Tochter aus Elysium!

I am happy to report that the past few days have been most enjoyable--not necessarily productive in the sense of pages written or reading completed (although I'm close to the end of The Metaphysical Club), but enjoyable. Here's what has transpired.

3 October 2008

On Friday, I rose reasonably early and went to the seminar for "Modern Germany, 1866-1945." Of my two classes at UEA, "Modern Germany" has so far been the most exciting because through the lectures, I have gained a new perspective on such episodes in German history as the Kulturkampf in the 1870s where Bismarck tried to break the political power of the Roman Catholic Church in Germany. In the past, I had tended to think of the Kulturkampf as nothing more than a bump in the road to bloodier, more stereotypically masculine things (e.g., Germany's involvement in the Boxer Rebellion or the First World War). But in many regards, the struggle between Bismarck and Roman Catholicism was, to paraphrase one commentator, the defining birth trauma of Imperial Germany whose repercussions can be detected even in the modern Federal Republic of Germany. Think that's a bit extreme? Well, if you think that I'm going overboard with this, please consider this: one of the consequences of the Kulturkampf was the emergence of a political movement intended to defend Catholic interests across the whole of Germany. That movement continues today in the form of the Christian Democratic Union (or the Christian Social Union, if you happen to be from Bavaria), which remains one of the two leading political parties in Germany.

Besides casting certain moments in German history in a different light, "Modern Germany" has also prompted me to consider certain questions about the fundamental nature of modern Germany. For instance, most European History textbooks depict the story of German unification as a great struggle by militaristic and authoritarian Prussia against Austrian backwardness and German particularism, a saga whose trajectory can be traced back to the reign of Friederich Wilhelm the so-called "Great Elector" of the late seventeenth century. It runs like a sort of train composed of crucial personalities and moments: the Great Elector leads to the Soldier-King who leads to Friederich der Grosse who leads to Bismarck. However, one of the questions that my class has planted in my mind has been whether it had to be that way. Was Prussia truly "fated" to unify the German states? What other possibilities for a unified Germany existed besides the Bismarckian solution with which we are all familiar? I think my answer to the first question, at least, can be inferred based one of the instructions that I received from Professor Pinsker last semester: "I better not see the words 'inevitable' or 'unavoidable' in any of your papers. Nothing in history is 'inevitable' or 'unavoidable.' Everything's contingent. As historians, you're trying to sort out what kinds of contingencies led to, or shaped, the people and events you're discussing."

Sadly, I have to report that my seminar was nowhere near as rewarding; none of them have been, in the cases of both "Modern Germany" and "Women & Gender in Early Modern Europe." In the seminar for the former class, no-one really speaks or offers anything that might be able to motivate discussion; on Friday, we were discussing "nationalism" and such pertinent questions as "What is the nation?" and "What is the state?" and the only contributions that anyone could make to the "conversation" (mind, I use that term very loosely here) was to say that the concepts of a "nation," a "state," and a "nation-state" were all things that had been forced on to the people by some unidentified, inscrutable force. (To which, I could only respond: "Who's telling? Who's forcing? Who's compelling the people?") No-one, except for the seminar leader Professor Cole and I, could mention some of the characteristics that social scientists have associated with the "state" dating back to Max Weber, such as the presence of a central government or bureaucracy that has a monopoly of the use of violence within a clearly delineated, generally recognized area of territory.

I suppose while I'm ranting about my seminar for "Modern Germany," I may as well share my thoughts of my seminar for "Women & Gender in Early Modern Europe." Let's begin with the fact that I'm the only person in it whose private parts appear on the outside of their bodies. Yeah. That's right. I'm the only guy--a fact that I don't particularly relish and which, in fact, prompted one of my classmates, a rather fat, ugly, middle-aged woman who's taking classes at UEA on a part-time basis to tell me on the first day: "Don't worry. We will defer to your masculine superiority." To which, I responded with a nervous laugh and the following statement: "Well, thank you. I didn't know that I was superior to anyone. Thank you for letting me know that." Owned. But besides yours truly, everyone who speaks in this seminar is a dyed-in-the-wool, male-hating feminist, and at least once in every seminar discussion, someone has to engage in some philippic decrying the sundry outrages of a male-dominated world; for instance, in our last meeting, the fat, ugly, middle-aged woman expended around five minutes castigating male obstetricians "who are always hankering to use their metal tools, and forceps, and surgeries" instead of using the more natural techniques known to the female midwives of the early modern period who had gained an almost mystical understanding of the birthing process through years and years of careful practice. Mind, she didn't give a shred of evidence to support such a sweeping contention. It was her opinion. Unapologetic. Unreasonable. Unsupported. And perhaps most horrifically of all, unchallenged by our instructor who is, in fact, leading the seminar.

Let's close this part of our narrative with something I've said six or seven times already this week: based on what passes for acceptable at their universities, I'm beginning to understand how the British lost the Empire.

After I finished with my seminar, I went over to Shannyn's flat where she and I had some of the worst grilled cheese sandwiches perhaps ever made in the history of such sandwiches, paired with some watery, yet tasty, instant tomato soup. We talked for a while with her flatmate Matt who was very quiet and, as Shannyn tells it, shocked by some of my fantasies about what I'd like to do to some of the people in my seminar. We did dishes, and then trudging through the rain and the cold to the University Medical Centre, we jumped through all the hoops necessary for one to register with the National Health Service (NHS). It wasn't anything too traumatic or demanding. We simply had to wait in a queue for thirty or forty minutes, submit a trio of forms sharing some basic medical information, and schedule an appointment with one of the nurse-practitioners.

We ran into Leah in the queue, and I almost scared her to death when she noticed I had my passport. "Chad, what are you doing with your passport?" She asked, eyeing it curiously.

"They said that we had to bring it," I replied. "They need to see our visa, to see that we're students and that we're here for the year."

Leah had been waiting in the queue for thirty-five minutes by the point that we had the preceding exchange. So, for the next two or three minutes realistically until she was ushered into the office, I had visions of John Cassevetes's head at the climax of "The Fury" (1978) because as Leah later put it, all the fury of hell was flowing out of her eyes and it was directed toward my head. (Most happily for my head, Leah isn't telekinetic; and even if she was, they didn't ask her for her passport.)

When all of us had had our fill of the ecstasy that is socialized medicine, Leah, Shannyn, and I trudged over to the heart of campus; Shannyn stopped by the University Post Room where there was a parcel waiting for her before we three headed across the path to the Blend, a eatery that the Union of UEA Students operates and where you can purchase a small cup of tea, a factory-packaged muffin, or a club sandwich. Lauren Deitz joined us, and the four of us had a pleasant afternoon discussing the literary merits of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein, the approaching presidential election back in the States, wombats, and possible destinations, such as Prague, Krakow, and the icy climes of Scandinavia, during Easter Holiday. Shannyn had to print up the request form for her absentee ballot, so she had to visit the Library. I decided to walk back to the Village with Leah and Lauren, chilled in Lauren's flat for a while, and then I returned to my room where I read a little for classes and diddled away my time on the computer.

Later that night, Beth, Tom, Cat, and I went to a comedy show featuring the British comedian Mark Watson which the Union of UEA Students was holding in one of the Lecture Theatres. Though I didn't laugh out loud that often through the course of the performance, it was very amusing. If I had to encapsulate Mark Watson's comedic style in a word or a phrase, I'd have to say "stream-of-consciousness"; he flowed from one topic to the next without bothering about a clear or logical transition. One minute he was describing how he went to and fro through a railway carriage trying to lay his hands on a lime that had escaped from his canvas grocery bag. The next, he's telling us how his wife is terrified of movable wax figures, a phobia which has resulted in her lifetime proscription from the Oliver Cromwell Museum. As we walked back toward the Village, Tom mentioned that Jimmy Carr would be appearing at the Norwich Theatre Royal in February and inquired whether any of us would be interested in going to which I gave my vote of support. I finished the night diddling on the computer, reading from The Metaphysical Club, and arranging matters for my planned trip with Chris DeArmond to Dorset next weekend.

4 October 2008

My alarm sounded off around nine o' clock, but I didn't rise then instead electing to roll over and sleep till noon. Checking my e-mail, Facebook, and ESPN, I became a little depressed as I looked over their page for the MLB because I realized that the Cubs were on the verge of elimination. (And at the time of this writing, they have, in fact, been eliminated from the playoffs for the second consecutive year. Swept. Again. Dang you, Steve Bartman!) I then showered and I was in the process of throwing on a clean pair of trousers and a navy polo shirt when I heard a rapping on my door. Opening it, I saw that it was Zack, dressed in sweats and cleats, a look of ambivalence on his face. "Are you coming to baseball?" He asked.

"We have it today?"

He nodded.

Crap. "I'll be ready in a moment," I returned, and hurriedly shutting my door, I tossed on my ball cap, black sneakers, white t-shirt, gray hooded sweatshirt, and basketball shorts. Practice was held at Colney Lane, which is a large open space to the south and west of campus just beyond the Broad and is a good step from the Village, so we didn't really begin till one-thirty, I estimate. Having never played baseball on any kind of formal basis before, I have to admit that I was somewhat bewildered by many of the drills, particularly those intended to develop your fielding abilities. Unless you've played before, it simply isn't self-evident watching from the stands or your sofa that in order to turn a double play when the ball is first fielded by the first baseman, the second baseman must immediately hurry to cover first base, so that the shortstop can toss him the ball and complete the play. Or maybe it is. Perhaps I am just giving everyone an idea of the depth of my ignorance about the intricacies of baseball.

In either case, I learned a great deal about the sport and I have an idea as to where I will end up playing: second base. I don't have the arm strength to play shortstop, first or third base, centerfield, or right field; and I don't have the range to play any of the outfield positions. Second base, in light of those realities, appears to be the closest to a perfect fit. I do not say that it's the perfect fit for two reasons: (1) I am still trying to get a feel for catching the ball with the pocket of my glove instead of the palm; and more fundamentally, (2) I am simply not athletic. I have the quickness of a sloth, the speed of a three-legged cheetah, the power of a Yugo passenger car from the 1970s, the coordination of a gawky thirteen-year-old, the bad knees and back of a middle-aged office professional.

Besides practicing fielding, we also worked at hitting, which, considering the overall crappiness of the weather yesterday, was a positively brilliant idea. Zack and Duncan both have pretty good arms, matched with a reasonable amount of control, and so they ended up taking turns at pitcher. When it was my turn to hit, I managed to make contact between the ball and my bat in the case of both pitchers, but since the latter tended to throw with a little more velocity, it hurt much more when I made contact with balls he'd thrown. Afterwards, it really felt as if my fingers were on fire--I'm almost certain that it would have been kinder to the old digits to douse them in battery acid. But I have to report that I am pleased with my batting stance--it's becoming more and more comfortable for me--and I think I have a fairly good idea of what I can hit and what I can't hit, so I should manage to draw a fair number of balls over the course of the season (punctuated by the occasional base hit, if I'm fortunate); my on-base percentage (OBP) is going to my best statistic. That's not to say that it's going to be what people generally think of as "good"--it's not going to exceed .400 or .500--but it's certainly going to be better than my batting average (BA) or slugging percent (SLG). Who knows? If it needs elevating at some point during the season, I may have to step in front of a few pitches.

Baseball practice lasted till four o' clock. I then headed back to my flat where I changed into my navy polo shirt and dress slacks. I originally intended to drop by a party they were having in Flat #8, but around that time, my flatmates decided that they were going to order Chinese takeaway which happened to sound pretty good at the time, and so I elected to stay upstairs. Rob and Dwight stopped by for a while, not too long after we had finished with dinner. They were curious why I hadn't stopped by the party, but more generally, they had stopped by simply to say, "Hello." Lauren and Meghan also arrived around that time, and together, we all watched Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange," which is an excellent (albeit very violent and incredibly disturbing) film. Arguably, it was the best of his films that I've seen, though I have to admit that I remain partial to "Dr. Strangelove" and "The Paths of Glory." I certainly savored its use of music--and of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony and its famous Fourth Movement, in particular--I really thought that it helped to shape the film and to advance the action of the film very nicely. I'll also admit to reading it like a historian might, noting (among other things) the fact that the protagonist, Alex DeLarge, lives in a poorly maintained government-owned housing complex as a possible rebuke of such housing projects which were appearing to spin out-of-control in countries all across the Western world during the late 1960s and early 70s. I appreciate that everyone isn't a particular fan of it--or can even apprehend its worthwhile qualities or the questions it poses about the nature of punishment and moral responsibility--but I think I'm going to make it a point to read the original book before this year concludes.

Once the film concluded, the evening soon followed. I returned to my room, read still more from The Metaphysical Club (which I am enjoying immensely), wrote a few sentences that I may one day develop into an essay on the whole idea of "progress," and then I went to bed around one-forty in the morning.