Sudoku

I like Sudoku. I will try the Sudoku puzzles from the daily newspaper about twice or thrice a week. I am not excellent at it. I could take 30 minutes to an hour for a three- or four-star puzzle, and I still have little confidence in solving the most difficult "5-star" puzzles so I seldom try them. The one-star puzzles easy and I could do them fairly quickly.

I don't know of anyone who likes Sudoku. However, I haven't been asking everyone I meet whether they like Sudoku, or if they know what Sudoku is.

When I am doubtful which one of two or three numbers is the answer for a certain cell, I write them all along the upper edge of the cell, usually with a pencil, so I could erase each number when I eliminate it as a possible answer later. At times, I am lazy to reach for a pencil and I'll write them with a pen, and then strike each out with a pen too, so the puzzle looks extremely messy and untidy when it is close to finishing, with what looks like irregularly-shaped spots hanging above the numbers.

As I write confidently a number that is the answer, I write it big and bold, and I feel clever. My eyes then busily scan all rows and columns taking in whether the latest entry could eliminate some possibilities from other cells so I could fill in one more cell with the correct number, and the next cell, and another cell, until the whole horizontal row or vertical column or a 3X3 square region is completed. I get engrossed in the process. I could drive away fatigue and sleepiness by focusing on the puzzle. When all 81 squares are filled, I feel satisfied, I think I possess a logical mind, and I am a little proud of myself.

Sudoku is a solitary "game". The Chinese translation for Sudoku is "counting alone". You are lost in a world of numbers. You are all by yourself, engrossed in your reasoning on which numbers are available and what numbers get eliminated. You don't speak to anyone, and any noise could interrupt your train of thoughts. This puzzle is not for someone who likes company and interaction.

I try variations of the standard Sudoku, which typically imposes additional rules by having more sub-regions in its 9X9 square. The puzzle could sometimes be easier when there are more constraints. In real life, we waste too much time choosing. We weigh pros and cons, cost and benefits, in trying to get the best deal. When there are less options to study, the decision gets made more quickly.

Reading Marx

Marx, by Andrew Collier, published by OneWorld Oxford.

Extracted from Page 137.

A rather more balanced account if Marx's conception of the relation between scientific and political work is given by Lafargue (Marx's son-in-law) himself in his reminiscences of Marx.

While he was of the opinion that every science must be cultivated for its own sake and that when we undertake scientific research we should not trouble ourselves about the possible consequences, nevertheless, he held that the man of learning, if he does not wish to degrade himself, must never cease to participate in the public affairs - must not be content to shut himself up in his study or his laboratory, like a maggot in a cheese, and to shun the life and the social and political struggles of his contemporaries.

Science must not be a selfish pleasure. Those who are so lucky as to be able to devote themselves to scientific pursuits should be the first to put their knowledge at the service of mankind. One of his favourite sayings was, "Work for the world."

Raise the Water Level

Above photograph is taken from
http://www.zhanghuan.com/ShowWorkContent.asp?id=39&iParentID=21&mid=1
There is a synopsis at the web page to explain the picture.


I don't like to be in the sea or the pool. I don't know how to swim, and I fear that I may drown. I am fine with a river cruise, or a voyage on a yacht, or a ride on a ferry, as long as the journey is short. I love to feel the sea breeze on my skin, but I get seasick. I look at the water surface, wondering at the secrets underneath. I stare at the distant shore and horizon and lament at the unreachable. I marvel at the waves, the tide, the current, the sound of water hitting shore, the mysterious forces of nature at work. The vast expanse of water makes me feel insignificant, and I realise that my existence is trivial, and nothing really matters, so what's the point of thinking about anything.


As I look at this picture, I am even more convinced that the lake, the sea, the pond, the river, are not for us to go into. We are not marine creatures. We can't conquer the sea. Why get into deep water ? In the Chinese language, above sea could mean Shanghai, and into the sea is the beginning of a life of darkness and misery.


Many times in history, the water levels had been raised by throwing bodies into the river, the canal, maybe even the well. Today we throw a lot more. Industrial waste. Into the water. Into the earth. Into the space. We still throw bodies into the sea. I recall the Archimedes Principle I learnt in the science lessons at school. An object immersed in a fluid is buoyed up by a force equal to the weight of the object.


Some walk into the sea and not want to walk away. Some dive into a river and remain submerged. The water gives life and the water takes life away. The problems in the mind, the thoughts, the emotions that weigh a ton on my shoulder, are weightless in the water.

Adaptations

There seems a flood of drama adaptations lately. Perhaps it was because there was an Arts Festival focusing on performing arts in the past month. Or it could be that after attending a 15-hour course exploring the difference and effectiveness of films that have been adapted from plays, I just became more aware of drama adaptations.

I made a regular trip to the City Hall to collect flyers of coming performances. As I sat down for my lunch, I looked through the flyers again.

One said Taming of the Shrew. “This all-new Academy production offers a modern interpretation of the Shakespeare’s classics…. will provide new insights on this battle of love.” I ponder on the word 'modern'. Perhaps Katherina is a powerful female executive holding a top position of a large corporation. But during this modern day, will any younger daughter eager and ready to wed patiently wait for her elder sister to get married first ? In fact, the majority of the younger population may not have a sibling, since the birth rate is below 2%.

I move on to the next flyer. Cherry Inc. Inspired by Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. And a web URL address. That was all the English that appeared on the second flyer. Reading the Chinese synopsis, the story transgress twenty years from 1988 to 2008 on how Alvin and Billy, having nothing initially, managed to build a business empire through buyouts, including an usurpation of their benefactor's properties and company. That doesn't sound exactly like Cherry Orchard. How is this related to Anton's play, I wondered. "It took a lifetime for a peasant to become rich then. The story of Cherry Orchard could take place many times within a lifetime today." (my best effort translation into English). So, we can always relate two different pieces of work by "inspiration". Perhaps the muse hit us all, but differently.

Moving on to the next one. Frankenstein. I have seen the flyer previously. Maybe it's because I haven't read the book, and hence I have not had the chance to be impressed by Frankenstein. Perhaps it could be that the last theatre I watched at the same venue that Frankenstein is being performed was a let-down. Or it's simply I am suffering momentarily from theatre fatigue. For reasons not clear to me, I am not keen to see this theatre adaptation from a novel.

The proliferation of adaptations say much about how difficult it is to create a story. A story with credible, interesting characters. A plot which is engaging. Credible, but not necessary realistic. Harry Potter fans do not believe Harry Potter exists, but what does that matter ? We need to escape from our monotonous life and live in a fantasy, or live another life, temporarily. We want to mock at, to be laughed at, to cry, to be terrified, to be overwhelmed, to be enraged, to be saddened. We have to find someone who understand, a playwright, a director, an actor. The production doesn't have to be original, but we need to see something different, in the sense that we haven't seen it that way previously. Dialogues that resonate more, words that strike a chord now, characters that we understand or sympathize or despise or love or hate more or less than before. This other world of theatre that is startling, beautiful, tragic, comical, dazzling, powerful, shocking, mysterious, imaginary, help me to comprehend my own world better. It helps me to adapt to my world.

Beatrice and Virgil afterthoughts

Beatrice and Virgil, a book by Yann Martel, is on holocaust. The holocaust of any living things. Harry the writer who gave up on his attempt to write his book on holocaust met Harry the taxidermist who has been trying almost all his life to write a play in which Virgil, a howler monkey, and Beatrice, a donkey, are the main characters. Beatrice and Virgil talk in a very roundabout manner on everything and nothing in particular, like the two characters in Waiting for Godot. Their dialogues seem to touch on all the mysteries and philosophies of life, but are mostly vague and puzzling.

Harry the taxidermist seemed to take great pride in his profession. He became a taxidermist after reading The Legend of St Julian Hospitator by Gustave Flaubert. Flaubert had described killings of animals in this book, and Harry was inspired to preserve the carcass. It was difficult to make sense of Harry the taxidermist, and the readers understand Harry the taxidermist through the perception of Harry the writer. Through their conversation which is mainly on Virgil and Beatrice, the readers catch a glimpse of holocaust and animals' cruelty.

Yann Martel's Beatrice and Virgil also brought to my mind the book by Julian Barnes entitled Flaubert's Parrot, which was about a man's obsession with Flaubert. The narrator had mentioned all the important friends and lovers of Flaubert, speculated on the thoughts of Flaubert and his girlfriends and mistress, hypothesised on the what if's of these people who once existed and also on Flaubert's protagonists, e.g. Emma Bovary. The parrot refers to stuffed parrot (taxidermy comes in here) which was at one time in Flaubert's possession. At least two museums claimed to have Flaubert's parrot. The narrator examined all the stuffed parrots and explained his own thought process on which parrot was really Flaubert's. The similarities or parallels between Flaubert's Parrot and Beatrice and Virgil are that the narrators voiced out thoughts on writing, and described and commented about characters from a couple of novels, and both books had referred to Flaubert.

Yann Martel's Beatrice and Virgil is also a tale on how to write. As Harry the taxidermist explained to Harry the writer on the symbols, allegories, allusions, the readers started to understand (sort of) the taxidermist's play, which is a sub-plot of this novel. Harry the novelist was skeptical about the play in which the characters do not seem to develop and nothing happen in the play many times over. Something finally happened in the play at the end, and also to the two Harrys. Still the ending does not tie all the pieces of the plot together coherently.

I haven't read Dante's Divine Comedy, so I don't know the characters Beatrice and Virgil in Divine Comedy. I also haven't read Yann Martel's first book The Life of Pi. Beatrice and Virgil is a strange story, with some insightful remarks thrown in here and there which bring resonance in me. The book ended with twelve game questions in a kind of epilogue. They resemble what-if questions. Questions on what you will do as you face one despair situation after another. Questions which we probably have no answers, and discussing these questions with anyone will make it a very grave and groomy interaction.

Schopenhauer's On Authorship

The Art of Literature. Chapter 1. On Authorship. Arthur Schopenhauer
http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/schopenhauer/arthur/lit/chapter1.html

“What an inestimable boon it would be, if in every branch of literature there were only a few books, but those excellent!”
“The best works of the greatest men all come from the time when they had to write for nothing or for very little.”
“Honor and money are not to be found in the same purse” —honora y provecho no caben en un saco. (Spanish proverb)
“How very learned many a man would be if he knew everything that was in his own books ! ”
“If a thing is new, it is seldom good; because if it is good, it is only for a short time new.”

Schopenhauer noted two kinds of authors, those who write because they have something worth communicating, and those who write for writing’s sake, to cover paper, to make money. He thinks that he latter group of authors are cheating the readers by pretending that they have something to say.

Then, Schopenhauer distinguishes three classes of authors, firstly, those who write without thinking, or write from memory, reminiscences, or even straight out from others’ books, secondly, those who think in order to write, and lastly, those who think before they begin to write.

For the rare breed of writers who think before they write, they are busy thinking about what others have thought on the subject, rather than forming original views. However, he rebukes writers who attacks or denies correct theories in order to make their mark by bringing out something fresh.

The writer of the new book often does not understand the old books thoroughly, and yet he is unwilling to take their exact words; so he bungles them, and says in his own bad way that which has been said very much better and more clearly by the old writers, who wrote from their own lively knowledge of the subject. The new writer frequently omits the best things they say, their most striking illustrations, their happiest remarks; because he does not see their value or feel how pregnant they are. The only thing that appeals to him is what is shallow and insipid.

Finally, Schopenhauer contrasts the matter and form. Matter is the substance, the fact and the history, which could be accessible to anyone. Form is what it is thought about the matter, and form is the valuable part of the book. In general, we are more concerned with matter than form. Literature in which any merit there may be lies in the form, are lacking.

Rules for Writers

Here's ten tips on writing.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/24/elmore-leonard-rules-for-writers

Like they say, if you are good, you can break all the rules, and you are still doing it right.

What they wore at Oscar

In the South China Morning Post today, there were pictures and reports on the brand or the designer of Jennifer Lopez, Cameron Diaz, Charlize Theron, Meryl Streep, and Kate Winslet's dresses. In addition, Kate Winslet was also reported to wear a US$2.5 million necklace of a certain brand. None of them won any awards this year, and I doubt if they had any nominations at the Oscar.

I think Kathryn Bigelow is pretty, and her dress is unusual yet beautiful, and looks good on her. Before the ceremony, she was believed to have a high chance of winning the best director award, and indeed, she becomes the first woman to do so. Now, did the luxury brand sponsors simply ignore her, or did she not want to advertise for them, or is her sponsor not as big and famous as the others ? Or did this newspaper miss out the "news" ? Or is this dress sponsorship business just not as straightforward as I am guessing ?

Night Safari Adventure

In a recent visit to the Night Safari in Singapore, my friend and I were in time for a live performance by animals, and we went to the amphitheatre to see it. Typical of outdoor amphitheatres, there are no chairs, and the sitting area is simply constructed in sections of steps so that the audience sits on the floor or the stairway tread, with the heels in contact with the tread one step below.

We saw animals that make an appearance and didn’t do much, and the animals that could show some tricks are of course the monkeys.

At one point of the show, the trainers needed to look for their lost animals. The audience had no ideas what they were searching for. The trainers claimed that they heard the animals among the audience. They tried one corner, and then they looked at another section. After hitting the wrong spots three or four times, they at last decided that the animal was hiding near where my friend and I were sitting. The few of us sitting in the same row were requested to stand up and moved aside. Right at the area where my friend and I had placed our feet when we were seated, was a door. The animal trainers pulled open the door, and, lo and behold, they took an enormous snake out from the open space below. I don’t know what kind of a snake that it. The snake was carried up the stage and became the next star of the show.

Animal Farm performance

Animal Farm from W!ld Rice is the first theatre performance I saw for this year’s Hong Kong Arts Festival. In preparation for viewing this performance, I read George Orwell’s Animal Farm for the first time a month ago.

Six actors and actresses took the roles of various animals, and an actor may rotate among a few animal roles. They moved like animals, and they produced sounds made by pigs and horses and dogs. A seventh actor took all the human roles. The “animals” are without proper clothes, covered in rag-like pieces, with all their limbs showing. At the second last scene, they are fully dressed to drink champagne to celebrate human-animal cooperation. The most interesting props are air-conditioning ducts used to represent the Windmill and the horse slaughterer’s van. On the music, I managed to identify the tune usually played when Huang Feihong started his duel, and also the music for a Hokkien/Fujian song on working hard to get ahead in life, but with the lyrics replaced to praise Napolean. The Caucasian audience may like the few lines from My Way sung by Napolean when he was drunk and dragged off the stage.

The final scene portrayed a human feeding Clover and stroking her head. I don’t think this scene is in the book, but I couldn’t be entirely sure. The book has been returned to the library. This scene seems to tell me that human has the capacity to care or even love the animals as long as the animals are submissive. But the animals are no longer themselves when they have been dominated by humans.

The drama is worth watching. It is a faithful adaptation of the novel, and there are interesting choreography and movements.

Wuthering Heights

My first reading of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights took place more than twenty years ago, and I couldn’t remember anything from the book. I read it a second time recently.

On finishing the book, I could vageuly recall my reaction from my first reading. It might have been a rather let-down feeling. No one in the story is likeable and the love story isn’t romantic.

Now, I still feel that no one is likeable. It still isn’t what I will call a nice romance story. The hero and heroine didn't quite declare their love to each other. In fact, at Catherine’s deathbed, it looked rather like a declaration of hatred.

Having attended some short courses on literature recently, I come to the conclusion that great literature works are usually ambiguous. And hence, that generates lots of questions which readers and critics and students and professors could argue and debate over.

I feel quite neutral about this book. And I have no questions, apart from why this book is such a great piece of literature. I am not even curious why Emily Bronte wanted everyone in the book to love so obsessively.

I didn’t think there is anything wrong with the housekeeper Ellen Dean. Her actions may not be totally acceptable, but it is not wrong that she took her childcare responsibility seriously and at times behaved like she was the mother of the children. It is not wrong that she meant well. Her actions did not cause or avoid any events, because Heathcliff was just too cunning and determined and would have gotten his ways through other means or "accompliace". And I didn't think that narrative voices should be completely neutral. That was one way to know this character, and through her narrative content we know how others at the times feel about the issues.

I felt relieved that Heathcliff died. It is not well explained why he died. I think it is because he disturbed the dead. At first I thought it seems a bit ironic that we need the supernatural to defeat him, but I then realized this is more acceptable than having everyone around him joining forces to kill him. Overthrowing tyranny isn’t the point of this book.

Heathcliff didn’t want to die when Catherine died. He didn’t want to let Catherine rest in peace, but wanted her to haunt him. That was one of the most powerful lines in the book. Catherine had some startling lines too, like she is Heathcliff and Heathcliff is her. Maybe this is one reason why the book is a great literature. So much love and so much hate. So much togetherness and separation.

A Scene from To Kill a Mocking Bird

Tom Robinson rushed around wildly, aimlessly, desperately. His eyes darted in all directions, with unsteady stare and panicky glimpses. He moved quickly here, turned, and made a few steps there. He swirled, ran in one direction, and then another, so he moved all over the stage, furtively, hurriedly, followed closely by a dozen other actors. The light was dimmed, but the audience saw all their ghostly bodies, and Tom Robinson stood out because he was defenseless, with nothing to protect his body from the others who were each holding a stool with the hands. They looked like bar stools, reaching above the waist if they were placed on the floor. They were metallic, and loud clanging sound of one bar stool occasionally hitting another would cover the background music which was unnerving and ominous.

Each actor moved to his body's order. They were not dancing, and no-coordination of movement was necessary. They simply need to move with the same style and rhythm, and they did, lifting the stool over the head, swinging it to the left, or right, or up, or down. The stool moved along circular path, along imaginary arcs and chords. At one second, someone could be standing tall with the stool over the head, and another swinging the arm with fingers clenching the stool, and a third person bending at the waist with the stool over the shoulder, or stooping, or descending and ascending. They drifted and slided with big steps and small steps, sometimes rapidly and sometimes slowly. Not exactly graceful swinging and swaying and bending, but still, there was some fluidity in the movement. They might be going through the motion of swimming with force but without the water, or taiji, with the slowness and certainty but without the gentleness, or even fencing, but the motion a hundred times slower, with the sword replaced by the stool.

Each of the stool actor took their turn to fling the stool down, and at the exact moment when the stool hit the floor, a deafening bang rang out in the theatre. Not a clear sound, but do we ever describe the thundering noise made by the release of the bullet from a gun or rifle as a clear sound ? How many bullets were fired at Tom Robinson ? I couldn't remember. Was it seventeen ? Nineteen ? At each gunshot, Tom fell, and struggled to get up. Each raise was more painful and slower than the last. Finally, his face in agony, his frail body twisted out of shape, he staggered no more, and he had the last collapse.

The above was a scene from a play that I watched at the Drama Centre Theatre at the National Library Building in Singapore. It is based on Harper Lee’s novel, adapted for stage by Christopher Sergel, and performed by the Toy Factory.

What if my memory fails ?

I bought a book, "An Education", by Lynn Barber, and I have just finished reading only the preface. The book is supposed to be a memoir. However, the author "confessed" in the preface that she has a bad memory. She consulted her diary to write about her teenage forty years later. She could not remember who she might have slept with at Oxford where she attended school, and her husband remembered that she had been to China once but she has forgotten it.

I do not foresee wanting to write about my teenage. Frankly, I have forgotten most of it as there just wasn't anything extraordinary. But what I read in that preface have me wondering. Should I keep an account of what I do, think, feel and see ? Although I lead a rather boring life, there are still little events some of the time which I want to remember. Looking at this blog, you can guess I hardly write about anything. Perhaps I should seriously consider keeping a diary. And also organize my photographs and tag them to the records in the diary. Or provide long description to the photographs that I take. Act so that I have something to refer to if and when I lose my memory.

Welcome 2010

No excitement for a new year. No resolutions, no goals, no habits I wish to kick, despite having the bad habits of dwelling in negative thoughts and procrastinating.


And procrastinate I did over whether to have a blog. I have no idea what I like to write and post here. I am not born to write, and I have no interesting tale to tell, and I don't want to talk about other people.


I should be contented that I have a job that pays enough, that I am physically healthy, and people I care about are fine. What else could I ask for ? I have to figure out what I want out of my life. There are many more new years to come.


No good news for the new year. Or the good news is that I have no shattering bad news. How do I bring more hope and more light to the world, and to myself ?

Happy New Year.