Glenn Gould, prophet of the piano

Today is the birthday of the wonderful Canadian pianist and keyboardist, Glenn Gould. Oh Lord. I had heard that Gould was a genius, and that he sang along with his piano playing, but this is the first time I have actually heard it! (My hearing is not very acute.) I'm referring to the YouTube clip to which the title of this post links. I first heard Glenn Gould playing Mozart's sonata in C K545. It was played incredibly fast, but with such a crisp sound that it was fascinating to listen to, especially the first movement. I listened to a cassette that I made with that recording (borrowed from the Carnegie Library in Pittsburgh, which I must thank for getting me started with nearly half of my interests within classical music) on and off for a decade. I eventually began to collect digital recordings, and learned that not only did Glenn Gould not like to play Mozart, he loved playing Bach. I had come out of my teen years firmly convinced that Bach simply had to be played on the proper instrument, namely the harpsichord, or maybe an organ, and even then not just any organ. I was as doctrinaire as they came, and deplored the use of modern, large organs for Bach trio sonatas, for instance. At about the time I discovered Glenn Gould's Mozart, I also discovered a percussionist called Brian Slawson, whose album Bach on Wood had a couple of fabulous cuts that had been played on the radio, and taped by me. (It was during a trip to Yellowstone, and I was just barely able to tape the piece on a little boom-box we had along!) It never rains, but it pours. After Walter Carlos's Switched-On Bach in the sixties (which I did like very much, some cuts more than others), I was ripe for this new interest in unusual recordings of Bach, or at least recordings of Bach on "unauthorized" instruments. Many people will agree that Bach is especially fine played on odd instruments. Brian Slawson's album (which he has now followed up with Bach Beat, which features the incredibly slimy Das Roach, as well as the beautiful original composition Elegy) shows just how many alternatives there are, even within the class of percussion instruments, for instrumentation. Stefan Hussong plays Bach on the accordion, and has made some lovely recordings. I'm having to figure out, in real time, why Glenn Gould sings here. Watching the video clip, it is clear that it is the rhythm of the Bach piece that has caught his attention; the syncopation, the excitement of some figure that he wants to emphasize. It takes a while to realize that Bach was not only about the four-square sewing-machine rhythm that seems to define a lot of Bach's music. That's only on the surface. Inside, there's all sorts of mayhem going down, inner voices clicking and clacking against each other, especially in the keyboard works, one of which Gould was playing (or rehearsing) on film. I had been willing to concede that he was a genius --I'm willing to concede that practically anyone is a genius, as long as they leave me alone-- but now I'm seeing exactly what kind of genius he was: someone who thoroughly appreciated the beauty of complex rhythms. Mozart's allure for me was not one built on complex rhythms. If complex rhythms (and probably complex harmonies, too) were what drew Glenn Gould to them, it becomes more clear why he liked Mozart a lot less than he liked Bach. Mozart, it seems to me, put nearly all his eggs in the basket of chromatic melodies. There was a lot of harmonic support for his melodies, without a doubt. But because all his energy was focused on making that one melody be the princess of the piece (not all the time, but certainly most of the time), rhythmic complexity did not have a large role to play. (It is unbelievable how much Mozart was able to do with so little.) In contrast, Bach gave you your money's worth. Someone wrote that Handel, for example, would write just enough for the effect he wanted. He was writing for his audience. Bach, on the other hand, wanted to write until the potential of his musical material was exhausted. An interesting example is an aria from Cantata 68, a well-known soprano song learned all over the world, called (in translation) My heart ever faithful. The aria is a perfectly normal one, accompanied by a sort of mini-cello, which has a vigorous counter-melody, one that Glenn Gould is sure to have appreciated. Anyway, the aria full of pietistic joy and exhaltation, comes to an end. and then, totally out of the blue, the music continues, with the violin and the oboe and the cello going full tilt for a full minute or two! No one can explain why this goes on, because the aria is over! This is sheer exuberance. Bach has this neat rhythmic theme that he has not exploited, so he has to make it live it's musical life! He was as pro-life as it is possible to be, in a strictly musical sense. There are times, though, where Bach brings something to a close, and you wish he would keep on going. Glenn Gould became famous for his performance of the famous Goldberg Variations, and now they are talked about by practically everyone who craves insider status into Bach music. But the Goldberg Variations are justly well known, and worth listening to. Finally, Glenn Gould recorded the Art of Fugue, by J.S. Bach, long considered his last composition, using both piano and organ. It is a fascinating interpretation of the Art of Fugue, which does not have any instrumentation associated with it. Archimedes

Dialog / Dialogue

I recently read a web article about writing dialog by a prominent teacher of writing, and to my horror, found that I had broken every single one of his rules. He said: Don't use stilted language. I used it fairly heavily. He said don't insert little tags like "he said," or "she mused," or "Jane interjected." Why the hell not? I wish I could give you a link to the page. I'm sure there was good advice, too, but a lot of unqualified advice makes the page less valuable. (By 'unqualified' I mean that the advice might be for a specific type of writing, or intended to achieve a particular objective. In that case, that objective must be made clear, and that's a qualification of the advice. Otherwise it's blanket advice, and since it will not apply in some cases, it's less useful.)

Here's a short passage from something I wrote. This is set in a fantasy feudal world, so the language is accordingly "stilted", or at least formal. =====

One night, when Maia's restlessness was matched by Sybilla's own, the slave was surprised by a soft song. Sybilla was singing, in her thin, barbarian voice, a sweet song. It started out softly, and, as the girl was caught up in the sweetness of it, grew more full of emotion and gathered strength. It was so utterly unexpected that Maia forgot to breathe. She listened, rapt, until the song wound to its quiet end.
Maia held her breath, still taking it in. A head popped out from between the curtains.
“Did you like it?” Sybilla asked softly, her face shining.
“It was very nice, princess,” Maia said, honestly.
“I haven't sung for such a long time!”
“You have not forgotten how! What is it about?”
“Oh, it is in the old tongue of our people. It is about a girl whose husband has gone to war. A lullaby to her baby, you see? Each verse tells of more sad things that have happened to the baby's father; first, going to war, then loneliness, then injury, and finally, he is not coming back. Isn't it beautiful?”
“Is he a prisoner, or is he dead, your highness?”
“Dead, of course. Our men are never taken prisoner, didn't you know? Of course you don't! You had to spoil the mood for me!”
Maia was deeply sorry. “It was an honest question, princess. I thought the song was perfect.” Maia could not see her expression in the near dark, but she heard the rustle of the fabric as the head was silently withdrawn.
“Sing me a song of your people, Maia,” she commanded, her voice coming muffled through the curtains.
Maia sighed. “I was not a singer, my lady. I ...” What was she to say? “I can play the harp,” she said, finally. And she was glad to say it. No one played the harp better than she. And to have been this long without one; it had been hard.
The head popped back out at once. “Really? One of those big things, with lots of strings?”
“Yes ... though I prefer smaller ones.”
“Did you know, the army brought a beautiful one back with them? It is said to have been taken from the royal palace!”
A wave of bile rose in Maia's throat. That they should dare to steal her own harp! But what daring was there? They had killed her parents, and she would be dead, if not for having hidden with the women in the baths.
“Indeed?”
“Yes! I asked for it, and the king gave it to me! It is in storage in a room in the great hall, but you shall have it! Oh Maia, what a joy this is!” Maia was puzzled. Why had there been no indication about musical interests all this while? “From where has this sudden interest in music come, my princess?” “I ... I thought I would soothe you with a song, Maia, since you were restless.” Maia listened, very interested. “It is no secret why we only sing; we have no knowledge of other musical arts but singing! The king asks the army that if musicians should be taken prisoner, they should be treated kindly, so that even if we do not have our own instruments, we might at least allow a slave to enjoy what he loves to do best! But the army is not able to understand such subtleties, and ... I suppose it is a miracle that the harp was brought here, instead of being simply destroyed!” “I will be glad to play it once you bring it here, my princess,” said Maia. ===== As you can see, there is much editorializing between the lines of dialog, and this has been the style I have settled on, since I can't quite figure out how to tell the story with pure dialog. Other writers miraculously do manage to accomplish all the storytelling without much authorial comment, as Susan Haley would say. Though I envy them this ability, I treat my writing as a means of telling a story, and I am not --at the moment, though that may change-- concerned about economizing the means that are used. I think there is value to letting the characters speak for themselves, especially if there is an agenda in the writing. I could have done things a little differently when Maia wonders why the princess is interested in music all of a sudden:

"From where has this sudden interest in music come, my princess?" Maia asked, with a slight sarcastic edge to her voice, which the princess apparently chose to ignore.

That would have changed the tone of the whole thing. As the story continues, early the next morning, the princess and her twin sister bring the harp out, and make Maia play it for hours, listening in fascinated silence. That triumph of innocence would be a little less plausible if notes of cynicism were introduced earlier. I have to admit that I did not write the dialog this way consciously, but I wouldn't consider changing it very much.

"I never imagined that your highness had any interest in song or music at all, my princess," said Maia, carefully veiling her skepticism.

That could have worked, but Maia's forthrightness of speech is of a piece with the slight sullenness she simply can't suppress, and it would be just a little out of character for her to be so restrained with her mistress. I don't know whether I'm making excuses for my choices, or whether they were all made with these motives present, even if subconsciously! It is not helpful to be too conscious of every decision you make when writing. I simply write like a maniac, but I read and re-read the stuff (because I write it to be fun to read for me, most of all, and I love the characters!) and I'm sensitive to most of the nuances, and so I can fix an off-note quickly. Unfortunately, because of the fact that I have read this sort of fiction from the age of 11, a lot of cliches tend to creep into my writing. I really don't know how one can de-cliche-ize one's writing, and still have it flow smoothly. If any phrase flows really smoothly you can absolutely depend upon it having been used before.

Writing a piece of Fiction

I've just finished reviewing a book for Amazon. I normally read these books without putting them down, but this one I have to take in little portions, mostly because it is such a delicious book, a pleasure to hold in my hand as well as read, with characters who wriggle their way into my heart, protesting all the way. It is about a little eleven-year old cynic, and a fifty-year-old cynic, who manage to entertain themselves with their cynicism to their own satisfaction. Now there's a basis for a story! You can read the review at Amazon, if you can find it, and lots of better reviews as well, he said humbly. Here, I'm more interested in the whole matter of writing fiction. Something my blog fans (ahem, if I may be permitted the phrase), both of them, may not know is that I, too have attempted to write fiction. Everything I say below applies to me, and may or may not apply in general. (The tendency to make unwarranted generalizations is a characteristic of the immature intellectual, a tendency to be admired in youth, but deplored in adults. So let me deplore myself right away and get that out of the way.) When I write, I start with characters, because in my case I write in order to make people who will keep me company! (Now don't you worry about me; I'm not as sorry a case as that may lead you to believe, but let's face it, the company we keep may not always be the company we want to keep. KnowaddImean? .) This may be a foolish idea --a fancy, or a "conceit", as literary folks are wont to say-- but it seems to me that my favorite authors begin with characters that they love, warts and all. What happens next? In the case of authors who need to make a living out of writing, they need to go on to creating a situation that is entertaining, absorbing, or relevant to the current state of society. Above all, they need readers, and they need to persuade publishers that they will have readers, so --at least initially-- the readability of the story is paramount, followed only in importance by the ease with which the story can be sold to a publisher. In the case of authors who desire to make a moral point, or illustrate a social phenomenon, or showcase a condition that fills them with indignation, they need to create situations that further their educational goals, though of course these educational goals must be disguised. Unfortunately, people are too clever for their own good, and often see through the agenda of the author, especially if they have had the misfortune to have read an earlier work of theirs. (Oh to have been so unfortunate as to have read Dickens before his later works were published!) In order to further the needs of their story, they now have to invent characters who are the very opposite of their beloved protagonists: people who are the enemy. In the case of authors who are fictionalizing events they have witnessed, or have played a role in, in one sense they need to invent very little. The ingenuity here is in reducing the number of characters by telescoping several of them into a single composite character, simply to keep the task of following the story easier. (I don't bother with this, and consequently, my own stories are impossible to read. That's the way I like it. If that sounds defensive, you might be right.) That horrible aunt you discovered when you were thirteen, and that awful seventh-grade teacher who was such a vicious bastard can be fused into a single villain of some indeterminate gender. At this point, most of the planning ought to be complete. Remember that not just people, but places (On Golden Pond), institutions, pieces of music, and pieces of art or literature too can be characters in the story, such as a bicycle or automobile (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, by Ian Fleming), or a magical mask (The Mask). The reader must be introduced to the characters, after which your story must unfold. At this point, what happens is a symbiosis of (a) what the characters want to do and say to each other, and (b) what you want to happen. The more you fool with (a) in order to accomplish your hidden agenda, the less effective and organic your story will be. Rather than force (b) on the story, it is better to re-think the personalities of the characters, and let what needs to happen, happen of its own accord. Rebecca West explains this far better than I could ever conceive of doing:

the non-sentimental artist has an intention of writing a book on a theme which is as determined and exclusive as the tree’s intention of becoming a tree, and by passing all his material through his imagination and there experiencing it, he achieves the same identity with what he makes as the growing tree does. Now neither tree nor artist has eyes, neither has ears, neither is intelligent: simply they are becoming what they make. [. . .] But the sentimental artist is becoming nothing, he has ears, he has eyes, he is being intelligent, he is playing a game, he is moving certain objects according to certain rules in front of spectators. Those objects one may take as the isolated units of his material which he has passed through his imagination by an unfortunately discontinuous process. He sees that one of those objects occupies a certain position on the ground, and knows that he will score a point if he can remove it to another position; he therefore sends another of these objects rolling along to displace it. Shock . . . one hears that ugly sound.

(Here Rebecca West makes explicit a fact which I, for one, would prefer to forget: that all our characters are merely ourselves, in disguise.) Rebecca West denounces the modus operandi of the most vile sentimental artist as one who interferes with the organicity of a story by manipulating circumstances in order to score points. Instead of being a tree, the work of art becomes an Eiffel Tower, which is good enough for engineering, but not good enough for art, at least in her estimate. (The same organic nature of a work of art is present in music; great music has an inevitability when it unfolds, to which lesser works cannot hope to aspire.) All this, most likely, any would-be author would have his or her opinions about, and which way to go is something between the writer's conscience and his or her art. But there are so many other things, on the surface so mechanical, that we could talk about for days!

Nice Pictures from Mathematics

We're probably safely over the worst of the Chaos mania. When Fractals first began to appear in the media, it was as though the world realized for the first time that mathematics produced pretty pictures. Ha! Remember circles? They're pretty, aren't they? Anyway. It is rather sad how really clever people have such a hard time explaining technical matters in non-technical language. I'm not criticizing the attempts, but some are most definitely more successful than others. Here's an example that isn't entirely satisfactory to my mind, but possibly quite okay to anyone who simply likes to feel that they have gotten familiar with higher mathematics.

A presentation by a British mathematician

A System The idea of a system is a very general one. It is simply something that can be in any one of several states. Only examples can help to understand this idea, because of its extreme generality. (1) A six-sided die on a flat surface. The different states are which number is showing, from one to six. (2) A light. The states are "on" or "off". (You can think of other states, such as "flickering", if you want. Throw them in into the collection of states. Every choice of the set of all possible states makes a different system.) (3) A driver on a highway. The states might be: (*) looking for a rest area. (*) Looking for an exit. (*) Looking for a gasoline exit. (*) Trying to pass. (*) Cruising. Most people, when driving, are in one of these states. Of course it is an oversimplification to insist that a driver only exists in these states, but mathematics is about simplification. (4) A disc drive. It can be reading, writing, or idling. The examples are numerous. A dynamical system is a system that goes from one state into another state in exactly the same order every time. It is as though each state had a forwarding address: "Now go to state x!" a little like a treasure hunt. Obviously, if (as in all the examples I gave) there are only a finite number of states, the dynamical system will not be very interesting. In contrast, if there are an infinite number of states, what the system is doing can be fascinating. Where do all the colors come in? Suppose all the states of our system can be represented by the points in a square. Then every point (state) knows where the system will go next. In other words, right after the system is in that state, it must always go to the same next state, just like the stops on a school bus route. The system is said to be deterministic, because given that the system is at State A, its entire future is known. Joining the dots, we get a trace of all the states that the system visits.

• For instance, all the states from which the system goes on to hit the upper edge of the square can be colored red,
• All the states from which the system goes on to hit the lower edge of the square can be colored blue,
• States starting at which the system ends up at the right edge can be colored green,
• States starting at which the system ends up at the left edge can be colored yellow, and
• States from where the system never hits the boundary but keeps going round and round can be colored grey, say.

This gives you an idea of what goes on in this coloring business. One of the best known fractal figures is a coloring of the plane determined by how many state changes are needed before the state leaves the circle of radius 2 around the point (0,0). (In that example, it is known that if the system leaves the 2-circle, it will not return.) See below. The Mandelbrot set shown here is a representation of something a little more sophisticated than merely a map of starting values from which some system heads off into the sunset. (It is actually a map of an entire family of systems, coloring the systems according to a particular characteristic.) Pretty Pictures from Simple Math Simple algebra can provide pretty pictures too, and has the benefit of being easy to understand. (The very complexity of fractals and dynamical systems attracts some people undoubtedly.) For example, all the points on the XY plane for which

lie on a circle. (A circle of radius 3, with a center at O.) But we can easily color every point depending on how much x^2 + y^2 is. If it is exactly 9, we could color it black, and if it is between 0and 1, we could color it blue, and so on, and we would get a pattern of concentric rings. Well, why not change the formula? What about a minus sign? x^2 - y^2 = 9 might give us some pretty pictures, too! Here's the result, below on the left. The points that are colored yellow correspond to points that satisfy the equation, the other colors represent points for which the left side is larger than 9 or smaller than 9, by different amounts. It is possible to view the behavior of this formula in 3 dimensions. The result is known as a saddle-surface, for obvious reasons. The flat plane indicates the zero level.

First Movement Form (Sonata-Allegro Form)

Hi, everybody. I thought I'd greet everyone before I lost all my friends for ever!

Writing about form is difficult, without a blackboard, a piano, music examples, anything like that, but I'm going to do it. I want to add the examples somehow, someday, but I'm going to get started right away, or this will never get done.

'Form' is the word used to describe the relationship between the parts and the whole of a piece of music, or a movement of a piece of music. The first movement of a conventional symphony, for example by Haydn or Mozart, has a particularly interesting form, and this is what I'm going to try and describe. Conventional music, say of the centuries preceding the 20th, is usually written in movements, and each movement is usually written in a key, such as B Flat major. The word key stands for a set of seven notes, which form a sort of musical home scale for the movement. The music can, and usually will, travel away from this home key, and the further it goes, using different notes (called accidentals, for no good reason,) the more a listener gets a feeling of being far from home. For instance, think of the theme from Jeopardy. It's a simple little ditty, and comes to a close with hardly any departure from its home key. Then, the same tune is repeated, but most definitely in a different key. (In fact, the choice of key is startlingly unconventional, presumably a deliberate choice, to point up the intellectual atmosphere of the show.) And then, the tune is repeated once again, in yet another key! So, all the repetitions of that tune constitute a kind of 'form' for that theme, a rather unusual one (but anticipated by Wagner in his Tannhauser overture; we'll talk about that another time...) Let's start with some major key; it doesn't matter which. There are two related major keys with the same notes except for just one each. One of them is only different because the fourth note up from the home note is replaced with a note one semitone higher. This new set is called the key of the dominant. Almost any tune worth its salt (and certainly its accompanying harmony) will take a brief trip to the key of the dominant. (Example: in the Star Spangled Banner, by the time you get to "dawn's early light?" you've already gone to the dominant. The second syllable of "early" is on the raised fourth note that signals the arrival at the new major key. Soon afterwards, however, the tune hurries back to the home key. But the same little sortie out to the dominant key happens in the third line. Then, towards the end, the words "...that our flag was still there!" goes into the dominant yet again. This time it is the word "still" that hosts the raised fourth note. (The official description of that note is 'the fourth degree of the scale.') Another major key very closely related to the home key is the subdominant. This one has all the same notes as the home key, except that instead of the seventh note, it has the note one semitone below it. Let's illustrate with C major. C major has all the white notes: C,D,E,F,G,A,B,C. Its dominant major key is G major: GABCDE F# G. Notice the new note F#. Notice that it replaces the note F, which was the fourth degree of the scale of C major. The subdominant major key (of C, of course) is F major: F, G, A, Bflat, C, D, E, F. Notice the new note Bflat, which replaces B, which was the seventh degree of C.

Sonata-Allegro Form

This form is very likely to have been inspired by literary notions, because the basis of the form is a choice of two themes, or motifs. These are brief musical phrases that are highly recognizable. For example, there is the famous "da-da-da-DUM!" of Beethoven's Fifth, or the obsessive tune of Mozart's G minor symphony, or the famous unison theme of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Listen to a clip of the beginning of this movement. You first hear Theme No. 1, and then it fades away, and we hear Theme No. 2. The first theme is vigorous and energetic, and the second softly falling, sweet and consoling. Traditionally the themes have been masculine and feminine, respectively, but obviously the choice of attributes was vague and subjective. In this movement, Mozart gives us two themes that are sufficiently masculine on one instance and feminine in the other to satisfy anybody. This first musical example simply shows the two themes being "announced". If you have a fairly sensitive ear, you could tell that the Second Theme is actually in a slightly different key (D major) than the First Theme was (G major). It's almost impossible to notice the key changing, because Mozart was so smooth and clever in how he managed the transition! Exposition

After the two themes have been announced (in this example; if you have your own recording to listen to, the exposition is repeated in its entirely, to provide everyone a clear shot at recognizing the two themes), the central part of the movement consists of a development section. The themes are used in various ways, combined, strung together, turned upside-down, separated into bits and put back together, etc etc. (It sounds a lot more exciting in theory than it is in practice. Mozart gave this piece only a modest development here, only a few seconds.)

After the development, there is a restatement of the two main themes, called the recapitulation. The themes are re-announced, in their usual order, but this time, they are both in the same key. This is the exciting problem that the composer has to solve. If the recapitulation is simply the exposition, the second theme would be in the wrong key, according to The Rules. So things have to be changed around just a tiny little bit to set the Second Theme also in G major! Here are the two themes as they appear in the recapitulation of this particular recording, with the intervening stuff taken out for easy comparison: Recapitulation 

Well, that almost completes the most interesting form that has come down to us in classical music: First Movement, or Sonata-Allegro Form.  All that remains is a grand ending for the movement, called a coda (which simply means "tail" in Italian).  Often the coda is just a number of loud chords, a sort of punctuation to finish off the movement.

The rest of the Symphony (or sonata, or whatever) usually consists of a beautiful, slow, quiet, second movement, and then the structure varies a little, as follows.

In symphonies, there is a third movement, which used to be a minuet, which reveals the origins of the symphony in dance suites of the seventeenth century.  It was usually a minuet, then a contrasting minuet for a reduced number of parts, possibly even just three parts, called the Trio; followed by the first minuet again.  Later on, Beethoven substituted a movement called a scherzo, which means a joke.  They were essentially a movement in triple time, with surprising and humorous elements in them.

Then, all compositions in this general category: Sonatas, Concertos, Symphonies, have a last movement--a finale, as they are called--which is usually a rollicking, highly rhythmic movement to finish off the work.  They are sometimes built on the same model as the first movement (Sonata-Allegro form), or sometimes a rondo form, where it begins with a tune, which is followed by a different tune, then the first tune again, then another tune, and so on.  Very rarely, the finale is a hybrid of the Sonata-Allegro form and the Rondo, where there is a little development section as well.

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Symphonies

Symphonies were invented just a couple of hundred years ago. Until that time, apparently, music was not supposed to be written just because someone was bursting to write a piece of music; it was for a definite purpose, such as for a celebration, or for dancing, or maybe for the entertainment of some count or duke. A famous musician would bring his band along, and they would play something to show off his skill. (In other words, the music was probably written precisely for the purpose of displaying the skill of the performer and his troupe.)

Around the 1600s, musicians seem to have had more leisure to indulge in creativity. Following the lead of incredibly wealthy courts such as that of France, musicians created grand musical fantasias, such as Handel's Watermusic, and Purcell's Fairy Queen, which consisted principally of dance movements. In Italy these were called sinfonias. It happened that the composers who put these things together put a lot of energy into the grand opening movement, which was called the Overture, and was not a dance at all. So the whole musical work consisted of: Grand Overture, followed by a number of dance pieces. They were called Suites in English, or Dance Suites. [Added later: I forgot to make the main point I wanted to right here; most symphonists must have found it more satisfying --in terms of the opportunity for self-expression-- to write the overtures than the rest of the suite. It is almost certain that this was the reason for the classical symphony to be greatly influenced by the overture than by the other dance movements. However, the third movement of a classical symphony was often a minuet, or a scherzo, a movement in triple time that expressed humor.] Today we might view such unprepossessing works with condescension, but there are many who enjoy them greatly, myself among them. Some of the most satisfying are Johann Sebastian Bach's four orchestral suites, called Ouvertures, and Georg Friderik Handel's Watermusic suites. Of Bach orchestral suites, the first two are a little more contemplative in nature, while the last two are more energetic and celebratory. In all, the actual introductory overture is the most grand and serious movement. When such men as Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach and Joseph Haydn began to experiment with abstract music, that is, music that was not intended for an entertainment, nor for the theater, they appear to have taken the Overture as a starting point. In any event, in the symphonies of the 19th century, the first movement is the most serious movement, followed by usually three shorter movements. (The first movements also had a very sophisticated structure, about which I'll write another time. It's better to get familiar with a couple of symphonies first, by just listening to them repeatedly.)

Haydn must be credited with establishing the symphony as a viable compositional vessel for the creativity of Mozart, Beethoven, and those who followed, until by the time of Mahler, composers felt impelled to break the mold of the form simply because, one imagines, that it was the only way to escape the domination of Beethoven's incredible achievements. Those who are knowledgeable about symphonies usually have their favorites, and I was hoping to air my own. But the collection of all symphonies ever written is unbelievably varied. Thus two people could claim to love symphonies, but be thinking of very different examples of the genre. The symphonies of Haydn do not excite me very much. There are several that command attention, but I'm not totally grabbed by them. Starting with late Mozart, though, symphonies start getting very engaging. The symphony that seems easiest to get to know and like, I think, is Mozart's Symphony number 40 in G minor. The unforgettable first movement was well known in the seventies, thanks to a pop version that didn't come close to doing it justice. And once that is so familiar that you don't long to hear it over and over again, why there's three more movements to get familiar with! Beethoven's 5th is one of the most famous symphonies of all. But his 3rd symphony is also fascinating. It has an amazing sense of motion, as if things are whirling round at a terrific pace! As a teenager I viewed it with a certain disdain, since the 5th seemed so superior in it's intense passion. But the unbridled enthusiasm of the 3rd (often known as the Eroica) is hard to resist; finally when I was 40 it got me. That's one persistent symphony!

Beethoven's 3rd, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th are all frequently performed, and well-established in the symphonic repertoire. But I discovered Beethoven's 4th earlier this year. I had bought a whole set, and had just put the first few on, to get familiar with them. Well, I guess it worked! Nos 1, 2 and 4 are really musical, and by no means trial runs. Any composer would have been proud to have written any of them; they're just overshadowed by the remaining six.

Franz Schubert was an amazing symphonist. Two of his symphonies are notably famous: the Unfinished, and the Ninth. The Unfinished, especially, is accessible to someone not accustomed to listening to extended works, because of the gorgeous melodies with which it is filled. Johannes Brahms wrote four, at least to our knowledge. They're each very powerful works, indeed. But 2, 3 and 4 seem to be a little on the lighter side than 1, which is very Beethovenian, as well as very Brahmsian. Felix Mendelssohn, a near contemporary of Brahms, wrote a number of symphonies. The first few were written as a teenager of about 15, and were only for strings (violins 1 and 2, violas, cellos and double-basses), and when Mendelssohn's symphonies are considered, these are not usually what are meant. The major orchestral symphonies were written when he was about 30, and one of them is the famous Italian Symphony, written in recollection of a holiday spent in Italy. Germans who traveled in Italy in the 19th century were often impressed with the sunshine and the sunny personalities of the Italians, and Mendelssohn put a lot of bubbliness into the Italian. Finally, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky wrote several symphonies that are very well loved, in particular Symphonie Pathetique; Antonin Dvorak wrote the lovely symphony titled From the New World after a visit to the US; Gustav Mahler wrote many symphonies, including the towering 8th, which requires an enormous number of performers, and is very impressive. And one of the great symphonists was Anton Bruckner, who wrote some lovely symphonies that are very atmospheric, notably the 4th, called the Romantic Symphony. This is just a starting list of possible symphonies to listen to. Finally, a little gem that is not a symphony at all, but rather a serenade for light after-dinner (or even during dinner) entertainment: Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusic, K525. The writing is famously transparent, that is, its very simplicity makes it easy to see its structure, especially the structure of its first movement, which is a poster-child for the structure of the first movement of a symphony.

Archimedes

Humor

Some authors have ventured to suggest that it's humor that sets humans apart from the lower animals. I don't know about lower animals; if you've ever owned a dog, you could not have possibly missed the grin of anticipation on its face as it waits for you to discover its latest practical joke. 

Cats are different. They always regard you with this look that seems to say, "What? Are you looking at me? Is something wrong?" Humor seldom comes into it. I remember the wonderful day --back when I was in grade seven I believe it was-- when a bunch of buddies and I decided to delight our friends in boarding school with a play. It was a home-made drama about a troubled kingdom, where the Prime Minister was plotting against the King. I was starred as the villain of the piece, but somehow I had to drink wine laced with poison, I remember. (It seems to me that I should have been lacing the wine, not drinking it. Obviously the plot must have been more subtle than I recall.) 

It was a Methodist school (lord love 'em) and we were all, what, eleven or twelve, and not permitted to drink spoiled orange juice, let alone wine. I was supposed to be brought a glass of Portello (a distant ancestor of Dr Pepper). On the evening of the performance, I settled down onstage, and called for the wine. The glass was duly brought out by the Butler (who hammed it up, as expected), and, possibly out of a desire not to be upstaged, I grossly over-acted the innocent task of drinking the wine. Instead of writhing on the floor with pain, though, I finished the glass, and called for another, showing every indication of appreciating the drink. The audience, who had been expecting at least a decent belly-ache, roared with laughter. (We were usually bored out of our minds on Saturday nights in boarding school, and would have roared at practically anything.) Thus a clown was born. 

Clowning, of course, isn't really the kind of humor we want to talk about when we're feeling intellectual, so I'll let it go soon. But some of the greatest comics we have known have also been clowns. It seems to me that someone with a sense of humor should write a piece about Clowning. Clowns are such dreadfully serious people that you can't trust a clown with the job. I'm not knowledgeable enough to be the one to do it myself. In the rest of what follows, I would like to describe some of the funniest people whose work I'm familiar with, and hope that if you like some of these, you might want to check out the rest.

Woody Allen. We know Woody from his brilliant movies, though younger folk who browse the internet might not be familiar with them. If you think about it, the humor in those movies is very literary; and if you suspected that Woody Allen was a brilliant humorist author, you would be right. I found an anthology of humor one time, and his was one of the funniest pieces in it. I wish his brand of humor would come back in fashion! If you do want to try one of his movies, it might help to have the subtitles on, so as not to miss a single syllable of his humor! 

Mel Brooks. Oh, where to begin? If you plan to end your life tonight, just hold off until you watch Blazing Saddles, one of the funniest western spoofs ever made. It features a star cast including Gene Wilder, Harvey Korman, Mel Brooks himself, Madeline Kahn, a very young Alex Karras, John Hillerman, Dom de Louise, Count Basie and Slim Pickens. It's worth watching if only for Madeline Kahn for her vintage performance parodying Marlene Dietrich, for which alone Madeline Kahn deserves a Nobel Prize. This is a keeper. It was one of the first DVDs I bought for my personal film archives, and every time they come up with a super deluxe anniversary edition of the same thing, I buy another one. Warning: the ending is a preposterously sophomoric cop-out right from the pages of MAD Magazine, but what the heck.

Groucho Marx. The Marx Brothers, a bunch of real brothers who emigrated from Hungary, were dragged along in the wake of the comedic genius of Groucho. Harpo and Chico were talented comic actors in their own right, but Groucho was also an amazing literary humorist. I don't know whether there is a lot of Groucho writing available today, but it is certainly worth reading. It takes you back to the mad old days of the 40s, but they're good days to go back to, even if they weren't that much fun to live in. (I was not around in person.) As Groucho might have said, you can have your big game hunting, but in Alabama the Tuscaloosa. Stupid, right? But funny! Here's another one: Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. (Inside of a dog, it's hard to read.)

Carol Burnett, Harvey Korman, Vicky Lawrence, and Tim Conway. These four actors were absolutely inspired, especially as they appeared in the Carol Burnett Show. For sheer physical humor, none of them could be surpassed. If you need one episode to try before you make up your mind, try the spoof of Gone with the Wind. A good DVD to invest in is their collection called Show Stoppers, which singles out the moments where the cast of the show lost control at their own jokes. the culprit was usually Harvey Korman, an incorrigible giggler! 

Danny Kaye. Danny Kaye was a physical comedian, and a comic actor. He appeared in a number of movies, including the Court Jester, the Inspector General, and Knock on Wood. Towards the end of his life, he appeared as a crazy Russian dentist in the Cosby Show, an absolute triumph! He was also incredibly musical, and has appeared with symphony orchestras, (I believe the New York Philharmonic was one) for fund-raisers. The brilliant writer of Danny Kaye's patter songs was Silvia Fine, later Silvia Fine Kaye, and some of her best stuff is in Court Jester, where Danny is trying to learn which drinking vessel to avoid. "The vessel with the pestle, not the chalice from the palace." (Danny Kaye's friend is a lady spy, played brilliantly by Glynis Johns, who subsequently appeared in an equally brilliant role in Mary Poppins, as the suffragette mother of the two little kids. [Added later: I just discovered that it was for Glynis Johns that Steven Sondheim wrote "Send in the Clowns."] Also, watch the unforgettable Gypsy Song in Inspector General, in which Danny Kaye sings, dances, and either plays the violin, or pretends to do it very well indeed.  

Bill Cosby. It's hard to classify Bill Cosby, because his interests seem to spread wider than his niche as a comic. One wonders whether he is a reformer stuck inside the body of a comic, or a comic stuck inside the body of an educationist. Still, this should not distract us from admiring his humor, which is not only an insightful commentary on the condition of being black in a white world --actually a rather minor concern for him-- but being a man dealing with women, and being an intelligent person dealing with lovable idiots. I laughed myself sick at one of his shows. A funny, funny guy. 

P. G. Wodehouse. Wodehouse is a member of a generation of Brits who decided that the USA wasn't as bad as they had thought back in 1776. A lot of his humor had to do with hyperbole, and using American slang in odd ways. The British don't find Wodehouse particularly funny, but out in the Commonwealth, Wodehouse provides an opportunity to peek in on the early 20th century in Britain, and keep company with Wodehouse's own brand of lovable nuts. Wodehouse provided some of the words and lyrics to Guys and Dolls, a Broadway musical which was later released as a movie that starred Marlon Brando, for you Brando fans. It's full of the 40s gangster talk that Wodehouse loved. If you like Wodehouse, you might also try S.J. Perelman and Stephen Leacock, both funny writers of the same period, from New York and Toronto, respectively.  

Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams. The late Douglas Adams was a very funny writer. His language was not dreadfully funny, but his ideas were. Even his choice of names (e.g. Ford Prefect) would make me laugh out loud. He could dream up one funny situation after another. The new movie version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a worthy addition to his collection of books. Also very funny are The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul, and the other Dirk Gently book(s). Terry Pratchett, in contrast, in addition to being someone who could create comedic situations, is also able to squeeze a laugh even out of a description of a perfectly ordinary scene, like P.G.Wodehouse could. In addition, he has a brilliant knack for parody, which is probably a survival trait among Brits, so weighed down by superior literature. One way to keep sane after a dozen years of Shakespeare is to parody it. Try Wyrd Systers, one of his classic works, which parodies not only Macbeth, but also Hamlet, and heaven knows how many other plays. 

Monty Python, Saturday Night Live, and Second City These jokesters were comic ensembles, so it's hard to know where to give credit for their hilarious stuff. Monty Python's writing was done by the fellows themselves, and Saturday Night Live had writers, one of whom is a great comic in his own right: Al Franken. Second City is an unknown quantity for me; all I know is that the few shows I have watched had me in stitches. (Aren't they Canadians? You've gotta have a sense of humor to live over there.)  

Ellen DeGeneres. I wish there were more nominees to be the Carol Burnette of this century. Ellen DeGeneres is a leading contender, and if you doubt me, watch Finding Nemo, and listen to the manic lines of Dory, the confused female buddy who helps Nemo's dad to rescue the youngster. I can't tell how much of the dialog is the screenplay and how much is Ellen, but her humor and her personality shine through. I must read her stuff; it is probably very funny. She should really get into Burnett-like skits; maybe she does, and I just haven't seen them. She's a tad too self-conscious to be totally effective; but that could be a matter of extreme youth. (I don't know how old she is, but she does look young.) 

Paula Poundstone. I had never seen this lady do her stuff (until a few seconds ago), but she is a hilarious panelist on Wait, wait, don't tell me! one of the few funny shows on NPR. I like her awkward humor, but she does have a good feel for comedy. The important thing for a comedian is to spot things that an ordinary person should find funny, but maybe has not noticed yet. Click on the title of this piece, and you should get a YouTube clip of Paula on Letterman.  

Garrison Keillor. I almost feel bad to include The Garrison as a humorist, but arguably that's what he is. Conservatives might not find this funny, but one of the most hysterical moments in public radio was his monologue right after the 2004 elections. It encapsulates many aspect of this genius's work and personality and style. His weekly program called A Prairie Home Companion is a good place to call Home, for those who lead a nomadic life.  

Charlie Chaplin. I'm going to stop here, but Chaplin has almost defined comedy for generations, and if you can find a collection of his shorts, you should watch them. The Kid is a good choice. Other wonderful actors of this generation are Laurel and Hardy (Flying Deuces), and Buster Keaton (The General). I have left out some comedic stars such as Jerry Lewis & Dean Martin, and Gracie Allen and George Burns. Carey Elwes has acted in a few fabulous movies, as have Michael Myers, Rowan Atkinson, and Christopher Guest, and numerous young people whose names are constantly in the news. My intention was to focus on my own favorites, in particular those who might be overlooked by younger readers. 

[Added later] Steve Martin's Father of the Bride series is hilarious, not least for the contributions of Martin Short, and Diane Keaton. 

[Added later:] Jackie Gleason, Art Carney and Audrey Meadows were an incredible team, and I do not want to leave out Seinfeld and his team, either.  And finally, I wish to note the talents of Sarah Silverman, Chelsea Handler, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and the maniacal Kate McKinnon] 

Archimedes

What I Would Like In A Car

One Summer, my daughter and I packed our ailing puppy and a whole lot of stuff into our little Nissan, and headed out West. This was so that daughter and puppy could spend July Fourth with their Mama, my Ex. What with one thing and another, the car died just outside Winona, Arizona. We somehow found our way to Phoenix, and I was under pressure to obtain a car that would not give up the ghost in the middle of the desert. And Junior and I shopped around, and found a used Jeep Cherokee. It was a tragic love affair. It was a big, roomy, chunky automobile that did about 10 miles a gallon, except on the highway, on which it was pleased to give us 18 entire miles a gallon. Its decline began the first time I tried to put it into four wheel drive. Four years later, I had to give it away. The Cherokee violated almost every principle of automobile design that I had espoused. But when I regarded it with loving eyes as it stood in my driveway, it looked exactly like what I thought in my mind a family car should look like. Here is my dream car.

• It should keep you out of the cold and the wet.
• It should have space to haul your stuff.
• It should be easy to drive.
• It should give you lots of miles for very few gallons.
• It should be comfortable.
• It should be stable on the road, with perhaps all-wheel drive.
• It should be agile.
• It should protect the occupants against very minor collisions.
• It should have easy access at the back, and access to the cargo area from the back seat.
• It should have a nice stereo, and tinted windows.
• It should smell nice inside.
• It should look like a JEEP CHEROKEE.

I suppose there are a million reasons why a car that looks like a Cherokee should guzzle gas like a Cherokee, and have all those transmission troubles. But I think the principal reason is that they build cars these days to withstand a head-on collision with a locomotive. If you make cars like that, you're going to get gas mileage like that. Why can't they design cars for people who are reconciled to handing in their dinner pail if they're in a serious accident? With all these trucks whizzing about on the highway, there really is no hope for survival in an accident, so why try? Isn't it better for a few people to die on the highways, than that all the remaining gasoline should be used up to power enormous, heavy automobiles that set out to protect their passengers, and fail anyway, but succeed in eating up a whole lot of fuel? Ralph Nader, the safety prophet, first pointed the finger at the automobiles of the mid 20th century, and started this race to make safe automobiles. The solutions that have been found to the safety problem have generally had implications for gas mileage. From a serious, ecological point of view, as well as from the point of view of conservation and energy efficiency, here's what we need:

1. Low mass transportation. The weights of all transport, including commercial trucks, must gradually be reduced to a minimum.
2. Low speed transport. All vehicles of greater weight than a certain cutoff must be required to keep to speeds under a certain maximum. This means that produce on its way to market will spend a longer time on the road, but SO BE IT.
3. Segregation of high-mass traffic from low-mass passenger vehicles, either on different roads, or on different lanes in the same road.

Perhaps the time has come to make the railways more efficient and consumer-friendly. Intersections with road traffic should be eliminated with under/over passes, so that neither railway traffic nor highway traffic will be slowed down. Efficient locomotives must be designed, and locomotive traffic made more reliable and efficient. This is far easier to do than to regulate highway traffic. If railways become more streamlined in operation, some of the air congestion in the vicinity of airports will surely be relieved. Eventually, our freedom to travel will decline with unavailability of fossil fuels. But it need not decline tomorrow. There is a certain arrogance in the structure of our transportation system, a refusal to compromise freedom and convenience. The large businesses and industries profess to fear the American public, but I have found that these same corporations really run the country. It is possible to make changes easily, and I believe the costs will be far less than they are feared to be.

 Archimedes, who drives a Honda now

Episodes - Inexplicable Genius

[Author's Note (2018-4-9): This band is now defunct.  This post is left here out of respect for the dead.]

Let me catch my breath; I'm feeling a bit verklemmt ... ok, I'm fine now. One evening, when my daughter was in Fourth Grade, she confided to me that she made up songs. Now, I knew better than to think that she really made up songs (unless of course they were of the "I love a tree! I love a tree! I really, really, really LOVE a tree, ..." variety). But I wasn't about to leak moisture on her parade, so I said yes dear, and left it at that. Last summer --we're talking 2007, here-- she says, "By the way, like I was saying, we were without a drummer, but we found this great guy who can really drum! And Dad, the people across the street really can't stand us..." Wait, wait, wait! Backup a little... Well, it turned out, she really did have a rock band. I had bought her a guitar, in a moment of weakness. I hadn't bought her much of anything; she had appropriated my Pentax, and a few of my used TShirts, but not much more. She had even paid for her own college. So I had bought her a nice Ovation, a used acoustic electric. I tell you honestly: mothers, don't buy your daughters guitars. They will form Rock Groups. (Not fathers, neither. Er, fathers should not, either. Buy their mothers ... you know what I mean.) There is talent in that group that rocked me to my foundations. There's Junior (Uma), who has written not one song but close to 20; then there's Troy, who wields a 6-string bass that can bring down a redwood at 50 paces; there's Brian One, who can make the redwood hop right back up and start crying; Joe, who plays violin, and adds tiny little touches of magic all over; and a parade of talented drummers, including C'los, who beat them into shape and then moved out of state, and presently Brian Two, who looks rather solemn and retiring, but beats a solid rhythm back there, that helps define the sound. And the amazing thing is that the songs are fantastic!!! The only complaint one could make is that they might be just a tad too commercial. But the tunes are so original, yet they seem familiar. Half the city of Tucson is walking around humming those tunes. (Okay, maybe not exactly half, but some nice fraction like that.) If you visit their site, make sure you check out Tumble Dry, which is on their podcast.
Arch, proud Dad.

Bonus Post! Read one, get one free, Today Only

I have just been confronted with the fact that it takes a certain type to be a successful blogger. I have spent too much of my life being unsuccessful to stop now; this blog will bloody well have to take care of itself. The thing to do, evidently, is to (1) use snappy titles, (2) make controversial statements, (3) aggressively market yourself, and (4) specialize in some niche in which you have little competition. With unerring instinct, I have chosen to forgo all of the above, and except for the occasional expletive, have thus far avoided using tantalizingly gross language. Okay, so people who take the trouble to write, like to have their writing read. But there are extremes to which one ought not to go.  

Having said that, and taking to heart the exhortation of the good Bishop who said Manners Makyth a Manne, to which someone has appended: wrytynge makyth an exacte manne (obviously not Polish in origin, what with all the vowels), I think writing helps to develop clarity of thought.  

I do not claim to have arrived at that blessed state where my thoughts are clear. My fingers tap far in advance of my mind, and it is only with great effort that my thoughts are even this clear. If I were talking to you, you would have no clue what I was saying. So writing is my apology to the universe for letting me blather orally the rest of the time. Quite inadvertently, Amazon.com supplied me with a forum for my earliest efforts at public communication. I sent out for a book of Bach's Art of Fugue, and somehow found myself writing a review of it. What was there to say? It was a masterpiece when Bach wrote it, and neither Amazon nor Dover Paperbacks could affect that particular gem one way or the other. I stoutly declared this to be the case, and a Blogger was Born. Reviewing the by-products of one's extravagance on Amazon.com falls some distance short of blogging. You neither have a captive audience, whom you can bully at will, nor the aid of the host of the blogging site to help you publicize. On the other hand, there is something specific to write about, and you do get feedback. And you got a grade. Some of those reviews might not have been the most insightful, but I had bought the items, and I knew more about them than the prospective buyers, and often I had a unique angle on them. And I found that after I had started writing these reviews, my creativity in other areas was unleashed too. But I never had that burning need to be read at any cost that these power blog-jammers seem to have. I guess I'm preaching to a sort of choir, here. Anyway, I earnestly encourage anyone who has bought items from Amazon.com to write a review of their purchase there. Or even better, write one for Internet Book List, a site that specializes in book reviews. Check your speling, get your gramer good, and let your review fly! It is a lot of fun. And read the reviews of others. Your opinions of what (the reviews) should be like will probably be valid; the more reviews you read, I imagine, the more valid your opinion would be. (Critics will say that no amount of reading will make a good writer out of a sow's ear, and they would be right. There is no sure-fire way of becoming a good writer, except by acquiring a sense for what it takes to make a reader's mind echo your thought. But reading is an excellent start.)  

Arch

So, I got me a digital camera

The other day I sent out for a camera. I had owned a Pentax film camera --which took really nice pictures, but which was taken into protective custody by my Art-major daughter-- and I had high expectations from a camera. Around 1999, I think, I bought a Sony digital, the least expensive camera you could buy at that time, and though it took decent pictures in good light, in poor light it struggled. It took a long time between shots, and made noisy pictures (that is, when it took "available light" pictures, the dark areas were filled with colored spangles). Unfortunately, I love taking pictures without flash. A colleague whose desk is just around the corner from mine has been a photography enthusiast for decades, and one thing I have learned about such people is that if they can't afford to buy Yet Another New Camera (yanc), they try to persuade a friend to buy it instead; and then you have to bring it in, and listen patiently while you're shown exactly why it is the most brilliant purchase you've ever made. Well, I did as I was expected, and, you know, it really was a good camera. It is a middle-of-the-road Canon, and its basic features are easy to find and use.

• There's a big dial that you get to turn, which has little icons or words. "Auto" means this is where you set it to take automatic pictures. (Or pictures of automobiles, possibly.) There's an icon of the head of a very elegant lady: that's for Portraits. An icon of a movie projector: that's for taking videos! It really is. There's a picture of an ice cream cone, which I have not figured out yet.
• There's a button labeled On/Off.
• There's a big silver button without a label. This is the one you press to take a picture. I have found that this label-free button is a favorite of camera makers. It must be an inside joke, or simply a cultural thing.
• There is a big screen, which lights up when the camera is turned On. It usually shows where the camera is looking, unless you have moved the
• Slider switch. In one position, the camera takes pictures, in the other position, it shows you the pictures you've already taken! Finally, the last of the really important controls,
• The Menu. This is context-sensitive, and is for experts. You can delete pictures, change settings, all sorts of things that would give you heartburn unless you knew what you were doing.

I really didn't need much more, except to know how to get at the photos. You of course have to put in batteries, which any child could show you how to do, and you have to replace the little memory thing* that has a capacity of, like 5 ounces, or whatever they call themselves, with a reasonable-capacity thing with a capacity of 100 tons, and you're ready to go. The trick is to find a way of reading that 100-ton capacity memory gadget into your computer. I searched the world over until I found true love, but then I found that my laptop had a tiny slot in it into which you could slide the little memory gadget directly!!!! Check your laptop. If you've got a little slot, just about large enough to accept a thin quarter, and which doesn't seem to serve any recognizable purpose, you might just be needing yourself a digital camera! My advice probably coincides with the advice of any camera enthusiast, especially since digital cameras have been invented.
 

Take Lots of Pictures.
 

If you like one of your pictures, try to remember the settings you used, and how they related to the conditions under which you took the shot. If you don't like a picture, try to think how you could have done it differently. Don't kill yourself; just keep tweaking your technique. Of course, if you have the time and the inclination, it would make sense to read a book about the technical aspects of it. If you don't have the time for that, take the pictures anyway. Delete the ones you don't like. Once you've figured out how to get them onto your computer, put them in a folder. Let's call this your MyPhotos folder. (You can call it Geoffrey if you want.) If you're into folders, you can make little folders inside your main MyPhotos folder whose names are "July2008" or "Mandy'sPlay", or something that will help you find a photo quickly, and drag the images into the folder in which they belong. The Memory Gadget may open up as a folder on your computer. (This folder lives on the memory gadget; your computer is displaying it just as a courtesy.) You then re-size the folder window and move it carefully to a side, open up the MyPhotos folder on your computer so that both folder windows are visible, and drag photos from the memory gadget folder into the computer MyPhotos folder. This will COPY the photos across. Important note: if you do the same thing with two different folders that both live on your computer, instead of COPYING, the computer will MOVE the items. Copying is standard from one drive to another. Moving is standard from one place in a drive to another place on the same drive, at least with Windows, and I'm almost sure with Mac. One of these days, I'll talk about using photo editing software.  

Archimedes
----
*SD card

Christmases in the Tropics

For years my family lived in the tropics, and at Christmastime, with the weather defiantly non-snowy, and for weeks preceding the season, we would join with everybody around us in the frenzy of getting ready for the holiday: music and drama. One of my earliest memories of Christmas was attending a carol service, and a performance of Adam's Cantique de Noel. Oh, how heavenly to the ears of a little person of seven or eight, who knew nothing of schmalz! I still adore that song, so naive, so earnest, so easy to ridicule! To me it still represents the season.

At school, too the choir began rehearsing in late September for the Christmas carols, patterned after the annual event at King's College, Cambridge. I first joined that hallowed group, the College Choir, in 7th grade. The choirmaster was an enthusiastic dreamer. (I later learned that he was not so enchanted with the King's College pattern as I had assumed, and was seeking something more in tune with the society around us.) That first carol service in which I sang was like a visit to another planet, a dream!

The following year, the fact that I had some knowledge of music was discovered, and I was assigned to teach the tenors and the bases their parts in Rubbra's "Dormi Jesu," a delicate and sombre lullaby that probably reflected more of Rubbra's despair than the worry of the poor Virgin herself. (The lovely song 'Sweet was the song the Virgin Sung' seems to capture the mood much more convincingly, but what do we know of the thoughts and fears of a first century child-mother?)  Thus were laid the seeds of a short-lived spell as a coach for several choirs, which I abandoned simply because I could not for the life of me keep time! But for the first thirty years of my life, at Christmas time I was totally immersed in music, both performance and appreciation.

 It was in grade nine that our old choirmaster took a year's absence, and a teacher newly returned from England was assigned the job. One miraculous day in October, we learned two chorales from Bach's Christmas Oratorio: "Break forth, O beauteous heavenly light", [Brich an, o schönes Morgenlicht], and "Beside thy cradle here I stand" [Ich steh an deiner Krippen hier]. For the first time I was acquainted with feelings and textures outside the firmly Victorian culture of King's --something that was happening at King's too, incidentally.

Years later, once my daughter left home and went on to create a home of her own, I found myself yearning for that feeling of being involved in creating the Christmas holiday. Nothing could combat the oppressive superficiality of The Holiday Season as much as being involved in making certain kinds of Christmas music. I had stopped being a believer since 5th grade, and I did not miss the religious feeling of Christmas as such. But I did miss the innocence of the central story of Christmas, which permeated the activities that I was no longer a part of.

By this time, I was well acquainted with the entire Weihnachtsoratorium of Bach. Towards the end of his life, Bach created two incredible choral edifices: the St Matthew Passion, and the Mass in B minor. The Christmas Oratorio is a more humble, human-scaled creation, more comfortable for ordinary human beings, a family-friendly miracle, possibly more musically inspired than Handel's Messiah, but equally accessible. (Don't get me wrong; Messiah is a miracle itself. Messiah is a further step towards the melody-dominated world of Mozart than is Bach's Oratorio.)

 So I listened to the Weihnachtsoratorium (=Christmas Oratorio) over and over again, and it has become a way of going once again, with the shepherds, to see the child in the manger, to paraphrase the beautiful bidding prayer of the King's College service of carols. And this year, there are for me two more upon another shore and in a greater light, as it must be for those of you who have lost loved ones.

A few years ago, I had to sit down and write a story that would keep me company through the season, but to my joy, I discovered a story that perfectly captured my feelings, and here's an excerpt. Christine is a young eleventh-grader, involved in a music festival at which the Bach oratorio is to be performed, and Maria is a German contralto soloist. Christine has been assigned to "babysit" Maria, who has turned up a little earlier than expected.

Archimedes

The Alchemists -- Geary Gravel

Geary Gravel has written a number of science fiction stories, a few of them in a lighter vein (Breakneck Boys) than others. In The Alchemists, he depicts the bewildering variety of cultures and human types that could blossom in an age where interstellar travel is commonplace. (While we struggle to conserve the sad remnants of fossil fuels on Terra, those of us who can dream of intergalactic transportation are lucky indeed.)

Not many in the modern world have the luxury of regarding his fellow prisoners on the planet with the benign curiosity of Geary Gravel. Often those of us who travel widely do not have the time to spend in scrutiny of such trivial things as interesting people. Those of us who do not travel are often surrounded by personalities who, unfortunately, are interesting only in their natural habitat. As a result, modern novels feature few fully fleshed-out characters.

In contrast, one is swept along with total belief in all the personalities Geary Gravel reveals in The Alchemists. Most importantly, Gravel (or Pebbles, as I call him when nobody is watching) lavishes sincere affection on all these characters. If the author does not love his characters, nobody else is going to, are they? (Maybe they are. "Oh you poor li'l thing; was naughty ol' Author mean to 'oo?") The seven or eight characters are gathered as an investigative team, to study a species of being in a distant planet, to decide whether the species qualifies as "human". (One of the most interesting of the characters is the major domo of an intelligent dwelling, called The Hut, an incorporeal personality that is the logistician of the team, and cook and butler all rolled into one.) Some committee somewhere will pass judgment on the planet and the species; and if they are judged less than human, they will be interned in preserves or zoos, and the planet 'developed' for real humans. Unfortunately, except for their appearance, the species under investigation appears completely subhuman, lacking speech, culture, intelligence or anything human at all. The leader of the investigative team, frustrated with the entire philosophy of the ruling elite and its expansionist policies, is determined to obtain a favorable judgment for the species. The specialists gathered to help him are all persuaded to support his plan. [Added 9/3:] Something that struck me might be relevant to a potential reader: the subtext (and not much disguised at all) is the question of what exactly it means to be human. This is an issue of only theoretical importance to me, but of course of burning significance of those who are torn by the abortion debate. Several of the characters in the novel come of branches of humanity that have diverged so far that they have abilities and cultural conditioning that would dismay most of us.

On the other extreme is The Hut, cautiously under the radar, struggling to approach the human ideal through some vague imperative of its programming, or perhaps completely unintendedly. The naive blunders of HAL9000 are only mildly echoed here; if one wanted a HAL today, it would look very much like The HUT. There is no doubt that the subject-matter is deeply felt. The writing is poetic and loaded with passion; the frustrations of the team members, aggravated by their cultural differences fuel the tension that Gravel ruthlessly laces the pages with. (One thing he does beautifully is to depict the struggle of a weak but determined female character. Such characters, such an important part of my own youth, seem to be either a dying breed, or sidelined from popular fiction.) Perhaps one indication of the affection Pebbles bears this creation of his is that there is a sequel, the beautiful and enigmatic The Pathfinders. An author who lavishes thought and love into creating a universe and a collection of interesting characters has to be forgiven for not wishing to abandon them at the end of a couple of hundred pages. Pebbles sets the sequel in the same world, but lets the new character of Ai breathe, free of the characters of Alchemists, until shortly before the end of the second novel. Both books are strongly recommended. Buy them, and love them!

Archimedes