вторник, 22 декабря 2009 г.
Business business business...
I thought today about how things we hold dear to our hearts, about which we cannot think in terms of money and profit, are to many people just business, strictly business, nothing personal. That the book which moves us to tears, although not written for a quick buck, is turned into nothing but a commodity. That a film which you and I watch because we like the plot line or the lead actress was carefully conceived, written and filmed with a sole intention to make us like it and pay for it. That if a book or a film or a painting does not promise to sell, that is, if it does not demonstrate a potential to be liked by the masses, it is usually shelved infinitely and nobody really cares that the world might be missing out on a masterpiece. After all, who is to decide what is a masterpiece?
вторник, 3 ноября 2009 г.
To remember the time
These days will pass by whether I want it or not - soon I will be looking back at them, with joy or anguish I am not sure, but surely with a stern belief that it's all over. With the world on my shoulders a little lighter. The exam day will come and go, I will be either very happy in the end (which is not very likely), or a little frustrated - the pain that I am already well used to in the past couple of months of writing for long, sleepless nights, failing where I usually don't, being rejected visas. GRE is one helluva exam, I should say, but it is not beyond my ambition, although possibly pretty much beyond my skills at the moment. But I will survive. I will get through. That's for sure.
понедельник, 21 сентября 2009 г.
A Manchester United Blog?
I have been a Manchester United fan for a very long time (since my teen years, the late age of Cantona, the early years of Beckham). As a fan, I try to watch every match and read reaction in the press for the next couple of hours. Besides sports pages of the mainstream British newspapers - the Guardian, first of all, but also the Telegraph, and occasionally, the Independent and the Times - I have been reading blogs dedicated to the club and written by lifelong fans as myself. The best ManU blogs I read are the Republik of Mancunia, A kick in the grass, and the United Rant.
I like reading about football and writing about it is also interesting to me. I could even say that this is a topic that excites and inspires me. So yesterday, after the historical win over the nouveau riches from the Blue Moon, I thought - maybe I should being writing an MU blog? This blog would not be something as regular and "professional" as the abovementioned three, but I would still have a place to let out my thoughts on my club and on football in general.
The idea seems very exciting and I am even thinking to write to one of the more experienced MU bloggers asking advice. The only problem is that the blog will not come any time soon because of my hectic schedule - I am registered for a GRE exam on Nov 8 and there is all this fuss with applications, so I won't be free enough until early next year. Until that, I will get myself ready for the blog.
I like reading about football and writing about it is also interesting to me. I could even say that this is a topic that excites and inspires me. So yesterday, after the historical win over the nouveau riches from the Blue Moon, I thought - maybe I should being writing an MU blog? This blog would not be something as regular and "professional" as the abovementioned three, but I would still have a place to let out my thoughts on my club and on football in general.
The idea seems very exciting and I am even thinking to write to one of the more experienced MU bloggers asking advice. The only problem is that the blog will not come any time soon because of my hectic schedule - I am registered for a GRE exam on Nov 8 and there is all this fuss with applications, so I won't be free enough until early next year. Until that, I will get myself ready for the blog.
понедельник, 27 июля 2009 г.
In search of inspiration
More, much more than ever do I feel the need to find inspiration. My life is stalled, the future looks bleak, the spring in my steps has been fading. I have to rebuild my confidence, recharge my body and refill my soul - but how can I do it?
вторник, 21 июля 2009 г.
On suicide
We don't usually think about it that way, but for most of us life is nothing but kind of a possession, something we own. And yes, it is the most precious of all known possessions. It is so unimaginably big and valuable as to contain everything else, every single thing or encounter we will ever have, each and every piece of cake we eat. In its magnitude it equals something as big as our own personal Universe, and beyond it there is nothing but emptiness and darkness.
This idea might seem too simplistic for some, yet when you stop and think, this is what comes to mind. Life has all the attributes of the things we own: for example, when we say 'this is my life' as we often do when we feel somebody being too intrusive, we mean we own our lives and can do whatever we please to do with them. But only when we ask questions about the origins of this possession do we start facing dilemmas, clashes of opinions and perceptions, tides of dogma and scepticism. In the everyday frenzy of our existence we don't think for a minute about how we came to own this valuable possession. We usually don't think about life - we simply live. Some see life as bestowed from above by some deity, other believe it is inherited from ancestors biologically as a result of a consecutive succession of reproductions. But both the creationists and the free minds feel life is solely theirs to have.
It is only when somebody is seen to be abusing his life that morality comes to light. The harshest critics of such abuse are naturally those who see life as a gift from God, one gift to be accepted with humility, lived with honour, and returned with grace, however burdensome and unwanted it might seem at times. And it does get tough sometimes for some of us, so tough that it is easier - less painful - to get rid of this valuable possession altogether, to return the gift to the Bestower earlier than it was expected back. Suicide for believers in the Creator is not an honourable return of the precious present to its real owner. It is a disgraceful slap in the face, a slamming of the heavenly doors, blowing away once and for all the single opportunity to rest eternally in the gardens of Eden.
Yet if it were so simple, nobody would be willing to step over the line. If life were all rainbows and butterflies, no single soul, however desperate and derelict, would want to deliberately part with it and go searching for better places. After all, it is not as easy as it might seem - one makes the horrible decision with one's mind, but we also have our bodies, don't we? At such a critical point, the body might not be too willing to follow the "crazy" mind - it will surely do whatever it can to overturn the mind's foolish decision. Thus, successful suicides are nothing but outcomes of deadliest of battles, inner conflicts to which there are only two solutions. Those who succeed in taking their own lives are anything but cowards; they deserve at least some respect for finding enough courage to pull the trigger, or step over the edge. This is not something a coward can do.
This idea might seem too simplistic for some, yet when you stop and think, this is what comes to mind. Life has all the attributes of the things we own: for example, when we say 'this is my life' as we often do when we feel somebody being too intrusive, we mean we own our lives and can do whatever we please to do with them. But only when we ask questions about the origins of this possession do we start facing dilemmas, clashes of opinions and perceptions, tides of dogma and scepticism. In the everyday frenzy of our existence we don't think for a minute about how we came to own this valuable possession. We usually don't think about life - we simply live. Some see life as bestowed from above by some deity, other believe it is inherited from ancestors biologically as a result of a consecutive succession of reproductions. But both the creationists and the free minds feel life is solely theirs to have.
It is only when somebody is seen to be abusing his life that morality comes to light. The harshest critics of such abuse are naturally those who see life as a gift from God, one gift to be accepted with humility, lived with honour, and returned with grace, however burdensome and unwanted it might seem at times. And it does get tough sometimes for some of us, so tough that it is easier - less painful - to get rid of this valuable possession altogether, to return the gift to the Bestower earlier than it was expected back. Suicide for believers in the Creator is not an honourable return of the precious present to its real owner. It is a disgraceful slap in the face, a slamming of the heavenly doors, blowing away once and for all the single opportunity to rest eternally in the gardens of Eden.
Yet if it were so simple, nobody would be willing to step over the line. If life were all rainbows and butterflies, no single soul, however desperate and derelict, would want to deliberately part with it and go searching for better places. After all, it is not as easy as it might seem - one makes the horrible decision with one's mind, but we also have our bodies, don't we? At such a critical point, the body might not be too willing to follow the "crazy" mind - it will surely do whatever it can to overturn the mind's foolish decision. Thus, successful suicides are nothing but outcomes of deadliest of battles, inner conflicts to which there are only two solutions. Those who succeed in taking their own lives are anything but cowards; they deserve at least some respect for finding enough courage to pull the trigger, or step over the edge. This is not something a coward can do.
вторник, 14 июля 2009 г.
Turning this into a running blog?
I am seriously planning to start running. But I first have to stop planning and start working. Life is quite boring after all the papers written and exams taken, I want to make it somewhat more challenging. Besides, I am long suffering from time-management problems which have given way to insomnia which have led to bad stomach. All these issues need addressing. Thus, I have decided to get a pair of good running shoes and kick the whole thing off. Serious people carry on running until their seventies and even eighties, so I have lots of time to patrol the neighbourhoods of my current and future towns.
Ultimately this is a test of myself, of how long I can keep it going. I am kind of stubborn and like to persevere, but at times it gets frustrating and I lose all my initial enthusiasm. Well, I am serious about running at the moment, but I cannot be sure of what I will think about my progress and performance a few months later.
Ultimately this is a test of myself, of how long I can keep it going. I am kind of stubborn and like to persevere, but at times it gets frustrating and I lose all my initial enthusiasm. Well, I am serious about running at the moment, but I cannot be sure of what I will think about my progress and performance a few months later.
четверг, 25 июня 2009 г.
A nightly visitor
I was up late reading last night - this has become a habit lately - when a beautiful visitor suddenly drew my attention. My reading was lit by a desklamp - my wife was sleeping in the same room; she could not sleep with the lights on - and its soft, yellow glow had attracted a butterfly. It was not a moth, I am sure, but a small butterfly, white of colour, with beatifully drawn thin green lines on its tiny airy wings. The lines formed a pattern that was divided between the wings in perfect symmetry. The butterfly sat still on my desk, as if warming its back in the lamp light. I thought that it had probably gotten in during the day as I recalled my wife's words about a butterfly that had somehow made its way inside, although the window net had been tightly closed. "Maybe it was afraid of the rain," she had said.
There was something strange in this butterfly, some weird calmness one does not usually expect of an insect in the vicinity of a night lamp. It was sitting with its back to me, its beautiful little wings fully exposed, resplendent in the light. It was as if the butterfly sat there to draw my eyes upon itself, to make me aware of its presence in the room. I could see its tiny black eyes, no bigger than pinheads, reflecting the lamp - it appeared the butterfly was also watching me.
I have never been a superstitious man, neither have I taken mysticism too seriously. But I believe that even diehard materialists must have second thoughts in their lives, so I was not too unwelcoming to a strange idea that visited my mind out of the blue. To be precise, it was rather a recollection of a weird hypothesis I had read about somewhere long time ago. It said that the souls of late relatives, or loved ones, sometimes came to visit those still living in the disguise of nocturnal insects: moths, or butterflies. At the time I had liked the hypothesis, although never believed it; the resemblance of a specter to a light-coloured nocturnal flying insect with airy wings had seemed quite plausible - and reasonable - to me. After that, for a short period of time I had become mindful of butterflies, moths and other flying insects inside the house. But this was a long ago experience, and I had comfortably forgotten the whole thing, buried it deep cobwebs of my memory, well until the last night encounter.
A warm feeling arose deep inside me as I observed the butterfly. "Mother, is that you?" - I thought. And waited for a reply, believing, for a moment, that the butterfly would answer me. And had it answered, I would have not been surprised too, as I think about it now. Over my head, one the bookshelf, was my mother's photo in a frame as white as that butterfly's wings. The photo was taken on the day I saw my mother for the last time; she was seeing me off on a long journey, I was hugging her with a happy smile. I didn't dare to look up at the picture. I simply knew that my mother was smiling back at me, and I felt content with that knowledge.
There was something strange in this butterfly, some weird calmness one does not usually expect of an insect in the vicinity of a night lamp. It was sitting with its back to me, its beautiful little wings fully exposed, resplendent in the light. It was as if the butterfly sat there to draw my eyes upon itself, to make me aware of its presence in the room. I could see its tiny black eyes, no bigger than pinheads, reflecting the lamp - it appeared the butterfly was also watching me.
I have never been a superstitious man, neither have I taken mysticism too seriously. But I believe that even diehard materialists must have second thoughts in their lives, so I was not too unwelcoming to a strange idea that visited my mind out of the blue. To be precise, it was rather a recollection of a weird hypothesis I had read about somewhere long time ago. It said that the souls of late relatives, or loved ones, sometimes came to visit those still living in the disguise of nocturnal insects: moths, or butterflies. At the time I had liked the hypothesis, although never believed it; the resemblance of a specter to a light-coloured nocturnal flying insect with airy wings had seemed quite plausible - and reasonable - to me. After that, for a short period of time I had become mindful of butterflies, moths and other flying insects inside the house. But this was a long ago experience, and I had comfortably forgotten the whole thing, buried it deep cobwebs of my memory, well until the last night encounter.
A warm feeling arose deep inside me as I observed the butterfly. "Mother, is that you?" - I thought. And waited for a reply, believing, for a moment, that the butterfly would answer me. And had it answered, I would have not been surprised too, as I think about it now. Over my head, one the bookshelf, was my mother's photo in a frame as white as that butterfly's wings. The photo was taken on the day I saw my mother for the last time; she was seeing me off on a long journey, I was hugging her with a happy smile. I didn't dare to look up at the picture. I simply knew that my mother was smiling back at me, and I felt content with that knowledge.
воскресенье, 14 июня 2009 г.
Football
Now that the English Premier League and UEFA Champions League seasons are over, as are those of other major European football leagues which I used to watch, watching football has given way to playing it once in a week. Last Saturday I was late for our weekly match at 9 in the morning - I suffered from most terrible insomnia the night before - but still played for 3 full hours, scored an unlikely goal, and injured my ankle. The injury was not serious, the goal was reassuring, and the day of football was exhausting and exhilarating in equal measures. I felt so good during the match that I spent these three hours running, chasing the ball and opponent players now and then, despite the increasing heat of the June sun over our sweaty heads.
Today we had another meeting with friends, and I proposed playing twice a week. The proposal was met enthusiastically by most, so we decided to play on Wednesday morning. I am looking very much forward to this day and will report on my own performance after the match.
Today we had another meeting with friends, and I proposed playing twice a week. The proposal was met enthusiastically by most, so we decided to play on Wednesday morning. I am looking very much forward to this day and will report on my own performance after the match.
воскресенье, 7 июня 2009 г.
A train encounter
A little boy - two years old, maybe three - was travelling on a Tokyo train with his father - a tall, bearded man, who was reading a book in Arabic and paid little attention to his son. The man had silver streaks in his beard - if it was not for the way the boy called him - baba, which, as far as I know, means "father" in Arabic-speaking lands - I would easily have taken him for the little boy's grandfather.
The boy was cute, his smile was sweet and his soft brownish hair fluttered under the breath of train ventilation. He prattled unintelligible words to himself, sang childish songs. At times he fell silent and studied with his innocent round eyes the surrounding bustle, the sleepless metropolis and its inhabitants on various errands on a warm Saturday evening. I couldn't get my eyes off of him. Inside, I wished him a long and beautiful life - he felt my gaze and stared back with curious eyes, not knowing that the words I hastily jotted down in my notebook were about him. His father kept on reading his book with enthusiasm.
I thought about the boy for a moment, about the way he made me reach for my bag for a pen and paper. The way he inspired me. I imagined a world depraved of this kind of inspiration - the world of a desk and a chair in a quiet, gloomy room. Of pale paper and a lonely pen that runs back and forth on it, without touching the real world, detached from the things outside of it. This made me think about the importance of seeing other people. I thought about Auster, his long walks on New York streets, his fondness for observing people.
At one station the boy got off his seat and straddled hesitatingly towards a rail handle in the centre of the car. The train was motionless and the boy almost made it, his eyes glowing with adventurous joy. I watched him with a smile, encouraging him to take the challenge with my sympathetic eyes. But right at the moment he extended his white plumpy hand towards the rail the train launched abruptly towards the next station. The boy's face changed immediately: the expression of alert took the place of adventure and he quickly climbed back into the safety of his train seat. The father had at last noticed he was not travelling alone; he picked the boy up into his lap. For the rest of the journey the boy cuddled there, his eyes moving thoughtfully from one commuter to another. He saw me off with his eyes, when I got up and off the train on Tokyo station.
The boy was cute, his smile was sweet and his soft brownish hair fluttered under the breath of train ventilation. He prattled unintelligible words to himself, sang childish songs. At times he fell silent and studied with his innocent round eyes the surrounding bustle, the sleepless metropolis and its inhabitants on various errands on a warm Saturday evening. I couldn't get my eyes off of him. Inside, I wished him a long and beautiful life - he felt my gaze and stared back with curious eyes, not knowing that the words I hastily jotted down in my notebook were about him. His father kept on reading his book with enthusiasm.
I thought about the boy for a moment, about the way he made me reach for my bag for a pen and paper. The way he inspired me. I imagined a world depraved of this kind of inspiration - the world of a desk and a chair in a quiet, gloomy room. Of pale paper and a lonely pen that runs back and forth on it, without touching the real world, detached from the things outside of it. This made me think about the importance of seeing other people. I thought about Auster, his long walks on New York streets, his fondness for observing people.
At one station the boy got off his seat and straddled hesitatingly towards a rail handle in the centre of the car. The train was motionless and the boy almost made it, his eyes glowing with adventurous joy. I watched him with a smile, encouraging him to take the challenge with my sympathetic eyes. But right at the moment he extended his white plumpy hand towards the rail the train launched abruptly towards the next station. The boy's face changed immediately: the expression of alert took the place of adventure and he quickly climbed back into the safety of his train seat. The father had at last noticed he was not travelling alone; he picked the boy up into his lap. For the rest of the journey the boy cuddled there, his eyes moving thoughtfully from one commuter to another. He saw me off with his eyes, when I got up and off the train on Tokyo station.
воскресенье, 31 мая 2009 г.
My reading days
I have been reading a lot in the last two weeks. It all began with my pledge to myself to finish every library book within the three weeks for which it is lent and to get a new book next time I go to the library. My wishlist coincided largely with the list of recent Booker Prize winners - I remember planning to read all the winning titles back in my university years. So I began with Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things (I didn't borrow this book, though), then went to the library in search of Yann Martel's Life of Pi, but it was out on loan, so I settled for DBC Pierre's Vernon God Little.
I read Roy's book slowly, desperately trying to make the joy last longer, turning the pages slowly over a large teapot of darjeeling and countless bars of Meiji black chocolate on quiet evenings. I tried to taste every word, hold it in my mouth for some time, chuckling at jokes and sighing when Roy's fictional world threw its weight on my shoulders. In short, I couldn't get enough of this book - it eventually ended, as good books usually do, leaving me thinking about it for the rest of the week.
Vernon God Little was good in its own way. The eff words kept piling on my head from the very first page, and after reading Roy's beautifully constructed prose, it was a little disappointing, even disgusting to some extent. But later on I got used to this, and caught up with the narrator's real story, which is nothing but hilarious. I literally swallowed the book in one busy week.
I finally got my hands on the Life of Pi, which I am reading at the moment. The book is promising much at this stage (I am now in the thirtieth pages), but let's see whether I will eventually approve of the Booker Prize panel's decision.
I read Roy's book slowly, desperately trying to make the joy last longer, turning the pages slowly over a large teapot of darjeeling and countless bars of Meiji black chocolate on quiet evenings. I tried to taste every word, hold it in my mouth for some time, chuckling at jokes and sighing when Roy's fictional world threw its weight on my shoulders. In short, I couldn't get enough of this book - it eventually ended, as good books usually do, leaving me thinking about it for the rest of the week.
Vernon God Little was good in its own way. The eff words kept piling on my head from the very first page, and after reading Roy's beautifully constructed prose, it was a little disappointing, even disgusting to some extent. But later on I got used to this, and caught up with the narrator's real story, which is nothing but hilarious. I literally swallowed the book in one busy week.
I finally got my hands on the Life of Pi, which I am reading at the moment. The book is promising much at this stage (I am now in the thirtieth pages), but let's see whether I will eventually approve of the Booker Prize panel's decision.
вторник, 19 мая 2009 г.
Lazy lazy lazy
I have not been so lazy in the last few months. I am so lazy today that I don't want to even think about anything. Maybe I am tired of everything, maybe I need a rest. Maybe it is because I can feel that something is wrong with my body, my head, my spirit. Or maybe it is because I am not getting enough sleep every night. I don't know. I am fed up with most of what I have everyday. And I want to change some things in my life, because almost everything I have now adds up to the current frustration. So I have to do something about it. But before that, I need a good rest.
понедельник, 11 мая 2009 г.
About my long-suffering toe
Last December I hurt the fourth toe on my right foot due to a bicycle accident - it struck the ground while I was trying to stop the bike abruptly. It was nothing too serious, but the swelling didn't go away for about a week, although the doc had assured me prior to that that the toe would be fine in two days. He even lectured me over a high-precision X-ray shot of my right foot on which I could see every tiny bone in minute detail - and make it clear for myself that the bone was not hurt, not even displaced. That the swelling was largely due to the damage to the surrounding tissue.
Months have passed since and I have almost forgotten about the accident. And a football match misstep made me remember the whole shit from the beginning. I lifted my leg high in the air and somehow managed to land it badly. There was a sharp feeling in the toe and the first thing that came to me was "not again, the fucking toe!" I played on, though, for an hour and a half. At home I was not very surprised to find the toe swollen. I know it's nothing too serious and not worth spending another 3000 yen on a visit to the doc, but still it struck me out of my inner balance.
Months have passed since and I have almost forgotten about the accident. And a football match misstep made me remember the whole shit from the beginning. I lifted my leg high in the air and somehow managed to land it badly. There was a sharp feeling in the toe and the first thing that came to me was "not again, the fucking toe!" I played on, though, for an hour and a half. At home I was not very surprised to find the toe swollen. I know it's nothing too serious and not worth spending another 3000 yen on a visit to the doc, but still it struck me out of my inner balance.
четверг, 7 мая 2009 г.
Blogging
What are the chances of landing a journalism job through blogging extensively? Does blogging help develop writing skills to the extent stipulated by job descriptions?
I don't know whether one day I will write for an English language media outlet or not, but blogging for me at the moment is merely a chance to reflect my experiences, to record my life somehow for future reference, to let my thoughts out and make them tangible, visible, comprehensible. Let some order into them. And if in the course of doing all this my writing skills happen to improve, I think I will have one more cause to celebrate.
I don't know whether one day I will write for an English language media outlet or not, but blogging for me at the moment is merely a chance to reflect my experiences, to record my life somehow for future reference, to let my thoughts out and make them tangible, visible, comprehensible. Let some order into them. And if in the course of doing all this my writing skills happen to improve, I think I will have one more cause to celebrate.
среда, 6 мая 2009 г.
I'm back
My long absence is over now. Life has been very tough on me recently, and the last thing I could think of in the last month was to update this blog. I am slowly recuperating, mentally. There are events in this world one cannot accept, although it is possible to comprehend them to some extent. I have tried to live through that in the last weeks and who knows how many more weeks I will have to fight off certain thoughts. But I am on my path back, that's for sure. Although the world is never gonna be the same.
I have started working part-time as a teaching assistant to one of the professors at the University. The job so far is utterly technical: setting up the computer-projector-speakers and, once in a week, microphones in class; helping the lecturer with showing PowerPoints by literally pressing the button after a signal; passing the cordless microphone from one student to another during class discussions. It's been mostly ok. This month I will also be taking care of one of the seminars, for which I am preparing at the moment a list of readings. I have to come up with a PowerPoint and show it to an 80-odd class of Japanese first- and second-year undergraduates. I am looking forward to it, although I am also worrying a little about the reluctance of the students to speak up in the public, of which I have already written. And will write more, it appears.
I have started working part-time as a teaching assistant to one of the professors at the University. The job so far is utterly technical: setting up the computer-projector-speakers and, once in a week, microphones in class; helping the lecturer with showing PowerPoints by literally pressing the button after a signal; passing the cordless microphone from one student to another during class discussions. It's been mostly ok. This month I will also be taking care of one of the seminars, for which I am preparing at the moment a list of readings. I have to come up with a PowerPoint and show it to an 80-odd class of Japanese first- and second-year undergraduates. I am looking forward to it, although I am also worrying a little about the reluctance of the students to speak up in the public, of which I have already written. And will write more, it appears.
среда, 18 марта 2009 г.
Rod Liddle and his beloved Jihadists
Rod Liddle, whose columns in the GQ (UK Edition) I could not read without at least one loud laugh, carries this style into the more worldly newspapers too. This morning, reading my favourite football news page I came across a link with Rod's smiling face. On the other side of the link was, as you might well have guessed, another piece of political comedie noire about Jihadists of Britain.
A more critical eye will surely have noticed - and questioned maybe - Rod's obsession with Muslim groups and their political struggles, but I am not critical of Rod, not least because I find his writings exceedingly amusing. Consider this passage:
A more critical eye will surely have noticed - and questioned maybe - Rod's obsession with Muslim groups and their political struggles, but I am not critical of Rod, not least because I find his writings exceedingly amusing. Consider this passage:
More to the point, these jihadists, allied (so it is said) to the exiled, grinning imbecile Sheikh Omar Bakri Mohammed, distributed thousands upon thousands of leaflets to the Muslims of Luton urging them to attend the demo, and all they were left with on the day were 20 bearded lunatics and, hovering behind the arras, a handful of ululating burqa-clad babes doing as they were bidden by their menfolk. In other words, an infinitesimally tiny minority.
вторник, 17 марта 2009 г.
The Value of Critical Thinking
In Japan, students are not very used to criticising in class. What they do is sit still, take notes, and nod. There are classes without a single question asked, and the teacher has the privilege of talking without being challenged. This happens even during seminars where students are supposed to speak up, never mind lectures.
Thus, a student more prone to critical thinking might sometimes draw surprised looks both from the instructor and classmates, because he or she would be standing out of the mass. For a student with experience of education in the West, especially in the United Kingdom, this environment may come as something bordering on absurd: how can you learn something without ever challenging things taken for granted? Only here in Japan did I face the necessity to consider the question of conformity, because it is very rare in this country to see someone challenging the conventional wisdom openly.
This raises more important questions: what is the role of critical thinking in social and political development? And it makes me think about the role of culture in development, the cultural differences between the West and Japan. Surely, this will take more than a year to explore and document, but I am more than ready to continue my observations of the Japanese society.
Thus, a student more prone to critical thinking might sometimes draw surprised looks both from the instructor and classmates, because he or she would be standing out of the mass. For a student with experience of education in the West, especially in the United Kingdom, this environment may come as something bordering on absurd: how can you learn something without ever challenging things taken for granted? Only here in Japan did I face the necessity to consider the question of conformity, because it is very rare in this country to see someone challenging the conventional wisdom openly.
This raises more important questions: what is the role of critical thinking in social and political development? And it makes me think about the role of culture in development, the cultural differences between the West and Japan. Surely, this will take more than a year to explore and document, but I am more than ready to continue my observations of the Japanese society.
понедельник, 16 марта 2009 г.
A more secularist America?
Another piece of interesting news comes from Andrew Sullivan, who links us to his Times of London article on atheism in America. A chunk of text he quotes on his blog:
I did research on the topic very recently, for a short two-session course named "Politics and Religion in America" which I liked very much. The paper I wrote was on the return of the Religious (Christian) Right to the fore of political debate in the United States during the Bush years. I have always been interested in the roots of American religiosity, which becomes so conspicuous when compared to the European societies. The above article is a piece of good news for me.
It's a reminder to exercise a little skepticism when you hear of America’s religious exceptionalism. Yes, America is far more devout than most of western Europe; but it is not immune to the broader crises facing established religion in the West. The days when America’s leading intellectuals contained a strong cadre of serious Christians are over. There is no Thomas Merton in our day; no Reinhold Niebuhr, Walker Percy or Flannery O’Connor. In the arguments spawned by the new atheist wave, the Christian respondents have been underwhelming.
I did research on the topic very recently, for a short two-session course named "Politics and Religion in America" which I liked very much. The paper I wrote was on the return of the Religious (Christian) Right to the fore of political debate in the United States during the Bush years. I have always been interested in the roots of American religiosity, which becomes so conspicuous when compared to the European societies. The above article is a piece of good news for me.
Talk to me, babe, talk to me...
In his column-cum-blog on the Foreign Policy website Professor Stephen M. Walt hails a letter by a dozen veteran foreign policy officials that advise Obama to talk to Hamas. This is a realist step in the new president's foreign policy agenda, according to Walt, whose main line of criticism in the last several years was directed towards Bush's largely non-realist policy decisions.
According to the Boston Globe article quoted by Walt, the old foreign policy hands are also preparing a report on how exactly to begin the talks.
If this speculation becomes policy, it will mark a huge turn in the US Middle East policy, the turn long-awaited by the millions across the globe. Of course, there will be conditions dictated by the US, such as renunciation of violence and recognition of Israel, at the very least. But that the US is contemplating talking to an organisation it has defined for the last several years as "terrorist" is a clear sign of a change in political winds.
According to the Boston Globe article quoted by Walt, the old foreign policy hands are also preparing a report on how exactly to begin the talks.
If this speculation becomes policy, it will mark a huge turn in the US Middle East policy, the turn long-awaited by the millions across the globe. Of course, there will be conditions dictated by the US, such as renunciation of violence and recognition of Israel, at the very least. But that the US is contemplating talking to an organisation it has defined for the last several years as "terrorist" is a clear sign of a change in political winds.
пятница, 27 февраля 2009 г.
At last!
Barack Obama has today announced the end date for one of the bloodiest and most pointless conflicts in recent history. The blessed day is August 31, 2010.
I would think about making a count-down engine, if I could make one. This does not make my welcoming of the news less joyful.
I would think about making a count-down engine, if I could make one. This does not make my welcoming of the news less joyful.
четверг, 26 февраля 2009 г.
The art of fitting in.
For some time in the last few months I have tried to suppress my surprise at what I see as the grand paradox of the Japanese society - how such an advanced society could have been built on the shoulders of people with such a limited personal outlook at the world. This country is filled with people who always live by the rules, who cannot even imagine that there might be another way to do something. I know I am indulging myself in one of the most terrible generalisations, but this is what I feel after almost three months of living here. This is a society of taboos - and breaking them is tantamount to social suicide. What is most important here is to fit in, not stand out.
People here are so much afraid of taking responsibility, of standing up and facing the music, to borrow the words of one marvellous speaker (and tango dancer, how could I forget?) Liet. Col. Frank Slade. If you plan to visit your local bank with a question that is not on the day-to-day FAQ list of an average cashier, and, to make the matters worse, your Japanese does not go far beyond “Hello!” and “Nice weather!”, then be prepared to be sent somewhere else to call some number. Which is usually answered, after a few minutes of standing in the queue and listening to stupid phone music, by a Japanese female with a geisha voice and an American accent, to whom you will have to explain everything from the very beginning. And no wonder if at the very end of your long conversation she redirects you somewhere else. Simple things that usually take no time at all are turned into long and tiresome procedures here. Everyday, whereever you go, you face - you feel the walls around you, and sometimes they close in on you. This is where little frustrations start to build one upon another, slowly, day by day. It is very important not to lose your temper in this country - the Japanese themselves always somehow manage to do this.
I more often than ever feel myself a round peg in a square hole here. I haven’t gone so far as to regret my decision to come here, no, but there surely have been some hard times during which I felt short of swearwords. Maybe I should learn Zen or to meditate - maybe the ancient art of healing - acupuncture - will soothe my nerves?
People here are so much afraid of taking responsibility, of standing up and facing the music, to borrow the words of one marvellous speaker (and tango dancer, how could I forget?) Liet. Col. Frank Slade. If you plan to visit your local bank with a question that is not on the day-to-day FAQ list of an average cashier, and, to make the matters worse, your Japanese does not go far beyond “Hello!” and “Nice weather!”, then be prepared to be sent somewhere else to call some number. Which is usually answered, after a few minutes of standing in the queue and listening to stupid phone music, by a Japanese female with a geisha voice and an American accent, to whom you will have to explain everything from the very beginning. And no wonder if at the very end of your long conversation she redirects you somewhere else. Simple things that usually take no time at all are turned into long and tiresome procedures here. Everyday, whereever you go, you face - you feel the walls around you, and sometimes they close in on you. This is where little frustrations start to build one upon another, slowly, day by day. It is very important not to lose your temper in this country - the Japanese themselves always somehow manage to do this.
I more often than ever feel myself a round peg in a square hole here. I haven’t gone so far as to regret my decision to come here, no, but there surely have been some hard times during which I felt short of swearwords. Maybe I should learn Zen or to meditate - maybe the ancient art of healing - acupuncture - will soothe my nerves?
пятница, 2 января 2009 г.
Samuel P. Huntington, 1927-2008
© WWW.COLORADOCOLLEGE.EDU
A few moments ago I opened the Arts & Letter Daily website - one I try to read almost every day - and found a link to a Samuel Huntington obituary written by Francis Fukuyama. "Huntington is dead," I mumbled for a moment, amazed, and then remembered the recent encounter with his name, long after having read his Clash of Civilizations as an undergraduate student of IR. The encounter was on the pages of The Israel Lobby, a very warm reference to Huntington by the authors, John Mearsheimer and Stephen Walt, who dedicated the book to him:
For more than twenty-five years, we have been fortunate to enjoy the friendship and support of one of America's most accomplished social scientists, Samuel P. Huntington. We cannot imagine a better role model. Sam has always tackled big and important questions, and he has answered these questions in ways that the rest of the world could not ignore. Although each of us has disagreed with him on numerous occasions over the years - and sometimes vehemently and publicly - he never held those disagreements against us and was never anything but gracious and supportive of our own work. He understands that scholarship is not a popularity contest, and that spirited but civil debate is essential both to scholarly progress and to a healthy democracy. We are grateful to Sam for his friendship and for the example he has set throughout his career, and we are pleased to dedicate this book to him.
In the obituary, Fukuyama calls Huntington "easily the greatest political scientist of his generation," and attributes to him the creation of "the subfield of strategic studies, an area that was not seriously researched by most universities until he came along."
It is a pity to lose Huntington, who contributed to IR and political science a great deal. Death is one thing that we cannot escape; and in death some of the greatest people and their works acquire a different aura.
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