Thought for the Day

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
and how the wind doth ramm,
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.


"Song" by Ezra Pound. Modelled after this  little ditty.

Anyway, I'm off to the North for a few days.

...let me in-a your window-who-ho-ho

Over at The Pursuit of Harpyness people are discussing their favourite  19th century novelists (such as the Brontës and Jane Austen) - and especially their favourite male characters in these books.  Most deny that they have ever spent breathless hours reading about  (or even better, making up) the exploits of Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester. Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, is much more warmly regarded; many feminists would be ready to set their cap at good old Fitzwilliam - and rightly so, for he's the only one of the three who hasn't got dark secrets cluttering up his past (or indeed his attic at Pemberley).

I have to make a confession: for me, the Brontë heros (especially Heathcliff, but also Mr. Rochester) were the stuff of teenage fantasy; Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, has always left me cold. However, having developed a somewhat maturer look on life and relationships, I can now wholeheartedly agree with the commentators of PoH: Messrs. H and R are complete gits.

Deep and dark and broodingly sexy as they might be, their world revolves around their own needs and desires - and anything (be it a mentally unstable wife or a completely innocent bystander) that gets in the way of these must be removed, usually by force. They have unhealthy obsessions, and unnaturally strong passions, which are taken out on other people (again). And yet, they attract perfectly sensible, self-possesssed women who seem to think they can bring out the best in these men. Whatever that may be.

Maybe it was the corsets. Anything that restricts your circulation can't be beneficial to your mental processes, either.
 

It's impossible to say what kind of protagonists Emily Brontë would have chosen for her next novel, but her big sister didn't show much improvement in her taste in men -  Villette for one has another bullying despot as its male lead, and another forgiving lady willing to prop up his ego. I don't know if anyone has ever has the hots for M. Paul - at least Mr. Rochester has the good manners not to patronise Jane Eyre so blatantly  (and as a reward only gets blinded and has his arm chopped off, whereas M. Paul - at least according to my reading - doesn't survive the old Brontë treatment).

Anne Brontë was perhaps the most sensible of the three - at least when it comes to the representation of men in her work. Hark! A Vagrant illustrates this beautifully: Dude Watchin' with the Brontës, ladies and gentlemen.

As to Jane Austen men, I can't say that I've been much moved by any of them (unless we're talking about the film versions. If so,  Colonel Brandon is my man). Perhaps it's got something to do with the stiff manners and the stilted sentences of the period, or the slightly stock-like nature of Austen's heroes (the protagonists have to get married in the end, after all); thus, while reading Sense and Sensibility, Emma, or Northanger Abbey, my attention mainly remains with the thoughts and feelings of the female characters.

Persuasion is the exception here: Captain Wentworth is a very intriguing character (with his Past and all), and a worthy equal of the poised Anne Elliot; he's made his mistakes in the past, and is not willing to be swayed by anyone's opinions (at least when it comes to choosing a wife). He's a bit gruff, but at least I get the feeling that he can also laugh at himself (a trait Mr Sourpuss Darcy certainly doesn't possess). And he's got a big ship.

Although P&P is undoubtledly the most sparkling of Austen's novels, Persuasion has got a quiet dignity that I like, and also some  brilliant insights into human nature. The final conversation between Anne Elliot and Captain Harville is a gem:

"Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything." 

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"We never shall. - - It is a difference of opinion which does not admit proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle - -." 

And in case you've no idea what the title of this post refers to, I can only say that you've missed one of the finest pieces of popular music ever written: 

British Comedy Season, Pt. 1: Monty Python

I did promise a couple of weeks ago to start a series of posts about my favourite British comedy shows, and in case anyone is wondering whether I've forgotten this promise, I can now confidently answer: no, I haven't.

Although I'd watched loads of British comedy before I was aware of Monty Python - and although there were many brilliant TV comedies before The Flying Circus came along (chronologically speaking), I think no other show has had quite the same influence (on me, or on British comedy) over the years.  Also,  as it's now the 40th anniversary of the first broadcast of the series, so I think Pythons are a very good place to start.

For me, the first encounter with the Python phenomena didn't come through the TV series,  but through the films. When I was around 17, YLE broadcast The Holy Grail and The Life of Brian, and especially the first of those hit me over the head with the proverbial rubber chicken. To this day, it's one of the few films I know by heart, and quote at unsuspecting people (the only other films are A Hard Day's Night and Help!. I suppose I was a bit of a Beatles geek as a teenager).

There are so many brilliant bits in The Holy Grail that it's hard to pick only one. However, the Knights Who Say 'Ni' sequence is one of the highlights of the film, as it includes not only the bewildered King Arthur and his long-suffering entourage, the wonderfully silly Knights, and Roger the Shrubber - but also Brave Sir Robin and his minstrels (who get eaten towards the end of the film. There are just so many random elements around that it's amazing they hang so well together.

After wearing out the VHS tape on which I'd preserved both of the aforementioned films, I finally got to the real thing - the Flying Circus TV series, which of course blew me away (and gave me loads of whole new quoting material). I generally like the more 'literary' stuff (like the sketch in which John Cleese and Graham Chapman - dressed as suburban housewives - get into an argument about existentialism, and sail to France in order to ask Jean-Paul Sartre which one of them is right); the 'Dead Parrot' sketch, for instance, is a bit too shouty and violent to my taste. However, one of my absolute favourites is the 'Cheese Shop' sketch, which works along similar lines, but is much more clever and verbally acrobatic (it also features some lovely dancing).

After watching this, I always get a craving for Venezuelan beaver cheese, for some reason.

As there's so much good stuff to choose from, it's nigh impossible to name my absolute favourite Flying Circus sketch. This court scene one, however, encapsulates many things that I adore about Monty Python. It's got Eric Idle giving a mock-Olivier address to the court, John Cleese hopping about in wig and gown, Graham Chapman both as a voluable lady and a keen-eyed police inspector, and Michael Palin as Cardinal Richelieu (complete with pink robes and a personal microphone). Yet my favourite bit comes at the very end.

A guy in a suit of armour, wielding a rubber chicken. That would come in handy at my Doctoral defence ceremony, as a kind of rhetorical device - in case my carefully prepared argumentation fails to impress the audience and my opponent. 

(In case any of my friends are reading: this is what I'd like for Christmas. One suit of armour, one rubber chicken, and someone willing to act as a rhetorical device in the near future. Please.)

Lady in Black Eats off Swedish Plates

Here's what I accomplished today. After a couple of hours of babysitting M's daugther (with M safely in the same room, having her hair dyed) I took a turn in the local charity shop. My intention was to find something suitable to wear at my colleague's post- doctoral defense dinner: something rather more formal than the stuff currently lurking in my closet.

Now I'm the proud owner of a lovely black velvet dress - the first black dress I've ever owned. As can be gleaned from the photos, it's not entirely black (which made it less threatening for me), and judging by the label, it's none of your  usual [your favourite Swedish clothing chain] stuff. It cost me 6 euros.

Not bad, eh? Coupled with my 20s necklace it'll look right classy (and in a Viking-themed restaurant completely out of place, probably).

I also found a lovely stack of Rörstrand - my favourite Swedish vintage platemakers - plates. They cost an euro apiece, and don't clash too badly with my Finnish tablecloth, at least not yet. :)

Since Tuesday I've been floating in a kind of haze - glad that my thesis was so well received, and also so well criticised (after all, that's what this middle work between Master's and PhD is for), and at the same time uncertain of what to do next. My supervisor can probably help me with that, so until our next meeting I'll be killing time between lectures.

Which suits me just fine.

Here's what Kate Bush has to say about it:
 

Context, Cows and the Capital

I spent the weekend in Helsinki, celebrating Fidia's birthday in the usual manner  (but with fewer films this time) and also doing some work on our webpage with Otter and T. Thus in three days I indulged in catching up with a dozen of friends, eating in a rather fancy restaurant, making and helping to destroy a truly sinful chocolate cake, watching some great films, and - as always with Otter and T, planning a glorious future for SHS.

On Sunday I got treated to a side of Helsinki I rarely encounter - and one I enjoy greatly. As the pictures above show, there is more to our capital than concrete and traffic jams and grumpy people; indeed, it also seems to include cows and fields and friendly dog-owners. If I saw that side of the city more often, I might even get to tentatively like the darn place.

Today's been a cloudy day - both internally and weather-wise. I like the bleakness of October when it coincides so wonderfully with my mental state - which is similarly worn-out but at the same time serene and strangely expectant.

What I'm expecting, of course, is a satisfactory ending to my nearly year-long travail with my Licentiate, which should take place tomorrow. And even more than that I'm looking forward to the big chocolate cake I've been promised. :)

Contributing to my bitter-sweet mood has been Aimee Mann, whose soundscapes are perfect for this season. I love her matter-of-fact delivery and inventive lyrics, especially as they are set to devastatingly gorgeous music. Like so:

Sounds of Silence

I was going to start a series of posts on my favourite British comedy series (it being the 40th anniversary of Monty Python’s Flying Circus), but in the light of recent events I’ll postpone that for a while, and dedicate this one to Veikko Huovinen, one of my favourite writers – and now sadly departed from our midst.

If you’re Finnish, you’re probably aware that Huovinen shuffled off this mortal coil last Sunday. He was 82, but the news was still quite unexpected: he was never one for selling his life to the tabloids, and therefore no news of his illness reached the media. He has been branded something of a recluse, and this may be true; I spent my first 18 years living in the same town as he, and only saw him once during that time (and twice after that).

My first encounter with Huovinen’s work came through the TV versions of his books and short stories. Lentsu was probably the first of these (the scene in which the feverish lorry driver crashes into the wall of his own house will always stay with me). When I was around ten, I found Veitikka in my grandfather’s bookshelf and read it – and remained puzzled throughout as I couldn’t quite decide whether I was dealing with a genuine biography of Hitler, or something completely different. Later, of course, I realised that “something completely different” doesn’t cover the sheer subversive brilliance of the book.

In school we were force-fed some "contemporary" Finnish lit – Havukka-ahon ajattelija and Koirankynnen leikkaaja among them. I enjoyed both, and began to make my slow way through the bulk of Huovinen’s repertoire – which, I was to discover, is amazingly wide. He’s mainly known for his gently philosophical descriptions of the weird folk of Kainuu (in itself an inexhaustible well of material), but although that stuff is excellent, too, there’s much more to him than Konsta Pylkkänen and his ilk. Not only did Huovinen write pseudo-biographical books about dictators (Hitler, Stalin and Peter the Great), he tackled dystopian themes in Lemmikkieläin, flu pandemics in Lentsu – and life, the universe and everything in his short stories.

My favourite collection of short stories (from any writer, come to think of it), is probably Lyhyet erikoiset (on which I blogged a couple of months ago) – although Matikanopettaja is a close runner-up (with its title story about a teacher – not of maths, but of fish). Over the weekend I amused Otter and T. by reading aloud from Lyhyet erikoiset and marvelling at the inventiveness of Huovinen’s style. Who else would compare the taste of Hungarian pickles to “a mullah’s song from the roof of a minaret”?

Well, no one will. One of the greats has passed on.