Gossip takes over

In Scene VI of Doubt, a play written by John Patrick Shanley, Father Brendan Flynn told this story: A woman was gossiping with her friend about a man they hardly knew - I know none of you have ever done this - and that night, she had a dream. A great hand appeared over her, and pointed down at her. She was immediately seized with an overwhelming sense of guilt. The next day, she went to confession. She got the old parish priest, Father O'Rourke, and she told him the whole thing. "Is gossiping a sin?" she asked the old man. "Was that the Hand of God Almighty pointing a finger at me? Should I be asking your absolution? Father, tell me, have I done something wrong?" "Yes!" Father O'Rourke answered her. "Yes, you ignorant, badly brought-up female! You have borne false witness against your neighbor, you have played fast and loose with his reputation, and you should be heartily ashamed!" So the woman said she was sorry and asked for forgiveness. "Not so fast!" says O'Rourke. "I want you to go home, take a pillow up on your roof, cut it open with a knife, and return here to me!" So she went home, took the pillow off her bed, a knife from the drawer, went up the fire escape to the roof, and stabbed the pillow. Then she went back to the old priest as instructed. "Did you cut the pillow with the knife?" he says. "Yes, Father." "And what was the result?" "Feathers," she said. "Feathers?" he repeated. "Feathers, everywhere, Father!" "Now I want you to go back and gather up every last feather the flew out on the wind!" "Well," she says, "it can't be done. I don't know where they went. The wind took them all over." "And that," said Father O'Rourke, "is gossip!" In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.

Blood ties

The child comes home and the parent puts the hooks in him. The old man, or the woman, as the case may be, hasn't got anything to say to the child. All he wants is to have that child sit in a chair for a couple of hours and then go off to bed under the same roof. It's not love. I am not saying that there is not such a thing as love. I am merely pointing to something which is different from love but which sometimes go by the name of love. It may well be that without this thing which I am talking about there would not be any love. But this thing in itself is not love. It is just something in the blood. It is a kind of blood greed, and it is the fate of a man. It is the thing which man has which distinguishes him from the happy brute creation. When you get born your father and mother lost something out of themselves, and they are going to bust a hame trying to get it back, and you are it. They know they can't get it all back but they will get as big a chunk out of you as they can. And the good old family reunion, with picnic dinner under the maples, is very much like diving into the octopus tank at the aquarium.
-- Robert Penn Warren, All the King's Men

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.