to the hills

A week ago my brother texted me a picture, picture number one up there, along with the words, 'Vienna is waiting for you!' I was on my way home from a gig I had left early and I sat on the overground staring at the photo, filled with longing.
 Today we climbed the tower from which the photo was taken, a familiar and favourite haunt. It's easy to put things in perspective when you're looking down on a city (a city that doesn't go on and on in an endless sprawl, a city that is surrounded by rolling hills and forests, by fields and water). Vienna is in bloom, green and fragrant and very quiet over Easter. Its woods are filled with tiny caterpillars that we picked out of each others' jumpers. Deep breaths, recuperation.

K & N

Yesterday night we went to the Heurigen. Heurigen are sort of like Viennese beer gardens, only they're all about wine, not beer, and they're often tucked away in back gardens next to vineyards. We always go to the same Heurigen, we've been going there forever. It's one of my favourite places in Vienna, one of my favourite activities: walk up the hill, find a table, drink strawberry punch, eat spinach strudel, take it easy. When we walked back home, we sang sentimental songs and danced down the deserted streets for a bit.

'We' - that's my brothers and I. We've always been close, but ever since my annus horribilis (break ups, goodbyes of all sorts, university-related trouble, dissertation-writing and a whole lot of anxiety) these two have become even more important. 'You guys are a bit strange', that's what my brother's friend said the other day. I guess that's true, and that's what I'll miss, that sort of easy companionship that comes with knowing (and living with) someone for decades. One of the strangest things about leaving Vienna (leaving for more than just a year) is knowing that we won't be able to do silly things together on a daily basis - such as being confused about Star Trek or singing along to Take That or throwing things at each other. I have weekend visits to look forward to - but whose clothes will I borrow? And who will cut my hair when I'm gone?

without wretchedness

"At a distance unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness."

A friend and I discussed Jane Austen today. He said he just couldn't understand why her novels are considered classics. He thought they were dull. I disagreed, but couldn't quite find the words for why he was wrong.
Hours later, I came across this quote from my least favourite Austen novel, Mansfield Park. I had scribbled it on the back of a train ticket because it struck me that all of the pain and heartbreak of hopelessly being in love had been summed up in just one sentence.

a room of my own

Sunday night, 10 o'clock, London Kings Cross. I was waiting for my train. It was delayed. The weekend had been interesting, intense, and now I was ready to go back home, go to sleep. I looked up and realised that there was a couple sitting next to me, holding each other close. There were two couples sitting on the bench in front of me, two more standing close by and another one kissing next to the cash machine in front of me. It felt like a scene from a Richard Curtis film. It felt strange. At that moment, my ipod playlist started playing one of my all-time favourite songs. A strange coincidence, and definitely not the happiest moment of my life.

you know who you are

Day 05 – Your definition of love, in great detail

Honestly, I'm tempted to just shrug my shoulders and say, "I don't even know anymore." But that would be stupid. So here are some random thoughts.
First things first: I've never understood why people always seem to define love as something that occurs in a relationship, as something similar to being in love. I just don't see it that way. When I tried to figure out what my definition of love is, I thought about my family. I don't have to love them - god knows there are lots of people who hate their family - but I do.
Love is entirely different from being in love. It's like comparing climate with weather - a lot of people do it, they even mistake one thing for the other, but they are two very different things. Climate is long-term and it affects everything; the weather changes every day.
Love, to me, is mostly about acceptance. All the people I really love are incredibly annoying and have some very obvious flaws, but it doesn't matter because you take them as they are, you wouldn't have it any other way (even though you complain all the time). I respect their opinions and if I want them to change, then it's because I'm convinced they'd be happier as well. It's about forgiving them, and about wanting to do all of these things, wanting to think the best of the person you love. It's about knowing that whatever they do, you want them to be happy and you'd do, well maybe not everything, but lots of things to make them happy. It's that weird, hazy feeling that having them in your life is very important. Loving someone is a very calm feeling, I've found (quite unlike being in love which is turbulent and exhausting). The great thing about it is that it feels like it's made to last, that no matter how shitty things are, no matter how much you fight about who will clean the kitchen or whose political views are the right ones, you'll get through it. The people I love are those that I miss all the time, those that make me laugh, those that I trust, those that I want to protect and take care of, those who'll stick around. We don't have to talk all the time. We know instinctively how the other person feels. They are so important that I'd rather be unhappy for a year because of them than live the rest of my life without them.
Here's an example of what love might be: My little brother was twelve and short and skinny. I was seventeen. This boy in my class had made a disgusting sex joke about me and my brother went up to him and told him that he was a stupid idiot and should apologise and never say anything like that again about me. That guy was completely bewildered, but he did apologise.
The only definition of love I've ever agreed with instinctively is, rather embarrassingly, by Gordon Brown. When asked what love felt like, he said, "The growing realisation that there's somebody whose happiness will always matter more to you than your own."
But I asked my dad as well, and he quoted Garden State (of all things). Here it is: "You know, this necklace makes me think of this totally random memory of my mother. I was a little kid, and I was crying for one reason or another. And she was cradling me, rocking me back and forth, and I can just remember the silver balls rolling around. And there was like snot running down my nose. And she offered me her sleeve and told me to blow my nose into it. And I can remember, even as a little kid, thinking to myself, this is love... this is love."
I do agree with that. And I wish the idea of love hadn't been spoilt by all those idiot movies (Garden State not excluded!) where teenagers are told it's this grand romantic thing, super-exciting and dramatic, a wonderful illusion.

three

Day 03 - Your parents

My parents met at university. According to my mother she first noticed my father in a lecture room because he was handsome. They got together in their early 20s. Both studied Latin; my mother also studied German literature, my father Ancient Greek. Here are some things they have in common: Both have a very strange sense of humour. They write the funniest text messages. They love to read and it is hard to imagine where they put all of their books when they still lived together. It's hardly surprising that they both ended up working with books, my mother as an editor, my father as a professor at university.
My dad always used to listen to The Beatles and David Bowie when I was little. He likes the same old-fashioned novels as I do, his favorite is probably "Tender Is The Night" by F. Scott FItzgerald about which he can talk for ages. When I was fourteen, he told me that I reminded him of Emma, the self-obsessed, clever Jane Austen character. His true passion is Homer and I shall never understand how it is possible to feel so passionate about one work of literature. He is a bit old-fashioned at heart - he's incredibly polite and it always makes him sad to see how mean people can be. He's also a bit of a romantic when it comes to Vienna. I took his picture in his favourite coffee house where he has drunk espresso since the tender age of 16. We hadn't seen each other for eight weeks because of our summer holidays and he told funny stories about Greece.
My mother is the only person I know who I'd say is wise. I don't know how she learned to do that, but she always has the best advice, she's super emphatic and quite shrewd as well. It's possible to talk about almost anything with her because she's interested in and aware of so many things. She laughs a lot. She's pretty tough as well. I remember she called the TV station and complained once when they showed a female runner and played "Sex Bomb". She's spontaneous and self-sufficient which is why she's on a road trip in Germany right now. My brothers and I discovered only recently that she actually speaks dialect and we always giggle when she's talking to her siblings on the phone. My mum has taught me many things, especially that you can be really happy when you're doing your own thing. And that a young Hugh Grant is no bad thing. I took her picture after we had voted, I liked that she looked just as vivid as the autumn leaves. A few hours later, she cursed when she saw the election results on TV and I wholeheartedly agreed.

Wilhelminenberg

The part of Vienna I live in is close to the forest and to the hills. My former school is on the foot of the hill and all the kids who went there lived nearby. Everyone I knew back then used to spend a certain amount of time up on the hill on a big meadow. You can see Vienna in all its dusty glory. On bright days, you can see Bratislava.
When I was eleven, I had a friend who lived right on top of the hill, next to the forest. We spent time on the swings next to the big castle and in her garden. When I was fifteen, my friends had picknicks and ballgames up there. There's a picture of me sitting in a tree: I'm wearing a long skirt and I'm reading Lord of the Rings. What else?
When I was sixteen, the slightly tough girls I hung out with (Why? I didn't even like them!) spent their Saturday nights smoking and drinking beer there. It's almost a tradition: Everyone has to do that, everyone has to get drunk and catch the last bus into the city or stumble down the hill at two in the morning. My brothers' friends did it as well.
When I graduated, my classmates gathered here to celebrate. When I was nineteen, a relationship began in the forest next to a lake.
Sometimes my brothers and I spend an afternoon in the sun on the meadows; mostly I go there by myself to clear my head. It's one of my favourite places in the entire world and one of the reasons why I'm still in love with this part of the city.

Sunday

My weekend. And the kitchen table.
We went to the market again, it was so lovely to cycle back home with lots of fresh fruit, my mother looked like someone in a feel-good movie with her bag of fresh flowers.
Au Revoir Simone have a very nice song called "Only You Can Make You Happy" and I thought about whether that's true tonight. Probably not. Other people certainly make me very happy.

words of wisdom

here's to you

So right now I'm collecting other people's lists of things that make them happy while at the same time trying to come up with my own. It's proving rather difficult right now, to be honest, so I'm dedicating this post to those four persons who never fail to cheer me up. Here are some things they do that make me happy.
1. Konstantin has recently decided to teach himself how to play the Mondscheinsonate. He's pretty good by now and it's lovely to hear someone play the piano again.
2. Georg was invited to Oxford to hold a guest lecture. His stories about how Potteresque it was to eat dinner with the other professors at Christ Church college (on a little stage in front of the students) reminded me of how much I love academic culture.
3. Regina and I went to Budapest over the weekend. We drank cocktails, tried (and failed) to pronounce Hungarian names, ate the best sushi ever and walked through streets that looked a lot like the district we live in.
4. Nikolaus, his best friend Severin and I went to another football match today. They told me about their classmates and I laughed so hard my belly hurt. He has also admitted to a shared love of Pains of Being Pure At Heart - there's nothing greater than sitting in a car and listening to "Young Adult Friction".

écoutez bien

the other girls tell me that you don’t love me,
you think I’m déclassé. I should wash my hair.

I sing your praises like a bird. my faith is unshakeable.
I wrote your name on an index card, so you can come to me in a flash.
a blinding and instructive flash.

(Eux Autres - Other Girls)

hearts in your eyes

this city loves me

the loneliness of a long-distance phone call

guess how much I love you (much more)

since it's Christmas let's be glad

We got up yesterday morning and started to make cookies - Konstantin did the real work, Nikolaus and I tried to deal with the icing. Mostly, we listened to German gangsta rap and The Beatles though. When we were finished, there was chocolate everywhere.


Coffee at my father's place. We always fail at taking a proper family portrait. Later, my brothers put on Madonna and we danced around - my baby brother's dance moves are incredible, really. There was a lot of really cheesy music that day, probably because it's so much fun.


My brothers always buy our tree and each year it seems to be a bigger one than before. This one is particularly magnificient though. We do the same things every year and I suppose it's not much different from what other people do: There's singing and eating of course. There are presents which make us happy - I was really pleased because my family seemed to like what I got them. Nikolaus got an iphone and we now live in fear of embarrassing footage being shown to an unsuspecting public audience. I've got enough tea to start a shop now, great new books to read (currently reading Jacob Burckhardt's account of Renaissance Italy, loving it) and great tights (like the Chanel two-tone ones). My family knows me too well!
Today, Eurosport showed re-runs of every skijumping event I didn't watch this season; we played Uno; I read about lots of blood being spilt among the nobility. I just love Christmas.

mothers and daughters

It was my mother's birthday yesterday. Unfortunately, I only returned from Edinburgh in the evening, so didn't get the chance to celebrate properly. As everbody who has met me can confirm, my family means everything to me. (I don't care if that makes me uncool, you probably have guessed by now that I'm not a leather-wearing, chain-smoking, minimal-techno-loving loner...) Anyway, my mother has taught me to love books, brightly coloured and patterned tights, feminism and Hugh Grant. Even if she weren't my mum, I'd want to know her and be friends with her. Happy belated birthday, you're great.

types and fiction

Neil Bartlett's "Who Was That Man? A Present for Mr Oscar Wilde" has been the most exciting book I've read this year:

"The features of the beloved can move freely from person to person. And this is not the only transposition. The man who actually paints the portrait of Dorian Gray, Basil Hallward, is deeply in love with his subject, and as he paints, the portrait of Mr. W. H. appears again. Just as Shakespeare saw his boy as one whose hair was like spun gold, and whose face was the meeting-place of the lily's white and the deep vermillion of the rose, just as Erskine saw Cyril Graham, as Gray himself is to see Sybil Vane, Basil sees Dorian as wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. He too sees this boy as the foundation of his art, his great friend, his point of entry into a great tradition. Dorian is his ideal, a platonic ideal in both the philosophical and sexual senses of the word. He is the model for whom he was waiting for all his life.
Wilde wrote in a letter, "Basil Hallward is what I think I am." So who was Dorian Gray?
Dorian Gray has gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips. Lord Alfred Douglas, of course, was also blonde, blue-eyed, lily white, and he had rose-red lips.
The point is, Dorian Gray was imagined in 1890. Wilde first met Douglas in January or June 1891. He was the man for whom he gave years of his life, the man for whom he would have died, the greatest love of his life. He was his type.
He was a fiction, one that already existed in his books."

(I hate the idea of being someone's type, the idea of liking someone not because they're unique but because they fit into a dream of the perfect other being. It's so very predictable and boring. I've always had the sneaky feeling that people, especially boys, aren't really interested in me but in some weird fantasy of a bookish, cute girl. It always makes me feel slightly sick whenever I'm confronted with those clicheés. My only type is the one who doesn't fit into the category of a certain type.)

a dream of togetherness turned into a brighter mess

If we have a great tonight
Tomorrow could be even greater
I love it that you’re so polite
But please don’t say “I’ll see you later”
I’d rather see you sooner