Did a good deed today. Pretty satisfying.

This morning I had a lab to teach. When I got to there, a student was sitting on the floor outside, hugging her knees. She saw me and leapt to her feet, “Can I talk to you?” I said sure and started walking into class. She stopped me, “In private.” So we stood in the empty corridor and talked. Almost immediately tears swelled in her eyes and through out the convseration her voice danced on the edge of hysteria. Facts emerged between sobs, and I learned that over the spring break she was raped and now needs to go to medical clinic. She doesn’t want people to know about the rape not even her parents or friends know about it, but just because of a class she had to confess everything to a total stranger. I felt very badly for her and quickly reassured her to not worry about it. I wanted to say something like, “If you need any help, I . . . .” But then I thought, “what help could I possibly offer her?” So I didn’t say it and just said a feeble, “I hope you feel better.” As if she is having common cold! The problem is that I truly meant for her to feel better but people banter about phrases like this all the time, that they lose their intented meaning. So when occasion truly demand us to really mean what we say, we found the words empty, no longer possessing all the feeling and power originally invested in them. So we parted on those empty words, she walking down that gloomy empty corridor, trying to wipe away her tears.

This incident reminded me of something else. I had seen a student who have sunken cheeks and look like walking bag of skin and bones. It’s possible that’s her natural metabolism, but it seems as likely she has anorexia. She is not my student and asked other TA if they noticed her condition. A collective shrug. Four very decent individuals, acting as if they don’t give a shit. Was I oversensitive? Is it none of my business? I really wanted to say something, but feel restrained. Everyone, including me, is deathly afraid to be looked upon as invading privacy, that great taboo in our society, and worse, totally wrong. It’s much more comfortable and safe to remain in our shells, and ignore the more distant alarms.

I wonder how many people have been and are in similar cirumstances. But there is something that hold us back, it's a mutual withdrawal. One side want to keep their suffering, however terrible, a secret, coiling oneself into a tightened fist of pain. The other side retreat discreetly and let them suffer alone in silence.

I haven't posted for a long time, simply because there wasn't much to blog. I don't function well with too much free time, don't know what to do with myself and thoughts creep back to the same tired subjects again. What am I doing with my life? Will I ever amount to anything? What about money? It's like watching a dreary parade alone, where the drably decorated floats are always the same, and they only make a circle in the neighborhood and loop back to your spot again and again and you can't leave because this is YOUR parade. After a while, even one's own existenial angst parade gets boring.

Things are better when I am busy. When you're busy, you live under a illusion of purposeful activity, so you don't think much about anything than what's immediately at hand. But when something like a Spring Break come along you are initially glad since this will afford you some rest. But it's not rest you really want, it's a faith that all this has a meaning and you are a part of that meaning. Nothing really good comes out of this. And after you've gone through the same mental arguments, reaching the same dead ends, you are left with nothing but a sense of failure. Then it's time to listen to some melancholy cello music and update the blog.

I've recently discovered the music of Charles-Valentin Alkan, a French composer in the 19th century. Never heard of him before at all. To be honest, what attracted me at first was the album cover for his Symphony for solo piano. But I was able to listen to his works on listen.com, and find it very much to my liking.

Read a deliciously witty quote:

"Having to read a footnote resembles having to go downstairs to answer the door while in the midst of making love."

-- Noel Coward (English playwright, song writer, actor, etc, etc)

Miserable. In general, disillusioned with what I am doing. In specific, trudged through a whole day of uninpiring lectures. On top of that, recieved the wrong hamburgers at the Carl's Junior for lunch. One could have anxiety about future, one could feel oppressed by the grind of daily routine. Those things are expected, but if one can't get the lunch one wants, that's too FREAKING much.

Today, I like to clarify my stance on the usage of "hehe" versus "haha" as approximation of laughter in Internet communication. I am a staunch supporter of the use of "haha," because this method convey as a laughter that is gallant and hearty. I am sure in L'Morte Arthur, when the Knights of Roundtable shared a manly joke, they definitely "haha"ed. "hehe," on the other hand, is a conspiratorial giggle best reserved for children's blushing gossips.

Of course, this is my preference, and I won't think less of those who "hehe."

I don't understand why people would recommend depressing movies or songs as good "for the rainy day." A person is already depressed on a rainy day, why would he want to see a depressing movie? "Ah, let's see, it's raining outside, and I am feeling terrible. So let me watch Leaving Las Vegas to enhance the effect. With any luck, I will hang myself at around 3pm."

Finished reading Cold Mountain today. I will have to say this is a incredible book. Set in the waning days of Civil War, it tell the story of Inman, a ex-Confederate soldier whose is sick of the savagery of war and is going AWOL to walk the long long way home, and Ada, the woman who he loves and who is trying to survive after the death of her father left her penniless and with a run-down farm. The book alternate chapters between Inman and Ada's storylines, until they ultimately converge in the end. Inman in his journey encounter a host of memorable characters, many recounts their life stories to him, each of them seems worthy of novel on themselves. Ada, with the help of a farm girl Ruby, began to and transform herself from a somewhat spoiled girl into a independent and competent woman.

The language is in the convoluted style that made it seem arachiac, the tone is muted, there are not even quotations marks around dialogues. The author takes his time describing the minutae of the scenery and the daily customs of a forgotten time. Yet all these things contributed to the rich atmosphere that pulled me in and sustained my interest. This is a quiet epic, an epic not in the mode of the chest-pounding and oath swearing ancient warrior-gods, but one that focus on the everyday humanity of its hero and heroine in face of a world of insurmountable difficulties and random suffering. Inman and Ada make no pretensions, they are themselves, and they do what life demands. Yet this unassuming preseverance is what make them as powerful and vital as the gods of mythology in the reader's minds.

One thing that struck me is the author's down right dislike of fancy metaphors. His book is rather lacking in metaphors in general and his characters espouse dislike of this literary device, such as in this following passage:

"Rain dripped steadily off the overhang, and Inman thought of Longstreet's comment at Fredericksburg: Federals falling as steady as rain dripping off an eave. In his mind Inman said, It was nothing like that, no similarity."

I think the author's opinion is that excessive metaphors distance us from reality by layering over it with something that bear only superfacial resemblance. It's a interesting position, though I can't abide by, since I am fond of using metaphors and think they are important way for us to understand the world.

Have a couple of gripes. At times, Inman's combat skills seems more Navy SEALs than Civil War deserter. And Ruby is a superwoman who seems to be able to do EVERYTHING. Finally, the ending, although effectively, seems unecessary and a case of author playing the cruel malevolent god. Perhaps the human race is that much nobler for weathering through so much suffering, but it would have been nice to see that in that little corner of earth, some happiness could be preserved.

Heard this will be turned into a movie, by the director of the English Patient. That sound very promising. I looked over the cast and have some reservations. Jude Law, that cherubic pretty boy, is gonna play the war-ravaged Inman. It's difficult to see how he will fit into that role. But I can definitely see Nicole Kidman in the role of Ada.

I saw the movie The Princess and The Warrior again today, with the Director Commentary track on. As time pass, I find that I like this movie more and more. In time, it may even become one of my all time favorites. One thing that struck me from the commentary, Tywker said that although his movie have to do fate, the characters must work toward it. In otherword, fate is not linear nor does it render people passive, but it is a deep pattern in life that can be sensed and strived toward. I always thought fate to be a simple word best reserved for the plots of Hollywood romance movies, but I think this definition of fate is something I can subscribe to. Nevertheless, in this more profound definition, fate is still an unapolegetically romantic notion. That stubborn little materialist in me still reject it, even as other parts of me welcome it. It is beautiful and tempting to think that this is the underlying nature of our lives, our world. But the little materialist restrain me and whisper to my ears: "It's all accidents."

In school, I learn about the latest methods to analyze genomes. So much of it is based on randomness and the laws of statistics and probablity. It slightly depresses me. Maybe some people can find a icy elegance in statistics, something comforting in the smooth symmetry of normal distribution, some certainty in confidence intervals, but all I see are accidents, accidents after dreary accidents.