Daisy

I had just picked up my mum from the airport in Newcastle and now we sat on the metro, talking at full speed. I told her about seeing Uncle Vanya, and how I find it increasingly hard to deal with the treatment of women in (old) literature. She rightly pointed out that I shouldn't judge old works of art like contemporary works of art - i.e. that I should be able to enjoy Czechov for what he is, not criticise him for what he's not. (A good lesson in general.) 

Whilst I agree with this, my feeling of discomfort didn't disappear. I guess it came up because I watched Uncle Vanya in the same week that I saw The Great Gatsby and Hitchcock's Marnie, and I read a Trollope novel as well. All the female protagonists have one thing in common: they're all beautiful, and that's what makes them likeable. Yes, I know, this is nothing new, nothing new at all. Lucy, the main female character in Framley Parsonage, reveals her true qualities to those who doubt her when they discover that she is, in fact, beautiful. We've all read and seen stories like that a million times. 

What I find so disturbing about it is that it's so hard to let go of this ideal of beauty. I can't remember when I last read an article about a woman that didn't mention her looks - even Miranda July's interview with Lena Dunham mentions her 'adorably big front teeth'. I can't remember when I last went to work without someone commenting on my hair, my glasses, my clothes. I'm not saying that I don't care about looks at all, I just find it surprising that the idea that women have to look their best at all times is not just Daily Mail propaganda, that there are actually people who will tell me that I'd look better if I wear my hair this way or that way, as if it was my duty to look well. It's not. Ultimately, I'm the only person who has to like my looks (and I don't have to be pretty); admittedly, it's an added bonus if my boyfriend does as well. However, it sure is hard to remember this - especially if, like me, you're drawn to Victorian literature.

reality

Hugging the cat, watching films - carrot soup, Christmas eve - perfume oil - cat brooches and Max Weiler, always - still thinking about Iris Murdoch.

Yes, I'm thinking about the past year too. It's been difficult, it's been beautiful, I've learned so many things, but if I were to sum it up I'd probably say that I've grown up. I read and re-read Iris Murdoch's essay The Sublime and the Good which is where the quote in the last picture is from. You may say that it's trite, but it isn't for me. It's what I'll remember when I think about 2012 in the future, because ultimately that's what all the hysterical laughter is all about, that and the occasional arguments, the sandwiches by the river, the e-mails, crying on trains, kissing on or under bridges, drinking tea or gin, hiding in the library, missing people terribly, playing ukulele to surprised people in boats, tight hugs, everything. To me, growing up is a long and painful process that has much to do with learning about other people, not just about myself. Who knows what the next year will bring? I'm guessing ch-ch-ch-changes, to quote David Bowie.

done

When I came to Durham last September, it meant change in every way. I moved to a new country, made new friends and learned to live on my own. And I changed discipline. I had been studying History for six years, and I had worked part-time throughout. Now I was starting a degree in Religion and Society, and I was out of my depth. I'd been focusing on one area in my first degree - South Eastern Europe - and I was good at that. But I was ready to do something new.
Suddenly I was reading things that I'd never even thought about before, and whilst it was always fascinating, it was also very scary. When I started writing my dissertation, I made a conscious decision to let go, to work on something that I was interested in and learn as much as I could. I enjoyed it. It helped that I was studying Iris Murdoch's work. One of her many sensible truisms is this: 'What of the command 'Be ye therefore perfect?' Would it not be more sensible to say 'Be ye therefore slightly improved?''
Doing something that was relatively new to me made me ditch my ideal of perfection. Instead, I'm trying to embrace the idea of being an interested and moderately gifted amateur.
There was one moment of crisis. There always is. I ran into a neighbour who's a Professor in the English Department. He said lots of things that reminded me of the neurotic academic world that I had come to know in Vienna. I felt bad. So I took the next day off. We went to Newcastle, saw an exhibition, had dinner at a vegetarian café, then went to the cinema. A few days later, my friend Nikki and I made a pact to finish our dissertations over the weekend. When I handed it in, the secretary asked me whether I had enjoyed the last year. I said yes.

forever and ever

This is my favourite song.

does not

I am ashamed to remember for how many years, as a boy and a young man, I read nineteenth-century fiction without noticing how often its language differed from ours. I believe it was work on far earlier English that first opened my eyes: for there a man is not so easily deceived into thinking he understands when he does not.

C. S. Lewis, Studies in Words

inner child

"Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young."

Words of wisdom by Albus Dumbledore.