names I tried before I got Thales’ Triangles to work:
Okay, so where did this name come from? And do I expect anyone to remember it? (Not much of an answer to the second question, I’m afraid.)
Thales was a Greek mathematician, possibly the first mathematician in recorded history. Wikipedia and the MacTutor archive have great long articles on him, so I won’t give a biography here. Instead, I’ll say what connection I have with him and his triangles.
When I was in Peace Corps, teaching math in West Africa, at the end of training we had a 2-week “practice school,” with volunteer students from the neighboring community. One of the weeks I was teaching le théorème de Thalès to the troisième class (essentially the equivalent of 10th grade). As usually stated, it runs something like this: Suppose M, O, and P are colinear, and N, O, and Q are colinear, and MN and PQ are parallel. Then the triangles OMN and OPQ are similar. I didn't actually like teaching this theorem that first time. I taught it again later when I was at my site and had more fun with it. The story is told that Thales used this property to measure the heights of the pyramids in Egypt by measuring the length of their shadows and comparing them to the length of the shadow of a pole stuck in the ground. So on their test I had them compute the (fictional) height of a mosque the same way.
In the U.S., a different theorem is usually known as “Thales’ theorem.” (If you read the MacTutor biography, you’ll see that five theorems are generally attributed to him.) The U.S. prefers the theorem that if one side of a triangle is a diameter of the triangle’s circumcircle, then the opposite angle is a right angle. This is also a good result, although I don’t know of any good stories to go with it.
Triangles are the key to understanding almost any geometry. As a mathematician, I’m following Thales’ footsteps. And, since I’m going to France to work on math, a reference to something mathematical I taught in a former French colony has at least a tenuous connection with my present life. Hopefully the blog’s name is now clear as mud.
As for the pronunciation of Thales’ name, I still hear it in my head as the French “tah-luhs.” But in English I think it’s usually said “thay-leez.”
The blog world is bursting right now. Hundreds of thousands of people are writing about their lives. And a lot of them are quite creative. Just so you know: you may be unique, but each small part of the unique you is probably duplicated in someone else. It’s nigh impossible to do something clever or original when you’re competing with everyone on the Internet. Here are the other names I tried before I got Thales’ Triangles to work:
- Polytropos— from the opening line of the Odyssey, where it is used to describe Odysseus. I’ve seen it translated variously as “many-traveled” and “many-talented,” but most consistently as “many-turnings.”
- Ebenezer— everyone’s favorite 19th century grouch. Which makes people confused the first time they come across it in a hymn, in the second verse of “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” It’s actually a reference to 1 Samuel 7, and was the name of a stone, raised as a testament to God’s help.
- Joie de vivre— ’cause it’s a good thing to have, and, well, I’m going to France…
- Geometer— no explanation necessary. Although I don’t quite understand why it wasn’t available, since Blogspot doesn’t seem to have a blog by that name right now.
- Horocycle— a kind of curve in hyperbolic geometry. It’s surprisingly useful. And very nifty.
Okay, so where did this name come from? And do I expect anyone to remember it? (Not much of an answer to the second question, I’m afraid.)
Thales was a Greek mathematician, possibly the first mathematician in recorded history. Wikipedia and the MacTutor archive have great long articles on him, so I won’t give a biography here. Instead, I’ll say what connection I have with him and his triangles.
When I was in Peace Corps, teaching math in West Africa, at the end of training we had a 2-week “practice school,” with volunteer students from the neighboring community. One of the weeks I was teaching le théorème de Thalès to the troisième class (essentially the equivalent of 10th grade). As usually stated, it runs something like this: Suppose M, O, and P are colinear, and N, O, and Q are colinear, and MN and PQ are parallel. Then the triangles OMN and OPQ are similar. I didn't actually like teaching this theorem that first time. I taught it again later when I was at my site and had more fun with it. The story is told that Thales used this property to measure the heights of the pyramids in Egypt by measuring the length of their shadows and comparing them to the length of the shadow of a pole stuck in the ground. So on their test I had them compute the (fictional) height of a mosque the same way.
In the U.S., a different theorem is usually known as “Thales’ theorem.” (If you read the MacTutor biography, you’ll see that five theorems are generally attributed to him.) The U.S. prefers the theorem that if one side of a triangle is a diameter of the triangle’s circumcircle, then the opposite angle is a right angle. This is also a good result, although I don’t know of any good stories to go with it.
Triangles are the key to understanding almost any geometry. As a mathematician, I’m following Thales’ footsteps. And, since I’m going to France to work on math, a reference to something mathematical I taught in a former French colony has at least a tenuous connection with my present life. Hopefully the blog’s name is now clear as mud.
As for the pronunciation of Thales’ name, I still hear it in my head as the French “tah-luhs.” But in English I think it’s usually said “thay-leez.”
Monday, July 03, 2006
"O for a thousand books to sing..."
I collect hymnals. This is a recently acquired hobby, although it is one I considered taking up for some time. I have determined to make it my habit to seek out used bookstores in each town I visit and find whatever hymnals they have. In the last two weeks, I have more than doubled the number of volumes in my collection. As I was driving into Ithaca today, I stopped by the used bookstores on the Commons to see if I could reach 20. Depending on how you classify some of the volumes, you might claim I made it. Musical treasures abound in these books.
(This may be as far as you want to read in this entry, because from here on out the details get gritty.)
I bought my first hymnal in the spring of 2005 at the Friends of the Library Book Sale. It was the current edition (1989) of the United Methodist Hymnal. For my birthday that year, Becky gave me two Lutheran hymnals and one from the United Church of Christ. In Burlington, Vermont, she pointed me to a collection of American hymns ranging from the 17th century to original commissioned works, and it didn’t take me much deliberation to decide to get it. The real fun started at this spring’s Friends of the Library sale, when I found a book dating from the 1880s and a book of revival-era songs.
Here is the full set as it currently stands, in chronological order:
Each book has its particular value. In Laudes Domini I found a lovely setting of “Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness”. The St. Olaf College Song Book has many of F. Melius Christiansen’s hymn arrangements, and the supplement holds a ballad about Olav in a setting by Grieg. Junior Praises has a text set to the tune of “Swanee River”. Glorious Gospel Hymns (which has, so far, the worst editing job of my collection) is the only hymnal I have containing a tune I had been singing to myself for some time until I found this book. (To give you an idea of the editing, the tune is attributed twice to Rossini and once to Haydn, but I think the former is correct.)* The United Methodist Hymnal introduced me to Charles Wesley's poem “Come, O Thou Traveler Unknown” and the complete text of “Glory to God, and Praise and Love”, from which “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing” is taken. Among five hymnals, I have seven different settings of “Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy” (or “poor and wretched,” which I think is the original), three of which have an added refrain. And yes, I did happen upon a Jewish hymnal, with a number of tunes based on traditional (e.g., Sephardic) melodies.
The reactions of my friends upon hearing of this collection have been varied. Becky claims that if I continue this practice, then at the end of my life I’ll have a collection that I’ll have to donate to St. Olaf, and that they’ll love it. Some friends chide me in jest for having an addiction. One remarked that a famous hymnist, Philip Bliss, is from this region (born in Clearfield County, Pennsylvania).
In any case, I’m pleased with what I’ve found so far. Searching through used bookstores means finding a concentration of hymnals from the first half of the 20th century—I suspect this is due in part to dispersing the possessions of people who have passed on, and may have received these books early in their lives. Apart from the United Methodist Hymnal and American Hymns, the more contemporary works I have were gifts.
Now that you’ve read far more than you expected or wanted to about my new hobby, I’ll alert you that this is as much for my own records as it is to enlighten anyone else on it. But perhaps some of you enjoyed the curious diversity of the list. :-)
* Added 9 July: I have now discovered the tune in both of my 1880s hymnals. It is by Rossini, and its name is “Manoah”.
(This may be as far as you want to read in this entry, because from here on out the details get gritty.)
I bought my first hymnal in the spring of 2005 at the Friends of the Library Book Sale. It was the current edition (1989) of the United Methodist Hymnal. For my birthday that year, Becky gave me two Lutheran hymnals and one from the United Church of Christ. In Burlington, Vermont, she pointed me to a collection of American hymns ranging from the 17th century to original commissioned works, and it didn’t take me much deliberation to decide to get it. The real fun started at this spring’s Friends of the Library sale, when I found a book dating from the 1880s and a book of revival-era songs.
Here is the full set as it currently stands, in chronological order:
- Book of Worship with Tunes (1880, Lutheran Publication Society)
- Laudes Domini: A selection of spiritual songs ancient & modern (1887, The Century Co.)
- Junior Praises (1901, Western Methodist Book Concern)
- The Gospel in Song (1926, Review and Herald Publishing Association)
- Glorious Gospel Hymns (1931, Nazarene Publishing House)
- Union Hymnal: Songs and prayers for Jewish worship (1932, The Central Conference of American Rabbis)
- The Concordia Hymnal, bound with a supplementary section as the St. Olaf College Song Book (1934, Augsberg Publishing House)
- The Hymnal of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America (1940, The Church Pension Fund)
- The Hymnal for Youth (1941, The Westminster Press)
- Tabernacle Hymns Number Four, round note edition (1951, Tabernacle Publishing Company)
- The Methodist Hymnal (1966, The Methodist Publishing House)
- Crusader Hymns and Hymn Stories (1967, The Billy Graham Evangelistic Association)
- The Hymnal of the United Church of Christ (1974, United Church Press, 7th printing 1979)
- The Hymn Book, words only (1975, the Anglican Church of Canada and the United Church of Canada)
- Lutheran Book of Worship, organist edition (1978, Lutheran Church in America, 17th printing 2005)
- The United Methodist Hymnal (1989, The United Methodist Publishing House, 11th printing 1994)
- With One Voice: A Lutheran resource for worship (1995, Augsberg Fortress)
- The Celebration Hymnal: Songs and hymns for worship (1997, Word/Integrity)
- American Hymns Old and New, 2 volumes, including notes on the hymns and biographies of the authors and composers (1980, Columbia University Press)
- A Survey of Christian Hymnody (1987, Hope Publishing Company)
- Biography of Gospel Song and Hymn Writers, by J. H. Hall (1914, Fleming H. Revell Company)
- The Chorale Through Four Hundred Years, by Edwin Liemohn (1953, Muhlenberg Press)
- Liturgies of the Western Church, by Bard Thompson (1961, Fortress Press)
Each book has its particular value. In Laudes Domini I found a lovely setting of “Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness”. The St. Olaf College Song Book has many of F. Melius Christiansen’s hymn arrangements, and the supplement holds a ballad about Olav in a setting by Grieg. Junior Praises has a text set to the tune of “Swanee River”. Glorious Gospel Hymns (which has, so far, the worst editing job of my collection) is the only hymnal I have containing a tune I had been singing to myself for some time until I found this book. (To give you an idea of the editing, the tune is attributed twice to Rossini and once to Haydn, but I think the former is correct.)* The United Methodist Hymnal introduced me to Charles Wesley's poem “Come, O Thou Traveler Unknown” and the complete text of “Glory to God, and Praise and Love”, from which “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing” is taken. Among five hymnals, I have seven different settings of “Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy” (or “poor and wretched,” which I think is the original), three of which have an added refrain. And yes, I did happen upon a Jewish hymnal, with a number of tunes based on traditional (e.g., Sephardic) melodies.
The reactions of my friends upon hearing of this collection have been varied. Becky claims that if I continue this practice, then at the end of my life I’ll have a collection that I’ll have to donate to St. Olaf, and that they’ll love it. Some friends chide me in jest for having an addiction. One remarked that a famous hymnist, Philip Bliss, is from this region (born in Clearfield County, Pennsylvania).
In any case, I’m pleased with what I’ve found so far. Searching through used bookstores means finding a concentration of hymnals from the first half of the 20th century—I suspect this is due in part to dispersing the possessions of people who have passed on, and may have received these books early in their lives. Apart from the United Methodist Hymnal and American Hymns, the more contemporary works I have were gifts.
Now that you’ve read far more than you expected or wanted to about my new hobby, I’ll alert you that this is as much for my own records as it is to enlighten anyone else on it. But perhaps some of you enjoyed the curious diversity of the list. :-)
* Added 9 July: I have now discovered the tune in both of my 1880s hymnals. It is by Rossini, and its name is “Manoah”.
je me présente
Hello. I am Joshua Paul Bowman. Born on May 8, 1977, so this is my thirtieth year. And it promises to be rife with excitement (already has been, in fact). Most especially since I will be spending the larger portion of it in France, which is essentially the motivation to begin this blog.
I am not a particularly public person, so I’m not quite sure about this “posting stories of my personal life to the Internet” thing, and I’ll probably be somewhat cautious in what I tell. Nor am I particularly private, and I’m terrible at dissembling, so I’ll be quite frank in what I do tell. (Any of my friends who are reading and don’t want to be mentioned, let me know now. :-) )
Some background: I am about to start my 4th year as a graduate student in mathematics at Cornell University. My advisor, John Hubbard, has a teaching position at the University of Marseille. I and another student of his will be accompanying him this school year. (“Marseilles” with an s, by the way, is apparently an English alternative spelling. I’ll be using the proper French spelling.)
For those who might know or care what it means, I’m studying quadratic differentials on Riemann surfaces, a subject that lies at an intersection of complex analysis, topology, dynamics, Euclidean and hyperbolic geometry, number theory, and many other subjects. I consider myself a geometer above all else.
Some folks ask what I’ll be doing in France—or more to the point, why I’m going. I answer that I’m going to research. But I thought math research (if I believed such a thing existed at all) didn’t require a lab or anything that means you have to be in a particular place, they say. I reply that it is important to realize that mathematics is a social endeavor. Sure, there are some people who carry out fantastic research in solitude, and much of the understanding one achieves can only be reached by spending time alone in thought. However, as in any developing subject or theory, different people have different perspectives and different kinds of experience. What is obvious to one is obscure to another, and what is trivial today may be vital tomorrow. My advisor will be in France. Marseille and the surrounding region house other researchers in my field. Ergo, it makes sense for me to spend some time there.
I make no secret that I am (at times more, at times less) apprehensive about spending several months living in the south of France. Perhaps more on that later. I’m also looking forward to it: it seems to me a great opportunity for professional and personal growth. I’ll keep you updated.
I am not a particularly public person, so I’m not quite sure about this “posting stories of my personal life to the Internet” thing, and I’ll probably be somewhat cautious in what I tell. Nor am I particularly private, and I’m terrible at dissembling, so I’ll be quite frank in what I do tell. (Any of my friends who are reading and don’t want to be mentioned, let me know now. :-) )
Some background: I am about to start my 4th year as a graduate student in mathematics at Cornell University. My advisor, John Hubbard, has a teaching position at the University of Marseille. I and another student of his will be accompanying him this school year. (“Marseilles” with an s, by the way, is apparently an English alternative spelling. I’ll be using the proper French spelling.)
For those who might know or care what it means, I’m studying quadratic differentials on Riemann surfaces, a subject that lies at an intersection of complex analysis, topology, dynamics, Euclidean and hyperbolic geometry, number theory, and many other subjects. I consider myself a geometer above all else.
Some folks ask what I’ll be doing in France—or more to the point, why I’m going. I answer that I’m going to research. But I thought math research (if I believed such a thing existed at all) didn’t require a lab or anything that means you have to be in a particular place, they say. I reply that it is important to realize that mathematics is a social endeavor. Sure, there are some people who carry out fantastic research in solitude, and much of the understanding one achieves can only be reached by spending time alone in thought. However, as in any developing subject or theory, different people have different perspectives and different kinds of experience. What is obvious to one is obscure to another, and what is trivial today may be vital tomorrow. My advisor will be in France. Marseille and the surrounding region house other researchers in my field. Ergo, it makes sense for me to spend some time there.
I make no secret that I am (at times more, at times less) apprehensive about spending several months living in the south of France. Perhaps more on that later. I’m also looking forward to it: it seems to me a great opportunity for professional and personal growth. I’ll keep you updated.
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