Hwat! ic swefna cyst secgan wylle
Apparently, I'm supposed to be re-learning Anglo-Saxon.
Surprisingly, Professor Klein's introductory course, which I took first semester freshman year, was better than I thought. While it seemed that we just drew pictures of ducks on napkins and munched on Klein-bought cookies and drank tea, we were actually learning something. This should be far more difficult than it is. Then again, there are only about 50 words you ever need to know. Lots of fighting, killing, pillaging, victories, and mead, you see. Grammar only becomes important after you've demonstrated you don't entirely suck. My actual goal for this course is to learn Elvish, since my tutor is (allegedly) some sort of notable figure in Tolkein language studies. Please God let me learn Quenya. Thank you.
Hilary term has gotten off to an interesting start. Or a boring start, depends how you look at it. I just don't seem to have the energy to be too sociable. Hopefully I'll get over whatever it is that's making me so lethargic. The people here are fascinating; I thought I understood the English, since I was under the impression they weren't really any different from Americans. Or, more specifically, myself. Of course, I was wrong. There are such subtle cultural quirks that make a world of a difference, and I think I'm finally beginning to appreciate exactly how sensitive we are to each other. Somehow, being huge and loud and overbearing works for some people. Being enigmatic and kind of quiet makes you, well, mysterious--but not friends. I'm generalizing here, but there IS a balance, at least I hope there is. Then again, is it right to want the big scary loud Americans to find that their way of interacting doesn't yield them real friends, but just cowed acquaintances who appear friendly just to be polite? I sure hope not. I don't think so. Sometimes it feels that way, but I don't think so. Though they do always seem to get noticed. Getting annoyed occasionally does NOT mean you want that for anyone worth getting to know. I need to loosen up.
There is a Robert Burns dinner tomorrow. They are serving some sort of more edible kind of haggis. I'm not going--you don't know how quickly people signed up for this thing--but I am taking Teddy Lawrence to formal hall on Friday since he just got here. He's at St. Catz, which is a massive college, so I hope Mansfield will be a little more digestible. Of course, they are serving guinea fowl. don't remember if i liked it the first time...Anyway, Robert Burns dinner=awesomeness. The fact that it exists, that is. Not so sure about haggis.
Shakespeare tutorial tomorrow. I haven't got a clue about Shakespeare. You can study his work all your life and still be clueless. And yet, only cursory studies teach me so much. I can't imagine how much I'd learn from years of studying, say, only the tragedies. But right now, nothing I have to say seems worth it. It's already been said hundreds of times and far more eloquently. I wonder if I can convince my tutor just to read from Richard II for me instead of conducting the more typical aggressive tutorial. She reads so well. It's an English thing, I'm convinced. Our manner of speaking just doesn't cohere as naturally with his work. George Eliot just made sense to me at an emotional level; not that Shakespeare doesn't, but I do have to work at it. The tutorial in which I discussed Daniel Deronda with my (brilliant, beautiful, Greek) tutor last term was pretty much the most enlightening academic experience I've ever had. It was a privilege to talk to her about it, since Israel, with its long history, and the diasporic Jewish experience come so naturally to me it doesn't even feel like I'm doing school work at all. I taught her something. Incredible. I can't even explain it. And, of course, in the process, I learned more than I ever had before about myself, about my own history, and about my own beliefs. I guess it was the first time I ever really truly understood the power of art; George Eliot was not Jewish, but she understood somehow and put it all into a book. And made people understand, or at least think.
Cape of Good Hope bar is a keeper. I've given it three chances and it's been great each time, plus it's less expensive than Kazbar. Choosing the local neighborhood bar is a long, involved process, you see. It's taken nearly four months to be sure. Not pints for sixty pence, sure, but great atmosphere. They haven't begun to get me free drinks yet, though, which while not being prohibitive, does make Kazbar look really good.
Dream of the Rood says bedtime, as the subject indicates. Yes, I agree completely. Apologies for length of entry, etc.
Surprisingly, Professor Klein's introductory course, which I took first semester freshman year, was better than I thought. While it seemed that we just drew pictures of ducks on napkins and munched on Klein-bought cookies and drank tea, we were actually learning something. This should be far more difficult than it is. Then again, there are only about 50 words you ever need to know. Lots of fighting, killing, pillaging, victories, and mead, you see. Grammar only becomes important after you've demonstrated you don't entirely suck. My actual goal for this course is to learn Elvish, since my tutor is (allegedly) some sort of notable figure in Tolkein language studies. Please God let me learn Quenya. Thank you.
Hilary term has gotten off to an interesting start. Or a boring start, depends how you look at it. I just don't seem to have the energy to be too sociable. Hopefully I'll get over whatever it is that's making me so lethargic. The people here are fascinating; I thought I understood the English, since I was under the impression they weren't really any different from Americans. Or, more specifically, myself. Of course, I was wrong. There are such subtle cultural quirks that make a world of a difference, and I think I'm finally beginning to appreciate exactly how sensitive we are to each other. Somehow, being huge and loud and overbearing works for some people. Being enigmatic and kind of quiet makes you, well, mysterious--but not friends. I'm generalizing here, but there IS a balance, at least I hope there is. Then again, is it right to want the big scary loud Americans to find that their way of interacting doesn't yield them real friends, but just cowed acquaintances who appear friendly just to be polite? I sure hope not. I don't think so. Sometimes it feels that way, but I don't think so. Though they do always seem to get noticed. Getting annoyed occasionally does NOT mean you want that for anyone worth getting to know. I need to loosen up.
There is a Robert Burns dinner tomorrow. They are serving some sort of more edible kind of haggis. I'm not going--you don't know how quickly people signed up for this thing--but I am taking Teddy Lawrence to formal hall on Friday since he just got here. He's at St. Catz, which is a massive college, so I hope Mansfield will be a little more digestible. Of course, they are serving guinea fowl. don't remember if i liked it the first time...Anyway, Robert Burns dinner=awesomeness. The fact that it exists, that is. Not so sure about haggis.
Shakespeare tutorial tomorrow. I haven't got a clue about Shakespeare. You can study his work all your life and still be clueless. And yet, only cursory studies teach me so much. I can't imagine how much I'd learn from years of studying, say, only the tragedies. But right now, nothing I have to say seems worth it. It's already been said hundreds of times and far more eloquently. I wonder if I can convince my tutor just to read from Richard II for me instead of conducting the more typical aggressive tutorial. She reads so well. It's an English thing, I'm convinced. Our manner of speaking just doesn't cohere as naturally with his work. George Eliot just made sense to me at an emotional level; not that Shakespeare doesn't, but I do have to work at it. The tutorial in which I discussed Daniel Deronda with my (brilliant, beautiful, Greek) tutor last term was pretty much the most enlightening academic experience I've ever had. It was a privilege to talk to her about it, since Israel, with its long history, and the diasporic Jewish experience come so naturally to me it doesn't even feel like I'm doing school work at all. I taught her something. Incredible. I can't even explain it. And, of course, in the process, I learned more than I ever had before about myself, about my own history, and about my own beliefs. I guess it was the first time I ever really truly understood the power of art; George Eliot was not Jewish, but she understood somehow and put it all into a book. And made people understand, or at least think.
Cape of Good Hope bar is a keeper. I've given it three chances and it's been great each time, plus it's less expensive than Kazbar. Choosing the local neighborhood bar is a long, involved process, you see. It's taken nearly four months to be sure. Not pints for sixty pence, sure, but great atmosphere. They haven't begun to get me free drinks yet, though, which while not being prohibitive, does make Kazbar look really good.
Dream of the Rood says bedtime, as the subject indicates. Yes, I agree completely. Apologies for length of entry, etc.