Restless, restless.

Stuart McKenna

I am leaving for Oxford soon, and I am restless. What does one do before one's whole life changes? Nothing seems even close to appropriate, precisely because it feels as if every single gesture ought to have some significance, while in fact I am just waiting, most of the time on my own. I have packed most things, I have been with some friends, I have looked at lecture lists, I have unfriended all the people I barely know from Facebook (just because it felt that my personal space was cluttered), I have obsessed over vacuous details, I have felt by turns uncomfortable and giddy. I don't seem to have enough concentration to study any maths or philosophy right now; my nerves are pressing against my skin all the time. It is both anticlimactic (no teary goodbyes, parties, or anything you would see in a film) and unfamiliar: this kind of feeling - nagging anticipation, restless isolation, waiting, waiting, waiting - goes ignored in every single book/film/song I know (if you know an exception, please do tell, I would love to pick up pointers and feel part of some common experience). It's no wonder I am also unable to describe it, or pull anything productive out of this.

The Dream of Despair

When I was little, I used to have dreams which repeated themselves. I thought of them as the same dream, but in a rather hazy sense: the setting, the storyline (if I may call the succession of sensory images which composes dreams so), the ending - all changed. Still, in some sense I inhabited the same world, revisited the same themes, felt the same emotions and sensory states. 

Of these recurrent dreams, this was probably the most poignant one.

I am in a pearly white landscape extending in all directions. I am as clean and at peace as the landscape: the crystal whiteness is both within and outside me, filling me with a light that is at exactly the same level as the one outside. This is boundlessness: I don't know if in power, but surely in satisfaction and peace. There is no desire here, nothing but a pale glow of star-like joy. 

And then suddenly it all goes wrong.

The landscape was a paper leaf left unwritten; now it's scrunched up and torn apart and inked black and viciously stabbed and cut, as if someone was drawing messy, scrambled lines all over the paper (isn't it funny that, to talk of dreams - the purest of metaphors - we have the need still to lay a further layer of metaphors so as to be able to transmit them to others?). There is no one to be seem doing it. There is a hollow scream throughout the air, and suddenly people running everywhere, buildings collapsed, limbs and blood and fear made solid in an earthquake.

Fear, hate, loss, grief, despair. I am sure there will never be anything further, anything else. This is what the world has become, both inside and outside: there is no hope because there is nowhere to escape to.

I no longer dream, or at least I almost never remember my dreams. Reality seems to have grown much less transparent; it's presented in a block of certainties, not as a veil of possibilities. The white sheet of that world can, in clear-skied, clear-eyed days, be seen floating over the river.  

Bat for Lashes' lovely new single

Laura, you're more than a superstar

Isn't it a sweet song? It holds so beautifully on the fine edge between camp-ness and stark poignancy. It fills my chest with a bubble of diffuse pride and affection for random friends, those whose worth seems to go unnoticed by most, most of the time, so much that even they forget it, and then lose their brand of shine and light. 

On Inspiration

Usually, I find "inspiring" aphorisms/tales/images corny, irritating, and insincere, displaying a childish - and rationally untenable - belief in mystical coincidence (why should the Universe be conspiring anything relatively to a specific individual? The Universe doesn't care.). 

On the contrary, this article by Jeffrey Eugenides - one of my favourite authors, with three extraordinary books to his name which you should definitely read - about his personal struggles to finish novels and about the bizarre mental events that gave him strength to do so is very honest, filled with self-deprecating humour, and a clear awareness of the way we are, in the end, responsible for our own strength. I find our human ability to create dreams to chase, to select and organise events in a coherent whole, to construct a meaning for ourselves to hang on to, a source of endless wonder. 

As Eugenides puts it, inspiration

was me, breathing into myself, in order to breathe out again in a flow of words. 

A beautiful corollary of this is the gracious gift of inspiration - the self turns into itself, but eventually projects a new light into the world. Out of our fundamental solitude, maybe bonds with others can be built.

(though I seem to have forgotten how - but then again, I must be the one to build my own inspiration)

It is curious how much of this humble, generous attitude surfaces in Eugenides' books. Probably his fundamental kindness and humanity towards his characters, giving them roots in an imperfect emotional reality which rings so true, are what make his novels so absorbing and relatable. But there is more to his books than the joy of identifying with the characters and of his restrained, but powerfully atmospheric, use of language. They breathe love. 

In The Virgin Suicides, the distant, adolescent love which tragically leaves the girls untouched, frozen forever in their youthful deaths; in Middlesex, the bonds and knots of family love of love as basic life supports; in The Marriage Plot, love in tension with independence and with social structures. These are inspiring portraits of the power - and weakness - of human connections, and they make me hungry to seek their presence.

Against Scientism

Yesterday, The Guardian ran a piece called 'Philosophy v Science: which can answer the big question of life?'. This is an interesting debate between the philosopher Julian Baggini and the physicist Lawrence Krauss on the differences of approach - and of the questions - of philosophy and of the natural sciences.  Obviously, they are both intelligent thinkers, but their attitudes - Krauss boisterous and proud of his subject, Baggini much more cautious and defensive - are revealing of the dominant reverence towards science and its extraordinary practical results and tendency to dismiss philosophy as senseless bickering. This is only natural: after all, science has produced a wealth of results with successful practical application leading to vast, radical improvements in the length and comfort of our lives, while the abstract problems of philosophy remain unsolved. The result is an uncritical idolisation of science, an act of blind faith on the power of the scientific method to produce answers - scientism, the prevailing ideology of industrial societies. However, this stance is fundamentally wrong, encapsulating a strong component of irrationality which, paradoxically, goes against the spirit of the science.

The catch-22 here is that you need a philosophical approach to grasp why scientism is both wrong and harmful to science in particular, and to knowledge in general. It is extremely naive to suppose that we have direct access to the outside world and unlimited power to change it, as scientism encourages. Even if that turns out to be true, we can only know after careful rational reflection - and that is where philosophy inevitably comes in. 

But what is this philosophical approach? 

I think it is best described as relentless rational criticism, i.e. the rigorous application of self-evident logical principles on the way we ourselves view the world. It implies a brave self-consciousness and commitment to fighting against dogmas of all sorts; it also incorporates a willingness to go to the root of our understanding of the world, in particular to the way language is employed (which is at the very core of our thinking). In particular, a large component of philosophy is the rational criticism of different methods of acquiring knowledge, which should lead to the improvement of those methods and, thus, to the possible construction of a clearer picture of the world. 

If you wish, you may picture the full body of human knowledge as an ocean, with philosophy as the waves hitting uncharted shore and leading to the expansion of the ocean in all directions. Philosophy probes at the unanswerable - once a method is fully formed and questions are circumscribed in such a way that they are answerable by its application, the problems cease to be philosophical and become part of the piecemeal practice of scientific investigation. In the meanwhile, philosophy has advanced to new formulations, and considers them until they are similarly circumscribed. In this way, philosophy contributes immensely to science. Discarding philosophical thinking - which I believe to be impossible, so deeply rooted is it in our humanity - would thus eventually lead the end of science.

But the clarification of the body of scientific truths and expansion of the scope of science is not the single task of philosophy. As an all-encompassing form of probing the world, philosophy also comprises an enquiry into our very own humanity (based on the same rational principles that have already been mentioned), into questions such as 'What is the meaning of life?' or 'How are we to live?'. These questions - the ones we must strive to answer both in theory and in practice, the ones that are concerned with the value we place in our own lives - transcend science, because, in science, the human being may be studied as an object, but not as a subject. 

For example, even if science provided us with a description (with predictions) of human behaviour in biological terms (and thus in chemical and physical ones), that still wouldn't give us the reason for a person's behaviour, - only an explanation - and it certainly wouldn't include ethical judgement. That explanation would certainly be interesting and illuminating in relation to the functioning of our organism, but, if mistaken as giving us the subject's intentionality, it would lead to a dangerous objectification of the human being.

It is, of course, an open question - a philosophical question - whether such a determinist reduction can be made. Even if it can, there is space for free will - the agent causes the action, using reason, verbal ability, and human empathy, which may be described in simpler terms (the ones of science; I speak of simper as in more fundamental). In other words, the fact that we are physical creatures, that is, based on a physical hardware, doesn't make us any less human in the sense we use in our interpersonal dealings - i.e., in the sense in which we consider each individual as an end in himself, possessing a special dignity that comes from the possibility of communication and understanding between interlocutors.

Thus science is compatible with an infinite within us, the infinite that keeps us alive and searching for more (sometimes through science, others through art, others even through religion), the infinite that makes us look into each others' eyes and seek a way of tempering our loneliness in the other's infinite potential, the infinite that underlies the freedom and dignity that make us equals in our humanity.

But science does not explore that infinite. Science has nothing to say about the human nature of love, of beauty, of goodness; but these are still necessary concepts which mean something - the meaning coming from the way we employ them and do them justice in our actions. 

Wittgenstein wrote that "We feel that even if all possible scientific questions be answered, the problems of life have still not been touched at all". Science contributes to human life in many ways - from the pure joy of discovery and understanding to the great technological advances that allow us to live longer and better - but it is not enough. Attempting to reduce all the questions to hard-nosed scientific enquiry equates to jumping over the infinite within ourselves, the luscious gaping mouth of our humanity, the endless blossoming rose of our freedom.

...

As I get closer and closer to leaving home, I find myself going more and more inside myself. I had not expected these last weeks at home to be spent in such a quiet way, immersed in hazy daydreams about the next three or four years (that, for now, is the duration of my life: further down the road I will be another, a stranger in a strange land), and in the abstract overlapping worlds if mathematics and philosophy. The past seems to be dissolving, leaving just a thin layer of dust and salt on my skin. I have not built any self-narrative - the story we form by stringing select memories into a coherent whole, thereby picturing our life as a story with the self as the protagonist, whose features are defined precisely by those of the selected memories - of the past three years. It somehow seems unimportant: they flew by in disconnected strands and alternating periods of throwing myself into the world and receding into my own head. The only visible result of high school is precisely launching me into the future via getting into Oxford, which is perhaps the reason why that is all I am now able to focus on. I marvel at how perfect the surgery separating me from my recent past has been: I feel white and scrubbed and fresh and clean, all ready to start anew.

In my mind, I'm inside a plane, looking out the window as it goes higher and higher, with all the figures becoming smaller and smaller, becoming mere dots, and then nothing. 

...

...

...

Reading log - August 2012

I have read voraciously during these holidays - in fact that is pretty much my definition of holidays, as long as the books chosen are not too difficult or depressing. These are the most interesting novels I have read lately: 

Brighton Rock by Graham Greene

A gripping mafia thriller about a teenager, Pinkie, ruthlessly rising in the ranks. He is the character that keeps you glued to the paper: revolting but fascinating, with his unnatural lack of emotion and catholic gravitas. The contrast between him and Ida, amateur detective of solid positive character, leads to a stark comparison between two opposite moral conceptions: the heavy, otherworldly notions of good vs evil against the common sense view of right vs wrong. It is an excellent illustration of how the concepts we apply to reality have the power of determining the way we act: they aren't passive descriptions but active guiding principles. Greene also produces extraordinary descriptions, resembling impressionist paintings, of the town of Brighton, focusing both on its shiny touristic face and on the seedy underworld, letting you feel the heavy, impending doom through the presence of the uncontrollable sea. Though the story is, in its details, somewhat clumsy, it is both very involving and thought-provoking.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

This tale of an eccentric teacher and the influence she has on her pupils throughout their lives seemed a bit frothy and shallow while I was reading it, but it has in the meantime grown on me. It is written in a deceptively simple style, which is actually very smart, precise and witty - the book is constantly putting a smile on your lips. Miss Brodie's grandiose behaviour, fetching for hr students, seems pathetic, almost demented, to the reader. The everyday nature of the scenes described makes it hard to see anything but a collection of amusing vignettes on growing up, role models, female sexuality, friendship, and power dynamics; however, once you mentally connects the dots, you can appreciate how masterfully she interweaves memories of different periods, leading to an understated reflection on the twisted effects of intense personalities on young people, and on the soft edge between truth and fancy. 

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

I thought I should get to know the Oxford stereotype before going (less than one month to go now!!), so I picked up Brideshead Revisited expecting plenty of luscious descriptions of student life as a rich aristocrat in the early 20th century. There are, in fact, plenty of those here, and I found reading about the characters' colourful, careless, sophisticated fun a very pleasant experience (like watching Gossip Girl, only far cooler, with a finer irony and an elegant writing style). However, the book is not vacuous at all: those descriptions put in stark relief the subsequent decay of the aristocracy and of their aesthetic way of life, which basically leads them to self-destruction. The social portrait here is masterful.Waugh also attempts to persuade the reader of the value of Catholicism, which leads to a rather disappointing, even preachy, ending. On the other hand, the depth the religious aspect brings to the characters' inner lives must not be undervalued: it sets them apart from others perhaps even more than money.

All in all, despite the slightly uneven details, this is a brilliant work in social satire and it manages to capture a full way of life.

A Separate Peace by John Knowles
I read A Separate Peace just after Brideshead Revisited, and the novels have striking similarities: both deal with the effects of World Wars in society, both are set in exclusive academic environments, both are centred in the (heavily homo-erotic) relationship between two young men and its lifelong consequences, both are unreliably narrated by an individual looking back to his own youth, both have a distinct feeling of melancholy for innocence lost, conveyed via an elegant writing style, and both aim to present a picture of the human condition. Knowles' view is bleak: he sees adult life as a constant war, and those who are too pure and joyful to fight are set for doom. This broad view is conveyed through the description of the close and complicated relationship of two teenage boys at boarding school: the joyful, athletic, charming Finny, and Gene, the introverted narrator who betrays him due to feeling of jealousy and - paradoxically - love. Gene is responsible for Finny's death, but his fault lies in wanting to become Finny so much. This novel illustrates, then, the poison contained in the blurring of personal identity, and how lonely we unavoidably are. This is a short but atmospheric, thought-provoking and heavily symbolic novel.

About a Boy by Nick Hornby
I love Nick Hornby: his novels are as warm, funny, unpretentious, and intelligent descriptions of modern relationships as you are likely to read. About a Boy is about the relationship between a spoilt, immature bachelor, and an eccentric twelve-year-old living with his depressed mother, and about how they change and help each other in small, but eventually very relevant, ways. The full book feels alive: the dialogues, the cultural references, the matter-of-fact tone, are all spot-on. It is also very heart-warming, the conclusion being that we can connect to each other, contribute to each others' lives, and in that way build a meaning for our lives out of small things. Life is more than the sum of its parts.

Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
I re-read Good Omens just because it makes me laugh, take flights of fantasy, and turn the pages voraciously with a sarcastic smile of incredulity on my lips. I tells the very implausible story of the Apocalypse, starring a colourful array of characters - humans, angels, demons, etcetera - and including such wonders as martians landing, Tibetans building tunnels, and 20th century witch-hunters, all in a quick succession which isn't even supposed to make sense, and narrated in a deadpan tone. This book is fun! But it is more than that: it also satirises moralises about some of the real evils of our society (most notably war, pollution, hunger) though in such an entertaining way you won't even feel bothered. What the cover says is true: Apocalypse has never been funnier.

Joni Mitchell's Blue - my new musical love

Blue is everything I could ask from an album: sensitive, soft-sounding but emotional, with a lush, reckless naked vulnerability in both the sonority and the lyrics. It's romantic and disillusioned, joyful and melancholy. It's ten tiny stars burning themselves high into my heart. I am still in the process of savouring it, listening time after time to absorb the texture, the personality and the feelings, and I am sure that the way I think about it will change, but for now I would say it is about the fine line between loving the taste of life, and feeling tired and alone inside of it; about the battle between hope and despair, or fantasy and reality. It is a delicate beauty.

This is the title track, hope you enjoy it!

Brave

In a similar note to my last post, some thoughts on another delightful animation film about a young woman finding her strengths and growing up in a vibrant fantasy setting - Pixar's Brave. 

I took my sister and my cousins to watch it at the cinema (we have a kind of tradition of watching Pixar films together), and it was lovely getting to share with them the interesting and motivating ideas which this film explores. It was also a chance to spend some time talking, and it makes me feel very proud and happy to see them grow into their own people, gaining their independence, exploring new aspects of the world, and shaping up their personality.  

Brave's themes made it perfect to watch together. Like most/all Pixar films, it is not really aimed at children: the theme of growing up and finding your personal space and freedom while preserving your family relationships, and the conflicts and misunderstandings that inevitably occur in that process, become relatable and relevant only in your teens. Besides, the delightful cultural references to the Middle Ages and to Scotland (the actors' accents are so endearing and the scenery is so beautiful it really made me want to visit!) would, I suspect, go over most kids' heads. On the other hand, these mature aspects benefit from being explored in such gorgeous, lively animation and with a child-like sense of wonder and heightened action and emotion.

I loved the development of the mother-daughter relationship at the core of the story, which is very much true to real life. The frustrating bickering mother-daughter arguments lead in a subtle, progressive way to a relationship of equals who are willing to compromise and seek mutual understanding on a basis of love. Both Merida and the Queen change and grow, while the King and the Princes complete this family dynamic. Supporting characters are mostly there for colour and cultural background, excelling in this purpose. I never cease to be amazed at how animators manage to capture so much of what being human looks like/is (are they the same thing?).

In the end - after laughing, (almost) crying, and being on the edge of your seat - you are left with an uplifting and sincere message: we are free to grow and develop as individuals, but it takes bravery and support to do so. We should take pleasure from both these elements, for determination and love are all that can lead us to become more complete as human beings.

Spirited Away

Spirited Away - the animated story of a young girl who finds herself in a bizarre world of gods, witches, and dragons, with her parents transformed in pigs - is every bit as kooky and delightful as you would expect from the numerous awards it won. The story is classical in tone and nature, interweaving a variety of rich influences - Japanese myths, classical epic tales, Alice in Wonderland - and ideas in an exciting adventure which has a lot to say about growing up and developing your own strength. It is not fluffy and saccharine in tone, much to the contrary: it shows how hard and scary finding yourself on your own in unknown land can be, but also how exhilarating and fascinating it becomes when you learn how to manage by yourself. Accordingly, the images vary between disturbing and nightmare-like (seriously, I thought some scenes were very scary, I'm glad I didn't watch this as a small kid) and breathtaking, like a postcard from paradise. The stills don't really do justice to just how beautiful this film is - a feast for the eyes if there ever was one - but I can't resist leaving you with a few which give you a small taste of the poetry, humor and sensibility of this great film.

'Life may be not only meaningless but absurd.'

I spent the last week away in the countryside with my family, which is something we do every year. I am not very sure that I like the countryside anymore. The scenery is different from what I - a lifelong suburbanite - am used to; it makes me feel, as a human being, smaller and more insignificant, because the marks of human life are few, feeble and distant from each other. Of course I am conscious of our tininess in space and time - our size is an issue of scale, and compared to the Universe we are invisible specks, while compared to atoms we are unimaginable universes in ourselves -, but being confronted with it is always a shock. 

We forget our proportion. We pretend we are immortal. We cannot face a world without our selves in it, for obvious reasons: the self is our perspective into the world. Non-existence - the empty void, unfathomable by nature - scares us, so we pretend.

In fact, we must delude our selves to create a meaning for our lives, and we do so everyday. But there is no greater meaning: our lives are self-contained. In acquiring knowledge, we can never jump out of our own heads; similarly, our personal identity is circumscribed to a specific area of space and time, and it cannot transcend it. 

The impact of our action is exterior to our selves, so the idea of achieving immortality by leaving things behind - children, books, structures, progress for humanity - is just another delusion. Furthermore, it is an unsatisfactory one: not only does it exclude perception and action and all the things which make living worthwhile (as Woody Allen famously put it, 'I don't want to achieve immortality though my work... I want to achieve it through not dying.'), but also leads to the question 'What is the point of that (our impact in the future of other people), then?' in an infinite regress.

Religious people answer with God. God is, by definition, the final answer: subject and object united, containing its own purpose and end in itself. I am not going to argue against the traditional arguments for the existence of God (if you want a very strong and clear refutation of the most important ones, you'll find it in Simon Blackburn's Think), so I will just point out two ideas. 

First, this 'rational' conception of God is equivalent to choosing an arbitrary point to pause the regress - why there, then? Why not stop before employing that obscure notion of a divine presence, which is unnecessary to explain the Universe? 

Secondly, this idea of God is very hazy, so much that it is generally interpreted by believers as a matter of emotion. Its features are blank, for it is just a dummy which each culture colours according to its body if beliefs, rules and habits (as can be seen from the multiplicity of religions that exist). And who can claim to truly understand or perceive the 'rational' conception of God? A nothing would do just as well as a something about which nothing can be said.

Quoting Thomas Nagel in What Does It All Mean?:

"But what's the point of being alive at all?"

"There's no point. It wouldn't matter if I didn't exist at all, or if I didn't care about anything. But I do. That's all there is to it." 

If life is not real, life is not earnest, and the grave is its goal, perhaps it's ridiculous to take ourselves so seriously. On the other hand, if we can't help taking ourselves so seriously, perhaps we just have to put up with being ridiculous. Life may be not only meaningless but absurd.

 This is, by the way, one of my favourite quotations. In the end, it doesn't matter that life doesn't matter. It doesn't make any difference to what we can do. So as not to fall prey to manipulation, it is good to remember that life is both meaningless and absurd; however, the fact just does not stick to our minds because we are built to live and should, in my opinion, take the most out of it.

The Olympics.

I have been savouring the Olympics, i.e., I have been obsessively watching athletes performing at insane levels of perfection in a variety of sports. I had never had the opportunity to do so before - both in 2004 and in 2008 I was on holidays and, as far as I remember, did not have easy access to TV/internet. The ones I have followed most closely are swimming, athletics, and gymnastics; also cycling, diving, and judo (for some reason, Portuguese TV showed ALL of the judo, and, though it's not one of my favourite sports, I am now an expert on its rules).

It all started with the dazzling opening ceremony, directed by Danny Boyle (in my opinion, one of the most distinctive, diverse and interesting contemporary film directors). It was boldly British, telling their history - from natural idyll to industrial power to cultural centre - in bold, joyful strokes, and including a wide variety of cultural motifs. This very spirited attempt to blueprint Britain resulted in grand entertainment with a heart and a message. The fast succession of beautiful settings and choreographies, the accessible humour, the ability to join multiculturalism and pride in a great historical inheritance made the opening ceremony exhilarating.

In particular, I loved the tribute to the National Health System - now that it is under violent attack, an eloquent reminder that it is possibly the best idea of the 20th century is well necessary - and to literature - much like sport, making us dream and think and go further. 

Later that same night, I loved seeing the smiling athletes from all over the world proudly carrying their flags. This moment of the ceremony, which could be seen as dull, points to the beauty of the Olympics, perhaps the one event in which we get to see the diversity of people in the world and the feelings of joy, pride and achievement that all of us feel. The happiness shared by all - they are, after all, in their prime, and they have achieved greatness just by being there - makes them look otherworldly beautiful.


What I most love about the Olympics is seeing talented, passionate and hard-working individuals attempting to outdo themselves and, in the process, inspiring countless others - all in a spirit of respectful, healthy competition. Though I root for some countries - Portugal, obviously, also GB, Spain, Brazil - what I really love is having the chance to see athletes do justice to their extraordinary abilities and dedication. 


I know, of course, that there are all sorts of cynical contradictions going on in the backstage of the Olympics, but right now I just want to enjoy the ride and be inspired by these amazing athletes. Being able to share this excitement with so many other people makes me feel connected - makes me feel more human. I hope that, one day, I will be able to channel my energy in such a directed way, and achieve a measure of their beauty.

Luna, the doors are open You could not burn faster if you tired

Fanfarlo are brilliant - their album Reservoir is filled with joyful summery songs. Luna is probably my favourite:

Bluestockings: The Remarkable Story of the First Women to Fight for an Education by Jane Robinson

Bluestockings tells the story of the first women to go to University in the UK, of their fight for that right, of the prejudices they faced, of the friendship an support that allowed them to succeed, of how they lived, what they learnt, and what they came to contribute to society. It is easy for us to take education for granted (forgetting that, in so many places in the world, it is still denied to both women and men), which is why it is so important to remember, through books like this one, that we owe our freedom to the sacrifices of the ones who came before us.

The women of whom this book speaks are inspiring true heroines who were driven by love of knowledge in a hostile world where they were, due to gender, considered unable to learn - in fact, pretty much unable to do anything but have children and take care of the house. The arguments used against them are both laughable and outraging: women's brains are lighter than men's; studying would make them infertile or hysterical or promiscuous... they proved them wrong by their extraordinary results and, later on, by the high participation and success of women in most areas. 

However, this fight - which started in the 18th century but only gained momentum in the second half of the 19th century - was not a loud one. There were moments of resistance to these revolutionary women's ideas, most notably the 1897 riot of Cambridge students against the idea of awarding degrees to women (which, incredibly, Cambridge only did in 1948), but in general these women were quiet and very well-behaved. This strategy allowed them to prove that higher education for women has excellent results, thus silencing opposition and strengthening their cause. Soon enough, girls from all social classes were going to University, experiencing some measure of independence, expanding their minds, and forming strong friendships. The quaint, old-fashioned and rather sweet descriptions of their daily lives and the anecdotes related are great fun to read about.

Of course, not everything was perfect: there were women who did not adapt at all, others who faced conflicts with their families or economic hardship (and it is touching to read about how they helped each other), and all had a very restricted form of freedom. For example, if they wanted to go anywhere, they had to take a chaperon; for a man to go into a woman's bedroom, the bed had to be removed first and the door kept open (even if it was a family member). Initially, upon leaving University, they either married and had children or became teachers but, by 1939, women were starting to go into every career, inspired by the generations before them. Change is portrayed as a wave that keeps gaining momentum as it moves forward.

The evolution in the part women play in society has been extraordinary - which is why the book is written in the sunny tonality of winners - but we must not forget that there are still many challenges ahead in the struggle for an egalitarian society in which feminism plays an important role. This book does not cover those general changes: its scope is narrower, which allows the author to focus on individual lives, thus re-constructing in delightful detail the way of life of young 'undergraduettes' in British Universities during the late 19th/early 20th centuries (until 1939). The text is so fluid, the stories so touching and amusing, that the pages fly by; and the respect for education and for these extraordinary women is clear throughout.

Warm, funny, important - all in all, a delightful book!

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

Rebecca tells the story of a naive young woman - who remains unnamed throughout the novel - who marries a much older man, Maxim de Winter. It is his second marriage: his first wife, Rebecca (the central, though ghostly, presence in the novel) died in mysterious circumstances the previous year. 

The couple meet at Monte Carlo, where she is working as a companion to an older, quite irritating older woman. She falls for him with the typical abandon of a teenage girl, and the descriptions of the joy-filled torment of knowing that the time spent with him will pass, and that it will all change, are one of the highlights of the book.

Surprisingly, he decides to marry her and, after going on a trip through Europe, they move to Manderley, the De Winter family mansion, where he used to live with Rebecca, whose haunting grip - haughty, mysterious, and unreachable - threatens to destroy any possibility of happiness. In particular, the house keeper Mrs Danvers acts as a memorable passive-aggressive threat due to her fixation on Rebecca and coldness of character; the house is also much more than a physical setting, taking on a variety of heavy symbolic meanings that permeate the characters' lives. Then, we discover a 'terrible secret' about Rebecca's death, and the book morphs into an Agatha Christie type of suspense/detective story, only from a skewed perspective.

It is a very good Summer read - suspenseful, gripping, written in a clear, elegant style, with a sympathetic narrator/leading character, and, perhaps most importantly, a very involving setting, both seductive and scary (a remarkable setting makes reading feel like travelling) - but that is not the only reason I recommend it. Most importantly, it is a sensitive exploration of a variety of important questions, most of them related to power imbalance in relationships and its consequences. The relationship between the de Winter couple is unbalanced in every way: he is much older, richer, more experienced, and from a higher social level than she is. In fact, she has nowhere to go, no life to return to and, due to the lack of perspectives women had, no opportunities to take up; furthermore, she is shy and lacks in self-confidence - you could cal her weak, though her clear wit would keep me from doing so. Thus, her life revolves around her husband, and she tries her best to fit herself into a mold she perceives his first wife to have set. That would be hard enough due to the hardness of learning to behave - and feel like - a member of a higher social class than the one you were educated into, but the presence of Rebecca, who appears to have been the epitome of perfection but of whom no one speaks with clarity, is an even bigger threat to her mental sanity and to any chance of happiness. And why? Simply because, due to the power imbalance between the couple, she is left in the dark through most of the novel, treated as a pet, that is, as someone unable of depth of intellect or emotion, pleasant enough but ultimately insignificant. 

Curiously, Maxim de Winter is not a repulsive character. The fact that he remains charming throughout the novel, the reader sharing his wife's desire to spend time with him an get to know his mysteries, is a proof of the author's skill in narrating. Her subtle - but constant, realistic and very textured - psychological portrait of the leading character, in my opinion, the best feature of this book. The use of symbolism, the descriptions of Manderley, the emotional reactions, all are great achievements. On the other hand, I found the plot slightly clumsy in its development and climax. 

It is interesting to trace Rebecca's literary ancestry. It is a Gothic novel, with a dark, sultry ambiance that reminds the reader of books such as Dracula. However, the most striking parallel is with Jane Eyre: saying it is a retelling is not much of a exaggeration. In both, the heroine from a lower social class falls for a richer, older man with a dark secret related to his first wife; in both, the revelation of this secret is essential to change the power imbalance of the relationship and to lead to a resolve; in both, fire plays a both destructive and restorative role. The main difference is the personality of the heroine: Jane is a far harder, more determined and stronger young woman, much more admirable but not as easy to relate to.

Look at, look at, look at me I'm all the fishes in the sea

Neal Slavin, Miss USA and Miss Universe, 1973

Irving Penn, Fashion, 1950

I'd like to give you just the right amount and get some change

This is one of my favourite 'romantic' poems, mostly because it isn't romantic in the common sense. Instead, it is saucy, combining naughtiness and sweetness in the form of detailed physical observations, teasing suggestions and hazy daydreams. In this context, love is described less as an intense emotional connection than as a pleasant titillation of the senses and playful desire. I like his focus on small details which he finds irresistible - as all of us do in this situation, he seems to be searching for the elusive source of his desire, and, filing to find it, surrendering to the joy of it. The author's sincerity, light humour, the sprinkling of cultural references, the forbidden nature of the desire (the author was a tutor at Oxford, and it seems obvious that this poem is directed at a student), its practicality and solidity, and his sweetness make this a hugely appealing poem.

Valentine by John Fuller

The things about you I appreciate may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power and see you eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like to successfully guess your weight and win you at a fête.
I’d like to offer you a flower.

I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders marked Confidential).

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath) in rows.

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work, on hinges.

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,
Something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount and get some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you nod and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind
them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.
I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap, where to find them.

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates.

I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride of Frankenstein
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of boolean mathematics.

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin. And see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book, your future tense.

18

I turned eighteen yesterday and it was such a beautiful day, one of those precious ones when life feels like the most exquisite art - and I am both an overjoyed participant and a mesmerised spectator. Looking around - to the people who fill my days, to my memories, to my dreams and expectations -, I perceive with clarity how everything in life keeps morphing into new shapes, and presenting me with new challenges. 

I am the luckiest I could be.

I was gently placed in the world by a loving family - and the world has been kind to me. I have been given so many chances to learn and to grow up, and I have taken them (much thanks to the encouragement and strength of the people who surround me). I have somehow made friends - extraordinary ones -everywhere, and from each I have learnt the art and joy of living, and with all I have shared my own small discoveries. Perhaps best of all, there is still so much more to take from the world and to give to others.

The world is in blossom 

(or maybe my eyes are).

Optimus Alive - 2nd Day

Yesterday I went to another music festival, Optimus Alive, to see Lisa Hannigan, Noah and the Whale, Mumford and Sons, Florence and the Machine (originally - it was cancelled), and The Cure. I thought the line-up was brilliant and I felt like partying, so I decided to go just a few days ago.

I have been partying/going out a lot for my usual standards. I seem to go by periods of almost complete lack of activity, during which I feel like being alone all the time, and then there are other times (like now) when I feel like there are so many possibilities in the outside world that I want to take every chance to be out and about with people I like. I enjoy everything about going out, mostly the sense of diffuse, fuzzy freedom and how lazily relaxed I get to feel. I like anticipating and preparing things before going, feeling the music on my whole being, being in the middle of a huge crowd, feeling connected to so many people, looking at all the different faces around and wondering about them, doing and saying silly things just for the sake of it, wandering around from a place to another, jumping and singing and dancing, getting tired and having to sit down for a while talking to a friend, and then going home and finally getting some warmth and rest. Sleep feels so satisfying - gloriously so - after nights out, like a complete turning-off of my system; and I like waking up at lunch-time feeling dizzy and apathetically peaceful (funny how I used to hate it, it made me feel sick), and spending the afternoon in a hazy laze. The summer is the right time for this (moderate) destruction of my usual structure: this will allow me to perceive and think in a clearer way when I need to because it increases my sample of experiences, sensations, and emotions.

As for the music: I have to admit I was disappointed, though probably my expectations were too high. The first disappointment was when Florence+the Machine cancelled their gig: I am not a huge fan, but I like their songs and, having seen them live two years ago, I know that their concerts are truly electrifying. Their replacement by Morcheeba definitely weakened the line-up. Morcheeba did a good show - their music is nice and the singer has an attractive and joyful stage presence - but the audience was (understandably) cold, and it wasn't a very interesting gig.

Lisa Hannigan (who you might know, as I did, as the woman who sings with Damien Rice) was the opener. Her soft, mellow folk, though at this point quite unoriginal, is still very cute and her sweetness charmed the audience, leaving everyone in a good mood.

Noah and the Whale delivered their variety of joyful hipster pop-folk with gusto. The frontman Charlie Fink is also a joy to look at, and their classy attitude - mannered and genuine at the same time - on stage made them very interesting to watch and easy to connect with. The fun tonality of their songs makes them perfect Summer music, and they contain just the right amount of melancholy for my taste.

Much in the same note, only on a deeper emotional current, Mumford and Sons played afterwards. I was surprised by the audience's enthusiastic reaction - I hadn't realized that they were so popular -, which certainly contributed to the high quality of their concert. Everyone jumped, danced, and sang he lyrics, so one felt really connected to the crowd, which is one of the best things about concerts. Marcus Mumford has an excellent voice, dripping with emotion, and the strong instrumentation increased the emotional punch of the experience, which was made even more beautiful by the sun setting and the whimsical stage lights. 

Aftewards, it just all went downhill. As I've said, Morcheeba was all right; the bit I saw of Awolnation was very stale rock; Katy B looked like a Barbie and her musical style - danceable and empty - really doesn't appeal to me.

As for The Cure: what a sad concert. I don't know many of their songs (though the ones I do know I like, and I want to start listening to their discography), so probably I wasn't the target audience. The music sounded good, but the concert was absolutely dead: there was no interaction with the public, no movement on stage, and so the songs quickly became monotonous and the audience seemed to lose interest. Personally, it was like listening to an album, only instead of being comfortably at home, while being squashed by a mass of people - not the best experience. They seemed to be a cover band of themselves.

All in all, it was worth going to, though I do wish that the first three shows had been later on (after sunset: music at night sounds so much more thrilling). 

Hang on travelling woman, don't sacrifice your plan

I would like to say I am a travelling woman, moving through life with my head held high in sort of golden halo of confidence and trust in the world and in my own strength to change it (and myself, a part of it), but I don't think I am. I am a girl, and - just like Alice in her Wonderland - I can be tiny, a child almost, so lonely and powerless, and I can also grow big, almost to the dimension of a grown-up woman (but not quite), with a bright gleam of independence in each gesture.

It is generally a mystery to me how the reduction happens (doesn't it seem kind of unnatural?), and it can leave me sick, even physically, as if my body and mind - my whole being, that artificial division should be avoided - had become those of a stranger. I seem to forget everything and wander through a cloud of fear. Then I find some air and force myself to react and evade my own temporary smallness. It is, all in all, a learning experience: smallness makes me question my life principles, and I emerge with new strength. These reductions make me grow more afterwards.

The fact is that growing up is not a linear process: you grow both down and up, sometimes very fast and other times so slowly you fall asleep from self-boredom. It is painful and lonely and there in no one to do it for you. There's no highway to sunny maturity. In fact, there is probably no sunny maturity where we can head to. Growth just goes on - to nowhere. I hope that the process leads to global improvement, but there is no objective standard on 'human quality', so one can never know for sure; however, I believe that improvement is becoming ever more at home in the world, sharing in its rational structure., emphasising more with other people.

That is the path I try to follow. It warms my heart when I can share the journey with someone else, and I sometimes even feel proud of my own choices (though I know pride is just an inner reward for the self-control, and that cheapens its glow). 

Today,  I feel like a travelling woman: my life lately has been full of discoveries and decisions (of inner dimension). I have definitely been moving on.I am glad I didn't sacrifice my plan in moments of terror, for it came back to me before I lost it, even though life made me tired, told me lies, made me fall.

The plan? To learn, that is, to get a clearer picture of the world (by picture, I mean something including all senses and 'pure reason'). In other words, grander still: to eliminate the distance between myself and the world. 

I feel exhilarated because I have been learning a lot (not only academically), thus living the plan to a good extent. In fact, I feel like everything is going faster: I gain momentum as I live. And I am grateful for all the human warmth I get, but I yearn for more. In fact, after spending months craving and enjoying solitude, I now feel a pit-less thirst for contact, for communication, for touch. I know I am vulnerable to sweet, caffeinated illusions, to falling in love with potential; but I feel awake, and my vision is a loud siren song pulling me on to life.

Super Bock Super Rock 2012 - the music

I'm back! I had the chance to see some amazing shows at Super Bock Super Rock. I had never been to a music festival for more than a single night, so my experience this time was really different: I felt I connected to the music in a much more visceral way. I could just go from one concert to another, even from a band or an artist I had never heard of before, be sucked in by the sound almost immediately, and dance and share in the feel of the moment. 

Of course my favourite concerts were still those by artists whose songs I knew and loved already. The connection you develop from listening many times, taking advice from, and generally interacting personally with their music (often more than you do with real people - the songs won't judge you, an they show you you're never alone) is so wide and deep that your heart just keeps leaping and jumping and soaring and flying while they are performing. I don't think saying that musicians often play the role of demi-gods is going to far: most people do experience a kind of catharsis due to music, and certainly idolise them for being able to express more about our inner lives than we ourselves.

The sum of these two types of experience - the open fun of dancing and smiling to refreshing songs and the emotional pull of seeing some of my favourites perform - made me feel everything in a more complete way.

The first day, the effect of the music was impressive. I was feeling, for a variety of reasons, miserably nervous and distressed; however, as the evening progressed, I forgot and let go of everything that was bothering me. Time flew by without me ever feeling tired or out of place.


The energy and warmth of the Alabama Shakes' concert certainly contributed to make me feel at ease. Their music comes straight from a weary, but joyful, acceptance of life, and they are natural, sincere performers on stage.

I then saw a bit of Bloc Party's concert, which was certainly absorbing and got me dancing. I was sorry to go, but I really wanted to see Bat for Lashes at the secondary stage, and I was not disappointed. She  and her music (of course) are the most entrancing mix of light and darkness: sensuous, honey-voiced, moving in sweet abandon between hope and despair, with a flow of sounds (a powerful use of drums and keyboard) that balances theatrical antics and self-expression. Listening to Travelling Woman that night was one of those crisp moments of realisation that inspired me to make some peace with my own mind. (I will definitely write about it later.) Her new songs seem to have a slightly happier, more danceable tonality - I liked them and look forward to her new album.

After seeing Incubus perform their classic (Drive, better known as that song that goes 'Whatever tomorrow brings I'll be there...'), I surprised myself by being gripped into a state of thoughtlessness by Battles. I generally hate electronic music, but for once I got into it, maybe because of their strong use of fast-changing bright, colourful images, of their attractive presence on stage, and of the structured feel of their music.

The second night, the first act I saw was the main one - the controversial Lana del Rey. My opinion? She is a dream-catcher and producer; she weaves an appealing fantasy world for many people of my generation, and that is an achievement to be praised. Her artificiality is not a bad thing: the emotions she sings about are all too human, and the shiny gloss she adds to them allows the listener to find a meaning in common experiences - isn't that one of the purposes of music and art in general?


I liked her show - her coy shyness, 'perfect' prettiness, good voice and diva-like poses are seductive to watch - but I think she loses some of her mellow shine when performing live. Besides, it was much too short (45 minutes leaves you wanting more).

I then danced for the rest of the night: first, to Oh Land's sweet, happy and very colourful pop (a pleasant surprise); then to Friendly Fires (devilishly Summery music), and finally to MIA, with her powerful mix of sonorities and god-like stage presence. It was great fun!

The last night started with Perfume Genius - a quiet, sensitive type who sang ballads and looked a bit like a young, blond Morrissey -, who gave a very nice early evening show.

I was touched by Peter Gabriel's show with his New Blood Orchestra. The orchestra made all of the songs sound majestic, and I liked it that he read a few critical excerpts on politics and society. Of course, my favourite moment was his duet with Regina Spektor singing Aprés Moi.

St. Vincent's show was also impressive - her broken-doll figure, twisty movements and devil-may-care attitude made her riveting to watch, particularly when she crowd-surfed! 

The concert I most enjoyed was definitely Regina Spektor's, which was the last one I saw. She is one of my very  favourites: I have listened to her songs almost daily since I was fourteen, and keep finding new layers of meaning in the lyrics and new forms of beauty in the sounds. I had already seen her live, and been amazed. This time, though she played less songs and none of her endearing back catalogue curiosities (she kept to the singles and to songs from the last two albums), it was even a more intense experience because I was literally in the front row, which I had never been before! She (and her band) played beautifully, and her attitude on stage is the definition of sweet, which is something I admire.


The audience was a strange mix of Regina Spektor fans, excitedly singing every word and interacting with Regina - the most beautiful moment was, for me, when she sang "For all the friends that we have lost/Let's give them one more round of applause" and the audience started clapping and Regina looked so moved -, and Skrillex fans waiting for his performance afterwards. It was really a very poor decision by the organisation to put two artists that are so different performing one after the other. I found the Skrillex fans' attitude really disrespectful: they kept complaining about having to wait, asking for the time, making unpleasant comments on Regina, and generally looked very bored/almost asleep. Except for that, the concert was perfect!

All in all, it was a great musical experience I hope to repeat!