Das hat es im deutschen Kulturleben noch nicht gegeben: Wegen der möglichen Gefahr islamistischer Anschläge hat Kirsten Harms, die Intendantin der Deutschen Oper Berlin, die Inszenierung der Mozart-Oper "Idomeneo" vom Spielplan genommen, die sich neben den anderen großen Weltreligionen auch mit dem Islam auseinander setzt.
Süddeutsche, 26 Sep.
Das hat es im deutschen Kulturleben noch nicht gegeben. Der arme Regisseur sits in his idyllic Austrian home and then receives a phone call that says that his new production might provoke the Islamists.
His brow creases. The who?
The Islamists, you know, the guys in the funny headgear who are seen every night on TV foaming at the mouth, burning some western flag.
Oh, them! Schade, I was hoping to go to the Metz with it at some point.
This is the point where worlds collide, when Fassbinder meets Fatih Akın.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
the stations of defection
My companion and I step out of the room that has been heated by breaths or rather exhalations of alcohol. It is one of these functions that have been organized in this cocktail infested period called the "fresher's week". The cold and fresh air feels nice in my nostrils and skin. My companion lifts up the lapels of his jacket, smiles at me and says "And have you not considered attending a meeting of the Turkish society?". I first give out my usual laugh. Then I grit my teeth. How to put this eloquently and without sounding bitter. How to explain this excommunicated state of mine. There's no helping it. I start with "I know exactly what kind of people frequent these Turkish societies abroad. I would not be welcome, as you are well aware...." and then the whole drivel comes out. My companion listens to me in silence. By the time we have reached the Radcliffe Camera I realize I am gesticulating and the sore feeling in my throat lets me know I have spoken fast and loudly. Catching the sight of my hand in mid-air, I let it drop, and stop speaking. My companion smiles. "I had never seen someone speak through her teeth before. So the expression is true!". I laugh. That's one thing I do without effort.
I try to trivialize the whole thing and say that the German society needs me a lot more than the Turkish society does. Where would the principles of democracy and representation all go if there were no Turks in the German society?But of course, Germans are the butt of our jokes, this is England after all. We sit in the MCR and try to decipher with our scant vocabulary a column of the Frankfurter Allgeimene. It is a mystery why the MCR subscribes to it and my companion has hatched plans to replace it with the Morning Star. But on we troddle, mispronouncing and misinterpretating what we read to our hearts' content. We ask the odd word to the odd German compadre that walks in the room. They smile and ignore our pleas for knowledge, for they know we are hardly interested in deciphering what the paper wants to say.
It is then, maybe, all this starts, with this unaccounted for laissez-faire, the doggedness of respectability that these Teutons possess.
The way we sit playing Trivial Quiz and every other question is about the Second World War, and they first look indignant, and then dismiss the frivolity of the Brits and laugh along. Their paternal grace, which I shall come to learn. But these are my friends, and I relish this grace, this hugging the world, unaware I will have to reckon with it in the distant future (for it does seems distant- there is an eternity between then and now)
But not so much as I relish the jokes. (that will come later, after weeks of English insubstantiality) Having taken our leave from our German friends, we run towards home under the rain. It gets terribly heavy so we take refuge by the shop-window of Oxfam's at St. Giles street. The most prominently displayed book has the face of Stalin on it. My companion will get it soon, no doubt about that. I tell him I love the rain. He points to my leather coat and says "I would've loved it too, if I had a Gestapo coat on". Further laughter.
I try to trivialize the whole thing and say that the German society needs me a lot more than the Turkish society does. Where would the principles of democracy and representation all go if there were no Turks in the German society?But of course, Germans are the butt of our jokes, this is England after all. We sit in the MCR and try to decipher with our scant vocabulary a column of the Frankfurter Allgeimene. It is a mystery why the MCR subscribes to it and my companion has hatched plans to replace it with the Morning Star. But on we troddle, mispronouncing and misinterpretating what we read to our hearts' content. We ask the odd word to the odd German compadre that walks in the room. They smile and ignore our pleas for knowledge, for they know we are hardly interested in deciphering what the paper wants to say.
It is then, maybe, all this starts, with this unaccounted for laissez-faire, the doggedness of respectability that these Teutons possess.
The way we sit playing Trivial Quiz and every other question is about the Second World War, and they first look indignant, and then dismiss the frivolity of the Brits and laugh along. Their paternal grace, which I shall come to learn. But these are my friends, and I relish this grace, this hugging the world, unaware I will have to reckon with it in the distant future (for it does seems distant- there is an eternity between then and now)
But not so much as I relish the jokes. (that will come later, after weeks of English insubstantiality) Having taken our leave from our German friends, we run towards home under the rain. It gets terribly heavy so we take refuge by the shop-window of Oxfam's at St. Giles street. The most prominently displayed book has the face of Stalin on it. My companion will get it soon, no doubt about that. I tell him I love the rain. He points to my leather coat and says "I would've loved it too, if I had a Gestapo coat on". Further laughter.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
summer threads
-Hidayet Romanları: This topic from the book section of Radikal- and how "the books of conversion- or seeing the light"change according to the social changes of the time.
- Another topic that can be tackled is the comparison between mesnevis and romances.
-Also Partha Chatterjee, describing politics as arising in the space where law does not work-- only when law does not work, is there occasion for politics. Such as the shanty towns being fields of politics par excellence, for they do not abide by the law of the land in the first place, then it is only through politics that they can interact with the state. and a wonderful Turkish word for subaltern: maduniyet
- From Roni Margulies, the iconography of Jewish youth, wonderful contrasting pictures, one, a group of beautiful, happy looking Israeli youths triumphant, muscular, at the time of the victory of 48. Contrasted with a picture by Marc Chagall, the bearded, hunchbacked Jew with a staff and the belongings on his back. Never again, Margulies says, is the motto of Jewish strategist, never again will you see the Jew being oppressed, all you will see is the strong, triumphant.
"This image, which we have got used to since 1948 is the most frequently seen image of the triumphant soldier- next to that of the American one"
- The failure of the modernization project, the abandonment rather. It has been festgestellt that these peoples cannot be "modernized", that they are doomed to reside in their medieval darkness, it's us and them, and there's no way "them" can be like us.
-women- alcohol- and modernism. the bourgeoisie inventing the anti-alcohol movement, so that they workers be more sober to do more work. There's a footnote or even section lurking there for Rhys
Mary Douglas (Constructive Drinking), Catherine Gilbert
Murdock (Domesticating Drink)
-Fikret Mualla, his description of a republican Turkey in Der Querschnitt in July 1928, would've been a good footnote to Pamuk
- Another topic that can be tackled is the comparison between mesnevis and romances.
-Also Partha Chatterjee, describing politics as arising in the space where law does not work-- only when law does not work, is there occasion for politics. Such as the shanty towns being fields of politics par excellence, for they do not abide by the law of the land in the first place, then it is only through politics that they can interact with the state. and a wonderful Turkish word for subaltern: maduniyet
- From Roni Margulies, the iconography of Jewish youth, wonderful contrasting pictures, one, a group of beautiful, happy looking Israeli youths triumphant, muscular, at the time of the victory of 48. Contrasted with a picture by Marc Chagall, the bearded, hunchbacked Jew with a staff and the belongings on his back. Never again, Margulies says, is the motto of Jewish strategist, never again will you see the Jew being oppressed, all you will see is the strong, triumphant.
"This image, which we have got used to since 1948 is the most frequently seen image of the triumphant soldier- next to that of the American one"
- The failure of the modernization project, the abandonment rather. It has been festgestellt that these peoples cannot be "modernized", that they are doomed to reside in their medieval darkness, it's us and them, and there's no way "them" can be like us.
-women- alcohol- and modernism. the bourgeoisie inventing the anti-alcohol movement, so that they workers be more sober to do more work. There's a footnote or even section lurking there for Rhys
Mary Douglas (Constructive Drinking), Catherine Gilbert
Murdock (Domesticating Drink)
-Fikret Mualla, his description of a republican Turkey in Der Querschnitt in July 1928, would've been a good footnote to Pamuk
The Cure
Another "cure" has been brought to a successful end, and many plans hatched by the waters of the Aegean seem so unnecessary once back in my room in Istanbul .
Joachim is dead, Castorp has about a hundred pages more of life, but it is interesting that while I was thinking I should like to read this in German, there Mann is, in the afterword, encouraging the very same- to read it, not necessarily in German, but twice. Hats off to that!
Joachim is dead, Castorp has about a hundred pages more of life, but it is interesting that while I was thinking I should like to read this in German, there Mann is, in the afterword, encouraging the very same- to read it, not necessarily in German, but twice. Hats off to that!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
fire sermon
Fire Sermon
The current’s rhythm is broken; the endless circles of oil
Swirl and change hue towards the sun. The air
Hangs over the grey bridge, undisturbed. The dolphins are de-
parted.
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again.
The water carries empty vessels, beer bottles,
Pairless gloves, umbrella skeletons, pieces of wood
And other testimony of the cold winter. The dolphins are
departed.
And the enemies, the hurrying plunderers in a forgotten city;
Departed, having left their imprint.
By the shores of Byzas I sat down and wept ...
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again,
Feared Symplegades, stand still, for they come not now or soon.
And in front of me in a grey blur I see
The rubble of the domes and deserted battlements.
The current’s rhythm is broken; the endless circles of oil
Swirl and change hue towards the sun. The air
Hangs over the grey bridge, undisturbed. The dolphins are de-
parted.
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again.
The water carries empty vessels, beer bottles,
Pairless gloves, umbrella skeletons, pieces of wood
And other testimony of the cold winter. The dolphins are
departed.
And the enemies, the hurrying plunderers in a forgotten city;
Departed, having left their imprint.
By the shores of Byzas I sat down and wept ...
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again,
Feared Symplegades, stand still, for they come not now or soon.
And in front of me in a grey blur I see
The rubble of the domes and deserted battlements.
Burial of the Dead
Variation on the ‘Burial of the Dead’
July is the sweetest month, bringing
Poppies to the green vast fields, saluting
Hopes and joy, shaking
The flowers with gentle wind.
Spring kept me calm, making
Promises of coy sunshine, helping
With days getting longer each scented day.
Summer was there, as expected, shining over Notre Dame
With pigeons’ songs; we took a walk by the river,
And stopped to watch the white clouds, over the Pont Neuf
Then moved on, listening.
Il pensait que j’etais Algeriene et ça m’est egal.
In those summer days, at my grandma’s
I’d play with my uncle, he’d throw me into the air
And we’d have heaps of fun. He would bring
Chocolate and clothes. And he would tell
About the river, the workshop.
I heard much of the river, and went home to the city.
Why should I ever endure, why should I try
To take an irretrievable step? Oh mother,
You should say, or guess, for you know too,
The illustrated histories, the small classrooms,
And the parade leaves no cheer, the picnic no joy,
And the colours of flags, the tunes of marches. Still
There is relief in this grey book,
(For it talks of other places as well)
You will see there are other things
Other than these familiar temples
Other than these familiar tunes
There are things you will be happy to know about.
Clementine
Quand tu fermes les yeux
Tu devines
Le merveilleux
‘You told us about the party on board of that ship;
It filled my thoughts day and night’
--And when at last I saw that ship, on the Thames
You were gone, a relic of the past, I did not
Know, who to share it with, whom to show
It was the past and yet in the present
Looking at that ship and wondering
Je voudrais, que tu te rappele...
Monsieur Le Coton, the famous writer,
Has a bad temper, but that doesn’t keep him away from
Going to interviews, the clever man of Asia Minor,
With a never ceasing stutter. Why? they ask him,
Are we in a bad way, where is the shining road?
(For we were told there was one. Or isn’t there?)
Here is the Opera House, the black building
With the grey shutters.
Here’s the Theatre, there the Sports Ground
And here’s the School, and this thing
Which is so colourful, is the Club
Which I’m forbidden to enter. Where is the House?
You should beware
There are a lot of people on your shining road
Yes. If you see Mr. Rector
Tell him I won’t be here for long;
It’s so easy to fly these days.
Ancient city,
When the sunlight shines on the aluminium,
On the roads, cars with diverse drivers,
For in our cars we’re free to choose
We’re free to buy, free to drive, free to consume
We’re all one big brotherhood in supermarkets.
The cues in front of the cashier girls
We let each other be, oh, so gracefully.
With even a ‘You first’ now and then.
‘ ‘They’ have certainly got into their heads.
Otherwise I could swear they were like us,’
‘Oh, Heaven forbid, like you?
Look straight into my eyes and say it again
And show me what you are made of!’
‘Cuando me buscas, no ves nada — nunca — nadie!’
(N. Haliloglu, a life time ago)
July is the sweetest month, bringing
Poppies to the green vast fields, saluting
Hopes and joy, shaking
The flowers with gentle wind.
Spring kept me calm, making
Promises of coy sunshine, helping
With days getting longer each scented day.
Summer was there, as expected, shining over Notre Dame
With pigeons’ songs; we took a walk by the river,
And stopped to watch the white clouds, over the Pont Neuf
Then moved on, listening.
Il pensait que j’etais Algeriene et ça m’est egal.
In those summer days, at my grandma’s
I’d play with my uncle, he’d throw me into the air
And we’d have heaps of fun. He would bring
Chocolate and clothes. And he would tell
About the river, the workshop.
I heard much of the river, and went home to the city.
Why should I ever endure, why should I try
To take an irretrievable step? Oh mother,
You should say, or guess, for you know too,
The illustrated histories, the small classrooms,
And the parade leaves no cheer, the picnic no joy,
And the colours of flags, the tunes of marches. Still
There is relief in this grey book,
(For it talks of other places as well)
You will see there are other things
Other than these familiar temples
Other than these familiar tunes
There are things you will be happy to know about.
Clementine
Quand tu fermes les yeux
Tu devines
Le merveilleux
‘You told us about the party on board of that ship;
It filled my thoughts day and night’
--And when at last I saw that ship, on the Thames
You were gone, a relic of the past, I did not
Know, who to share it with, whom to show
It was the past and yet in the present
Looking at that ship and wondering
Je voudrais, que tu te rappele...
Monsieur Le Coton, the famous writer,
Has a bad temper, but that doesn’t keep him away from
Going to interviews, the clever man of Asia Minor,
With a never ceasing stutter. Why? they ask him,
Are we in a bad way, where is the shining road?
(For we were told there was one. Or isn’t there?)
Here is the Opera House, the black building
With the grey shutters.
Here’s the Theatre, there the Sports Ground
And here’s the School, and this thing
Which is so colourful, is the Club
Which I’m forbidden to enter. Where is the House?
You should beware
There are a lot of people on your shining road
Yes. If you see Mr. Rector
Tell him I won’t be here for long;
It’s so easy to fly these days.
Ancient city,
When the sunlight shines on the aluminium,
On the roads, cars with diverse drivers,
For in our cars we’re free to choose
We’re free to buy, free to drive, free to consume
We’re all one big brotherhood in supermarkets.
The cues in front of the cashier girls
We let each other be, oh, so gracefully.
With even a ‘You first’ now and then.
‘ ‘They’ have certainly got into their heads.
Otherwise I could swear they were like us,’
‘Oh, Heaven forbid, like you?
Look straight into my eyes and say it again
And show me what you are made of!’
‘Cuando me buscas, no ves nada — nunca — nadie!’
(N. Haliloglu, a life time ago)
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