Balance

Well, my time in the US of A is practically up. Went to my final seminar this morning, with Gayatri Spivak - who is brilliant and rather terrifying. All that awaits me now is a panel session later this afternoon, followed by the final banquet (and drinks afterwards, no doubt). Time to balance the books, I reckon.

Things I will not miss:

• Going into town down the hill and, especially, having to trudge back up the same. If you find this silly, come and walk that stretch yourself - then we'll talk again.
• My dorm bed which is so squeaky that it wakes me up, and so generally crappy that the only way to get a proper night's sleep is to put the mattress on the floor and sleep there.
• Pubs that stop serving drinks at one a.m. and, in the same league, the law that says it is illegal to drink outside - yep, that's right; imagine Gentse Feesten indoor...
• Collegetown food options. Bored of them.
  
• Having only one adapter, and sockets only under the bed - I must look like an utter twerp when I unplug my laptop in order to recharge my phone.
• A small minority of people who find themselves so smart and important that they monopolise discussions by spouting jargon-laden fountains of drivel.

Things I will miss:

• Burgers. Yummie.
• Conversation with people from very divers backgrounds, with an intelligent interest in divers things - it's a very pleasant way of picking up fresh knowledge.
• Spontaneous parties developing in the courtyard.
• Gorges. Especially one beautiful specimen that has a smallish waterfall at one end and runs into a smallish lake - it's deep, it's (usually) void of unwanted people, and it's probably the best spot I have ever swum in.
• The Cornell campus (and library) - surprisingly pretty to a non-campus person like myself.
• Above all: a good deal of new and wonderful friends, whom I am not likely to see again very soon. Long live the Internet and the globalisation of data as a wonderful side-effect of capitalism.

For Auld Lang Syne.

Books, books, books... and biscuits.

Having access to one of the largest research libraries in the States makes one think about one's home institution and its way of doing books - a comparison not altogether favourable for my beloved Alma Mater. I know, of course, that Ghent simply doesn't have the kind of money to spend that Cornell has, so I won't hold the impressive (but not very pretty) new "Kroch Library" against it (Kroch is an add-on to the older library building, but largely underground, with high-end facilities for preserving and viewing the more precious items in the collection, exhibition spaces and so on), but it is really mainly the general organisation of the library that makes Ghent look a bit backward: for instance, this library is open from 8 till 9 every week day, it is open on Saturday, and even on Sunday afternoon. I won't even begin to compare that to the parochial opening hours of the Eng Lit library in Ghent (I used to think it actively tried to thwart thesis-writing students' attempts at getting to books - now I know it's just understaffed and inefficient), but our main library is also pretty primitive by those standards. Apart from that, the book stacks are openly accessible, so you can simply go in and get your book when you need it, and there is plenty of reading space in the building (and, very much unlike our reading room, these are generally smaller and pleasant spaces with comfortable chairs if you want one). One of these spaces is in the White Library - look at those pictures and tell me you wouldn't want a living room like that. (The White library is named after A.D. White, the first president of Cornell, who also has an eponymous White Hall and - somewhat unfortunately - White House .) Indeed, it is surprising to a prejudiced European like myself that this library is not only way more advanced when it comes to logistics (and internet sources), but also (as you can see) far more aesthetically pleasing and conducive to study than ours.

Lévi Strauss suggested (somewhat problematically, I grant) that you do not go and visit other cultures in order to change them, but in order to come back and change your own culture according to what you have learned. Well, maybe the people who are organising our new facultary library should come and take a look at the way Cornell Library (or any other big American university library, I'm sure) is being run... Not all is rotten in the States of America, after all. Even if only because, here, you can at least get a coffee and a nibble in the library - consumer culture; you gotta love it.

The Professor of Puritanism

Martha Nussbaum is a philosopher who dabbles in Law, Ethics, and Development, and, to me, she is first and foremost the critic who, in '99, launched a vicious (and rather personal) attack on Judith Butler. Needless to say, I did not really like her in advance, but decided to give her the benefit of doubt when she presented a paper here on Tuesday, and offered a seminar on Thursday.

She quickly squandered that benefit.

We were expected to read the first two chapters of her forthcoming book Liberty of Conscience. In Defense of America's Tradition of Religious Equality. (A title in which nearly every word is problematic, and which, on the whole, is simply disconcerting.) So we start reading, and we read: "This is a country that respects people's committed search for a way of life according to their consciences. This is also a country that has long understood that liberty of conscience is worth nothing if it is not equal liberty." Well, how nice, and what a wonderful world... Nussbaum, herself a Christian turned "committed Jew", goes on to tell us how America has a laudable history of dealing with religious diversity, which could and should be held up as a model for those backward European states where everyone is so intolerant of other religions: "Used to the idea that citizens are all alike, many Europeans have thought little about how to live with people who are different." Well... really? Have you taken leave of your historical senses, Martha?

Her second chapter is all about that joker Roger Williams, founder of Rhode Island, whom Martha considers a more important thinker about religious diversity than John Locke, and from whom, of course, those backward European states could learn a lot.

I don't feel like elaborating on her argument, as I can feel myself getting annoyed, not to say angry, again. Not that I mind criticism of Europe, but to uphold America as a model of "liberty of conscience" (whatever that is) seems not only stupid, but simply dangerous as well. Nussbaum's paper was received with general disgust, and her lecture (more of the same) equally so: for a moment, I reckoned that, if she writes drivel like this, she would at least be a good speaker - for how else would she become the academic celebrity that she is? - but that was clearly too generous a reasoning on my part.

The woman's seminar was, if possible, even more disappointing: I had dragged myself out of bed (bit of a late night) to see her face the fury of the mob, only to be numbed by a 45-minute lecture about the American legal system (of which I was really not sure what it had to do with anything - but, then again, I did switch off after about five minutes). After that Martha showed us how, if you only know enough about court cases, you do not need to answer any critical questions: just talk associatively about whatever suits you best whenever any one, like my humble self, politely yet assertively wonders how on earth she can write that "President Bush has made numerous commendable efforts to express respect for Islam" when this is the same man who invoked the rhetoric of "crusades" to invade two muslim countries. For, surely, there is a world beyond America?

To Martha, the world beyond America consists of India, which she loves and likes to refer to (presumably because she apparently had an affair with Amartya Sen, the Indian economist, or because, as she told us repeatedly, the elephant is her favourite animal), because religion, apparently, has nothing to do with global politics. Really, Martha? Are you taking leave of your political senses as well?

So anyway, you folks back in Europe, remember that we can learn a lot from the Puritans who heroically founded this wonderful country and, according to Martha, were really rather friendly to those Native Americans... If you believe that sort of rot, you can go and buy Martha's book next year. I certainly won't.

Life is a Cabernet

Chances are you have never encountered the Finger Lakes Region on the label of a bottle of wine. I don't think I had, previously, nor did I know that New York state even produces wine. Yesterday, I went and found out why this is. And if you think that this place is really too far north to produce decent wine, I'm afraid you're entirely right.

With seven other people who share a love of critism, theory, and the juice of the vine, I headed north along Cayuga lake, to the area where most of the local wineries are. (The fact that two of those people not only own cars, but also took the trouble of driving up to Ithaca from Texas and California, greatly facilitated this endeavour.)

Our first stop was a place called "Swedish Hill" (another one you're not likely to have seen on any bottle) and discovered that the NY State climate is really not conducive to producing great red wine. While the whites were not generically very horrible, we continued our quest along three more vineyards, trying to find something drinkable - and being generally disappointed. To conclude our afternoon, we ended up having the worst fish and chips ever in the most American restaurant imaginable.

But, you know what - it is truly amazing how much fun you can have on really bad wine and terrible food, if everyone is willing to at least see the irony of the whole thing (and few things are more straightforwardly funny than seeing people discretely dumping glasses of really bad wine over their shoulders as soon as the winemaker has turned her back). I don't think the NY wine industry truly appreciated our little gang of wine critics, but the feeling was definitely mutual.

Stanley Fish and the Houses of the Holy

Yesterday, I was so fortunate as to attend one of the most remarkable public lectures I'd ever seen: Stanley Fish gave a talk entitled "Change the World on Your Own Time", and, though no one seemed to agree with him, the man provided food for thought and conversations that ran on till late into the night.

Fish is not only an eminent Milton scholar, but also very much a public intellectual, regularly publishing op-ed pieces in The New York Times, in which he frequently speaks out against everything academics and left-wing intellectuals like to stand for. (For instance, he has the nerve of tackling Richard Dawkins' widely acclaimed The God Delusion, and he has an essay collection called There's No Such Thing As Free Speech, and it's a Good Thing, Too.)

On this particular occasion, he began by outlining a court case in which a teenager was expelled from school because of a banner he had made and displayed. Poking some mild fun at the Supreme Court, and particularly Justice Clarence Thomas (a universally despised republican of the worst kind who, in this case, claimed that civil rights do not apply to schools), Fish then went on to assert that he agreed entirely with everything Thomas had written in his conclusions about the case. People actually gasped, while others turned to each other in utter bewilderment, puzzled faces asking: surely he didn't say that? Did he?

By this point, I had already decided that this one was going to be worth listening to - for the man had just ad libbed his entire introduction more eloquently than most people ever manage to write a text, and captivated his audience to an extent I haven't seen here, yet. He then polemically went on to tell this gathering of Criticism and Theory people that academia needs to stop doing politics in the classroom... this may not sound like a bold statement as such (particularly to people who are used to a European model of teaching and politics), but a lot of folks here regard College education as a means to convert or confirm students to left-wing politics. And, of course, as Fish very well knows, there isn't a seminar in this particular course that is not explicitly political.

It was thus a token of pure nerve and rhetorical confidence that this man did not just present his very polemical paper; he also broke it up into pieces and gave the audience the opportunity to react to what he had just said, rather than having one big discussion at the end. He got some very critical questions, strong arguments, and persuasive responses, but he had a way of catching anything that was hurled at him, poking holes in it, and casually tossing it away again. Water off a duck's back.

When I grow up, I think I want to be able to speak like Stanley Fish. Who cares if it's wrong? At least it's provocative, and, surely, nothing is healthier than a good kick against the shins, from time to time. Think I'll buy his Milton book.

Pizza Paradigm

Imagine, if you will, a really good Italian pizza. A thin and crunchy crust, a dab of freshly made tomato sauce, some thinly sliced vegetables sprinkled on top, accompanied by some parma ham, topped with a delicate hint of mozarella - a beautifully balanced symphonie of tasty goodness. If you are doing this properly, your mouth should now be watering, and something deep down tempts you towards Pane e Vino. But don't go yet - I'll take the urge away for you by playing a simple trick of size: now, slowly allow your mental pizza to enlarge. It expands, and epands in all directions. Not only does your pizza spread , the crust also becomes thicker, and, all of a sudden, the topping becomes far more elaborate. The thin slices of Parma ham become more like chunks of bacon, the tomato sauce threatens to overflow, some more random stuff is piled on, and, above all, the amount of cheese - goodness gracious, the amount of cheese (and it's not even just fresh mozarello anymore, it's turning into heaps of processed fat)! Allow this process to go on until one slice of pizza (let's say an eighth of the whole thing) contains about one and a half time the amount of nutrients your entire original pizza was made up of.

I believe you will agree with me that the symphony of flavours has become rather skewed, and the music now sounds less like Mozart than like a power-drill. And yet, something like this is exactly the evolution the pizza, that once so noble carrier of Old World values, has undergone in the United States. You do not order a pizza, in this country, 'cause you wouldn't know what to do with it (it feeds something like 7 to 10 people), you order a slice.

I hate to generalise, but the Pizza Paradigm is not unapplicable to the way Americans tend to do food: big and, above all, rarely very subtle. Mind you, I have eaten very good things here, and will readily admit that American pizza does not taste at all bad. It's just that I'm beginning to long for a bite that is not just healthy or tasty (no problem finding any of that, here), but a true delight of balance and elegance... Interestingly, the closest I've come to that so far was at a barbeque I went to, yesterday. The Canadian who hosted it, Franz, is an amazing cook (who even made the tahini for the hommos himself), and the marinated porc was brilliant, as were the tofu satés. I'm definitely going to talk him into cooking for his fans more often.

So there is the Pizza Paradigm, but, like with all good theories, it is not all-encompassing. There are glimpses of light in this culinary darkness. And I guess I'll survive without Pane e Vino for just a bit longer.

Land of the Free

The time has definitely come to cast some substantial criticism on this country I happen to be in at the moment. Much as I am willing to criticise my own prejudices and reconsider my preconceptions, there is one thing that stands out as amazingly backward and hypocritical in everyday life, and it roughly boils down to the (phonetically interesting) fascination with ID.

Back in Belgium, as I'm sure we all know and appreciate, legal drinking age is sixteen, which is young enough for nobody to actually worry about it. I remember having my very first innocuous public house lager at the age of twelve (just one, and no harm done). That is unimaginable in this American culture. Every time I order a drink here, or, in some cases, just want to walk into a bar, there will be someone demanding to see some form of identification (which, for foreigners like myself, means a passport; and I do not like having to carry my passport on me when going out, but what's the alternative, right?)

The discrepancy between American drinking habits (yes, people do drink, and they drink a lot, here) and American drinking policies is, to my simple European mind, overwhelming. You need to be 21 to get a drink, but if you press the natives a bit harder on that matter, they acknowledge that no teenager stays sober till that age and that "most of 'em got fake IDs". To me, that distinctly sounds like legalism taken a few steps too far.

Similarly, it is impossible in this state (NY) to get a simple beer after 1am. Certainly, there are far worse imaginable limits to man's freedom than that, but it is symptomatic of the ambivalence that bothers me. Last night, me and a Swedish fellow ran over to a 24/7 grocery store to get some beers for a bunch of nice people who had gathered in the courtyard of this "dorm" for a chat, and were told off at the counter for wanting to buy alcoholic beverages after 1. You can have beer for breakfast, here, but not as a nightcap. (I am trying to picture the revolution that would sweep across Belgium if beers became impossible after one o'clock, and I'm seeing polticians being drowned in Duvel barrels.)

To lift the general level of this post, let me refer to a conversation with Bruce Robbins (my favourite professor here), during which we agreed that "freedom" has become a totally empty signifier - a "place-holder", "quilting point" or "point de capiton" if you like Lacanian parlance (which I don't, particularly). This corroborated not only my sentiments about alcohol (and other) legislation in the US of A, it also very much affirms my conviction that Big Words like Liberty and - above all - Democracy should be banned from political debates (Belgian politics especially).

Speaking of Belgium: when it becomes possible for right extremists to make "democracy" the rhetorical centre of their discourse, you know that the word doesn't mean anything anymore. When it becomes possible for the christian democrats (whatever that means) in Flanders to win a landslide election victory with a slogan like "goed bestuur" [sth. like "good government"], it signals that the first and foremost political battle to be fought is a battle for meaning and "meaningfulness". It would be very interesting to see what political conservatives might have to say if their safe concepts - or what Hemingway called "the dirty, easy labels" - were blown away. Not much, is my guess. In fact, I may as well anounce it publicly: since the last elections (and being here has certainly reinforced the idea), I have seriously been thinking of joining a particular political party when I get back (I guess most of you know which one that would be). Somehow, it seems like serious political thought needs all the help it can get. I'll never be a politician, but (being in this very political seminar, here), it feels more and more unfair or untenable to stand in the meadow and, like a cow, watch the trains go by. In terms of beer and politics, I definitely prefer ideas to IDs.

Naturally

Have you ever considered running around Ghent University? Probably not, I would venture - and I can't say I disagree. Jogging around the Cornell campus, however (actually, around about half of it) is an intense 40-minute masochistic experience. Intense because of the way the plateau on which Cornell is located is everything but flat, and masochistic because the gorges about which the faithful reader of this blog has by now heard so much are so steep they come with stairs to enable one to get in and out of them. My favourite part is the bit where, after crossing a suspension bridge which is itself already high above the water (see picture taken from bridge), you run up stairs to climb about 50 m - after that one, I pause to give myself time to remember who and where and am, but not enough to start wondering why exactly I'm doing this. On the plus side, my run takes me along quite a few beautiful or at least agreeable spots (Cascadilla Creek, Beebe Lake, Falls Creek, and down along the center of the campus with all its mock-gothic architecture).

Speaking of agreeable spots, I went on a somewhat elaborate hike, yesterday, to a place with the wonderful name "Buttermilk Falls". I have not found out what the connection with buttermilk is, but the Falls part at least is obvious (again, see pic). Walking along this particular gorge (you can only see a small part of the actual Falls in the picture, but it's the grandest possible view of the thing) is a long and tiring climb, but well worth it. Not that I'm becoming a nature freak or an outdoor person, but, hey - if there's nothing else to do, you might as well take a walk, right? I see it entirely as a transcendentalist and therefore theoretically challenging experience, of course.

As you may have gathered from the photographs, the weather here is generally superb, with temperatures around 85°F (that's roughly 30°C) today, and probably into the nineties later this week. O, and they do rather vehement thunderstorms out here, as well... Everything is bigger in America - even the weather.

The Question of Our Speech

I have taken a significant step in broadening my linguistic abilities, social skills, and street credibility: my dealings with the local populace are increasingly negotiated by means of a decidedly American accent on my part. I have not yet extended this amazing endeavour to any intelligent conversation (for I can't really keep it up for long) but, who knows and why not?
No, I have not given in to the imperialist pressures of the States, and I am not going to transform myself into a Yank (above all, I solemnly pledge that I will not take to wearing trainers when I'm not out running), but, believe me, one gets very tired of requesting a slice of tomato on a sandwich and having that statement reciprocated with an eloquent "What!?" from the person behind the counter. The same goes for a simple beer - as if anyone would ever order a "bee" in a pub. And, rather than tarnishing my impeccable British accent with utterances like "tomaaydo", "ledduce", "beerr" or "Makerrs Marrk" (as dear old Henry said, "it is the repetition that drives home the ugliness"), I decided to go all the way, at least in those situations where comprehension is both at risk, and vital.
And, guess what, in a weird way, assimilation feels quite liberating, so that I now cordially answer the standard "How are you doin' " with a jovial "I'm good, how are you", without spontaneously thinking that whole ubiquitous ritual a shallow charade anymore. It is, after all, rather nice to be asked how you are by someone you have never seen before and only want to obtain, say, a pita from. Ya know, it's totally aaaawesooooome!

Tastes of Paradise

If you have ever found yourself wondering why we drink so much coffee, love chocolate, and go out drinking in taverns rather than stay at home, I can recommend Wolfgang Schivelbusch's Tastes of Paradise. A Social History of Spices, Stimulants, and Intoxicants. It's on my reading list, and, being the good boy that I am, I managed to read the thing yesterday (there's a good deal of pictures in it, which helps). The book is full of interesting and unexpected insights, such a this one: "The taste for pepper [in the late Middle Ages] showed symptoms of having become an addiction. Once habituated to the spices of India, Europe was ready to do anything to gratify its craving. In the ensuing quest for a sea route to India, land of pepper, the discovery of the New World was, more or less, a by-product."

Indeed, that's the kind of thing I get excited about, these days - what else would you expect; yesterday, I actually overheard a pub conversation beginning with the memorable line "So what do you think of Foucault's biopolitics?" This is the kind of place where people like myself join reading groups like "Agamben's Gorges" (there are no less than two spectacular gorges actually on campus, and "Ithaca's Gorges" is a widely favoured T-shirt slogan in these parts). I also heard that this summer course is nicknamed "theory boot camp" by the local university staff - which makes one imagine drill sessions involving sit-ups with a copy of Phänomenologie des Geistes behind your head. Must remember that idea for next year's teaching.

Seminar and the City

A three hour seminar called "Transational Culture" on Monday morning may not spontaneously sound like a hoot, and I must admit I did not cherish great expectations about its entertainment value. However, I am already pretty much converted to the transnational, and am in the process of becoming a Bruce Robbins acolyte (BR being the professor leading the seminar). The combination of an open, relaxed atmosphere, a geographically, culturally and academically very diverse but clearly motivated class group of about twenty people, and substantial food for thought certainly makes for a Monday morning unlike any other.

The only potential drawback to this course is the ridiculously over-priced three hundred page reader (double-sided), and the three books (the biggest one a 700-page monster) that will need to be processed by yours truly in the course of the next few weeks.

The potential plus side is that the general atmosphere is very friendly, and that everyone will chat with anyone. Lubricated with a civilised reception, the general thrust of the opening banquet thus revolved around (in my case) casual chat about the Weimar republic and the breakdown of language, English football hooligans in contemporary literature, Edward Said and the origins of language, and squash. (See? I'm not really a nerd!) Thank God these people are not averse to spending some post-banquet time in a pub in Ithaca.

Which brings me to the exciting narrative of my search for Ithaca. I walked downtown along Cascadilla Creek, which is superbly pretty, in search for some sort of urban life. Painful was the realization that those two blocks generously named "Ithaca Commons" really do constitute the heart and soul of this would-be town. Considering that Cornell is located on the top of a bloody big hill, the stroll downtown (quite literally, in this case) and back is not exactly rewarding. I do understand the town's name, now: Odysseus wouldn't be able to find this one either.


Off to hear what Dominic LaCapra has to say about "Witnessing, Trauma, and the Sublime" now - toodle-pip.

Falls

I have thought it through now, and I'm beginning to believe that what Ghent University misses is an on-campus waterfall. From my bedroom, I can hear Cascadilla Creek splashing its way down, and it's really quite soothing. Surely, our beloved Blandijn would be the perfect location from which to have a brook of some sort splashing down - I'll vote in favour.



My first day in Ithaca confirmed what I expected: the landscape is very nice in these parts, and the Cornell campus is a whole lot more pleasant than that aesthetically pathetic excuse for a faculty of arts we have in Ghent, but Ithaca itself is, as a town, not particularly inspriring (but I must confess I haven't quite made it "downtown" yet - though I have mentally labelled "Collegetown" Collegevillage). I'm sure it will be good enough for six weeks, though, especially as I ended up at a pub with good music, cheap beer, and interesting company, last night... and we agreed that, if this was day zero, we were in for a rather vivacious month-and-a-half.

So vivacious, in fact, that, in a moment of madness, I committed myself to a six-thirty AM running date (that's not a new and trendy type of date - it means I'm going for a run with a chap called David) to warm up for our first seminar later this morning. Wish me luck.

Airbored

Philadelphia Airport, 16/6, 18.45

Hooray, here’s my very first blog entry – not so much because I have anything remotely interesting to report, but rather because I’m bored out of my mind, and I’m still facing more than an hour’s wait at this dreary gate F 30. Also, even though it’s not quite seven in the evening yet, my internal clock tells me it’s getting late, and my computer clock confirms that, indeed, it is in fact ten to one tomorrow morning – and Henry James gets a bit demanding around that time.

If you’ve got about five hours to kill in an airport, you end up almost feeling grateful for the absurd amount of security checks one goes through – most pretty nominal, though. Surely, no one really expects would be terrorists to proudly declare they are visiting the US of A to try and shoot the president or blow up the Pentagon, or that they will acquire a new face or passport over the course of the two-hundred metres that separate the immigration officer from the customs people and the airport security officers. My facial features have been scrutinised just under ten times today (so far), so I’m pretty sure I’m still me – which is always good to know.

I’m sure Philly is a lovely place to visit, but I wouldn’t particularly recommend terminal F. Clean enough, sure, but the sights are not inspired, and the only pub in the area is disgustingly expensive. It did allow me to find out, though, that a “buffalo chicken sandwich” doesn’t remotely resemble my idea of a sandwich but looks an awful lot like a hamburger and comes with chips (fries, that is) and a purely nominal hint of lettuce and tomato (half a slice of the latter).