2007年11月16日星期五

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 1968

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 1968

Frank da Cruz Columbia University Academic Information Systems fdc@columbia.edu April 1998 http://www.columbia.edu/acis/history/1968.html
A personal reminiscence of the 1968 student uprising at Columbia University. I was an active participant, but not a member of any particular faction (the only organization I belonged to was Veterans Against the War). I wrote this article for publication in the "Columbia Librarian" at the request of Columbia's Vice President for Information Services and University Librarian, Elaine Sloan (then my boss's boss), on the 30th anniversary of the student rebellion (a). In 1968 I was an Army veteran working my way through a Columbia degree with a part-time job in the library; now I work in Academic Information Systems (the academic half of what used to be called the Computer Center), which, since 1986, is part of the University Library; hence the library connection.

Because this article was written for a Columbia audience, familiarity with the Columbia campus and setting are assumed. The article was HTMLized for the Web and slightly updated in February 2001, with periodic updates after that. Pictures were added in June 2001, which you can view by following the links; I hope to find and add more pictures as time goes on. While this is a personal recollection and not an attempt at a definitive history, corrections, comments, additional information, and especially photos are welcome, and will be acknowledged.

Prelude

Life was different at Columbia University in 1968. There was a war and a draft. Up until the previous year, the University had routinely furnished class rank lists to the draft board (b), so if you had poor grades, off you went (of course, privileged Columbia students still had it better than the many kids drafted right out of high school, but that's another story). There were ROTC drills on South Field, military and CIA recruiters on campus, and classified military research in the labs (c). The Civil Rights movement had become the Black Liberation movement, and Black Panthers and Young Lords -- and Soul music -- captured students' imaginations. The women's movement was beginning to shake everybody up, especially guys who thought they were already progressive enough. Dr. King had just been killed and the cities were in flames. You couldn't ignore all this.

Throughout the mid-to-late 60s there was all sorts of political activity on campus -- teach-ins on Pentagon economics, Sundial rallies against the war, demonstrations against class rank reporting, confrontations with military recruiters, etc. It was an era of bullhorns. Amidst all this, the University was constructing a new gym in Morningside Park -- the barrier separating Columbia from Harlem -- with a "back door" on the Harlem side. This offended many people, and one day in April some students went to Morningside Drive and tore down the fence, attempting to break into the construction site. They were restrained by police and some were arrested. The ensuing Sundial rally wandered into Hamilton Hall and stayed the night. The original idea was that the united student body, or at least the considerable left wing of it (how times have changed) would occupy Hamilton until the charges against the students were dropped and some other demands were met. Various factions debated tactics and what the demands should be. Eventually six demands were formulated. Their thrust was against Columbia's complicity the war, against racism, and for better and more responsible relations with the surrounding communities.

The First Building Occupations

About 6:00am the white students left Hamilton and moved into the President's office in Low Library, while the Black students remained in Hamilton. This was the result of an agreement reached between leaders of SDS, PL, SWP, YAWF, etc (the predominantly white groups), on the one hand, and SAS on the other, behind closed doors and reflective of the tenor of times [1]. Over the next few days the various mostly-white factions branched out to other buildings -- SDS to Math (which flew the splendid red flag featured on the cover of Spring 1968 Columbia College Today, an issue devoted to the uprising with lots of great photos and much grouchy commentary), the Trotskyites to Avery, the anarcho-syndicalists to Fayerweather, etc (or something like that). In all, five buildings were occupied for a week. The history is written elsewhere such as the souvenir-bound editions of Spectator, and there is also a locally-produced film, Columbia Revolt (shot in large part by the legendary wall-scaling Melvin), that is trotted out on special occasions. When I took my son to see it at the 20th anniversary get-together in Earl Hall in 1988, it was already crumbling. (As of February 2003, there seems to be a copy available for viewing and downloading at Archive.Org; see Links.)

I spent the week in Low Library. There was a carnival atmosphere the first day, with press photographers and reporters from magazines, the local newspapers, etc (the Post was fair, the News was atrocious, but the Times was beyond belief -- small wonder, considering the connections (d)). There was an unforgettable, Felliniesque visit from a faculty member who swooped through the window in full academic regalia, Batmanlike, to "reason" with us. Security guards and office workers brought us snacks. Life magazine (May 10, 1968) ran a cover story featuring pictures taken in Low, including my favorite: a group of us seated on the carpet, each with a Grayson Kirk face, complete with pipe (from President Kirk's desk drawer, which was stocked with dozens of 8x10 glossy book-jacket poses).

After the first day, activities grew more structured, and thenceforth the occupation was one long meeting governed by Robert's Rules of Order, interpreted creatively ("point of obfuscation!"), interspersed by housework. Contrary to popular belief and press reports, the President's suite of offices was kept immaculate and orderly after the chaotic first day (e). Cleanup detail included vacuuming, shaking out blankets, scrubbing the bathroom, etc. The administration's fears of vandalism (and their special concern for the Rembrandt hanging above President Kirk's desk) were poorly founded, at least in Low.

Outside, a system of rings developed around Low Library. Opponents ("jocks") formed the inner ring; student supporters (known, along with us, as "pukes") formed an outer ring, and later concerned faculty formed an intermediate buffer ring. Each group wore distinctive armbands, not that they were needed: jocks (Columbia light blue) looked like jocks; pukes (red) were scruffy; faculty (white) wore tweed with elbow patches. Black armbands came later. Beyond the rings were crowds of onlookers and press. The outside pukes would try to send food up to us, but the jocks intercepted most of it and made a great show of wolfing it down con mucho gusto as we looked on with envy (most food didn't throw well and fell short; what little got through was mainly oranges and baloney packets). One day a tall stranger with waist-length hair appeared at the distant fringe of the crowd (almost all the way to Earl Hall) and began to hurl five-pound bags of home-made fried chicken our way, one after another, with perfect aim, over the jocks' heads and right into our windows. What an arm! (The chicken was cooked by Mrs. Gloria Sánchez of the Bronx, and it was delicious; I never learned the identity of the mysterious stranger.)

. . . Until June 1, 2001, when I had a call from Jerry Kisslinger of Columbia's Office of University Development and Alumni Relations, who recognized the waist-length hair and powerful arm of John Taylor, son of Nürnberg prosecutor and Columbia Law Professor Telford Taylor (who declined to lend his name to a statement signed by most other Law School faculty, which said the student protests exceeded the "allowable limits" of civil disobedience [New York Times, 24 May 1998]). Thanks to both John and his dad!

Aside from the meetings and work details, a concerted effort was made to rifle through the many file cabinets and turn up evidence of covert links with the war machine and defense contractors, large corporations planning to divide up the spoils in Viet Nam, etc, all of which were to be found in abundance. These were photocopied and later published in the East Village underground newspaper, Rat. Some items were picked up by the mainstream press, resulting in some embarrassment among the rich and powerful, which quickly passed.

The First Bust

After a few days, the NYC Tactical Police Force (TPF, of distinctive leather cladding)(f) muscled through the crowd and the rings to form a new inner ring just below our feet as we congregated on the ledges and windowsills. Police on Campus! Academia violated! (A famous photo shows Alma Mater holding a sign, "Raped by Cops".) We fortified the entrances to the occupied buildings, especially through the tunnels, against the expected assault (more about the tunnels HERE).

Which, inevitably, came. After the final warning to vacate or be arrested, we discussed (still observing proper parliamentary procedure) whether to resist or go peacefully. Opinion was divided and many variations were proposed. After much discussion, consensus converged on civil-rights-movement-style passive resistance; we would go limp and the police would have to carry us out.

We devoted the final moments to preparations -- the Defense Committee piled furniture up against door, while the rest of us picked up trash, vacuumed, and scrubbed so the President's suite would be left in pristine condition, better than we had found it (except for tape criss-crossed on the window glass and the jimmied file-cabinet locks). Those with pierced earrings took them off (a routine precaution in those days of police actions) and then we formed a 100-person, 10,000-pound clump singing "We Shall Not Be Moved", knowing that we would.

Soon axes were crashing through the door, the barricade was breached, and an army of TPF piled in, first prying apart the singing clump of us, then forming a gauntlet to pass our limp bodies down the corridors, whacking our heads with flashlights along the way, and dragging us by the feet down the marble steps so our heads bounced. Superficial head wounds are harmless but they bleed a lot, and journalists got some terrific photos of us on our way to the paddy wagons waiting on College Walk.

Soon we were in the Tombs [the jail and criminal court building at 100 Centre Street]. I was in a cell with six others including Tom Hayden (one of many luminaries who visited and/or sat in with us -- others included H. Rap Brown and Stokely Carmichael, Charles 37X Kenyatta, I forget who else -- Angela Davis? Che Guevara?). Later, students from the other buildings began to arrive, much bloodier than we were. The students in Math (some of whom -- the ones who weren't killed in the 1970 East 11th Street townhouse explosion -- later went on to the Democratic convention in Chicago, and then formed the Weather Underground) (deep breath...) received less gentle treatment -- one student was thrown from a second-story window and landed on a professor (Jim Shenton), breaking the professor's arm.

In December 2001 I received the following email from Thomas Gucciardi: "My dad, Frank Gucciardi, was a cop during the riots. He was paralyzed from the waist down for 3 years. (A student jumped off a building into the crowd) He has had a miraculous recovery & still enjoys a fairly active life. I just found your site & commend you on it. My dad till this day loved his job & he does understand the students uprising. He holds no grudges at all for what the students did to him at 34 years of age & having 3 children. Thank you for your website." Later Thomas sent copies of newspaper clippings that told how Patrolman Gucciardi had been inured when an unidentified white student jumped from the balcony of Hamilton Hall, landing on the officer's back as he bent over to pick up his hat, and of the operations on his spine over the next several years. A series of articles by columnist Martin Gershen in the NY Times, the Long Island Press, and other papers, followed his progress and gained national attention. Also injured was Officer Bernard Wease, kicked in the chest by a student in Fayerweather Hall while giving the vacate-or-be-arrested order, causing damage to his heart.

While an article in the LA Times, 9 September 1969, quotes Mayor Lindsay as acknowledging that some police used "excessive force" and states that "news reports quoted witnesses as having seen nonuniformed policemen punching and kicking both male and female students... one blond girl was said to have been beaten unconscious on the sidewalk in front of Avery Hall... a boy left writhing in front of Ferris Booth Hall with his nose smashed...", the only two injuries serious enough to require prolonged hospitalization were to Officers Gucciardi and Wease.

Many of the later arrivals to the Tombs were bystanders. All hell had broken loose after we left, with mounted police charging through the crowds on South Field, swinging their "batons" at all nearby heads like rampaging Cossacks (NEED PHOTO). Subsequent investigative commissions called it a "police riot." The combat spilled out to Broadway and down the side streets towards Riverside Park, horses galloping after fleeing pedestrians -- it must have been quite a sight (too bad I missed it), and it was a "radicalizing experience" for many former sideliners. Ed Kent (UTS BD 1959, Columbia PhD 1965, currently professor of moral / political / legal philosophy at Brooklyn College, CUNY) recalls:

I made sure that I put on a coat and tie -- it was about 1 a.m. and I had been alerted by a colleague at Hunter who had heard the bust was imminent. I then joined the cop assigned to the gate who was entirely sympathetic to the students and we watched with horror as the cops beat up kids that had come out of their dorms to find out what all the ruckus was about (Those occupying buildings had been taken out through the tunnels earlier.). I will never forget one small sized student being chased by a group of cops with clubs intent on beating him up -- he finally took refuge on top of a car where he tried to avoid their swings. They finally knocked him off and pounced with their clubs. The next day many faculty and students were treated for head and other injuries -- all of them innocent of any connection with the actual building occupations. Incidentally at the Cox hearings I heard the dean [Henry Coleman] who had supposedly been imprisoned by the students in Hamilton admit in response to a question by Anthony Amsterdam that he had in fact been ordered by the President to remain in his office and had been treated with entire courtesy by the students throughout and could have unlocked his office door (and relocked it to protect student records) and left at any time. This was given as the excuse for the police action and Sidney Hook refused to take it out of his book account (I got his galleys to pre-view) although I personally drew his attention to his mis-reporting there. Hook had become very right wing by then.

Meanwhile, back in jail... Escorting a group of incoming wounded was a fellow worker from Butler Library, now wearing a badge. In Butler, posing as a student library assistant, he had been trying to recruit us to "blow stuff up". Luckily he had been an inspiration to no one, but the episode served well for many years in discussions of leftist paranoia. The librarians, to their credit, were shocked to learn they had hired an agent provocateur and fired him immediately, not so very inhumane considering his better-paying day job.

Some 700 people were arrested that night, a logistical nightmare, involving at least 20 precincts and much transportation. We were arraigned and released over the next day or two, with court dates set that would stretch for years into the future, a story in itself. Back on campus... what a mess! The morning's newspapers were full of it. The Times ran a front-page story with a photo of a police officer standing in the President's Office, which was a total wreck (mean-spirited graffiti sprayed on the walls, bookshelves toppled, etc), gesturing sorrowfully towards a mound of mangled books, a forlorn tear in his eye: "The world's knowledge was in those books...". Ironic because it was not us who made the mess and sprayed the graffiti! We caught the author of the story on campus and asked why he had written such dreck when he had been witness to the whole episode -- he freely admitted it was a pack of lies and recommended we complain to his boss (a Columbia trustee). Luckily for posterity, whoever wrecked the office after we left overlooked the Rembrandt.

The Second and Third Busts

In the following weeks, regular classes were replaced by "Liberation classes" on the lawns (NEED PHOTO). There were no grades that year. Picket lines were thrown up in front of every building. The Grateful Dead played on Ferris Booth terrace. A student batallion marched up Amsterdam Avenue to City College to make noise and "link up". Organizers for progressive labor unions began circulating pledge cards among supporting staff (this cost me my Butler Library job). A contingent from the French student/worker uprising handed out those famous posters (unfortunately printed on cheap paper, now disintegrated) from the "Ex-Ecole des Beaux Arts", and we also had visits from student representatives of many of the other universities that followed Columbia's energetic lead that year, who raised clenched fists and gave rousing speeches. (Later some of us visited other student uprisings in progress, notably in Mexico City, where police and military actions made the Columbia arrests look like a lovefest.)

Community issues loomed large -- an apartment building on 114th Street was the scene of a second occupation a couple weeks later, in which several hundred of the newly radicalized onlookers from South Field took part and were promptly arrested (I don't recall exactly what the issue was, but housing has always been a touchy topic at Columbia). On May 22nd, sensing no movement in the administration on the issues of the strike, we went back into Hamilton (déjà vu was the rallying cry). This time the police were summoned onto campus without hesitation, and back we all went to jail (there were 1100 arrests in all). By now it was like commuting. Again, campus erupted after we left -- this time, 15-foot-high barricades were erected at the main gates and set ablaze (NEED PHOTO), windows were smashed, cars crushed, crowds surged back and forth, and many heads were bashed -- most of them attached to innocent bystanders. As in the first bust, the police also did a fair amount of mischief aimed at discrediting the strikers.

Commencement and Beyond

The year ended with most of the Class of '68 walking out of graduation, which was at Saint John's that year, on a prearranged signal -- students carried radios under their gowns and walked out when WKCR played "The Times They Are A'Changin'" -- to a countercommencement on Low Plaza, accompanied by loud rock music, and from there to Morningside Park for a big picnic that turned out rather well.

At Columbia, classified war research was halted, the gym was canceled, ROTC left campus, military and CIA recruiting stopped, and (not that anybody asked for it) the Senate was established. Robert Kennedy, the antiwar presidential candidate, was killed in June 1968, and later that month the French uprising was "voted away" in a national referendum. Mexican students and supporters and bystanders were slaughtered wholesale in October, in La Noche de Tlatelolco. Columbia antiwar rallies continued, and large Columbia contingents chartered buses for the huge demonstrations in Washington, of which there were to be far too many -- the war dragged on for another seven years. To this day, I don't know if all the antiwar activities combined had as much affect as the Vietnamese figuring out how to shoot down the American B-52s that were carpet-bombing their cities.

The Cox commission produced a report on the disturbances. Springtime building occupations continued for the next few years, but eventually were replaced by disco. Then came the 80s and 90s: the rich became richer at the expense of everyone else; organized labor was squashed; most real jobs were exported; drugs and greed ruled; social awareness was replaced by political correctness, student activism by ambition, and real work by sitting in front of a PC clicking on investments.

After a semester's suspension and dozens of court appearances (but no hard time -- thanks National Lawyers Guild!), I received my BA in 1970, held a number of odd jobs (taxi driver, etc; nobody pays you to save the world), and eventually wound up back at Columbia getting a graduate degree in computer science and working in what was called the Computer Center, where I still work today. And now, thanks to the Information Age, the Computer Center has been absorbed by the University Library and I suppose that brings us full circle(g).


Afterword

Much can be said (and has been!) about the strike's effects on Columbia University. Of course it hurt the University in many ways -- applications, endowment, contracts & grants, gifts, and so on. It took at least 20 years to fully recover. Perhaps it strengthened the University in other ways, who knows.

Most press accounts of the time focus on the strike leaders, their affiliations and temperaments and hairstyles, but honestly, I don't recall them being a major force, except on the first night when they decided the white students should leave Hamilton Hall. They certainly didn't choreograph the events after that. Actions were either taken spontaneously, or discussed to death by EVERYBODY until consensus was reached, in the manner of the day (and night!). In Low library, leadership meant nothing more than fairly moderating the open discussion and applying Robert's Rules -- a process not nearly as interesting to the media as sound bites from high-profile personalities.

I never felt the strike was motivated primarily by antipathy towards Columbia. After all, students came here voluntarily and received good educations (often obtaining their introduction to radical thought from their own professors) and -- even in those days -- the student body, if not faculty and administration, was among the most diverse anywhere. Community relations were not all bad: many of us were Project Double Discovery counselors or involved in various Columbia-sponsored Harlem community action projects.

Rather, it was a case of students doing the best they could in the place where they were to stop the war in Viet Nam and fight racism at home, just as they hoped others would do in other places: in the streets, factories, offices, other universities, the military itself, the court of world opinion, and finally in the seats of government. Whether this was the best way to do it is debatable, but it is clear that the more polite methods of previous years were not working, and every DAY that passed cost 2000 lives in Southeast Asia. So to the extent that the Columbia strike hastened the end of the war, it was worthwhile. As to racism and community relations, it's not my place to judge.

After-Afterword

Don't Trust Anyone Under 50!


Chronology

23 April 1968 Occupation of gym site, occupation of Hamilton Hall
24 April 1968 Occupation of Low Library
26-28 April 1968 Occupation of Math, Avery, Fayerweather
30 April 1968 712 building occupiers and bystanders arrested
6 May 1968 University reopened, students boycott classes
17 May 1968 117 arrested at 114th Street SRO
21 May 1968 138 arrested in "Hamilton II" + bystanders
4 June 1968 Counter-commencement on Low Plaza.


Legend

BPP Black Panther Party
CORE Congress Of Racial Equality (then); Columbia Organization of Rising Entrepreneurs (now)
IDA Institute for Defense Analyses
PL (PLP) Progressive Labor Party
ROTC Reserve Officers Training Corps
SAS Students Afro-American Society
SDS Students for a Democratic Society
SNCC Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee
SRO Single Room Occupancy
SWP Socialist Workers Party
TPF Tactical Police Force
WKCR The Columbia student-run radio station
YAWF Youth Against War and Fascism
YCL Young Communist League
YSA Young Socialist Alliance


Notes

  1. Publication of the Columbia Librarian issue, Volume XXVII Numbers 1-2, was delayed until Fall-Winter 1999.
  2. Big demonstrations and other actions in 1967 persuaded Columbia's administration to stop turning over class rank lists to Selective Service, in defiance of US policy, if not law. Fast forward 35 years to when Columbia announced plans to send regular reports about each foreign student to the Immigration and Naturalization Service (not just residence and visa status but also detailed academic information) and not a peep was heard from anybody. In the intervening years Columbia had often refused to provide information such as students' reading preferences to the FBI as a matter of principle, even without student prodding.
  3. These things are not intrinsically bad; you have to take them in context. For example, see the 1940s section of my Computing at Columbia Timeline. It's one thing to fight Fascism and genocide (if that's what we were doing) but Viet Nam was something else again, and Columbia was tied to the Institute for Defense Analyses (IDA) which conducted classified war and weapons research for the Pentagon, e.g. on the "automated battlefield" and defoliation. Six weeks prior to the Columbia strike, a petition bearing nearly 2000 signatures calling on Columbia to cease classified war research was brought to the President's office; the University responded by placing the students who presented it on disciplinary probation.
  4. The Times managing editors were also Columbia Trustees.
  5. Press and photographers were allowed into the President's office the first day, when it was messy, and this was the only view the public had (most famously from the May 10th Life issue). The mainstream press was barred after that because of their fixation on silliness, like the student who was smoking the President's cigars, rather than the issues of the strike.
  6. In retrospect, perhaps the leather-clad police were not TPF after all, but a detachment of motorcycle police brought in temporarily until the TPF arrived.
  7. Nothing lasts forever. In 2005, academic computing was severed from the Libraries and rejoined to administrative computing.

理想国

坐在暖和的图书馆里,喝着热茶。外面的温度大概在5度以下,绝食的学生已经在风雨中坚持了9天。昨天早晨有两个学生体力不支,宣布结束绝食,他们被送入医院的时候,已经进入了严重的昏迷状态。昨天下午校方和学生的谈判没有取得重大的进展。校方同意扩大多元文化办公室的预算和工作范围,同时批准将本科生的多元化课程从目前的研讨班和讲座扩展成为一个学期左右的必修课。这一项举措将耗资5000万美元。对于学生的其他请求,校方还在讨论,尤其是关于曼哈顿村扩张的计划。下个星期将是感恩节假期,不知道双方会不会在那以前取得妥协。

最近校园内的一系列种族冲突,加剧了本科生对他们的学习和校园环境的不满,这次抗议可以说是学生行动主义(student activism)的一次演习。这一次冲突是哥伦比亚十年来最大的一次学生运动,声势远远大于1996年由于法律系学生自杀所造成的抗议示威活动。学生们的主要要求包括改革本科生课程结构和停止对哈莱姆区的经济渗透。学生们在谈判破裂以后,采取了极端的绝食行动。

对此,本科生的意见并不一致。不少学生认为,抗议活动的要求太繁杂,抗议组织者之间的意见非常分裂,导致要求过于松散。再者,抗议学生把矛头指向了学校的管理层,而忽略了大学实际上是由教授会(faculty senate)管理这一事实。而且,本科生的这次行动并没有取得研究生和教师的支持,在很大的程度上,本科生学生组织之间的分歧导致本科生对抗活动的意见也很分裂。

凛冽的寒风中,绝食的学生们每个夜晚都在巴特勒图书馆门前的草坪上点着蜡烛宣读抗议声明。路人鲜有回头的,甚至根本没有注意到那几个不保暖的小帐篷。这不是1968年了,学生运动现在已经不是什么时髦的活动了。

我不知道该为我的大学感到骄傲还是惭愧。这么多年以来,大学花费大量的经费投入学生的公民教育活动(civil education),希望学生成为有社会责任感的公民。现在,学生们终于组织起来反对学校对弱势群体利益的侵犯,学校反而不知所措,用沉默来表示不满。

这些本科生是哥伦比亚的古典精英主义教育培养出来的理想主义者,他们一方面承继着大学的言论自由和思想自由的传统,另一方面又以国家和社会的正义为己任,以左得过头而出名。当他们真正成长起来,真正开始思索身边的社会问题的时候,他们遇到的不是学校的热情支持,而是寒风和暴雨。他们热忱、真挚、坦率、幼稚,希望凭借自己的力量来改变社会,改变自己生活的环境,推动社会的变革。他们没有经验来对付校园政治,他们还没有足够的力量来缔结广泛的联盟,他们所要面对的是一个必然的失败。我担心,他们心中的理想国就要从此坍塌了。

和中国大学里过于聪明、世故、圆滑、只关心自己利益的大学生相比,我还是更喜欢这些冒傻气的美国大学生。至少,他们还有一个理想。我希望,在绝食结束以后,他们不要因此而气馁,放弃了对理想国的追求。绝食也许不是达到社会变革的最好途径,这一点我们在18年前已经见识过了。我们需要的不仅仅是勇气,而是经过慎重思考的行动。生命,即使是年轻的生命也不是用来随便牺牲的。

这些美国的大学生给我上了生命中重要的一课,他们再一次告诉了我理想国的价值。理想国不是我们生存的目标,而是我们的生存状态本身。我们不能等到在自己的床上行将就木的时候才来思考这个问题,而应该时刻以自己的行动来回应这个问题。是的,理想国也许是不可能的国度,但是它给与我们行动力量和反思的底线。没有理想国,现实生活不过是盲目的、挣扎着的生存。

6年前离开北大,我还没有认真反思过这个问题。很快地,我也要成为一个老师了。在大学里教书,我到底要和学生交流什么东西呢?在现实的社会情境中,我如何才能帮助他们建立他们自己的理想国呢?

我的理想国是和文人画研习班同学的二十年之约,我们约定从1997年之后的二十年里,我们要用自己的努力把这个世界变得不同。现在,十年已经过去了,我们除了在社会上冲撞的伤痕累累之外,在心里还保存了什么东西呢?理想国对现在的我们意味着什么呢?我还没有答案,你呢?

2007年11月15日星期四

隐形眼镜

鼓起勇气,又一次去配隐形眼镜。今天的医生是个好脾气的ABC,自己带着厚厚的眼镜片,比我的度数还深。奇怪,这家眼镜店人人都用框架眼睛,没人带隐形眼镜。用阿凡提大叔的逻辑来解释,这里的隐形眼镜有问题! 还好,经过了20分钟的折磨,终于成功地自己戴上了。秘诀就是自己在那儿慢慢磨蹭。戴是戴上了,自己拿不下来了。幸亏店里的西班牙裔帅哥拔刀相助,帮我取了出来,好险啊!终于完成了自己戴三次的练习,好开心。这么多年来,第一次不用戴眼镜就看得这么清晰,我感觉自己是二郎神附体,孙悟空再世,一双火眼晶晶,恨不得立刻就飞出去拯救世界。我纳闷儿,哈利波特大为什么不配隐形眼镜,他要是在除魔的时候戴上隐形眼镜,保证事半功倍。 昨天晚上和花猫的妈妈辩论现在为什么小孩子喜欢写博客和看博客。我啊,搜肠刮肚把能想到的溢美之词都献给了博客,还举了桑格格、王三表、黄集伟、老六、北京女病人、醉琴等多位网络著名写手的例子,来讲述文艺性博客、政论性博客、贫嘴博客、自我表达性博客和日记性博客的异同。 最后,花猫的妈叹了口气,“不就是自己肠子里那点破事儿吗,值得费这么大劲儿吗?”值得,值得,我连忙接下茬儿。我接着论证到,博客这个东西和论坛不同,基本上是自留地,大家的干劲可高着呢!我们这种人玩票的人,就是为了写写日记,让朋友知道自己的动向,完全没有自我标榜的意思。回头呢,要是万一,我说可是万一,我一不留神成了名人,也可以方便给我写传记的同学们察看我的历史动向嘛。花猫的妈妈笑了,要是文化大革命再来了呢?你自白书都不用写了,现成的反动言论汇总都呈现在群众雪亮的眼睛面前。苦啊,为什么我总是喜欢看事物/世界光明的一面呢?Too much positive thinking going on!  晚上做梦,梦到老爸。他老是担心我钱不够用,不能自己出书,要给我垫上出版的费用。爸啊,别操心了,您的心意我领了,好好睡吧,我就要回北京看您了。洋酒我也给你带,洋烟我也给你装,洋钱我也带一把,让你也能路路通。

2007年11月14日星期三

手艺

不是我吹的,我照相还基本靠谱。动物是动物,人物是人物,清清楚楚。虽然不美,但是用我姥姥的话说,人头还是蛮大的,看得清楚。今天收到朋友拍摄的照片数张,内容系美国高等教育年会期间中国学者的吃喝玩乐图片。张张模糊,只能靠衣着猜测人物。唯独中间有一张,三个美女开怀大笑,十分喜人。我纳闷,我怎么没有落到这张唯一的、清晰的照片里面去?回忆告诉我,虽然那天我已经喝了两杯Vanderbilt University不要钱的葡萄酒,但是我的视线还是清晰的,手还是不抖的,那张照片正是本人的作品。faint. 早上冲到眼镜店配隐形眼镜。一个伊朗姑娘貌美如花,给我验光配镜。一切都正常,唯独到了戴眼镜这个环节,我们俩都急了。她先示范,仍我自己戴。失败数十次以后,她好不容易给我的右眼戴上了。然后是左眼,她放进去一次,我痛苦一次,眼镜片就跟着滑落。后面进来的客人还以为店大欺客呢。我们都累了,歇了半晌,她好不容易才给我戴上了。这个中间,我们已经把各自的留学经历,家庭历史,以及纽约所有好的中餐馆和伊朗餐馆都回顾了一遍。为了中伊两国人民的友谊,安妮姑娘劝我明天再来试戴一次,试试小号的眼镜片。就是嘛,虽然不好意思承认,但是这里的隐形眼镜的确是为美国的大眼睛美女设计的,完全没有考虑到亚洲小眼美女的需要。为什么隐形眼镜什么颜色都有,就是没有容易戴的? 花了五分钟冲进书店,买了一本哈金最新的小说《A Free Live》准备送给David。大略看了一下介绍,讲的是1989年后留学美国的学生的选择。匆忙跑到David的办公室,看见他老人家正襟危坐,完全没有和我出去吃午餐的意思。原来,我把时间搞错了,我们约得是明天。不过,礼物都买了,不好意思再拿回去。双手恭恭敬敬送上,感谢他老人家三年来的照顾,雇用我这样一个笨学生来做助研,费了不少的口舌。David 哈哈大笑,指着我的题词道,这里这里,你又写了一个错别字。诶,当老师也不能这么诲人不倦吧!

七福猫

哈哈,我毕业了。感觉真好,老有人问着,自尊心爆棚。闲下来,昨天去看子含,小家伙正好两个月。这几天突然从红脸的关公变成了白面的刘备,大耳垂肩,面如银盆,小肚子腆着,做着的时候就是个小小的弥罗佛。好可爱!我抱着也不是,哄着也不是,他自顾自的大笑和吃手指,自在地打嗝,好个年少不知愁滋味的逍遥小小猪。两个月的孩子已经有十五磅,身量又高,难怪他爸妈觉得以后他可以练柔道。子含的爸爸好高兴,为了慰劳姥姥养育有功,带着姥姥去看了一场NBA,老人家开心极了,对这大鲨鱼欧尼尔狂拍不止。有子万事足,此言不虚。 到125街附近的小餐馆里就餐,子含爸爸送我的毕业礼物终于被打开了。原来是七福猫!据说,凡是博士毕业的人在日本都会受到这份礼物。七只的小猫代表着财运、福气、人缘、健康等等,是药师堂的作品。我欢天喜地的收下了,连干了两倍house wine,爬上125街地铁楼梯的时候,脚都软了。地铁车站无人,夜里风也不硬,吹着舒服。上城那一边灯火闪烁,好像是天上的街市。下城么,就是那著名的欲望都市,影影绰绰,不甚清晰。 有一搭没一搭地和本猫讨论着李白这个蛮子,如何能用外语写作而达到别人用母语写作都达不到的高度。结论是,他懒!李白懒得吊书袋,喜欢直抒胸臆,不喜欢像汉人一样曲里拐弯地表达自己的感情。我们推测,他平时一定是个磕巴,喝了几杯酒,舌头才直过来,能说汉语。这几杯酒刚刚让他达到微醺的状态,正好用来撒欢儿,纵情文字之中,而又不被传统所束缚。这个痴儿最是性情中人,真不枉他喝了那些上好的美酒。 人生得意须尽欢,莫使金樽空对月。 天生我材必有用,千金散尽还复来。 烹羊宰牛且为乐,会须一饮三百杯。

2007年11月13日星期二

MacBeth at Met

Yue Minjun and the Symbolic Smile

Yue Mingjun's exhibition at Queens Museum now.

Norma

昨晚看了《Norma》,又是一个始乱终弃的故事。忍不住,又做了梦。不知道被人怎么做梦,我做梦总是很累,因为细节都很具体,一点没有摆脱现实生活的轻松。在梦里,我参加一个三英里的游泳比赛。地点设在类似三峡工程附近的江里(很可能受到最近收看的《再说长江》的影响),虽然比赛的路线不长,可是由于某种原因,我就是无法一眼看到半程的转折点。开始游的时候非常累,浑浊的江水,看不到的中点。莫名其妙地,我进入了少数民族聚居的村寨,有个孩子带着我游逛。过了很久,我想起来自己还没有完成比赛,就搭乘地铁回来。奇怪的地铁,样子像是游乐园里的过山车。最后一段旅程,我不得不乘坐俯卧式雪橇才回到起点。比赛早就结束了,曲终人散,我一个人愣在那里。让我自己的困惑的、带着超级现实感的梦,结束。 正在读Sheltering Sky, 里面Kit 最讨厌别人说梦,因为她自己非常迷信,把一切都是为征兆,而别人的梦打乱了她自己征兆系统的平衡。她太自爱,虽然对自己的丈夫Port 爱得不行,却舍不得迈出一步来挽回两个人的感情。书里写道,She was far too intelligent to make the slightest effort in that direction herself; even the subtlest means would have failed, and to fal would be far worse than never to have tried. Hasmik Papian的Norma 是大都会的招牌,这个来自于亚美尼亚的大明星把诺玛由爱生恨,爱恨交织的心态刻画的入木三分。表面上看,故事在讲一个有权利的女人在爱和责任之间的挣扎,其实,女人么,太容易因为情感而堕落,而且又是为了那么不值得的人。如果Pollione 爱她,仿佛世界就焕然一新;如果他抛弃她另结新欢,世界就不值得存在,就这个水平的智慧还能担当女祭司,难怪他们的民族要被罗马人征服了。故事的结局太过讨好,在死亡面前,旧情人幡然悔悟,重投诺玛的怀抱,两个人拥抱着登上死亡之旅,这个结尾是在有点俗套。固然不是每个女人都能像Electrica那样决绝,但是那个男人有什么值得挽回的呢?反对罗马帝国统治的大局在前,不奋勇拼搏,却执著于男女之间的那点破事儿,这样的角色恐怕不怎么讨好。 好在贝利尼妙笔生花,用浓墨重彩把诺玛感情的极度转换写得如泣如诉,此剧堪称是bel canto传统中的经典。Hasmik在高音区的自由游弋在第一幕的“Casta diva”和第二幕的“Teneri, teneri figli”中得到了最好的体现。Dolora Zajick 所扮演的Adalgisa也是可圈可点,她和Haskmik的Duet “Mira, o Norma” 感人至深。全剧的高潮当然是 诺玛赴死之前托孤的一段唱,Deh! non volerli vittime,弄得女观众们不停地抹眼泪。人生的路啊,怎么给编排的这么曲折呢?

2007年11月12日星期一

Hard working, no pay, no sex

在肯塔基开高等教育学年会。受了卡缪小说的影响,觉得正件事都很荒谬。遇到的熟人突然显得陌生,因为我就要离开了。这个消息一出口,对方立即觉得没有什么交流的必要了,因为我就要滚蛋了,滚出美国的学术圈儿。对多数美国学者而言,这个世界上只有这么一个学术圈子,他们自己的圈子。 对此,我大笑。回家后要重读David Lodge的小说,他的文字是对学术圈最好的讽刺。 要想把学术圈混好,就要遵守规则。Hard working, no pay, no sex。You figure!

The Stranger (novel)

The Stranger, or The Outsider, (from the French L’Étranger, 1942) is a novel by Albert Camus. It is one of the best-known examples of absurdist fiction.
Albert Camus, like Meursault, was a pied-noir (literally black foot)—a Frenchman who lived in the Maghreb, the northernmost crescent of Africa along the Mediterranean Sea, the heart of France's colonies.
Usually classed as an existential novel, The Stranger is indeed based on Camus's theory of the absurd. In the first half of the novel Meursault is clearly an unreflecting, unapologetic individual. He is moved only by sensory experiences (the funeral procession, swimming at the beach, sexual intercourse with Marie, etc). Camus is reinforcing his basic thesis that there is no Truth, only (relative) truths—and, in particular, that truths in science (empiricism/rationality) and religion are ultimately meaningless. Of course, Meursault himself isn't directly aware of any of this -- his awareness of the absurd is subconscious at best; it 'colors' his actions. But Camus's basic point remains: the only real things are those that we experience physically. Thus, Meursault kills the Arab because of his response to the glaring sun, which beats down upon him as he moves toward his 'adversary' on the beach. The death of the Arab isn't particularly meaningful in itself: it's merely something else that 'happens' to Meursault. The significance of this episode is that it forces Meursault to reflect upon his life (and its meaning) as he contemplates his impending execution. Only by being tried and sentenced to death is Meursault forced to acknowledge his own mortality and the responsibility he has for his own life. Another theme is that we make our own destiny, and we, not God, are responsible for our actions and their consequences (non-determinism or existentialism).
Truth is another motif in the book. Meursault, despite being judged by many of his contemporaries as immoral or amoral, is consistently honest and direct. In his unyielding candor, he never displays emotions that he does not feel. Neither does he participate in social conventions calling for dishonesty. Although grief is considered the socially acceptable or "normal" response, Meursault does not exhibit grief at his mother's funeral. This incorruptible honesty takes on a naïve dimension when he goes through the trial process; he questions the need for a lawyer, claiming that the truth should speak for itself. Much of the second half of the book involves this theme of the imperfection of justice. It is Meursault's adherence to the literal truth that proves his undoing—a public official compiling the details of the case tells Meursault he will be saved if he repents and turns to Christianity, but Meursault is truthful to his atheism and refuses to pretend he has found religion. More generally, Meursault's honesty overrides his self-preservation instinct; he ultimately accepts punishment for his actions, and refuses to try evading justice.
As previously mentioned, a main theme is the absurd, and it is a theme that at times throughout the book seems to override the 'responsibility' aspect of the powerful ending. The ending seems to reflect that Meursault is in fact satisfied with his demise, to the extent that one can be satisfied with death, while also of course being terrified, whereas the erstwhile sensory observations, which were mostly stand-alone and, if they did impact him, did so in terms of something physical (e.g. "I became tired"), become very relevant to his self and being. It seems that, in facing death, he's found the first true feeling and revelation and happiness. But even that revelation was in the "gentle indifference of the world". A central contributor to this theme was that of the pause after he shot the Arab for the first time. In one key moment, while being interviewed by the magistrate, he mentions how it did not matter that he waited and shot four more times. In this incident, Meursault thinks completely objectively, and truly there is no difference in tangible results: the Arab died in one shot, and four more shots did not make him any "more" dead. This is seen also in his reflection on the absurdity of humanity creating a justice system to impose such meaningful actions as "death" upon a human: "The fact that the [death] sentence had been read at eight o'clock at night and not at five o'clock... the fact that it had been handed down in the name of some vague notion called the French (or German, or Chinese) people--all of it seemed to detract from the seriousness of the decision".
In writing the novel Camus was influenced by other existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Martin Heidegger. Camus and Sartre in particular had been involved in the French resistance during World War II and were friends until ultimately differing on their philosophical stances. Ultimately, Camus presents the world as essentially meaningless and therefore, the only way to arrive at any meaning or purpose is to make it oneself. Thus it is the individual and not the act that gives meaning to any given context. Camus deals with this issue, as well as man's relationship to man and issues such as suicide in his other works such as A Happy Death and The Plague, as well as his non-fiction works such as The Rebel and The Myth of Sisyphus.

原来他就是卡缪

这些天在看Camus's The Stranger。在深夜的地铁列车上,翻过了最后几行,车门一开,我跳到8街的站台上,长叹一口气,可算是看完了。全书行文流利,言简意赅,据说Camus 在小说的前半部故意模仿所谓“美国式小说”的写法,使用短句,故意打消意义上的勾连。 整部作品就像是在一个人的脸上不断加上湿透了的绵纸,读起来越来越沉重,到最后甚至连呼吸都困难。原本无邪的人生,因为偶然的出轨,向着不可避免的堕落发展。 主人公本来是个没有进取心的年轻人,他对人生缺乏兴趣,在本质上和世界、人类的普遍情感和道德都保持着距离,他作为一个陌生人,作为一个自我的他者生存在这个地球上。他自认为他的选择在绝大多数情况下由他的本能和基本生理需求所决定,而不是理智的判断。他不愿意过多的思考、缺乏爱和被爱的能力。因为不愿意违背他人的意志,他被动地行动,被动地承担了行动的后果,直至卷入杀人案而被判处斩首示众。他感受不到对自己母亲的爱,他感受不到对女朋友的爱,他感受不到朋友的友谊,他甚至在杀人之后感受不到悔恨。与此相对,他对周边环境有一种异乎寻常的敏感。无论是他所喜爱的海滩,还是城市的角落,他都能从最细微的生活细节中感受到满足。主人公的生活由一系列的没有目的的漫游所组成,他不是不愿意思考,而是觉得思考自己的生活是一件荒谬和没有意义的事。 Camus的高妙之处在于,他将人类本身所具有的blind, mass desire for life 和his protagonist’s thoughtful rejection of being lived as such对比起来,揭示出存在本身的荒谬和不可能性。即便本性as retreat as possible,他的主人公仍然陷入与他自身存在无关的争斗。在个人的努力无法改变命运这个意义上,这个故事是真正的悲剧。 爱和伦理所构成的外部世界对主人公来说是完全陌生的。最终,这个外在的世界对他进行了审判。这个审判,与其说是对他的谋杀罪(guilty)所进行的审判,不如说是对他的原罪(sin)所进行的审判。检察官对他态度的彻底转变是由于发现他对上帝毫无信仰,对自己的原罪予以否认,而不是由于他谋杀罪行的严重。最后的主人公被认定犯有故意谋杀罪,而这一认定完全建立在与案情无关的推理上—主要是建立在主人公对母亲去世的无动于衷和对宗教和惯常社会伦理的无视。个人行动的边界和社会集体行动准则之间的冲突,决定了主人公的命运—信仰或者死亡。 一个没有信仰的人犯了罪,那些具有道德优越感的人代表社会对他进行了双重审判(French people)。第一重审判是因为他对别人生命的剥夺,这个罪不至于死。第二重审判是因为他对社会基本伦理和道德的蔑视,这个罪威胁着这个社会存在的根本,因此是死罪。我不禁想起《读者》那个故事,什么是审判?什么是社会正义?审判是为了救赎还是惩罚? 小说在最后几页到达了高潮。主人公和牧师进行了冗长的对话。开始,他采取了一贯的无所谓的态度。最后,他终于发作了,把牧师骂得体无完肤。宗教和宗教所许诺的救赎对主人公而言,完全没有任何意义。在生命的尽头,他意识到整个世界的无意义。也是在这里,他终于和自己的母亲取得了和解。 故事在此处嘎然而止,余音绕梁三日不绝。我不禁击节称快。一个人在临终前终于得到了身心的全面解放,终于能够直面必死的命运,还有什么比这更幸福的事?一个弱者终于摆脱了社会所强加给他的桎梏,能够自觉面对自己的行动及其后果,还有什么比这个更能彰显个性的崇高? 如果说《潜水钟和蝴蝶》是一个人对生命的留恋,是一首美轮美奂的挽歌,那么《陌生人》就是对不自觉地、麻木的存在的一个决绝的否定,对于生命彻底的怀疑,一个响亮的嚏喷。这个故事其实并不容易进入,侥幸的是我先看了Without Stopping 和The Sheltering Sky,对本书所描述的人生状态有所准备。奇怪的是,阅读仍然对我产生了很大的影响。有的时候,在地铁摇摇晃晃的车厢里抬起头来,我看到对面的陌生人,突然奇怪自己身在何处,甚至会犹豫着要不要上车或者下车。一个看似无所谓的决定,最终会根本地改变一个人生命的方向,这个想法我无论如何也摆脱不掉。 和安娜在路易斯威勒小城里闲逛。中南部的小城,到处是衰败的景象。所谓的艺术区里,有几家古玩店和老家具店,经营者都是guy。午饭后,找到一个玻璃作坊,外面太冷,正好到里面暖和一下。两个匠人正在烧一个缂丝玻璃花瓶,炉火熊熊,一团融化的玻璃渐渐地变成了一件精美绝伦的艺术品。玻璃一遇热,变得绵软不堪,匠人们用剪刀就可以把它剪开,然后再随意加以造型。最后定型的时候,一个人拿起小榔头轻轻一敲,一声脆响,瓶口应声而断,一个花瓶就诞生了。 我跟安娜讲起了《陌生人》,安娜大惊,怎么这个年纪才看?那个可是卡缪的名著!卡缪,原来他就是卡缪!大学的时候把他的东西拿来看,总是看不进去,误打误撞,现在和他撞了个满怀。哈哈,人生何处不相逢?我在2007年碰到了1946年的故人。阿瑟米勒昨日去世,什么时候也要把他的书找来看看。

2007年11月11日星期日

Norman Mailer was dead

Came home yesterday and started earlier today, just to find Norman Mailer was dead. From NY Times.

Norman Mailer, Towering Writer With Matching Ego, Is Dead

By CHARLES McGRATH Norman Mailer, the combative, controversial and often outspoken novelist who loomed over American letters longer and larger than any other writer of his generation, died early yesterday in Manhattan. He was 84.

Mr. Mailer burst on the scene in 1948 with “The Naked and the Dead,” a partly autobiographical novel about World War II, and for six decades he was rarely far from center stage. He published more than 30 books, including novels, biographies and works of nonfiction, and twice won the Pulitzer Prize: for “The Armies of the Night” (1968), which also won the National Book Award, and “The Executioner’s Song” (1979).

He also wrote, directed and acted in several low-budget movies, helped found The Village Voice and for many years was a regular guest on television talk shows, where he could reliably be counted on to make oracular pronouncements and deliver provocative opinions, sometimes coherently and sometimes not.

Mr. Mailer belonged to the old literary school that regarded novel writing as a heroic enterprise undertaken by heroic characters with egos to match. He was the most transparently ambitious writer of his era, seeing himself in competition not just with his contemporaries but with the likes of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.

He was also the least shy and risk-averse of writers. He eagerly sought public attention, and publicity inevitably followed him on the few occasions when he tried to avoid it. His big ears, barrel chest, striking blue eyes and helmet of seemingly electrified hair — jet black at first and ultimately snow white — made him instantly recognizable, a celebrity long before most authors were lured out into the limelight.

At different points in his life Mr. Mailer was a prodigious drinker and drug taker, a womanizer, a devoted family man, a would-be politician who ran for mayor of New York, a hipster existentialist, an antiwar protester, an opponent of women’s liberation and an all-purpose feuder and short-fused brawler, who with the slightest provocation would happily engage in head-butting, arm-wrestling and random punch-throwing. Boxing obsessed him and inspired some of his best writing. Any time he met a critic or a reviewer, even a friendly one, he would put up his fists and drop into a crouch.

Gore Vidal, with whom he frequently wrangled, once wrote: “Mailer is forever shouting at us that he is about to tell us something we must know or has just told us something revelatory and we failed to hear him or that he will, God grant his poor abused brain and body just one more chance, get through to us so that we will know. Each time he speaks he must become more bold, more loud, put on brighter motley and shake more foolish bells. Yet of all my contemporaries I retain the greatest affection for Norman as a force and as an artist. He is a man whose faults, though many, add to rather than subtract from the sum of his natural achievements.”

Mr. Mailer was a tireless worker who at his death was writing a sequel to his 2007 novel, “The Castle in the Forest.” If some of his books, written quickly and under financial pressure, were not as good as he had hoped, none of them were forgettable or without his distinctive stamp. And if he never quite succeeded in bringing off what he called “the big one” — the Great American Novel — it was not for want of trying.

Along the way, he transformed American journalism by introducing to nonfiction writing some of the techniques of the novelist and by placing at the center of his reporting a brilliant, flawed and larger-than-life character who was none other than Norman Mailer himself.