Daily updates – Page 177 – a sibilant intake of breath

Recalling my first European visit

Today was dark and rainy. It involved little more than sitting in different parts of the Social Sciences Library reading The Economist, Donald Watt’s How War Came, Anthony Adamthwaite’s The Making of the Second World War, and the collection The Origins of World War Two: The Debate Continues, edited by Robert Boyce and Joseph Moile. In spite of reasonable efforts to do so, I don’t feel particularly compelled to read for this week’s topic, on appeasement during the 1930s. That said, it is fairly likely that Dr. Hurrell will assign me a paper on it during our meeting tomorrow.

Despite a period in the JCR bar with Kelly and Nora, a phone call home, and the doing of laundry, today certainly cannot be considered a particularly energetic one. As such, it seems a better idea to use this space describing something else.

The first time I went to Europe was before Sasha, my youngest brother, was born. Mica, the brother who is either two or three years younger than I am, depending on who has already had a birthday that year, was still drinking out of the kind of bottles that infants are like to. Very clearly, I remember a piazza, somewhere in Italy, when on a hot and sun-struck afternoon, Mica and I splashed each other and sprayed water at one another out of the aforementioned bottles.

During that trip, I tried swimming for the first time, as a place called Spagio Romea. I remember this large, toadstool shaped protrusion in the shallow end of the room that stood over it like a massive umbrella. A sheet of water would pour over its rounded top, then fall like a glassy plane before breaking frothily at the boundary with the pool’s surface. Aside from the new experience of swimming, quite possibly the best thing about Spagio Romea was the unending supply of free Mentos candies: a thing that had not yet been seen in North America.

When I was rather younger than I now am, but not nearly as much younger as when I first went to Italy, I spent a lot of time swimming. For several years, the smell of chlorine never really left my clothes and hair. During my later years there, I remember cycling from Cleveland Elementary School – which Jonathan, Alison, and I attended – to William Griffin Pool, through Edgemont Village.

Back then, the Red Cross designated swimming levels by colours: beginning with yellow and ending with white. I had to take maroon at least three times, but ended up finishing white and life-saving II before my age would permit me to move on to the next level, which I believe was called Bronze Cross. After two years of not swimming with any regularity, while I was becoming old enough to take that course, I found myself quite completely unable to do so. As I am sure anyone who has done something quite actively, several times a week will know: you can’t just take a two year break and then begin again where you left off.

I haven’t really swam since, except once in a while and always with the pressing knowledge that I used to be rather better at it. Even though I still enjoy doing it, the gracelessness with which I manage it is more than enough to dissuade me from doing so except under the most casual of scrutiny. Ineptitude that you have always possessed can be laughed off, but newfound ineptitude is a mortifying thing.

First Cowley Road foray

Today was refreshing. I took a walk to Cowley Road with Margaret and was excited by what I saw: intriguing looking ethnic restaurants, the brewery where the Hobgoblin Ale enjoyed at the bloggers’ gathering is made, as well as plenty of bike shops, used book stores, and small grocery stores. I am not sure whether my initial comparison to Commercial Drive is an accurate one. The balance between businesses is quite different (though the profusion of relatively inexpensive barber shops has rekindled hopes that my hair will soon return to a manageable length). The not-inconsiderable distance from Wadham to the area has made me think again about getting a bicycle. They had some used ones available for about eighty quid. I am not sure how much it would cost to have my bike in Vancouver sent by the cheapest form of surface mail, but that is worth looking into as an alternative.

Today also involved a lot of non-academic reading. I read a very interesting thesis about how John Walker – a spy in the American Navy – conducted an incredibly effective espionage campaign on behalf of the Soviet Union over a period of years. In particular, it is illustrative of the kind of huge security failures that can take place when there is inadequate communication between different agencies, as well as excessive secrecy applied in the wrong places. I also read from Terry Pratchett’s Wyrd Sisters, which Nora passed on to me when she found out that I was reading the sequel: Witches Abroad.

I also purchased the Philip Pullman edition of Paradise Lost and read the introduction and first two books. Reading Book II to Nora the other day reminded me what an engaging and enjoyable poem it is, and how worthwhile it will be, in the long run, to have a nice copy. The only bits I have a recall particularly well are the second book and the invocation to the Muse. I am not entirely certain of whether it is the right sort of reading material to mark out the spaces between stats and the study of international history in the interwar period. In the end, though, what could go wrong?

I called Lindi this evening to wish her a happy birthday. It was good to speak with her. She is still working on research for NASA, though her boss is apparently doing classified work for the Department of Homeland Security, as well. In ages of the world long past, Lindi and I were lab partners for Biology 10 – back at our mutual high school. When I was in first year, she lived in the tower adjoining mine in the Totem Park complex at UBC. She had considerable skill at playing the piano, as well as miraculous abilities of cooking better food than the cafeteria could offer, using only a miniature fridge and a toaster oven. Despite the fact that we share an enthusiasm for tramping about in the wilds of British Columbia, I can’t remember a time when we actually managed to do so together.

Surrounded, for the second night in a row, with the bursting and banging of fireworks and self-charged with the role of reporting on life in Oxford, I set out to find Guy Fawkes Night. I should have known better. I began heading southward, down Cornmarket and then St. Aldates, across the Folly Bridge and down Abingdon Street. I was following the boom and flash of explosions that always seemed about a kilometre and a half away: due South.

What I realized, eventually, is that that Guy Fawkes Day is a decentralized holiday. My efforts to find it fared no better than the efforts of Bilbo and the dwarves in The Hobbit to crash the forest party of the elves. Guy Fawkes Day happens all around, but nowhere where people really congregate – at least, nowhere I could find. Several times, once I was about three kilometres out of Oxford, I passed a field from which a huddled group let forth a few volleys of fireworks, but there were no bonfires to be found and nothing with the appearance of a thing that a stranger can just wander into.

This is the antithesis of Vancouver’s Symphony of Fire: in which enormous masses of people congregate in the same place to watch a large, centrally provided show of pyrotechnics. It’s a different kind of community in Vancouver, I suppose: one too large for an individual to play a role in defining, but one inclusive enough that it can just roll along, adding new people to its bulk.

All that said, the night is yet young – the JCR bop that is to occur tonight hasn’t even begun, though I already have a good sense of what it will involve. Despite the very heavy police presence that Friday and Saturday nights seem to bring to the centre of Oxford, it can be an extremely rowdy place. Not in the sense of violence, but rather extreme noisesomness and general low-level harassment of passers-by.

And in luxurious cities, where the noise
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers,
And injury and outrage: and when night
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
(PL I:498)

Perhaps, with the passage of a bit more time, I will make another attempt to locate a Guy Fawkes bonfire. It would definitely help to have some inside information from a longer-term resident than myself. Likewise, it would be good to have someone to explore with. The cluster of people with whom I’ve spent the bulk of my time is really very small, and I soon begin to feel guilty for imposing upon them. I must widen my circle of social acquaintances, so as not to excessively press myself upon any of them.

PS. Here is an interesting video (Quicktime) of what you can manage if you are bold enough to attach a Mac Mini driven projector to the side of a Berlin subway car.

Happy Birthday Lindi Cassel

Personal narrative:

So ends a chilly fall day in Oxford: the last few days and nights here have heavily involved sweaters and jackets. The air has that particular crispness that, in Vancouver, would make you wonder if one of the next few days just might be the one day of snowfall we will get that year.

Today brought a new issue of The Economist, though no stats-related declaration. Apparently, it is to be worked on more over the weekend. I also received an email from Dr. MacFarlane in response to my letter today, in which he counsels me to cooperate with other students in making a proposal: “If there are others who feel similarly, it might be useful to make representations collectively to those in charge of the curriculum in question.” Having official sanction takes some of the fun out of it, but increases the chances they will listen to us.

Tomorrow, I am making my second attempt at finding Cowley Road. The first was with Nora last night and, partly owing to our very vague sense of where this fabled street is located, we ended up in the grassy expanse of Oxford’s South Park instead. It’s a place I had been to once before, in the summer after twelfth grade, when I attended a Radiohead concert there along with a young woman who I met in London. By night, and after the close quarters that embody Oxford, it seemed massive.

Tomorrow’s attempt at finding Cowley Road is taking place in the morning, with Margaret, and will include a determined effort to find the Tesco’s located there. Having purchased all my food so far at Sainsbury’s, it’s time to have a look at the competition. Hopefully, they will have Kimchi Noodle Bowls and Dave’s Insanity Sauce – both of which are tragically absent from even the large Sainsbury’s near Nuffield. Cowley Road, for those unfamiliar with the place, is the core of the more ethnic part of Oxford: the place I am told you should go for good Indian food or unusual groceries. It might be fairly accurate to describe it as Oxford’s Commercial Drive (Sarah, please comment on the comparison) and I am therefore understandably keen on finding it. I would rather like to make the acquaintance of at least one resident of Oxford who is not attending the university.

Academic commentary:

During Dr. Welsh’s lecture yesterday, I pondered why the kind of ‘scientific’ approach to international relations much loved by neo-realists strikes me as so inappropriate. Partly, I think, it has to do with what science is good at. Science is good at formulating theories on the basis of things that are either simple enough to be directly testable or that can be broken down into bits that are. So far, at least, it is much less capable of dealing with complex dynamic systems: whether climatic patters, ecosystems, stock market interactions, or human thought processes. For the kind of things that you just cannot understand by breaking down into testable bits, the scientific process as it has been generally applied cannot offer a great deal of understanding. This is not to say that science isn’t mounting an increasingly determined and effective effort to deal with these kinds of phenomena, but merely that it is a long way from achieving it. Consisting of complex interactions between individuals, institutions (national and international), states, and non-state actors, international relations falls much more into the category of interdependent complexity. Like picking one strain of conversation out of the general hubbub of a busy pub or recognizing complex patterns, understanding IR is something that the brain has an intuitive ability to comprehend that tends to exceed our mathematical ability to model.

On Monday evening, I am meeting with Dr. Hurrell to discuss the second paper I have written for him. The present enjoyable lull in schoolwork is destined to be short-lived. Doubtless, he will assign me another paper to write during the following ten to fourteen days. The next statistics assignment is due on Wednesday (does anyone want to get together to work on it?) and the next core seminar paper is due on the 22nd of November: six days before my birthday and in the middle of the period during which Nick Sayeg will be in the United Kingdom. At least it is extremely unlikely that I will be called upon to present in the core seminar on Tuesday.

Miscellaneous bits:

More distressing news on the present level of respect being shown for human rights by the American government. (Link to NY Times) Sometimes, it is positively scary to have such a neighbour as Canada does.
Anyone who has always wanted to buy one of Napoleon’s teeth now has the opportunity.
It looks as though Canada has another federal election upcoming: the last one having taken place when I was in Europe the summer before last. For someone in the riding where I will vote (North Vancouver Capilano), the two candidates with any hope of being elected are the Liberal and the Tory. Given that choice, sleaze or no sleaze, I am going with the Liberals. They certainly have their failings, but they tend to be moderate in the right places and progressive where they should (though often more slowly than could be justified). Paul Martin has definitely been something of a disappointment as a leader – especially in terms of repairing Canada’s international position – but he has not been all that bad, in the end. Additionally, I feel fairly positively towards Don Bell – our present MP and former mayor of the District of North Vancouver.
For some reason, there was a lengthy period of fireworks tonight. They seem to be coming from at least three locations: the closest being New College. For some reason, when I am not actually watching them, fireworks always make me nervous. They make me think of artillery bombardment, which is odd given that I’ve never actually heard it. The persistent sirens, coming from all over the city, don’t help matters.
Tomorrow is Guy Fawkes Night, in which the British burn in effigy a man who famously tried to blow up Parliament in 1605 (five years before Wadham College was founded). I would be interested in seeing this tradition played out, so if anyone in Oxford knows where a bonfire will be taking place, I would appreciate the information.
This evening, I made a big spreadsheet outlining all my Oxford costs. Once you add up battels, college fees, vacation residence fees, and university fees, it comes to $10,849.19 a term, for three terms a year. That’s 28% higher than the estimate that I was sent back on the 4th of April, after the cost of dinners has been credited back to me, but before you incorporate the cost of food and everything aside from university and college fees. It was only when I broke the whole thing down that I realized that Wadham is charging me $62.75 a term for bed linen cleaning. I shall have to buy some sheets and opt out of that in future periods. Fingers now tightly crossed, once again, for a good scholarship next year. I will find out about the Commonwealth application in December.

Autumnal Oxford

Today was a gusty day – the fall wind tore yellowed leaves from the trees and change was in the air. I’ve always felt thrilled and empowered by windy days – they remind me how the world is not only capable of being changed but, at times, practically bursting with desire to do so. Even as you are being blown around, you are reminded inescapably that you have a will and the capacity to make a difference. That was particularly evident after our excellent lecture with Jennifer Welsh, when eighteen members of the M.Phil program met to discuss the matter of salvaging the quantitative methods course. Sitting around in the lounge beside the DPIR, I felt like part of the council of demons in Book II of Paradise Lost.

No! let us rather choose,
Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at once
O’er Heaven’s high towers to force resistless way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the torturer; when, to meet the noise
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear
Infernal thunder, and, for lightning, see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among his Angels and his throne itself
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,
His own invented torments.

We will issue a joint declaration to the department tomorrow. On a related note, Tristan is apparently now on strike, in his capacity as a research assistant at York. He is not, it seems, terribly keen on the idea. Hopefully, it will not last too long.

Jennifer Welsh, according to many people who spoke to me before my departure, is the Canadian superstar in politics at Oxford. I spoke with her for a while after her lecture about how many of the problems of political theory evaporate once you have a normative determination. Once you get beyond theory for its own sake, you can pick and choose the useful bits of all the theories out there, as a means of understanding the world and advancing certain goals. I look forward to how she will be heavily involved with the core seminar next term, when it changes focus to contemporary debates in international relations theory.

Her lecture outlined the key elements of neo-realism, reo-liberal institutionalism, and constructivism as general areas within IR theory, as well as the critiques they make of one another. She was an engaging and effective speaker who made her points comprehensibly and with skill. Overall, it was a reminder of the reasons for which the Oxford IR program is really quite excellent overall. She has encouraged us to read the Sage Politics Text on International Relations, which may end up being the first book I buy for myself in Oxford.

In the evening, I went to my first lecture for the Professional Training in the Social Sciences course which, according to the Notes of Guidance, we are all meant to be taking. As it happens, it was delayed and poorly publicized. Only three of us were actually in attendance. The session focused on professional ethics in social science research, so it struck me as particularly ironic that it took place in the Said School of Business. As the lecturer explained, most people interested in business think that Ethics is a county in England.

Tonight, I am going to take a bit of a break: see whether I can find something good and non-scholarly to read, generally relax, and go to sleep early. Tomorrow, I will get started on the readings for next week’s core seminar though, having presented last week (however badly), much of the pressure is off.

PS. No animals or gargoyles passed near my camera today, but I am keeping my eyes out for them.

PPS. I am eyeing the signed Philip Pullman editions of Paradise Lost at Blackwell’s with ever-diminishing restraint.

Just drifting

After a month in Oxford, you begin to realize the extent to which this is nothing like a unified institution. I don’t have the foggiest idea about who coordinates the departments and the colleges, if anyone. I’ve never had to deal with them. The closest I’ve come is some vague contact with pan-university organizations, such as inter-college mail or the university computer services. Ultimately, this place is a million academic niches; a weird underwater ecosystem where it is equally possible to thrive and be eaten by a barracuda.

This morning, I headed over to the Manor Road Building to work on statistics. I ended up banging off a strongly worded letter to the people at the department responsible for course organization. The extent to which stats is interfering with everything else I am trying to do, while not conferring anything of value upon me, is just not tolerable anymore. I finished the second assignment but, after getting 58% on the first one for failure to use the right sort of graphs and label them as desired, I am not confident. I feel rather better about the paper for Dr. Hurrell, which has now been delivered to a Nuffield pigeon hole.

I finally met my college advisor today. I dropped by the tutorial office to say hello to Joanna – my favourite Wadham employee – and discovered that Dr. Paul Martin was in the room at the time. We’ve now exchanged a few emails. It seems that he will be organizing some kind of tea with his various neglected charges in the days ahead.

Soon, I hope, I will have the chance to head down to London. Getting out of the three kilometre circle that is defining and enclosing my life might be empowering. I don’t particularly have anything to do in London, or any money to do it with, but I am definitely open to suggestion.

On a completely different note, I’ve decided to try taking photographic requests. You post something from Oxford that you want to see, whether specific or more theoretical, and I will see what I can do to capture it on a digital sensor.¹ Please keep in mind that this blog is meant to be the kind of thing that bright young eleven year olds who dream of going to Oxford one day can read. Well, almost.

[1] This idea has nothing at all to do with how boring photos of computers and libraries can be.

A very skippable post

Today was a hectic, but purely academic, Oxford day. It’s funny what kinds of things you start to miss about a place, after you have been gone for a long time. Now that Oxford is frequently dappled with rain, I find myself missing the network of buses, skytrains, and seabuses that were my best means of getting around Vancouver. Riding a 4 or 10 bus up Broadway to UBC in the afternoon, while rain makes the pavement and buildings all around look far more real than they manage in the sunshine, creates a of trance of patient familiarity. There is a comforting regularity to choosing to take the 246 from Lonsdale Quay, even though it takes 15 minutes longer than the 236, just because you don’t know what time the other bus will come and you prefer to wait while moving.

My fifth issue of The Economist in Oxford just received its last check mark. (I check off articles when I finish them, marking them according to how interesting they were, whether I might be able to write a printable response, and according to how relevant to ongoing projects.) I’ve also finished Pratchett’s Witches Abroad, though only one of the two essays which I was meant to dispatch today. I will finish the other tonight and early tomorrow, then hand deliver it to Nuffield. I hope I see Margaret again soon.

I was called upon to present in seminar today; of course, it would happen in the week when I was least prepared. That said, the essay I submitted to Dr. Wright and Fawcett is a perfectly acceptable one. That is less true of the paper for Dr. Hurrell that I am trying to finish now. It just sort of thrashes away, trying to make points but never quite managing to do so as cogently or systematically as one would want. The prospect of being back, yet again, in the Social Sciences Library at 9:00am tomorrow in order to do our second statistics assignment really doesn’t help matters.

Tomorrow night, John Ralston Saul will be speaking in New College, at 5:00pm.
Also at 5:00pm, inside Rhodes House, there will be a Rhodes Debate on reparations (not the Versailles kind).

Enjoying Halloween afternoon with a pint of… coffee

In the morning, a STATA course from the Oxford University Computer Services. In the afternoon, finalization of the core seminar paper, progress on the paper for Dr. Hurrell, and an attempt to prepare a presentation for tomorrow. There’s a certain irony bound up in how, as my chances of having to present continue to increase, my level of preparation continues to plummet. Another irony – which Emily pointed out – is that our ‘core’ seminar occupies two hours a week, while we spend twice that amount being instructed in statistics: not terribly well, as it happens. When a group of clever and hardworking students despise and disparage a course as we have been, you can be fairly confident that the fault does not lie in ourselves.

Last night, I spoke with Kate for about an hour over Skype: Kate Dillon, in Victoria, not Kate from the IR M.Phil or Kate from the bloggers’ gathering. Happily, she now has keys to go along with her desk in the Whale Lab at U.Vic. It’s always interesting to get an update on what she is doing. Today also included a brief social pause, when I had coffee in my room with a collection of Wadham grad students. All sorts of curious political jostling seems to be surrounding the MCR elections, though I can truthfully proclaim myself completely indifferent to their outcome. I hope people don’t get at one another’s throats for no reason about it.

Tonight was very productive. I finished the last edit of the core seminar paper and printed the thing off. I did some good work on the paper for Dr. Hurrell, which I will finish and edit tomorrow evening, after the quantitative methods lecture. I spent an excellent collection of hours inside the SSL, finishing the relevant section from one book and making a good start on the second. I shall be back in there at nine tomorrow. I have come to appreciate the general wonderfulness of confined books; on their account, I shall have to learn how to read in libraries.

As I made my way into the library, I spoke with Bryony for a while at the intersection of St. Cross and Manor Roads. On the way out, I spoke for a little while with Rachel: a D.Phil student in development studies at Balliol. Who’s to say that library time can’t, in some brief and narrow sense, be social?

PS. Today begins my final month of twentyoneness. Any suggestions for how I should use my final weeks?

Happy Birthday Greg Allen

I felt really strange for most of today, while sitting in the DPIR and working on one or the other paper. I felt significantly lighter than usual, as though I should sort-of bounce along like a moon astronaut. Also, I felt this impulse that seemed like a signal that should normally be attached to some need, as if to say VERY X, where X is an impulse like hunger or tiredness. When I checked, however, there was no X to feel VERY about, just some sense that I was missing something big. Such things can reduce one’s ability to concentrate.

Rather later, when walking back from dinner with Emily and her father, it occurred to me that the M.Phil in IR is rather like doing the front crawl. There are two phases: one in which your head is underwater and you are trying to move forward and the other in which you are trying to breathe, so as not to die. Like while swimming, the breathing part is always a matter of necessity and relief. It’s cyclical and it doesn’t last long. For me, it happens between Tuesday evening and Thursday, more or less.

Having dinner with Emily and her father, by contrast, was rather like getting out of the pool. sitting on the agreeable patio, and reading a good book. That has something to do with the relief of being ripped out of the narrow context of colleges, libraries, and shops where I have spent virtually all of the last month. Even though some of the time there was spent having a look at Emily’s paper and some more of it was spent discussing issues relevant to the course, it felt overall like a more thorough kind of non-school than anything else I have done so far. Even going for walks and reading books feels like the breath between two strokes, you see.

Meeting Emily’s father was engaging and worthwhile. It amused me to slip a birthday note (Ave Avi A vie) into the mail slot of Avi Shlaim, who lives next door and whose book I read in Emily’s company a few days ago. Likewise, sitting beside a fire and eating omelette were both pleasant reminders of the enormity of the non M.Phil, non IR world.

Speaking of that world, I feel compelled to respond to something Emily told me. Apparently, a good share of the M.Phil program seems to be reading this blog. (Something similar is true of the college.) My first response to hearing that is fear and the concern that I’ve said something stupid. My second response is the general feeling that people really ought to have better things to do with their time, though far be it for me to tell people what to do. In general, then, I suppose I should offer my greeting to the concealed masses. Your presence forces me to do a couple of things. Firstly, it forces me to at least try and be interesting. Even during days when I wake up and feel ghastly, try to read, do some laundry, and go to bed, I need to come up with something that won’t have people drooping with boredom and slamming shut their laptops in disgust. Now, I should be clear about one thing. I try to be entertaining for the people back in Vancouver as well. The big difference is that, since they are not here, I could probably entertain them most easily in ways somewhat different from those in which I might entertain those in Oxford. It’s the second group – the closer group – that compels me to be reasonably accurate, as well as interesting.

The second, and rather more difficult, thing that I am forced to do is be tactful. As much effort as it can require to be at least a bit interesting, it is much harder to maintain a blog as a relatively sane, civil, rant-free place. When one has the nestling comfort of obscurity all around, these things are not important. When one is standing at the centre of a group of unidentified figures, it comes rather to the forefront. All in all, it will probably be good practice. Please forgive me, in any event, the occasional lapse. Much as I try not to be, I am a fallible creature. Part of the reason for this blog is to help me process my thinking into a more refined form. It is quite possible to believe something for a long time that you instantly see the wrongness of as soon as you are challenged to write it down and explain it. Self-improvement is an aim of the blog, and life in general.

At the moment, however, there is no time for that. I have two papers due on Tuesday that exist, at present, in the state between when the individual components are welded together and laid out according to the design and the part where everything is strapped and attached and the thing is ready to fly on its own.

Many thanks to Emily for a very pleasant evening. Let us hope that the revitalization it has induced will help me to overcome the latest batch of hurdles the program has thrown my way.

PS. One last note to people reading: I would appreciate if you would participate, in some sense. I much prefer a discussion to an extended one-sided rant. I realize that it might be awkward to comment in a space that I basically have exclusive dominion over (though certainly not complete control). Therefore, I suggest that people with nothing in particular to do should consider posting on the IR forum. I really think we might be able to help each other out with things, if not actually get to know one another better.

PPS. To those asking her about it, Emily never promised to get me a job of any kind. She merely indicated that she might be able to set me looking in appropriate directions. It’s quite unfair to approach her with requests for similar treatment, just because I was careless enough to post the initial incident here.

Milan out.

Procrastinator-in-Chief

For the whole length of my academic life, I have been a shameless procrastinator. Every time I have some new and lengthy project to complete, I manage to forget this and feel increasingly ashamed and alarmed at my inability to make progress on it. At some level, this is probably predicated on the background knowledge that I’ve put off so many other projects before and made my way along relatively unscathed afterwards. At another, it reflects the curious nature of my ability to do work – especially writing. It’s something I am occasionally able to do in great, bounding bursts – completing several pages in ten minutes or so. It’s actually partly an effort to level out the rate at which I write that I have been updating this blog. Hopefully, it will beget a habit of greater consistency.

There is a certain irony in how cogent and comprehensible arguments are more easily attacked. When presented with something full of unfamiliar terms and complex arguments, it is difficult to formulate a response. Even in cases where a lot of that complexity masks underlying flaws, there is a great hesitance to accuse someone of nebulous thinking, for fear that their argument has simply been too subtle for you, or grounded in strongly differing assumptions.

Four weeks into my first term, it seems awfully early to be thinking about summer employment. That said, I will be damned if I end up working for £3.50 an hour this summer, with no benefits. Emily has suggested that she could help me get some kind of banking or consulting job in London and that, furthermore, my total lack of knowledge about either is not a serious impediment. While I do have some doubts about whether anyone would give me a real job for the period between June 17th, at the end of Trinity term, and the start of Michaelmas term on October 6th. If such a job can be found, it will be a welcome way to reduce the amount of student debt I will be taking on.

Daily miscellany:

I’ve been corresponding a bit with Astrid in Quito. It’s fascinating to read about what she has been doing down there – volunteering for a maternity clinic – though the stories can be quite startling, as well.
In the spaces where I previously just stared blankly around my room, between periods of reading or writing, I’ve started reading Terry Pratchett‘s Witches Abroad. Some reminder that all books are not about IR is welcome. Also, Meghan has been recommending Pratchett to me for ages. I remember reading Night Watch with Laurie, Tish, and her atop Palatine Hill in Rome.
Here is an interesting article on seafood menus and fisheries.
Nick Sayeg has some nice photos from Norway on his blog.

First Bloggers’ Gathering

In short, the bloggers’ gathering was a success. It was interesting and enjoyable to meet a diverse group of engaging people, none of whom really have an appearance that screams blogger!, whatever sort of appearance that might be.

The Library Court party afterwards, to which I brought two of the people from the bloggers’ gathering, succeeded in blocking any attempts to work on all the academic things that need to be done. That said, I was not fighting and kicking to make progress on them. Why, there are hours left yet.

This afternoon included a quasi-valiant effort to move forward on the various projects that must be complete next week:

Paper for Andrew Hurrell (Tuesday)
Paper for Dr. Fawcett and Wright (Tuesday)
Presentation on American isolationism during the interwar years (Tuesday)
Statistics Assignment (Wednesday)
Pay fees and battles (Friday)

Tomorrow, all these things will begin to orbit elegantly around the gravitational centre of whatever intellect I still possess: condensing and organizing themselves to the point where they are both internally and externally comprehensible.

Bonsoir.