I'm using the time to take advantage of the central heating and hide away to continue with The Indonesian Reader. It seems like gathering of old friends; Benedict Anderson, George Coedes, Clifford Geertz, Chairil Anwar, Snouck Hurgronje, Alfred Wallace, Pramoedya and many other names that will be familiar if you have been following this blog for a while. Alongside the famous names are the anonymous testimonies of peasants, coolies, administrators and travellers. The frustrating thing is that the book is made up largely of extracts and often you find yourself wanting more text or some detailed notes and background.
Looking back it saddens me that my Grammar School education seems no more than a colossal waste of time. All I seem to have come away with is a liking for the work of Joseph Conrad, and even that got me into trouble in the exam when I discussed at length several of the novels that were not on the syllabus.
British culture still seems parochial and inward looking despite the huge numbers of people originating from Asia, Africa and Eastern Europe that live here now.
There is the fashion for teaching Mandarin. There are evening classes on offer in Stoke on Trent. While I like the idea I can't help thinking it too is pretty much a waste of time. Chinese is a very difficult language and very few people will ever visit the country. It would be fine the courses offer a simple introduction to the language in a cultural and historical context, but I suspect that most are a vain hope of expanding trade in some way. I doubt if many students will come away knowing the story of the Peach Garden Oath or the poetry of Li Po.
Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk.
Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes.
Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream,
Birds are far off, people too are few.