rpollack.net

These deck chairs, those deck chairs

rpollack — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 06:50:00 +0000

A fairly popular (and apt) metaphor in public education is to be rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. (Incidentally, if you type “rearranging” into Google with suggestions on, as of tonight, this precise phrase pops up as the 6th suggestion, with nearly 70,000 results.) There is usually no sympathy in it; it is just to say, This ship is sinking, and look at what the idiots are doing. But I think there is a more sympathetic understanding, too: here there is a desperation, or a sense that problems are severe, even dire, and that something must be done; but it is not at all clear what can be done; maybe the problems are in fact so profound and so fundamental that as individuals we are impotent against them. So we pick something, maybe somewhat arbitrarily, and we project importance onto it out of proportion with its real significance. It becomes a superstition. We say, This ship is sinking goddammit! For chrissake will nobody help me move this lounger? It might not always be about idiocy so much as impotent, foolish heroics.

As a school teacher in Mississippi, I heard in every room, in every hallway, a hundred times every day: Shirt-tails, shirt-tails, tuck in your shirt-tails, we will send you home, we will suspend you, shirt-tails.

Now that I’m a student most of the time, and a part-time tutor in a public high school in Santa Fe, every day it’s: IDs, ID badges, IDs out, get your IDs out, we will send you home, get your IDs out.

If they were lyrics, they’d be sung to the same tune.

At Last

rpollack — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 06:12:11 +0000

In 2005 — and several times again over the next years — I wrote Barack Obama’s name on the board in my classroom, first in Sardis, Mississippi, and later in Jackson, when one or another of my students declared that there would never be a black president. In the three years I lived in Mississippi I had something like 500 students (just one of them was not black) and many expressed something like this sentiment at some time or other — at least one in almost every class, probably.

The first time I saw Barack Obama — the first time I heard his name, I think — was when he addressed the Democratic National Convention in 2004. And I liked Kerry more than a lot of Democrats did, but I wished then that Obama was running in his place, and I believed then that he would one day be the President of the United States.

I have followed his career these last four years. I was excited for my students when, in June of last year, we got word that he was quietly coming to Jackson for a fundraising event, and several of them got to shake his hand. I spent hours in line last March waiting for his appearance at Jackson State University. I have have been excited about his candidacy since it was first announced, and since it was called unlikely.

During the 2004 election I lived in Buenos Aires, and everywhere I went, whenever anyone heard I was an American, I was attentively cast as a representative of my country; and after that election, everyone, it seemed, was upset at the result, and everyone was asking me to explain it. As I struggled in awkward Spanish to explain American politics to late-night taxi drivers, and as I read the baffled and the angry editorials, I felt alienated from my country and I wished I knew it better. (And I decided, then, to go teach in Mississippi rather than following other opportunities.)

In 2005 I thought he probably wouldn’t run in 2008, that he would defer to our collective expectations of a Hillary Clinton candidacy, that he would finish a term in the Senate. I put his name on the board and I told my students not to forget it; I told them that, if Clinton wins in 2008, she will be up for re-election in 2012 and Obama will run in 2016; that if she loses in 2008, he will run in 2012; and that in either case, there will be a black president, and soon.

Tonight I am happy to have been partially wrong, and I am proud, and I am excited for my country, and I wish our new President-elect good luck in the very difficult tasks he has before him.

Starting the Mahābhārata

rpollack — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 05:19:46 +0000

The sticky notes of things to write about (including The Wire) are growing fuller and multiplying, and my time seems only to do the former, not quite the latter.

I’m not sixty pages into the Mahābhārata, I’ve so far had one conversation about it, and there’s already an inexhaustible amount to say. Mr. Venkatesh told us that his advice to those just setting out with this book is to take a flashlight, a sleeping bag, and plenty of water; because you’ll get lost and have to stay the night.

For now, a contextless paragraph:

Thereupon the man said to him, “I am pleased with this your song of praise. What favor can I do for you?” He said to him, “The Snakes shall be in my power!” The man replied, “Blow into this horse’s arse.” He blew the horse in the arse, whereupon from the blown-up horse smoking flames billowed out from all the orifices. With them he smoked out the world of the Snakes. Frenzied, desperately afraid of the hot power of the fire, Takṣaka seized the earrings, fled at once from his dwelling, and said to Utanka, “Sir, take back these earrings!”

Mahābhārata, 1(3) Pauṣya, 155 (Trans: J.A.B. van Buitenen)

Han Fei Tzu

rpollack — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 19:36:13 +0000

It is obvious that, under normal conditions, water will overcome fire. But if a kettle comes between them, the water will bubble and boil itself completely dry on top, while the fire goes on burning merrily away underneath, the water having been deprived of the means by which it customarily overcomes fire. It is just as obvious that government should be able to put an end to evil in the same way as water overcomes fire. But if the officials whose duty it is to uphold the law instead play the part of the kettle, then the laws will be clear only in the mind of the ruler alone, and he will have been deprived of the means by which to prohibit evil.

Judging from the tales handed down from high antiquity and the incidents recorded in the Spring and Autumn Annals, those men who violated the laws, committed treason, and carried out major acts of evil always worked through some eminent and highly placed minister. And yet the laws and regulations are customarily designed to prevent evil among the humble and lowly people, and it is upon them alone that penalties and punishments fall. Hence the common people lose hope and are left with no place to air their grievances.

(Translated from the Chinese by Burton Watson.)

The brahmin and the goat

rpollack — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 05:37:05 +0000

There is in the forest a brahmin. And once, he gets a goat in the village. So he puts the goat on his shoulder and walks on the road. Now, on the road three thieves see the brahmin, but the brahmin doesn’t see the thieves. And the thieves because of greed want the goat. So they say: “How do we steal the goat from the brahmin? We make a plan.” So the thieves think up a plan. First, one thief asks the brahmin: “O brahmin! Why, sir, do you carry a dog on your shoulder?” Then the brahmin says: “Sir, what are you saying? It’s just a goat. I never touch dogs.” So the brahmin again walks on the road. Later, the second thief asks the brahmin: “Why does your honor carry a dog on the shoulder?” So the brahmin puts the goat on the ground and examines it. And the brahmin thinks: “Why does he speak so? Surely it is just a goat.” So the brahmin puts the goat on his shoulder and walks on the road. Later, the third thief asks: “Sir, are you a hunter?” So the brahmin says: “No. I am a brahmin.” The thief says: “Then why does a dog remain on a brahmin’s shoulder?” So the brahmin from foolishness thinks: “Because people say so, surely it is a dog.” So he leaves the goat on the ground and goes again toward home. And because brahmin never touch dogs, he bathes. Thus the thieves by means of a plan get the brahmin’s goat.

–Adapted from Pañcatantra and Hitopadeśa (Killingley: Lesson 16, page 117)

Michelle Obama leaving voicemails

rpollack — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 21:35:48 +0000

Michelle Obama Voicemail

The blue jackal

rpollack — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 01:04:19 +0000

A jackal lives in the forest. Now one time, he goes from the forest and enters the city. And there he falls in a vat of indigo. And he thinks: “How do I escape?” But later a man sees the jackal. So he pulls the jackal from the vat and puts him on the ground. Thus the jackal escapes the vat of indigo. Later, he goes to a lake. And in the water he sees his face. And when he sees the color in his face, he is pleased. And he thinks: “I now am the king*.” Then he enters the forest. When they see the color, the jackals think: “He shows the color of a king. Surely he is the king.” So they bow and say: “King, what do you want? We listen.” And the jackal is pleased. And he says: “If you do the king’s command, then you live happily. But if because of foolishness you forget the king’s commend, then I become angry.” So they fear, and do the jackal’s command. Now, the rabbits say to the jackal: “Because we see the king’s color, we bow. Because you surely are king.” Later the deer see the jackal’s color and think: “Surely he is king, and we the king’s servants.” And the elephants do thus. And later even the lions bow and do the jackal’s command. Thus the jackal by the color’s power becomes king of the forest. But one time, the jackals of the forest howl. And when he hears the howl, the king also howls. Then the lions become angry. And they say: “Surely a king he is not. He is only a jackal. Why do we do a jackal’s orders?” So they kill the jackal.

–Adapted from Hitopadeśa, chapter 3 (Killingley: Lesson 15, page 109)

*Sanskrit has no definite article, so this and other instances can be translated as “the king” or “a king.” And the word here translated as king is mahārājaḥ (महाराजः).

The goose, the crow, and the traveler

rpollack — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 20:45:36 +0000

There is a city called Ujjain. And in the city’s road grows a tree. Where the tree stands water flows. And a crow builds a nest there. Once, a traveler comes on the road. He holds a bow and arrow. Where the tree stands the traveler sits. The traveler drinks water. Now, a fruit falls from the tree. Then the traveler eats the fruit. And the traveler likes the fruit. And later, he sleeps. Now, the sun heats the traveler’s face. But the goose* thinks: “If the sun heats the traveler’s face, then he does not sleep happily. So what do I do?” So the goose spreads a wing like a sun-shade. And so it protects the traveler from the sun. And the sun does not heat the traveler’s face. But the crow because of wickedness does not like the traveler’s happiness. Now, when the traveler sleeps, he opens his mouth**. And when the crow sees the traveler’s mouth, because of wickedness he shits. And the shit falls in the traveler’s mouth. And the crow flies from the tree. And when the traveler sees the goose in the tree, from anger he takes his bow and kills the goose.

—

Adapted from Hitopadeśa, chapter 3. (Killingley:Lesson 14, page 102)

*Goose here is translating haṃsaḥ (हंसः), which doesn’t have quite the inelegant ring of the bird’s name in English. Sometimes this dissonance is avoided by translating it as swan. It carries certain mystical, mythological connotations in India.

**Literally “opens his face.” Face and mouth translate the same Sanskrit word.

Śakuntalā

rpollack — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 07:52:51 +0000

My Sanskrit class has recently progressed to translating actual stories adapted from Sanskrit literature rather than piles of disconnected sentences. The stories are often interesting and fun; they often involve talking animals who get killed over misunderstandings. (Fun fact of the day: Aesop — whose existence and biographical details are characteristically sketchy for a man of his vintage — may or may not have actually committed his fables to writing, though they floated around Greece until they were recorded, and he must have had distant sources; several of his stories appear to have come from India, and were recorded there in Sanskrit.) Since these stories constitute a not inconsequential fraction of the time I spend reading every week, and since, relative to the time spent on them, they’re quite short (I’m reading them in Sanskrit, after all!), and since I like them quite a lot, I’ll try to post them here. I hope someone else might enjoy them as much as I do.

Since they are rather off-the-cuff translations made in preparation for a language class, they will be overly literal renderings of the Sanskrit, and perhaps sometimes stilted in English; and since they are adapted for students of the language, they will reflect a degree of simplicity early on, and grow more complex. I’ve already done maybe close to a dozen, but I’ll gradually put them here from the beginning, starting with the first three, which are three parts to a single story.

Lesson and page numbers refer to the Killingley text, which is more fully cited in the flash cards post.

–

Śakuntalā (or Shakuntalaa), Part 1

There is a brahmin called Kaṇva. Kaṇva reads and teaches Veda. Now, a girl called Śakuntalā lives with Kaṇva as a student. And when Kaṇva teaches, Śakuntalā listens.

One time, Kaṇva goes from the ashram. Now, after that the king rides from the palace in a chariot. And a charioteer goes with the king. Now, a deer* jumps from [behind?] a tree. And when the charioteer sees the deer, the king says, “Do you see the deer?” So the king pursues the deer in the chariot. And when the deer hears the chariot, it is afraid and runs. But the chariot goes like an arrow. The king holds bow and arrow in hand. The deer fears the arrow, but the arrow doesn’t hit the deer. So the deer goes to the ashram.

(Killingley: Lesson 11, page 82)

–

Part 2

Now, Kaṇva doesn’t remain in the ashram but Kaṇva’s student dwells there. When the deer enters into the ashram, it sees the student. The deer fears the king’s arrow. When Kaṇva’s student sees the deer, she says, “Why do you fear?” Then the student hears the king’s chariot. Then she sees the king and charioteer. And when the king sees the brahmin’s student in the ashram, he speaks to the charioteer and descends from the chariot. Then the king bows to the student. The student asks the king, “Why do you pursue the deer like a hunter?” Somehow the student protects the deer from the king. Then the king enters into the ashram.

Now, Śakuntalā remains in the ashram. And when Śakuntalā sees the king, she likes the king. And the king dwells a long time in the ashram with Kaṇva’s student. Sometimes Śakuntalā talks with the king. And out of desire** she remains with the king a long time.

(Killingley: Lesson 12, page 89)

–

Part 3

Thereafter Śakuntalā becomes the king’s wife. (Trans.: One assumes this is a euphemism.) Later, the king goes from the ashram to the palace, and Śakuntalā remains in the ashram. Śakuntalā always thinks only of the king.

Now, a traveller comes to the ashram. The traveller is a brahmin. And when the traveller enters the ashram, he asks, “Who’s there?” But because Śakuntalā thinks only of the king, she doesn’t hear the traveller. Then the traveller says, “Why do you not honor a brahmin?” Even now Śakuntalā says nothing. The traveller thinks, “Because the girl out of desire thinks only of a man, therefore she does nothing.” Then out of anger he says, “Because from foolishness you do not honor a brahmin, I pronounce a curse. Now you see a brahmin’s power.”

Later, Śakuntalā leaves the ashram and seeks the king’s palace. And in the palace she seeks the king. When she sees the king, she says, “I am the king’s wife.” But by the curse’s power the king remembers nothing. Then Śakuntalā asks, “O king, you don’t remember?” But even now the king doesn’t remember. Then Śakuntalā remembers the brahmin’s curse. When she sees the curse’s power, she thinks, “What do I do? I am the king’s wife but the king remembers nothing.” Then Śakuntalā goes from the palace.

(Killingley: Lesson 13, page 97)

–

* The word translated here as deer – mṛgaḥ (मृगः) — can refer to any sort of deer, or generically to any wild animal.

** The word translated here (and again below) as desire – kāmaḥ (कामः) – could also be translated as love, though it seems to be a particularly sensual sort, maybe something like eros. It is the same word as in Kama Sutra, and apparently is related through Indo-European root to both whore and caress.

Note from Killingley: “The story continues with the king remembering Śakuntalā later, and eventually finding her after she has borne him a son, Bharata. Bharata becomes the ancestor of the principal heroes of the Mahābhārata.” (Also, his name provides the indigenous name of India; India, which has been used since before Herodotus, apparently comes from Old Persian Hindu, which comes from Sanskrit Sindhu, which names what we call the Indus River.)

Killingley: “This story is told in the Mahābhārata, and in the play Abhijñāna-śākuntala, commonly known as Śakuntalā, by Kālidāsa.”

(The latter, I hear, was a favorite of Goethe.)

New Traffic

rpollack — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 05:57:22 +0000

I always find it somewhat surprising and curious when, looking at the visitor logs, I see that people have arrived here by clicking links at mail.google.com or mail.yahoo.com, or something similar, which I suppose means that someone has emailed them the address to my blog and they clicked through from the email. Lately there have been a lot more of these. How mysterious and flattering, that strangers find something here and think to email it to a friend.

Quite a lot of new traffic seems to be Sanskrit-related, some visitors finding the blog through Sanskrit-related web searches, others following (often mysterious) links directly to Sanskrit-related posts. And tonight I learned that the Clay Sanskrit Library –- the Loeb of Sanskrit, about which I wrote here — has linked to me from their Press page, and they even plug my flash cards! So, thanks, CSL; and welcome, new readers.