The last time that I went to London was more than half a year ago. King's X station is now quite different from my impression, it changes a bit, in a good way. There has been some construction work going on outside King's X and St Pancras for a long while ever since this city left trace in my memory. Some work still remains, but a new look of this area is only waiting for a final touch, I hope.

Most scaffolds and temperary fences have been removed. Construction of glass facades for tube stations in King's X and St. Pancras have been completed. Their modern designs fittingly provide the old buildings a nice and quiet company. St Pancras station is more visible to the world now. The color of bricks and the grey tone of the sky are so mingled that they seem to generate an elegant color of greyish blue.

I am looking forward to seeing it next time!

A passage from Madame Bovary

I encountered this passage in an earlier draft of Flaubert's Madame Bovary. The imagistic expression of voracious sorrow and devouring memory is enchanting. The English translation is by Paul de Man.


'She clung to this memory; it was the center of her lassitude, all her thoughts converged upon it and nourished it. It was the intimate creation of her idleness. In her life, abandoned, cold, naked and monotonous, it stood alone like a fire of dead twigs left in the middle of the Russian Steppes by departing travelers. She threw herself upon the remembered image, crushed herself against it, joyously, jealously, and with a trembling hand stirred up the embers which were about to go out. To make it burn brighter and flame higher, that she might re-light her sadness by this love-flame which was flickering in the night, she looked around her for things with which to feed it; the most insignificant details of the past or the future, reminiscences of simple words, whims, comparisons, dislikes, all these she threw in and warmed herself before this hearth with the full length of her soul.

For a long time, she watched over this fire to keep it going. Bending over it she nourished the flame. But the flame no longer burned so brightly, perhaps because her provision of fuel was exhausted, or else she had smothered it by piling her fuel on too high. Little by little, through absence, her love too went out, and even her reveries diminished in routine. From this hearth, there now came more smoke than flame, more despair than desire, and the purple light which had reddened her pale sky grew lesser by degrees. The pricks of her daily existence, which fell on her like sharp hailstones, disappeared more slowly. She mistook her hatred for Charles for a longing for Leon, the searing smart of hate for the warmth of love; but, while her torment increased and its cause receded, her hope departed, blowing out the cold embers of her consumed passion. Then she remained alone, and all was total night, an immense wasteland.' (273, Madame Bovary, Norton Critical Edition)

Vincent Van Gogh, 'The Starry Night'


Starry Starry Night

I was walking home on this starry starry night,
remembering a passage that a dear friend wrote for me a couple of months ago
when everything was in a mass and I quite forgot how I would like the course of life to go.

That was a beautiful passage, beautifully written.

I am remembering that passage, perhaps, because the same thought that abused me at the time is now recalled.
But this time, with a sober mind.

'Nothing lasts forever'--a notion that is perhaps unkind,
But so will trouble and sorrow be untied.

To a friend.

The Lake District, 17-19 September 2006: Levens Hall

It's been a while after my trip to the Lake District. Endless travelogues, it seems.
When I was there, it was the end of the summer, and it's autum now (sigh... this lament is a sign of senility.)

Yes, autumn has been around for a while. These days whenever I have a chance to step on the gorgeous orange carpet--a seasonal mantle of the earth woven from golden leaves--the crackling under my feet is very comforting, assuring, even though I also bear in mind a melancholic notion that this path is leading the year to an end, and the cycle of nature to winter.

Around this same time two years ago, when waiting for bus in front of Heslington Hall, I chanced to "hear" a squirrel crossing a field covered with fallen leaves. It made me giggle. : )
A lady sitting on the same bench smiled and said, 'isn't that lovely! It's my favorite time of the year!'

This year the crispy sound constantly recalls to me rustling of green leaves in Levens Hall this summer.

Levens Hall is a 19th-century house especially known for its magnificent gardening.

I only visited the garden.
It was a very comfortable and peaceful experience. Astounding experience too! It must have taken incredible efforts to maintain this huge garden since two centuries ago.

One essential design of the garden contains some spaces that are walled by well-trimmed bushes. It almost looks like a labyrinth.

Standing between the walls of bushes was an intimidating audio experience to me.
I heard nothing but the rustling of leaves.
The sound was so close to the ear that it silenced me.
The rustling was so close and so intense that I was getting nervous.
The sound was so close, so intense, and so unfamiliar that I was led to suspect if there were creatures lying in ambush.
The sound was curiously inviting, I was almost tempted to sneak into the narrow path.
But the sound was also disquieting, so monotonously powerful and overpowering.
I hesitated and, took another route.

I know, it's nothing but wind rustling through leaves as if glasses are chattering.

'Then you are very patient.'

It is my conversation with a worldly-famous and well-respected scholar (abbreviated as S) in a conference dinner,

*******************************
S: When I was in the E dept. in H Univ., H the postcolonialist was invited to take a position there. The faculty in the department was wondering why he was invited since he hadn't had a single book published. You know, in order to be in H Univ. you have to publish at least 6 books. Some faculty answered, 'but he had been a main contributor to this field of study'. Some others confronted the defendants instead, 'but no one understands what he's talking about'.

(the conversation was carried on with the discussion of applications of theories and close reading in literary studies.)

I: H's writing is difficult, but the style is also considered to be a means to assert his identity and idea as a postcolonialist.

S: Have you ever read his work?

I: Yes, I did.

S: Did you understand what he was talking about?

I: yes, but it took some time.

S: Then you are very patient.
************************************

I don't remember whether I was patient or not when I read his work years ago. My english comprehension ability was rather poor at that time, I remember. But I believed, and still do, as long as I tried and as long as I could follow the class instructor's guidance, I would get there sometime.
Even until today, I don't know if I really fully understand every single bit of his thought, but at least I always remind myself to be open-minded and humble whenever I feel upset and impatient with some difficult works like H's.
I always try to keep in mind that before I understand anything, I shouldn't criticize.

Before this conversation, I thought, and still believe so, patience is one of the most important virtues of researchers.
This part of conversation somehow disillusioned me.

Why cannot we be patient?
What are we busy about so that we do not have time to understand other people's thought?
It's this being impatient that really irritates me.

What does patience have anything to do with one's scholarship? It does, and it matters a lot.
Everything should be considered within history and as a bit of history, a part of the history of literature, the literary history.
Why can people easily make value judgement prioritizing one approach over another?
In the spectrum of literary history, these 'notorious' theories did re-enactivate the literary studies once and still do in one way or another, it would be very narrow-minded of anyone to see them as old-fashioned monsters.
They are also a part of the entire culture, which have more or less contributed to what we know, to what we learn, to what our being is, to what we are enabled to know, and to what we can move on with.

Patience is important, for academics in particular.
For me, it's an important virtue that enables the mechanism of acadmia to operate along an ethical path.
It's the starting point of any possible mutual respect.

Or is it 'only' a matter of patience? I hope it is. At least it's simple and seems to be possible to deal with.
But perhaps, or in fact there is, an enormous ideology behind this I-don't-have-time-for-something in context.

Ah! Orange Autumn!

I really love the colors of autumn and the sky of this orange season.