You Can Call Me Master Di

It's official!  I passed!  Degree results were released this week, which means that I am now a Master of Victorian Literature.  I was fairly confident when handing in my dissertation that I was submitting a pile of words at least worthy of a pass.  But everybody knows not to count chickens before they hatch, so I decided to wait for the results before posting about this.  My year as a Master's student was exciting, intense, tiring and...happy.  That's the emotion that trumps all others.  

I joked throughout the year that once I had completed the degree, I was going to starting referring myself as Master Di.  I think it has a nice ring to it, as though I were a young Victorian chap.  If someday I decide to subject myself to PhD study I would then be Dr. Di, which I think sounds like the cheesy moniker of a radio talk show therapist.  Isn't that what we all aspire to in life?  To have labels reminiscent of cheesy radio psychologists? 

The picture above was taken moments after submitting my dissertation -- the culmination of the year.  I had just endured the saga of all sagas (details shall follow shortly).  I hadn't slept properly in days, felt sick as a bird and burst into tears on more than one occasion this day.  Yet I maintain postgraduate study is fun.  Yes, fun.  That's love.  If you look closely, I think you can see it on my exhausted, blinking, tear-stained face. 

A Rainy Day on Campus

I love rain.  Strangely enough, it's one of my favourite things about living in England.  As long as you don't get caught in a downpour, it's quite pleasant.  I also love how green the area is as a result.  One day I emerged from the student union to find that it had rained.  For some reason, this made everything on campus seem more beautiful than it already was.  I think my university campus is simply charming.  I hope you think so too.

I am obviously not the best photographer, but these were taken with love.   

David Copperfield; Or, To Birth a Book

I harbour a propensity of treating books like living, breathing creatures.  In short, they are my babies.  (As is my dog, but that's a whole other story.)  Sometimes my obsession becomes so acute, I feel the need to have myself photographed with my books.  Observe:

Aren't these beautiful?

However, this 'books as babies' mentality reached new heights of ridiculousness when I emailed a few of my friends.  I had written to proudly inform them that I had finished reading David Copperfield, and suddenly a birthing metaphor spun out of control faster than one can say Dickens.  I think it's funny though, even if one is laughing at me and not with me.  So, with some slight editing, I will share this evidence of my psychosis. 

Dearest Friends,

Today at approximately 14.05 I welcomed a new addition to my I've-Read-It List.  Name: David Copperfield.  Length: 855 pages.  Weight: enough to render my bag uncomfortably heavy.   

Considering I was in labour with young Davy for several tiring weeks, I am quite thrilled to welcome him to my list.  I have added other offspring of Charles Dickens to my list before David's arrival: Hard Times, A Tale of Two Cities, A Christmas Carol and (most recently) Oliver Twist.  But David is by far the weightiest of his siblings, and so it is with great pride that he is added to my expanding brood of books.

I have intended to read one of Dickens's notoriously lengthy novels for some time now.  I made the attempt about two years ago with Little Dorrit; but alas, that effort was aborted in the midst of multiple stressors.  Have any of you succeed in carrying an epic-length Dickens to full term?  If so, how did you find the experience?  For me it was a great effort.  Yet it's true what they say:you immediately forget the labour and you immediately want to have/read another (where is this metaphor going?!).  It will have to wait a while;  David, after all, is still a newborn on The List.  But I'm thinking Nicholas Nickleby or Dombey and Son.  Or Our Mutual Friend.  In short, I cannot decide.  Any suggestions?

Your eccentric,

                      but well-meaning friend,

                                                          DIANA

In all seriousness, I would highly suggest you pick up David Copperfield if you find yourself in the mood for a novel by Old Charlie.  It's been a favourite of mine in a year full of reading, and it features some of the most memorable characters Dickens ever created: letter-writer-extraordinaire Mr. Micawber, spunky and donkey-phobic Aunt Trotwood, and the slimy villain Uriah Heep (pictured above).  Uriah is repeatedly described as snakelike and cadaverous.  I think the illustrator managed to capture both characteristics in this depiction.  Are you sensing his cadaverousness?  Which Dickens novel would you recommend, or would you avoid him altogether? 

MA in Top Modeling

I have a confession to make.  I always get a kick out of America's Next Top Model and have faithfully watched it for years.  There, I said it.  I like to pretend that I have refined tastes, but I am a tv reality junkie.  I think it has something to do with the fact that my brain craves some mindless entertainment after a full day of reading Victorian novels and literary criticism.  The endless instances of Tyra's pure insanity along with the profound intelligence of the models themselves is just the sort of mindlessness I need.

Not too long ago, the conversation at the pub turned to this shining specimen of American brilliance.  The next thing you know, we were conducting our own photo shoot in the style of Top Model.  So much for the pursuit of mental improvement.  I was so amused by our 'fierce' photos I felt inclined to share the joy.  Please note these were taken with the intent of satirizing the show, and I wouldn't wish anyone to think we were taking ourselves seriously.  So without further ado, here are our best shots...

The shot where we try to look sophisticated

by covering the majority of our faces with our hands

'Smizing' (aka, smiling with your eyes)

The group shot

in which contestants pretend to be team players

while hogging the spotlight

Making use of props

There they are.  I will now allow you time to deliberate before deciding whether or not we will survive elimination and make it to next week's photo shoot. 

Librarying

 I'm not sure those who are smart enough to refrain from subjecting themselves to the masochism that is postgraduate study will truly understand this...but librarying is hard work!  (Do you like how I've used it as a verb?)  It looks easy; but enduring days and days of nineteenth-century novels, critcal books and a plethora of articles can easily lead to a neurological disorder.  It's scientific fact. 

There are days when I wake up early (or not), get ready and then send myself to the library intent on a day full of academic accomplishment.  But when I pull out that Derrida article I know I'm in trouble.  With all that talk of how he is the cat and yet not the cat, and the cat is both animal and not animal, and he is both animal and not animal, when he looks at the cat is looking both at the cat and at himself, therefore he is animal (or something like that) I find myself drifting off into a doze before lunch time.

What's a student to do?  I don't want to ship myself home purely because I've hit the hurdle of Derrida-induced fatigue.  I can't let Derrida do that to me!  So I nap.  Right there in the library.  Observe:

These chairs are the comfiest in the library

and 'I could always sleep anywhere'

Sometimes I zonk out in the middle of my work space

After 30-45 minutes I awake refreshed, feeling like I could keep going and going just as the Energizer Bunny does.  Napping: it has to be done. 

One day I was reading in the library when my friend Liz entered with her mum and brother informing me she would return to say hello after viewing some of the manuscripts.  I got tired and fell asleep in the position just above.  When Liz came back her mother viewed me with some alarm.  'Is she dead?  Is she okay?'  Liz assured her I was indeed alive and well. 

So.  If you ever pass by me in a library, eyes shut, mouth open (fortunately I very rarely snore), you can safely assume that I am not dead.  I'm just resting.

British Bites: Tea Time!

I can't get very far with my idea of commenting on English food without addressing the most persistent British stereotype: the preoccupation with tea.  While this isn't strictly a food, it is nevertheless a crucial element of English dietary practices.

As far as I have observed, this hackneyed cultural assumption is full of truth.  I often find that English people are obsessed with tea and manage consumption of it at any time of the day while engaging in any number of activities.  They drink it with breakfast, with biscuits, on its own.  Anytime can be tea time!

One of my university tutors from the past year is undoubtedly addicted to this caffeinated hot beverage.  'I have to have a cup of tea every hour or I start twitching.'  I heard these words from her on more than one occasion.  Imagine my delight when she took a break halfway through my first seminar to boil the kettle and offer a steaming mug of tea to each of the students.  She even had milk and sugar on hand in her office.  Every week followed the same pattern: chat about the specified text, break to put on the kettle, more chatting while we sipped on our tea.  It was wonderful!

 The tea-aholic

I've had other tutors offer tea in seminars but only occasionally.  To be honest it's never quite as good.  Nobody makes tea like the tea-aholic.  (I thought about labelling her a tea-ophile, but this sounds very much like pedophile which would be weird). 

I must confess that this English fixation is contagious.  While I previously disliked tea -- and still maintain a firm distaste for coffee -- I have slowly come around to the idea during the years I've spent here.  Now I enjoy drinking a mug of tea on a cold night while reading a book or watching a movie at home.  As we get further into September those evenings are becoming more frequent.

If you stay in England for long you may find yourself leaving with a supply of Earl Grey.  Consider yourself warned. 

Curling up with a cuppa

P.S.  The image at the top of this post is a 1727 painting: 'A Family of Three at Tea' by Richard Collins (via the Victoria and Albert Museum).  More totally amazing stuff can be found on the museum's website.

Brontë Sisters, Power Up!

Since I've got Charlotte, Emily and Anne on my mind...

The following youtube video was introduced to us by the university's Brontë tutor after a discussion about Brontë kitsch.  It is hilarious!  I find myself going back to it again and again whenever I need a giggle.  There's not much else I can say about it apart from a reiteration that it is genius, pure genius. 

Does anyone know where I can find a Brontësaurus?

My Staircase Obsession

Hiking my way to the top of the duomo in Florence

I have a somewhat bizarre confession to make: I'm obsessed with staircases. 

I'm not exactly sure when this fixation began, but I have vivid childhood memories of dreaming up a house with two staircases.  The idea of running up one and down another seemed like a great way to play.  As a teenager I fantasized about slowly descending a grand staircase on prom night -- seeing how my parents' house during my school years was a one-storey structure, this sadly never happened.  Even in adulthood I find staircases are often my favorite feature in a home.

Traveling in Europe has been only fed my fantaticism.  From circular stone staircases in cathedrals that seem to go on for miles to scarlet carpet-clad staircases in vast foyers of English estates, I have been experiencing staircase sensory overload.

Taken in the English building of my university

Pisa

The Vatican Museum

The Accademia in Venice

The duomo in Milan

Am I alone in this?  Does anybody else harbour similar architectural quirks (one of my Italian travel buddies, for instance, is completely absorbed by doors).  I'd love to hear about others!

Old, New, Borrowed & Blue

This post has nothing to do with weddings; rather, it is about books. Old Books.

Until recently I never thought much about old books.  Now I love them.  The yellowing pages beginning to fray, delicate bindings, dedications to readers of a bygone era: these are all sources of simple delight. 

Some weeks ago I found myself in need of an obscure Victorian text for my dissertation: The Confessions of a Lost Dog by Frances Power Cobbe.  It's a charming novella written, as the title would suggest, from the perspective of Cobbe's real-life pet.  My library doesn't own it but managed to procure a copy for me from another library. 

I was ecstatic to pull a small volume from an envelope, a string substituting the spine that has long worn away.  It's a beautiful little book!  I suspect it may even be a first edition, since the date in the book matches the original year of publication.  Instead of getting carried away with vague descriptions, I will let the photos I took speak for themselves. 

Title page

Note how the year of publication (1867)

is depicted in Roman numerals

The Lost Dog -- a pomeranian

Interesting how much breeds have

been modified over the years

Some blurbs

Held together with a string

I was so excited to stumble upon this small treasure: over a century old, new to me, borrowed from the library and featuring a blue cover. 

A Percy Post: Sunbathing

Percy says, 'A little sunbathing would set me up forever.' 

On this grey and gloomy day, during which I perform hard labour in the library, a little puppy sunshine perks me right up! 

Photos by Chelsea

P.S.  Percy stole Mrs. Bennet's line from Pride and Prejudice and then adapted it for his own purposes.  Or maybe I did that.  I'm so confused....

Please, Sir, I Want Some More

Dickens and I haven't always been the best of friends.  After reading a horrible abridged version of Great Expectations in middle school, I had no desire to further our acquaintance.  I started to come around to Old Charlie when I studied A Tale of Two Cities for my undergraduate degree.  But overall, I maintained the firm opinion that he was a vastly overrated author. 

And then I had an epiphany: I should dedicate an entire section of my dissertation to Dickens!  I am not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to focus on an author for whom I had previously felt nothing but disdain.  But so it was.  Then I threw myself into Oliver Twist.

What a darling lad!  He immediately enchanted me.  What's more: so did Dickens.  Having watched the musical and multiple film adaptations growning up, I had a general idea of how the plot would develop.  The book, though, was still different from what I expected it to be.  In a good way.  I really, really, enjoyed it.  In fact, I find myself echoing Oliver's request for more.  More Dickens, please!

The iconic scene

images via Google

I wish I were here...

Even the most casual of observers would easily note a distinct lack of summer posts here.  My poor technological device suffered from a viral infection that ultimately required treatment by professionals.  Several weeks later, my humble little laptop has received a clean bill of health.

The stamina of my aging computer will be essential over the next couple of weeks as I complete the dreaded D-word: dissertation.  I have been surprisingly dedicated to logging an impressive number of hours, days and and even weeks at the library: reading, napping, staring at the domed ceiling, or (if I'm feeling really ambitious) writing a smattering of words here and there that will eventually evolve into what is essentially a very long essay.

Since this has been going on for months now, I have begun to question my sanity.  Surely there is something unstable about a person whose primary frustrations in life are the library's limiting summer hours -- what university library closes at five pm on the weekends?! -- and the scoundrels who insist upon speaking at full volume in the silent study area. 

With all the intellectual mayhem, I find myself wishing I could escape to the wild moors like Heathcliff and Cathy.

I took these pictures during a hike on the moors in June*.  It was my first Wuthering Heights Walk.  I was instantly struck by its beauty and the serenity this area engenders in its visitors.  Perfectly cushioned by the moors beneath me and the dull English sunshine overhead, I felt like I was in the prime location for a nature nap.

Maybe all I need to regain equanimity is a day on the moors.  And the heather is now in bloom.

*Note that although these photos were taken in June, I am still bundled up in winter gear.  Summers in Yorkshire....

A Percy Post

As of late, my humans have made mention of a phenomenon they refer to as Skype.  Now and again, I find myself hauled up to the study where all the humans in my family gather round a moving screen. The most astonishing thing then occurs: I suddenly hear the voice of my mother emanating from its general direction.  She calls to me in her most pathetic tones and inquires if I am 'being a good boy'.  Humph!  Am I ever less than a gentleman?  However, if she believes I will condescend to respond to her exclamations after heartlessly forsaking me, she is sorely mistaken.  Am I wrong, dear reader, in feeling slighted by this abandonment?  I cannot believe that I am.  Therefore, I shall continue to toss my head from side to side and feign deafness.  

 Attacking his beloved toy: The Cuz

Photo by Chelsea

A note from the puppy parent:

I am currently reading Virginia Woolf's semi-fictional, semi-biographical narrative of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her dog for my dissertation.  Flush: A Biography (1933) is proving to be an enchanting tale as Woolf imaginatively conjures up the spaniel's perspective.  The following scene in which Elizabeth and Flush meet each other for the first time was, for me, particularly poignant:

     
'Oh, Flush!' said Miss Barrett.  For the first time she look him in the face.  For the first time Flush looked at the lady lying on the sofa.

     Each was surprised.  Heavy curls hung down on either side of Miss Barrett's face; large bright eyes shone out; a large mouth smiled.  Heavy ears hung down on either side of Flush's face; his eyes, too, were large and bright: his mouth was wide.  There was a likeness between them.  As they gazed at each other each felt: Here am I -- and then each felt: But how different!  Hers was the pale worn face of an invalid, cut off from air, light, freedom.  His was the warm ruddy face of a young animal; instinct with health and energy.  Broken asunder, yet made in the same mould, could it be that each completed what was dormant in the other?  She might have been -- all that; and he -- But no.  Between them lay the widest gulf that can separate one being from another.  She spoke.  He was dumb.  She was woman; he was dog.  Thus closely united, thus immensely divided, they gazed at each other.  Then with one bound Flush sprang on to the sofa and laid himself where he was to lie for ever after -- on the rug at Miss Barrett's feet. 

Barrett Browning and Flush

Image via Google

I blubbered like a baby when I read this passage in the library.  I, too, was an invalid when Percy entered my life as a wee pup; and his company was medicinal.  Like Elizabeth and Flush, my mum maintains that he and I look alike.  One thing that astounds me about animals is the way in which, despite the communication barrier of which Woolf writes, they manage to make themselves heard.  Percy and I have certainly found a way to understand one another -- even if I speak, and he is dumb.  Except...Percy is not dumb.  He barks and growls to high heaven!  I feel quite lucky to know that he is being pampered and well cared for by my parents while I work towards my graduate degree.  But I sure do miss him. 

'She was woman; he was dog.'

Another great photo by Chelsea

A Thousand Apologies...

...For my prolonged absence from cyberspace.  I have been here:

and here

and here

I've also spent lots of time here:

This would be the library,

where I toiled away on my essays.

Now that my second semester papers have been submitted, and I only have the dreaded D-word (dissertation) to occupy my academic time, I am resolved post more on this humble little blog.  However, I am sure I will manage to squeeze in a few summer adventures between study days at the library.  I'm good at procrastinating like that!

Dude Watchin’ with the Brontës

There are several factors that compelled me to do a Master’s at this university.  I’m not gonna lie, the fact that there is a class offered on the Brontës was somewhere near the top of my ‘pro’ list.  Charlotte, Emily and Anne are all included in my exclusive list of favorite authors.  Naturally, I had high expectations for this class.  While waiting outside the tutor’s office for my first seminar, I saw this comic by Kate Beaton (explore her website – it’s great!) taped to her door: 

I had a hunch that I wasn't going to be disappointed with my Brontë experience.  I was right. This comic was merely an omen of good things to come.

A First

This weekend I attended my first literary conference.  This means I awoke on a Saturday at seven in the morning of my own volition.  I’m thoroughly impressed with myself.  I say literary, but in actuality it was an interdisciplinary event on psychoanalysis and children’s fiction.  Apart from one moment where hunger and the warm temperature of the room threatened to sedate me, I was enthralled by the papers presented. Topics such as art therapies, manga, and the figure of the orphan in juvenile literature were among the highlights.  My favorite, however, was a student paper on Twilight and rape fantasies that was very persuasively argued.  In a word: fascinating.  

Ragini and Me

Liz and Ragini

Liz was one of the organizers.

I clearly struggled to get a decent group shot of

Brinda, Sarah and me.

A few of my fellow students were also in attendance (a friend of mine was one of the organizers), so it was nice to be able to chat and discuss the presented papers during lunch and coffee breaks.  The grub offered for the former was surprisingly delicious, and I may have consumed three pieces of cake throughout the day.  Maybe.  I hope I have the chance to be part of more academic conferences in the future – even if they begin at ungodly hours.

I had to capture the rainbow that emerged 

as I was walking home.