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Thursday, October 5th, 2006
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I was at the Butler Library until about 6.45 in the evening when I met Eloise. There was going to be a talk by a far-right group in the Roone Arlegde all next to the library which we went to see.
This group apparently aided and assisted police on the US Mexico border in tracking and apprehending Mexican illegal immigrants. There was quite a large number of people outside the hall protesting against them, and they told me stories about how the group, called the "Minute-men" regularly shot and killed Mexicans trying to cross over. My room-mate, who is from Arizona and therefore knows all about them, tells me that he knows they are armed (which is ridiculous), but that he has never heard of them shooting mexicans.
When we went into the theatre the first speaker, who was black, and was for this reason obviously chosen to speak, in order to dispel the notion that the minute-men were racist. This didn't help at all since he described the illegal immigration problem as the 'reconquista'. Anyway, he filibustered on about God and more God, and read most of the Declaration of Independence and got through about half the Constitution when the heckling got really loud. At one point Eloise joined the people eho were standing up with their backs facing the speaker. I sat down because I think its silly to go to a speech and tell them you don't want to hear it.
The second speaker came on, and this guy was quite white. The first thing he did was to give the black guy a hug and then stride up to the mike and exclaim "who you calling racist!", at which point I felt that there wasn't enough vomit in the world. But then he got quite funny. He told all the protesters and hecklers that even though they made themselves out to be such bleeding heart socialists he bet that when they graduated they'd all become investment bankers. He then said "I know how you feel: I've been there too. You all hate yourselves and want to blame everybody else". Everyone else was booing and shouting but I was finding him quite funny. Then he acted as if hs wife was calling him on the phone: "Hi honey, Im surrounded by the saddest bunch of liberals I've ever met", which I thought was just excellent. Not exactly the best way to warm to your audience, but funny nonetheless.
Shortly after that, a couple of students turned up on the stage and unfurled a banner calling the Minute-men Nazis, and a couple of others stormed the stage. I think some of them attempted to punch the speaker. Pretty soon, an all-out riot broke out on the stage, the police were called in, and they had to cancel the rest of the speech.
I was disappointed on many levels. I was firslty and chiefly deprived of an opportunity to listen to a genuinely funny speaker, if a bit of a tosspot. Secondly, I was deprived of the chance to tease them with some questions I had thought of. Thirdly, I was disappointed by the total lack of toleration or desire for dialogue on part of the Columbia students. Nobody is interested in talking to anyone.
While the first person was boring for The Great State of California on the subject of the US Constitution, a heckler from the crowd shouted "I go to an Ivy league school, I know what the Constitution is about", and someone else shouted at the speaker "I wonder what college you went to!". Nobody, I thought to myself, despises the working class more than a socialist.
I think the second speaker definitely had a point about hypocrisy in Columbia; here we have a school which basically gouges its students (especially the law school, good God) and tries to hide the piles of filthy lucre behind its public service programmes, which are extensively babbled about in glossy brochures. It must make the endless cocktail parties, haute-cuisine faculty lunches, and $35,000 portraits of Columbia professors seem more bearable. And you know what's the most hilarious thing? The students here lap it all up, hook line and sinker! It's like a mutual "ass-slapping exercise"! Well its either that or they think that banging on about socialism and bleeding-heart-liberalism with their "rancid, canting self-righteousness" is going to help them get laid. I almost hope its the latter.
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Monday, November 28th, 2005
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Every now and then the chef at Connaught Hall comes up with really good food which approaches the sublime; the sweet potato and leek bake we had for dinner yesterday was a memory best recollected in silence. I have also had poached apricot and meringue desserts, as well as interesting brie and cranberry pastries.
Even though the food is technically unobjectionable, I sometimes have trouble eating it because it tastes of guilt. I have a sneaking suspicion that the chef must have, at some point in hs career, harboured dreams of working at the savoy or having his own michelin-star restaurant. The dinners he makes at Connaught Hall therefore taste, to me at least, of broken dreams.
Apart from that, I had an interesting week. I met Princess Anne on Tuesday at the University foundation day. I did find her rather charming, even in spite of her military bearing and her resemblance to a horse. She appears to have perfected the art of looking and sounding interested even though the plain obvious truth is that she really isn't.
On Thursday I went for an interview and on Friday I heard the result of that interview. This will be my last year in London. Then I went out for cocktails with Gavin, Eloise, and Victoria.
On Saturday I met Robin in Chinatown.
Daniel, Victoria and me at the warden's flat before we left for the Foundation Day function.
Robin and I, in an ice cream place on one of the coldest days I've ever had here. Really smart, that.
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Wednesday, October 26th, 2005
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I am sitting in front of my computer with a pot full of spaghetti in pesto sauce accompanied by a glass of slightly sweetish vouvray. No sommelier would pair the two together, but it is the best I can do, not being made of money. For those of you who may worry enough about me to wonder if I may be turning into a full-blown alcoholic, I have but this to say to you: I defy you to face the horror that is Hayton and Marshall on The Law of Trusts and Equitable Remedies without having a bit of bottled courage beforehand. Just try it.
Anyway, I am happy now. I believe I have finally rationalised and justified to myself my obvious preference for the company of women. Firstly, (and foremostly) a good number of them are actually very pretty; and I have always found this to do wonders for my writing style. Secondly, there is the fact that I spent 4 years of my precious life in an Institution (Raffles, that is. A boys' school) and another two-and-a-half in the Armed Forces, so I have had more than my fill of packs of lads making toilet jokes, drinking too much beer, and putting on pots and pans on their heads for the purpose of headbutting each other. Thirdly, I find that women, unlike men, are generally not proud of failure. Fourthly, is the fact that even though they drink as much as men when we go out on excursions, they have so many more interesting and insightful things to say in between things, and somewhere along the line you get lulled into the beautiful illusion that you are the only person in the world they would ever tell these things to.
Nevertheless, I have instructed my friends to give me a swift kick in the goolies should I ever start considering or even talking about such things as make-up, pilates and aromatherapy.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I went to the gym this afternoon with Anna. I am getting slightly worried about my left leg. After just 1.5 km on the treadmill, my left knee (this is old news) my left ankle and my hips started feeling rather funny. It felt like my ankle was calcifying, and that my hip was popping out (apparently that happened before when I was 7).
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Wednesday, October 19th, 2005
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Was it Nietzsche who said, that you can tell that a friend no longer loves you, when you can see that they are making an effort to talk to you?
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Wednesday, September 21st, 2005
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And summer's lease hath all too short a date Shakespeare, Sonnet XVIII
Perhaps. My summer vacations lasted way too long. I shall be going back to London on Sunday, to face another winter of discontent, which should at least be more exciting than what I have been doing here (watching my fingernails grow). I have always liked London in winter; when it's cold, wet and grey. These are the times when walking awround London feels like a journey into a Sherlock Holmes mystery.
Things I have planned for next year:
1. Start swimming going to the gym regularly. Beatrice has promised to drag me along, kicking and screaming if necessary.
2. I have only just received confirmation from my former tutor, now a professor, that I can be her research assistant for the purpose of collating information for the second edition of her book. All she has to do now is to get the funding from the Centre for European Law.
3. Try to get into the LLB/JD programme
4. Get a few internships in the city
5. Play in a band
What I fear above all is the prospect of spending precious hours of my life staring into the middle space in front of me. I hope these best-laid plans keep me busy.
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Thursday, September 8th, 2005
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La Figlia che Piange
(T.S. Eliot) - who else?
O quam te memorem virgo…
STAND on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.
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Wednesday, August 31st, 2005
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Monday, August 22nd, 2005
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Normally, I never touch the Straits Times unless I have a particularly long set of tongs on me. I hope I don't sound too affected, but once you've read the Independent or the Times, you just can't bear looking at the ST, a paper of which 90% seems to be made up of advertisements.
So anyway, I must have glanced at a line or something while on the train, because, while talking to a friend in the morning, I was put in mind of the news that the Victoria Junior College principal had plans to scrap the school song, which is titled "Victoria, thy sons are we". Why does she want to do this, I hear you bray. Well, the VJC principal fears that the song might lead to various aspersions being cast about the chastity of VJC girls bearing the name of "Victoria", who, unable to bear the terrible defamation, may be driven into a classic downward spiral of depression, alcohol, drugs, and the possession of more earrings than ears.
My friend (a misleading word; it seems to suggest she does more than merely tolerate me) rejoices in the name of Victoria, and she went to the aforesaid VJC. I cannot for a moment imagine her giving what is known as a "shit" about the school song. It is of course to be admitted that the VJC principal had in mind more tender and retiring plants than our Victoria. One may easily postulate, that had Victoria been born in somewhat different circumstances, she would have brought whole empires under her sway, much in manner and form of her namesake.
Apparently, the affiliated Victoria School has plans to go co-ed, a move which is bitterly opposed by most of its students and alumni. I tried to weigh up the pros and cons of going co-ed.
Pro: If boys grow up in an unsegregated environment, the first few months of Junior College will become vastly more bearable. Few of us who spent any amount of time in a boy's school can forget those interminable weeks where one had to struggle with the inescapable fact that it was no longer permissible to publicly scratch oneself with impunity.
Con: If our boys are packed off to co-ed schools, they may never ever get the opportunity to publicly scratch themselves with impunity! This would be a terrible loss, since some of my best memories of secondary school consist of publicly scratching myself with impunity. I personally believe that it is better to have scratched and lost than never to have scratched at all.
Con II: There is another reason why VS shouldn't go co-ed. Most of the boys I know who went to co-ed schools such as Anglican High, River Valley etc, are, truth be told rather weedy. For that is what happens when one spends one's adolescence, an age when one is perpetually lost in a haze of hormones, in the company of the women. (Verily, they are the devil!!!!). You see, at that impressionable age, lots of boys decide they will do anything for some tang (poon-variety), and end up carrying handbags for their objects of fancy, playing five-stones with them, so on and so forth. Such habits do not die easy, and often last long into old age.
So there. Packed_lunch has decided. VS shouldn't go co-ed. Cur. adv. vult.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I managed to buy Carl Orff's Carmina Burana and Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts by M83 at gramophone and HMV respectively, all for under $29.00. Pretty good.
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Sunday, August 21st, 2005
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The Flower, (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.
To and fro they went
Thro' my garden bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.
Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o'er the wall
Stole the seed by night.
Sow'd it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
"Splendid is the flower!"
Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.
And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.
Excerpt from Tirocinium, (Willian Cowper)
Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought
Are not important always as dear-bought,
Proving at last, though told in pompous strains,
A childish waste of philosophic pains;
But truths on which depends our main concern,
That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn,
Shine by the side of every path we tread
With such a lustre, he that runs may read.
Habakkuk 2:2(KJV)
And the LORD answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make [it] plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it.
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Wednesday, August 17th, 2005
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9:57 pm. Restatement of principles
This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the fale of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up - he had judged. "The horror!" He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper. it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth - the strange commingling of desire and hate...
'No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams.
Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness
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Monday, August 15th, 2005
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We have no need for history
Every now and then, there comes a tide in the affairs of A R Ganesh, where on a mere whim, he decides to take a long and uncomfortable bicycle trip to somewhere far away, and not to mention usually in the blistering heat of the afternoon too. Such an event took place yesterday, when I cycled from my house near New Upper Changi Rd, to Changi Village, via East Coat Park, using the Bayshore Exit.
There is a newly-built thoroughfare from the beach to Nicoll Drive (is that the name of the road that rings around Changi Airport? I don't really know; it's good enough for me that it is there) which must have come up sometime between last september and now. The trip was much much longer than I had estimated, and somewhere along that long, long road, the deplorable state of Bicycle-seat ergonomic technology became blindingly obvious to me. It's alright for Lance Armstrong because he's got only one ball, but if the common man tried such trips too often, the common man runs the risk of rendering himself as impotent as a Nevada State Boxing commissioner.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally managed to get to Changi Beach Park. Changi beach is, in this writer's opinion, a much nicer place than East Coast Park. The beach, in certain places at least, is the original shit, not like the reclaimed stuff you get at East Coast, and there are islands in the distance which are much more appetising than the giant oil tankers you see at East Coast.
I got off the bike as I approached Changi Village, at the part of the beach where 66 Chinese men were shot , bayoneted and dumped into the sea by the kempeitai during the Japanese Occupation. There is a small black marble stone there to mark the spot. Next to it is a blue heritage board notice about Pulau Sejahat, which, until very recently, was a tiny island just off Pulau Tekong (hardly the size of 2 semi-D houses), and which served as an integral part of the island's futile defences against a japanese invasion from the north. It is no longer an island, the sea around it having been reclaimed in order to make land for the Military installations on Pulau Tekong.
I spent a night on P. Sejahat when I was fifteen, as part of an OBS Marine "expedition". I remember it as a particularly wretched experience; with its mosquitos, rats and general filth (not to mention most some of my fellow-explorers being complete pills) Sejahat seemed like an absolute armpit of the world (Incidentally, "Pulau Sejahat" translates from the Malay to mean "The Isle of Wickedness"). But now that its going to disappear, I can't help but feel a small pang.
On the black marble stone, a short cursory mention was made of the fact that Tanah Merah Besar Beach, the site where the Japanese killed over a thousand Chinese men and boys, was tarred over and is now part of the Changi Airport runway. In similar fashion, the island's historic pier, pill-box and barracks have all been destroyed. Right now, the green of the clump of trees on Sejahat still stands out from the depressing flat reclaimed earth around it, but I am sure that in the blink of an eye, even this will be gone, and there will be nothing left to suggest that there was ever anything there at all.
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the dog has destroyed my favourite shoes. moreover, it has done so fully aware that the singapore sale just ended a week ago.
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Its been a while since I came here. It has been nearly two months since I did anything. I shall be starting work, if indeed it may be called that, at A&G next week; I look forward to being a tea lady in a suit again, if only to get me out of the house. I have reached that stage of boredom where you lose even the inclination to get yourself out of that boredom. It's as if one's whole body has become suspended in a state of apathy. I can pick up my boredom, place it in the palm of my hand, and gaze upon it endlessly.
I figured out how to play two songs today: Just Like Honey, (by the Jesus and Mary Chain), and An Honest Mistake (The Bravery). They are really very very simple, and I should have seen it sooner. Over the holidays I've made a recording (with no lyrics), and also figured out Life on Mars, and Ashes to Ashes (both by David Bowie).
I was starting to become more charitable towards the dog (she is no longer the ankle-height puppy I remember from last year; she is absolutely gigantic, and would make an excellent attack dog if she weren't the sort that would go and play catch with a burglar instead of killing him... or her - since we live in these sexually liberated times), until it started raining daily. "What does the rain have to do with liking the dog?" I hear you bray. Well, when it rains, the dog gets wet, and then it starts to smell really bad, so bad in fact that you can't bear to sit in the hall. That said, I do find myself patting or scratching the dog's head when less whiffy, and even throwing the punctured football for it to fetch now and then.
The dog has also been digging up plants of late and strewing them over the porch, for which it gets not a few whacks in the morning from verious interested members of the family. So far, the dog's undiminished interest in such landscape design seems to fly in the face of Pavlov, thereby giving me more reason to believe that Pavlov was nothing more than an inveterate tormentor of dogs. I ought to have a chat with my cousin about this, she being more adept than me at justifying the ways of dog to man.
~~~~~~~~~~
'Do you know why I came to you? It is simply because there is simply no one anywhere in the whole great world I could go to. Do you understand what I say? Not one to go to. Do you conceive the desolation of the thought- no one- to- go- to?'
Utterly misled by her own interpretation of two lines in the letter of a visionary, under the spell of her own dread of lonely days in their overshadowed world of angry strife, she was unbale to see the truth struggling on his lips What she was conscious of was the obscure form of his suffering. She was on the point of extending her hand to him impulsively when he spoke again.
Under Western Eyes, Joseph Conrad
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I have just finished sending a raft of emails to my friends in London, inquiring after their health. I would have dont this earlier, but I was unable to tear myself away from the news on TV, and besides, my brother was using the computer.
Ensconced halfway across the world from the site of the calamities, I am becoming aware of how much I love London. Watching the pictures of the bus that blew up outside Tavistock Square left me less in sorrow than in anger. The people who did this must be unspeakably sick in their minds and their souls to have chosen to blow up the bus outside a park that has come to be associated with peace and non-violence. Tavistock Square, where only a few weeks ago I was playing football and frisbee with Eloise, Gavin and Alex, is home to monuments to conscientious objectors, and to the victims of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. One of my most abiding memories of London is of being shown around one of the new rooms in Connaught Hall by Anna, where the view from the window was of the statue of the Mahatma at the centre of Tavistock Square, surrounded by dark tulips in summer bloom.
I should have realised beforehand the unwisdom of telling my grandmother that 2 of the explosions (the ones at Tavistock Square and Russell Square) took place on my daily walking route to school. She told me, all choked up, that she was glad I was here in Singapore and not there.
I am not sure where home is anymore.
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I went to Takashimaya the other day with my mother, because we had some kinokuniya book vouchers to redeem. On our way there we passed the retail section and my mother asked if we could stop awhile to look at, i quote, the "bling bling". I decided that it would be prudent to accede to her request, lest she decide to bust a cap in my ass.
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I got my results today. It's official; I am not an idiot. Nosirree
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Some fragments:
When I consider how my time is spent
Twisting this missal into pseudo-verse
I suppose 'tis greatly to be preferred
To sitting around on one’s fat, hairy a--e
I get back here Tuesday last, feeling,
As I walked out of the Airport gate
Into the hot, humid air outside; as if a big,
Fat, sweaty Chinese man had upon me sate
(My reason for using a "Chinese" comparator
Is because - I'm sure you will agree -
If it had been an Indian man, it would suggest
A strong reek of cologne and Rogan Josh Curry)
Since then I have spent my long lazy days
Twisting missals into pseudo-verse
I am thankful however, because,
As I suggested earlier, it could be a lot worse
But when I consider how YOUR time is spent
Among the vast lawless tracts of Brighton,
I realize I can’t be bothered to rhyme anymore
So, anyway, How the hell are you?
Motherfucking best regards,
Aravind
The Reply:
Dear Aravind,
I am bloody fabulous
At the moment I'm utterly ravenous
and shall be down to eat
my mother's food is delicious
especially the meat.
Upon reading your email
i thought "oh! what a treat!"
and sat down immidiately
to compose a simple beat.
I'm not too good at rhyming
this noone can deny,
but shall try my best and wash my vest
without having to lie.
Life here in Bighton is pretty good at the mo
I went to Birmingham last week
I emailed a skanky ho (mehul)
and a nice pair of shoes did i seek
Brimingham was grand
it was better than i thought
some parts were very ugly
but some parts i would like to have bought
However it is not london
nothing will ever be
I would like to go back to that abundant
place of fun where i am free!
Trying to find a job
is very very hard
especially when the number on my CV
is not mine, but the number for klard.
Never mind
i'll probably go back to smiths
where the pay is bad
and the manager's a cad
but is better than writing this!
Wimbledon has started!
Hooray! Hurrah! Huzzah!
I'm going there on saturday!
Wish I was a tennis star.
Have brought 4 pairs of shoes this week
No wonder I am in debt
But it's ok cos they were cheap
and they don't make me look fet.
take care,
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Today was not bad, as they go. I banked the cheque for 45 quid in payment for uploading the assistant warden's trance and house LPs to Amazon and Ebay. They are strange, I'll give you. One one of the LPs, the first track was called "Pistols Vocal Dub Remix". The second track was called "Vocal Pistols Dub Remix". Honestly.
I decided to splurge on a Chinese Takeaway lunch from a restaurant called China House. They should seriously consider renaming it "Come-in-and-get-diarrhoea House". I watched England absolutely demolish Bangladesh in the Cricket Test Match at Lord's. After dinner I went and played Football in the park and actually scored (with much help) once. It was very humiliating. I shall have to do that again tomorrow, if only to start losing some weight. I think I have become rather pudgy.
I was informed in an email that I passed the first round of the AKC exams, which is an extra qualification that I really do not need to take. All it means is this: If, for some reason, I fall out of favour with the Law and with Hinduism, I might rely upon the AKC to get myself ordained as an anglican minister.
I was talking to ths person earlier today who isn't really as bad as everybody makes him out to be. I do not consider him a bad person, but just a harmless source of amusement. He has the most polished eton schoolboy accent you could imagine, he wears tweed jackets and shirts, and, get this, brings down a wine glass at dinner to drink water with. Looking as he does as the sort of person who collects horses as a hobby, it came as a little surprise to find out that he isn't from any public school at all, but a neighbourhood comprehensive. His parents have the broadest Northern accents possible.
England is, after India, the most caste-ridden society I have seen (to be honest, I havent seen too many societies). It is, like India, a place where you can tell, to a considerable degree of accuracy, a person's past, present and future just by looking at his or her accent. I do not think the '60s did much to reverse this, just as was the as in India. It might have convinced some etonians to flatten their vowels a bit, and add "innits" to the end of their sentences. But all the flower children now have seats in the Lords or, like Mick Jagger, have knighthoods. The fake accent is nothing but an attempt to get out of this caste system.
I apologise for the abrupt way in which I am ending this entry. I blame it on certain complications that have arisen from my Chinese Takeaway Lunch.
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I worked myself up into a nice, satisfyingly apocalyptic rage over this person's article, which was written in response to this person's article, which I came to read when I looked up on this person's blog, and the chain goes on right back to the house Jack built.
This was the reply I wrote to the first person's article:
Dear Weiyi,
I think there is something (precious little) to be said for your point of view, and your position is further weakened by a number of nasty habits which, in my humble opinion, I would consider it wise of you to avoid in future.
Firstly, you should never fault someone for their spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, because your article itself is replete with them. They are too numerous to list here, but this omission does not necessarily make my assessment of your language skills an assertion based on "appeals to unknown sources".
Secondly, please refrain from dropping technical terms and latin words all the time. It makes people like me, a member of the Great Unwashed, think that you are trying to mask a weak argument with big impressive words like "marmalade".
Thirdly, for God's sake, stop announcing yourself before you deign to say something. Just look at this excerpt:
I picked this up at tomorrow.sg and felt a deep innate want to respond to this. Whether it's because it's the skeptic/logicist in me who cannot stand the sight of logical fallacies, or just the need to defend the position of some of my very best friends, I am thus willing to sacrifice my sleep time to do a little argument on this. For my friends and anyone of intellect and understanding who reads this, I beg you to consider my points and post a comment to help me perfect them.
Before I entreat you to pour (it's spelt "pore" and not "pour", since you're such a stickler for grammar and spelling) through this topic, I will make references to logical fallacies and here is a link, an appendix if you wish to the definitions and explanations to some base fallacies.
To announce yourself like so confirms, in the mind of the reader, that you must be a sort of whingeing, pretentious, and tedious "prat". Just get on with the damn thing you want to say.
This is an example of you at your most clueless:
Myth 1: Scholars are smarter than anyone else
'You can get a scholarship with a measly 2 As and a B, less if you want to go to NUS"
My interpretation: if you want to go to NUS, then you need way better results. If you want to go to an overseas university, you can do with the 'measly' 2 As and a B.
I am pretty sure that your interpretation is completely wrong. What the original quote meant was that it is easier to get a scholarship to NUS than to an overseas university. You can get a scholarship to NUS for "less" than the 2 As and a B.
You also need to lighten up about the whole Cornell issue. Karpace meant it as some kind of a joke-insult in the same vein RI and ACS boys make jokes about each other's schools.
I worked myself into an apoplexy over this infuriating passage:
I come from the University of Chicago and am proud of my college and university with its affliations to over 74 nobel laureates past and present. My experience here has convinced me that it is a good school and is deserving of its 'prestige' and 'status'. The one who conjectures based on word on the street and rankings would have to turn to more precise definitions and historical understanding of what each college has to offer before passing judgements that are baseless and unfounded.
You will notice that I have made corrections in bold. I have no doubt you will find them very useful. However, this is beside the main point. Is not the very idea of "prestige" and "status" dependent on word on the street? A college is prestigious if the man on the street is impressed by the mention of it. Also, is it not the case that "the word on the street" and "rankings" are at least related to the accomplishments of the college in question? I mean, in the real world, the man on the street is not going to consider, say, a poly, very prestigious if it does not have any real claims to that prestige, right? So is it really essential that we look at "precise definitions" and "historical undersandings", whatever the hell they may be, before we even venture to make a judgement on an institution or person? Although it is true that one shouldn't judge prematurely, one must also not be so overly cautious about judging. I think it is perfectly legitimate for someone to form tentative judgements based on "the word on the street" and on "rankings".
I am also pretty sure that Karpace was not using "liberal" as a perjorative description. The fact that he says "liberal as hell", doesnt mean that he considers liberalism a satanic creed. For example, I can describe a girl as being "pretty as hell". By this, I do not mean that she resembles a demon in appearace. I am merely saying that she is uncommonly pretty. Similarly, Karpace is merely saying that these scholars are uncommonly liberal. In fact, based on the context, I am pretty sure he actually considers liberal values a good thing; he is making the point that these scholars have to abandon these values when they get sucked into the Singaporean civil service machine.
I will, to the best of my poor ability, try to paraphrase what Karpace said in his post: The Singapore government gains its legitimacy by presenting itself to the people, as being composed of intelligent and accomplished scholars. To that end, it tries to takes sufficiently intelligent, and more importantly, pliable students and educates them in "prestigious" universities all over the world. When these scholars return, the government is not interested in listening to whatever insights these scholars may have gained from their education, but merely uses them as tools to push its own agenda. The ideas, hopes and feelings of the "scholars" are of no value whatsoever, which is why they quit in droves once their bonds are fulfilled.
As Karpace, the whole thing depends on "myths". The powers-that-be are not interested in whether the scholars are really as clever as they are made out to be. They must "seem" to be better than us, so all your talk about scholars actually being smarter than Karpace makes them out to be is wildly beside the point, unless you can argue that the system is actually based on concrete realities and not "appearances". This is not a difficult thing to do. All you had to say is that "appearances" and "myths" are simply not going to run our banks and factories effectively in this dog-eat-dog world. Instead you went on and on about 'delicto simplicita' and "gay cows and giraffes".
Do you get what I mean?
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I am pretty sure I will come to regret this in a few days, but for now, I am still savouring my fury.
I do think there is a lot to be said for Karpace's argument, much more so than Weiyi's, dear Lord, but I have always been skeptical about those postmodernists who think that everything revolves around simulacra, myth and appearance. I do not think, as Karpace does, that the Singapore government derives much of its legitimacy from the fact that it is staffed with seemingly intelligent people. Instead, it derives its legitimacy from the fact that it has successfully managed to create a society where nearly everyone is clothed and fed, and where those who aren't are whisked away and hidden forver. Singaporeans will grovel at the feet of our officials as long as such comforts are taken care of. If they are not, all the mandarins in the middle kingdom will not save the government, especially given the plural nature of our society.
I am starting to regret having posted a very unkind reply to Weiyi's article. I is bastard.
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I splurged out on the new NIN album today. Whatever the distracted multitude may say, I will always stand by trent reznor. In my opinion, he is up there with tyagaraja, muttuswami dikshitar, bach and sibelius: the man can do no wrong. I will never say anything bad about him, ever. As such, The album is necessarily brilliant. It is a progression from the older albums because it is not rhythm-driven but melody-driven. Furthermore, the lyrics are qualitatively different. The old NIN albums were all about anger with the world; the new one seeks to examine that anger. And that, is beautiful.
I went out with Gavin and his friends after he finished his property exams. Because there weren't any paticularly personable young women around, we had an animated discussion about the death penalty instead. You all know my stance on this subject (strongly against). As I sat there debating with the president of the debating society of KCL, I realised that many people hold views not because they necessarily believe in them, but because they think it is proper and fitting for them to do so. I think that is tragic. Its a complete tragedy when you can easily predict what someone's stance on a particular subject is, based on where he stands on one subject. For example, it is tragic when you can predict that someone will be strongly for capital punishment, and strongly against abortion, when you've only heard his views on fox-hunting or gay-marriage. I am convinced that such people do not think their ideas through to their logical and moral conclusions, but merely settle at whatever conclusions happen to be fashionable at the current moment on either the left or the right.
I think that this is the only life we will ever have, so we owe it as a duty to ourselves to make ourselves as interesting and full of contradictions as possible. We shouldn't have to worry about what the local party branch thinks, as long as we can satisfy ourselves. We have to be honest with, and to, ourselves.
When we got back, Gavin, Gemma (who thinks I would make good marriage material, I will have you know) and I listened to the new NIN album, the Gamba Sonatas and Carmina Burana in my room. Incidentally, it occurs to me that the O Fortuna cantata is brilliant stuff to goose-step to. That's Orff for you.
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I have of late come to realise that my mother is very, very beautiful, and that my father is the best man I have ever known. I must not forget this.
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Thursday, April 21st, 2005
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I will be forever grateful to Pope Benedict XVI for one reason, and one reason only: he announced himself, delivered his speech and greeted the crowd... all in time for the Simpsons at 6.00. It seemed eerily as if he's planned everything with precisely that end in mind. I do however, think that he could have chosen a more interesting name. Like Dave. Or Tony. Or even better, Tyrone or Pharrel. I'd have loved to have a Pope Tyrone.
It would have been hilarious if the Nigerian Cardinal had become Pope. Given what I've been told of Lazio fans, I think the applause at the announcement of the new pontiff would have died away very quickly. It would have been extremely amusing to watch.
While we are on this rather daring interlude on social attitudes towards people of tinted persuasions, I would like to raise the matter of my former classmate of 4 years, Mr Chua Cheng Zhan, who has over the past few days made himself very famous for all the wrong reasons. Well, I am sort of glad that at least one of us has become famous. In fact, he's become so famous, that he's practically infamous! ha ha ha... sorry, that was quite bad.
Although I am not entirely surprised by the revelations, I must say that I never quite expected him to go and advertise his private thoughts on the net. This just goes to show something I have been a strong believer in since my NS days: extreme intelligence and extreme stupidity can coexist with the greatest of ease. Think of the Nobel prize-winning physicist who hunts high, and low, for the spectacles that have been on his head all along. Think of the slack-jawed yokel who builds the perfect car-bomb. It will all come to you.
I was reading some of the comments about the whole furore, and there were a lot of people who said that he should be given a second chance because he was a "youth" of 21. The thing is, firstly, he's not 21; he turns 22 this year, just like I did), and secondly, how on earth can you even consider a 21-year old a "youth"? Both my grandfathers left their homes to earn a living when they were 16. I'm pretty sure you have to start to at least pretend to be mature when you turn 21.
I also seriously wonder how the hell he got a scholarship that wasn't academic or something where he'd be safely bundled out of harm's way. I don't want to get into the details, but he seriously wasn't alright, believe you me. Oh brother.
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