I haven't had much time to write on this blog lately, but I wanted to make time to do something I've been planning on for quite a while now--to present a collection of quotes from A.O. Scott, the New York Times movie critic. For many years, I read his reviews religiously, and I still look out for them. In recent years, we have had our differences: Scott either is more pessimistic in his outlook or just has a higher threshold of despair than I do (his review of Melancholia is an example). Nevertheless, for anyone who loves writing that serves the point, Scott's disciplined, elegant, chiselled-to-perfection style is a dream. And while I've enjoyed his writing beyond reason and into near ecstasy (read what he writes about Schubert), it's his insight, his fair-minded analysis and, above all, his unapologetic, unpretentious, and steadfast humanism that have comforted and at times even sparked a light in the darkness for me. If there's anything I would like to be able to say to him, it's a simple, heartfelt "thank you." The following are some of the reasons why. (I have no idea why some of the links are red and the others blue: I just hope they all work.)
A.O. Scott on:
Love
"The treachery of love--and also its promise--is that people can surprise you" (Definitely, May Be).
"Love [is] the very possibility of sex and heart-break ..." (Shopgirl).
Childhood
"Children see more than they understand, and understand more than they know.
Their intense, limited way of perceiving the world, sometimes sentimentally
rendered as moral innocence, is one of the reasons they are frequently placed at
the center of movies about war, revolution and other forms of social upheaval
and political disaster" (own emphasis) (Machuca).
"Mr. Selick is interested in childhood not as a condition of sentimentalized, passive innocence but rather as an active, seething state of receptivity in which consciousness itself is a site of wondrous, at times unbearable drama" (Coraline).
"Though his unkempt hair shows signs of graying, his diction is childlike, and his emotional weather resembles that of a toddler: the pursuit of endless gratification punctuated by occasional tantrums" (Reign over Me).
Fairy Tales
"Mr. Selick is hardly a doctrinaire Freudian, but he does grasp the intimate connection between fairy tales and the murky, occult power of longing, existential confusion and misplaced desire" (Coraline).
Group loyalty
"The picture’s basic conflict is one Mr. Gray has explored before: the tension between the individual spirit and the ways of the tribe" (own emphasis) (Two Lovers).
"Like a Roth hero — and just about every other American Jewish male protagonist from Augie March to Jerry Seinfeld — he struggles with the conflicting demands of filial duty and the longing to strike out on his own. He wants to be a good son, but he also wants to live a life of danger, freedom and impulse. Does he stick with his own kind and risk suffocation, or does he risk rootlessness in pursuit of liberation?" (Two Lovers).
Jerks (especially the psuedo-intellectual kind)
"But 'whatever works' — by which he means, basically, do your own thing, 'filch what happiness you can' in the absence of metaphysical order — could also be the slogan of pragmatism, a more optimistic philosophical disposition, and one that would deny Boris both his self-pity and his puffed-up sense of intellectual superiority" (Whatever Works).
Family
" 'Coraline' explores the predatory implications of parental love — that other mother is a monster of misplaced maternal instinct — but is grounded in the pluck and common sense of its heroine, who is resilient, ingenious and magically real" (Coraline).
“What motivates Donny is an oppressive sense of responsibility, to his family, to his mother, to his boyfriend” (Critic's Pick video of Dog Day Afternoon).
"Leonard is by turns raw and benumbed, at once comforted and smothered by the homey claustrophobia of life with his tactful old-world dad (Moni Moshonov) and his hovering, anxious mother" (Two Lovers).
Failure
"Accepting one’s limitations and trying anyway..." (I don't know in which review I read this, but read it, I did, and it's etched in my mind indelibly).
Music
"And, in its way, eloquent. The idea of removing yourself entirely from the world is a radical one, and Mr. Gröning approaches it with fascination and a measure of awe. At first, as your mind adjusts to the film’s contemplative pace, you may experience impatience. Where is the story? Who are these people? But you surrender to 'Into Great Silence' as you would to a piece of music, noting the repetitions and variations, encountering surprises just when you think you’ve figured out the pattern. By the end, what you have learned is impossible to sum up, but your sense of the world is nonetheless perceptibly altered." (own emphasis) (Into Great Silence).
"Watching 'Thirteen Conversations,' which opens today in Manhattan and Los Angeles, is a bit like listening to a Schubert piano concerto: you perceive, at the far boundary of consciousness, echoes and foreshadowings, and you encounter, always by surprise and always in retrospect, at exactly the right moment passages of intense and ravishing emotion" (Thirteen Conversations about One Thing).
"Using locations in Morocco and Spain uncannily doctored to resemble the Baghdad we know from documentaries and contemporary television news feeds, Mr. Greengrass (decisively aided by the stroboscopic vision of his cinematographer, Barry Ackroyd, who also shot “The Hurt Locker”) choreographs foot chases and gun battles that unfold with the velocity, complexity and precision of a Bach fugue played on overdrive" (own emphasis) (Green House).
"Mr. Eastwood treats the conventions of the boxing-movie genre, its measured alternations of adversity and redemption, like the chord changes to a familiar song - the kind of standard that can, in the hands of a deft and sensitive musician, be made to yield fresh meanings and unexpected reservoirs of deep and difficult emotion" (own emphasis) (Million Dollar Baby).
Hipsters
"'Thirteen Conversations' is thrillingly smart, but not, like so many other pictures in this vein, merely an elaborate excuse for its own cleverness” (Thirteen Conversations about One Thing).
“'Hipness can be depressing,' he sighs. Quite so. And along with its vistas of Lisbon and its literary excursions, 'The Portuguese Nun' — unapologetically classical, even to the point of anachronism — offers at least a temporary cure" (The Portuguese Nun).
Someone we all know (and some of us have a weak spot for)
“The first is Steven Spurrier, played by Alan Rickman, whose parched low voice and air of beleaguered pomposity are never unwelcome” (Bottle Shock).
Life
"The point of 'Taste of Cherry,' the point it makes about life, is that it is not something to be analyzed and interpreted, it is something to be experienced and savored" (Critic's Pick video of Taste of Cherry).
Good manners
"And he is also an observer (again in two senses, a watcher and a devotee) of social decorum. The actors in 'The Portuguese Nun' — including Ana Moreira as a Portuguese nun — enunciate clearly and never interrupt one another, …" (The Portuguese Nun).
Spirituality
"The psychology and philosophy of asceticism are not Mr. Gröning’s concern. He is after something more elusive and, from an aesthetic as well as an intellectual point of view, more valuable: a point of contact with the spiritual content of intense religious commitment.
He finds it by means of a visual style and an editing scheme that match the feeling and structure of the days and seasons as they pass through the charterhouse. Snow gives way to greenery, early morning light cycles around to darkness, and the viewer witnesses ordinary moments that add up to a persuasive representation of grace.
Not the thing itself — Mr. Gröning is not so vain as to suppose that a movie can provide a religious experience — but a preliminary understanding of its shape and weight. The sensual beauty of the images is part of this, but the film has more than lovely alpine vistas and arresting compositions of light and shade. Like the monks themselves, it is both humble and exalted." (Into Great Silence).
Emotional fuckwits
(I really, really wish he had reviewed the first Bridget Jones!)
"This is a man clearly burdened by an excess of feeling - sexual need, grief, guilt, longing, frustration - and even in moments of contentment or repose his face and posture betray his suffering.
The novel is Timoteo's first-person account of that ill-starred relationship, told to Angela as she lies in a coma, and the film hews closely to his point of view, which is both self-lacerating and self-serving.
In any case, their relationship begins with rape, and though it subsequently evolves into something consensual and even tender, there is no avoiding the ugly truth that Timoteo destroys her life to satisfy his own inchoate yearnings.
Or so it would seem. But "Don't Move" is in some ways as evasive and self-serving as its main character, parading his flaws before us in order to obtain a forgiveness that he does not deserve. After the initial assault, he feels bad enough to write a confession in the sand, but he keeps returning to Italia, leading her on with unlikely promises. That he may intend to keep them only makes his weakness more glaring and allows the film to present his cruel, predatory behavior as passionate, even generous.
Ms. Cruz, in her most credible performance to date - the first I have seen in any language that suggests she may be a real actress - is like a stick-figure Anna Magnani, feeding on her own capacity for selflessness. She willingly sacrifices her dignity, her body and whatever future she may have had. In return, she receives some of a mistress's traditional perquisites - a pair of shoes, a few thousand lire on the kitchen table, a few nights in a nice hotel - which become, in Timoteo's memory, the sacraments of a great, doomed love.
'Don't Move' treats this sad, tawdry story like a thing of rare and delicate beauty, and it is a beautifully made film - decorously composed, meticulously acted, cleanly photographed. But all of these qualities make it seem complacent and hypocritical when it wants to be honest and brave, and sentimental rather than emotionally daring." (Don't Move).
"But he can’t help but be distracted by Michelle (Gwyneth Paltrow), a willowy blonde who turns up, to Leonard’s amazement and his mother’s undisguised horror, in their apartment building. Michelle is an exotic transplant in the outer-borough soil, filling Leonard’s nose with the Manhattany perfume of sophistication and sexual adventure. She is also needy, capricious and a little unstable, which allows Leonard’s fantasy of escape to be twinned with a dream of rescue." (Two Lovers).
Sports
"We'd like to tell ourselves that athletic competition is about the noble pursuit of excellence, but who are we kidding?" (Slap Shot).
Democracy
"But most strikingly "Please Vote for Me" is about democracy in its rawest, purest form...we love democracy, we idealize it, but let's not kid ourselves: it isn't always pretty" (Critic's Picks video of Please Vote for Me).
Critics
"He demonstrated in every sentence what a critic could be — what a critic must be. Not a cop, a saint, a celebrity, a judge, a bureaucrat or a priest. A citizen. A teacher. A friend."
(A Genial Explorer of Literary Worlds: Remembering John Leonard)
Friday, January 4, 2013
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The ugly side of our human nature.
Like many others, I've been captivated in the recent days by the crash of the Costa Concordia cruise liner near the island of Giglio, Italy. As I've followed the news in Corriere Della Sera, Le Monde, www.tageshau.de, and New York Times, I have been thinking about the difference between this crash, which has resulted in 11 dead and 21 missing, and the emergency landing on the Hudson River of the US Airways plane piloted by Captain Sully Sullenberger , who was able to save the lives of all passangers on board.
The two incidents are the complete opposite of each other. The Costa Concordia was run aground because its captain deviated from the planned course and sailed too close to the shore. Acccording to some reports, he did so in order to show off the luxury ship to inhabitants of Giglio, some of whom were family members of the head waiter and others related to a famed retired captain. The US Airlines plane was struck by a flock of geese which disabled its motors.
The Concordai captain seems to have gone into denial for a full thirty minutes after crashing his sheep, delaying rescue efforts. And even then, instead of taking control of the situation and organizing the evacuation, he seems to have abandoned his ship, leaving it up to the his crew and the coast guard to help the passangers as best they could. It should be entirely possible to escape a sinking ship that is so close to land. By all accounts, Costa Concordia had enough life boats for everyone; all the passangers needed were clear instructions on how to evacuate the ship. And in this case, the captain would not have needed to go down with his ship in order to help the passangers. Even if he had been the last to leave, an experienced man of the sea like him could surely swim to shore, as some passangers actually had to do. Or he could have waited on the side of the ship to be airlifted as some passangers were.
By contrast, the US Airline plane faced an almost inevitable fatal crash which was avoided mainly thanks to the professionalism of its captain. Sully Sullenberger had only a few seconds to figure out his options and find a way to land the plane without crashing it. He not only did so, but also calmly prepared the passangers for what was to come. On the David Letterman show, one of the flight attendants said that passangers in her section panicked and even hindered the rescue effort with their disorderly behavior. Even so, the situation never became so chaotic that the rescuers could not save everyone. Surely the captain's own calm and focused demeanor helped some of the passangers to follow suit. And even though his plane was sinking a lot faster and was much farther from land than the Costa Concordia ship, Sullenberger was the last one on board, checking the plane well before finally leaving it himself.
We'd all like to think that in a similar situation, we would be Sully Sullenberger and not the Concordia captain. The later has been pilloried enough in the international media, especially in Italy, where people have made an idol out of the coast guard officer who berated him on the phone for abandoning the ship, thus showing the world that some Italians, at least, were just as outraged outraged at the ship captain's behavior. But if the behavior of the Concordia captain stained the reputation of Italians, I'm not sure the outrage of the coast guard officer cleansed it. It is not, after all, as if the coast guard officer replaced the cruised captain on board and carried out his duties. He just yelled his head off at him, which is not that hard to do.
Outrage is easy. Doing the right thing is hard. And that is why I am more saddened at this course of events than outraged. We would all like to think that we would be more like Sully Sullenberger than the Concordia captain in these situations, but it is a lot easier to act as the Concordia captain did than like Sully Sullenberger. Who among us does not feel the impulse to show off when we've accomplished something that sets us above the rest? Who among us would not feel shame and the impulse to cover up a mistake with such serious consequences? Who among us would be able to manage the panic, put aside the fear, and face reality rather than flee from it? Who among us would be able to focus and perform a difficult task? And who among us, after failing to do all those things, would be honest enough to admit her or his failures instead of trying to cover them up to save face and escape the consequences? Would it be you? I am not at all sure that it would be me.
I am saddened about the victims who had every reason to place their faith and their lives in the hands of the captain and the Costa Concordia company, which is not by any means without blame in this disaster. (The British shipping agency, Lloyd's List, has revealed that the company authorized the ship last year to sail even closer to the island of Giglio in order to please the organizers of the San Lorenzo festival --thus setting a dangerous precedent that this captain followed to fatal consequences). I think the captain should be prosecuted for his professional failures to the full extent of the law so as to discourage others from abandoning their duty in similar circumstances or from assuming duties they're not capable of discharging just to show off. As for his moral failures, his conscience surely will torment him enough for as long as he lives. In a selfish way, I'm just glad my own mistakes and failures have never had such consequences for the lives of others. And I certainly do not wish to be ever be tested in the way this person was.
Meanwhile, I have that much more admiration--if it is possible to have more than I already did--for Sully Sullenberger. He has insisted that he is not a hero and that he just did his job. He has insisted on sharing the credit--and the stage--with his crew. But I disagree. In a terrible situation, he triumphed over his worst instincts and rose above the ugly side of our human nature. That is enough to make him a hero. It's the kind of heroism we all need to summon on a daily basis, no matter how mundane our lives.
The two incidents are the complete opposite of each other. The Costa Concordia was run aground because its captain deviated from the planned course and sailed too close to the shore. Acccording to some reports, he did so in order to show off the luxury ship to inhabitants of Giglio, some of whom were family members of the head waiter and others related to a famed retired captain. The US Airlines plane was struck by a flock of geese which disabled its motors.
The Concordai captain seems to have gone into denial for a full thirty minutes after crashing his sheep, delaying rescue efforts. And even then, instead of taking control of the situation and organizing the evacuation, he seems to have abandoned his ship, leaving it up to the his crew and the coast guard to help the passangers as best they could. It should be entirely possible to escape a sinking ship that is so close to land. By all accounts, Costa Concordia had enough life boats for everyone; all the passangers needed were clear instructions on how to evacuate the ship. And in this case, the captain would not have needed to go down with his ship in order to help the passangers. Even if he had been the last to leave, an experienced man of the sea like him could surely swim to shore, as some passangers actually had to do. Or he could have waited on the side of the ship to be airlifted as some passangers were.
By contrast, the US Airline plane faced an almost inevitable fatal crash which was avoided mainly thanks to the professionalism of its captain. Sully Sullenberger had only a few seconds to figure out his options and find a way to land the plane without crashing it. He not only did so, but also calmly prepared the passangers for what was to come. On the David Letterman show, one of the flight attendants said that passangers in her section panicked and even hindered the rescue effort with their disorderly behavior. Even so, the situation never became so chaotic that the rescuers could not save everyone. Surely the captain's own calm and focused demeanor helped some of the passangers to follow suit. And even though his plane was sinking a lot faster and was much farther from land than the Costa Concordia ship, Sullenberger was the last one on board, checking the plane well before finally leaving it himself.
We'd all like to think that in a similar situation, we would be Sully Sullenberger and not the Concordia captain. The later has been pilloried enough in the international media, especially in Italy, where people have made an idol out of the coast guard officer who berated him on the phone for abandoning the ship, thus showing the world that some Italians, at least, were just as outraged outraged at the ship captain's behavior. But if the behavior of the Concordia captain stained the reputation of Italians, I'm not sure the outrage of the coast guard officer cleansed it. It is not, after all, as if the coast guard officer replaced the cruised captain on board and carried out his duties. He just yelled his head off at him, which is not that hard to do.
Outrage is easy. Doing the right thing is hard. And that is why I am more saddened at this course of events than outraged. We would all like to think that we would be more like Sully Sullenberger than the Concordia captain in these situations, but it is a lot easier to act as the Concordia captain did than like Sully Sullenberger. Who among us does not feel the impulse to show off when we've accomplished something that sets us above the rest? Who among us would not feel shame and the impulse to cover up a mistake with such serious consequences? Who among us would be able to manage the panic, put aside the fear, and face reality rather than flee from it? Who among us would be able to focus and perform a difficult task? And who among us, after failing to do all those things, would be honest enough to admit her or his failures instead of trying to cover them up to save face and escape the consequences? Would it be you? I am not at all sure that it would be me.
I am saddened about the victims who had every reason to place their faith and their lives in the hands of the captain and the Costa Concordia company, which is not by any means without blame in this disaster. (The British shipping agency, Lloyd's List, has revealed that the company authorized the ship last year to sail even closer to the island of Giglio in order to please the organizers of the San Lorenzo festival --thus setting a dangerous precedent that this captain followed to fatal consequences). I think the captain should be prosecuted for his professional failures to the full extent of the law so as to discourage others from abandoning their duty in similar circumstances or from assuming duties they're not capable of discharging just to show off. As for his moral failures, his conscience surely will torment him enough for as long as he lives. In a selfish way, I'm just glad my own mistakes and failures have never had such consequences for the lives of others. And I certainly do not wish to be ever be tested in the way this person was.
Meanwhile, I have that much more admiration--if it is possible to have more than I already did--for Sully Sullenberger. He has insisted that he is not a hero and that he just did his job. He has insisted on sharing the credit--and the stage--with his crew. But I disagree. In a terrible situation, he triumphed over his worst instincts and rose above the ugly side of our human nature. That is enough to make him a hero. It's the kind of heroism we all need to summon on a daily basis, no matter how mundane our lives.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Novak Djokovic, the dangerous Serbian nationalist.
In his latest, widely read online mailbag, Sports Illustrated senior writer Jon Wertheim wrote, “Ask yourself: What's the worst thing you could say about Djokovic in 2011? He once used a controversial egg contraption? He faded in the fall? His parents stopped showing up wearing those super cool T-shirts? Just a standout year in every sense.”
I have something worse to say than the trivial examples Wertheim uses to build up his straw man. Djokovic is not a big-hearted patriot, but a dangerous nationalist whose actions are governed by his family's narrow personal interests. Here is my evidence:
In the interview he gave the German magazine, Spiegel Online, on Ocober 7, 2011, Djokovic said he did not regret the inflammatory remarks he made about Kosovo in a Belgrade meeting which resulted in an attack on German, Bosnian, Croatian , and American embassies (the latter of which the Serbian crowd tried to set on fire). His claim is that "we are seeking justice but cannot get it." Justice, according to Djokovic, means not recognizing Kosovo as an independent country but forcing its predominantly Albanian and Muslim population to continue to accept Serbian rule because Djokovic's father is from there. Also because there are Orthdox Christian monasteries in the northern part, which according to Djokovic makes Kosova "the birthplace of Serbian culture” (http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/0,1518,790484-2,00.html).
First of all, although the majority of Albanian people, like the Bosnian people, converted to Islam under the five hundred year rule of the Ottoman Empire (unlike the Serbs and other Slavic nations which remained Orthodox Christian), the Albanian people together with the Greeks are the only two native people of the Balkans. The Slavic people did not immigrate into the Balkans until the seventh century A.D. When the Balkan nations declared their independence from the Ottoman Empire in the beginning of the twentieth century, Kosova was given to Serbia by the European power players because of Serbia’s ethnic and religious ties with Russia. Any claim that Kosovar Albanians are remnants of the Ottoman occupation (as even one of my better educated Russian friends thought before he decided to do his research on the matter) is revisionist history. All one has to do is read any impartial history book. Here's one: http://www.amazon.com/Palgrave-Concise-Historical-Atlas-Balkans/dp/031223970X/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top
Secondly, while Djokovic and the Spiegel reporter spend a lot of time commiserating over how "scared" twelve year old Djokovic was during the NATO bombing and the death of his tennis teacher's sister (who died when a wall crumbled at what must have been a relatively advanced age), they barely mention the reason for the NATO bombing. That reason has been chronicled in various international reports. Here is only one of many (with one of countless chilling pictures that prove it): http://projects.jou.ufl.edu/ktrammell/project2/ethnicity/balkans1.htm.
During the Serbian massacres in Kosovo, more than 1.5 million people were banished from their homes and forced to live in squalor like animals. I remember one (American) television report in particular about a woman who had lost her mental faculties after being forced to abandon her children and leave them in harm’s way. In another, a grown man could not speak and was embarrassed when he couldn’t stop from crying after recalling what he had witnessed in his village. Over 3, 000 people, men, women, and children, were killed in cold blood for being Albanian and Muslim. The Serbian government neither acknowledged nor stopped its active killings until the Serbian army was stopped by the NATO bombing of Belgrade (which did not target civilians although a few civilians became casualties). Djokovic was struggling to keep playing tennis. Albanian Kosovars were struggling to keep their families alilve. The Kosovo massacre was the culmination of years of ethnic and religious discrimination. This is why the Albanian Kosovars refuse to accept Serbian rule.
Even the bravest Serbian writers have not admitted to the atrocities committed by Serbs in Kosova and have focused instead on the atrocities committed by the Kosovo Liberation Army: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/06/opinion/06Kandic.html To date, Serbia has not apologized or acknowledged the ethnic cleansing of Albanian Kosovars.
It is true that some Kosovo Liberation Army units and generals tried to avenge the killings of Kosovar Albanians by killing innocent Serbian civilians. They should and have been brought to trial in Hague. It is also true that the Kosovo government has not acknowledged nor apologized for the atrocities committed on Serbian civilians by Kosovo Liberation Army forces. They should do both. However, Serbian war criminals overwhelmingly outnumber Albanian Kosovar criminals and the number of Albanian Kosovar victims is far, far greater than that of Serbian victims.
Djokovic is intentionally emphasizing only Serbian suffering while refusing to acknowledge Serbian crimes. Furthermore, he is using his super-star status to fan the flames of Serbian nationalism, the Serbian hatred of Kosovar Albanians and Serbia’s claims over a land that has historically been and is currently predominantly populated by Albanian Kosovars. And he’s doing it in the name of his religion, taking advantage of anti-Muslim sentiment in Europe. One chilling reminder of that sentiment came in July of this year in Norway, when the Christian fundamentalist Anders Breivik killed over seventy people related to the ruling party for being too tolerant of Muslims. In his five thousand page manifesto, Breivik specifically targeted Albanian Kosovars for being Muslim (http://m.theage.com.au/world/manifesto-reveals-killers-longheld-hatreds-20110725-1hw4j.html?page=1).
A patriot is someone who stands up for his or her country when it is wronged. A nationalist is someone who stands up for his or country when it wrongs others. One is noble, the other is vile.
Personally, although I am born and raised in Albania, I am not from Kosovo and , like most Albanians from Albania I know, I think of the two countries as separate people who have developed different cultures in the past one hundred years. I think that Northern Kosovo should be ceded to Serbia, not because Serbia has any historical or cultural claim to it, but because it is currently populated mostly by Serbs who as an ethnic minority may be discriminated against the same way Albanian Kosovars were discriminated against by the Serbian government. Moreover, my own father, Faik Shehi, was a political prisoner who was convicted for praising the regime of Tito, the Yugoslav communist leader. He spent some of his childhood in Kosovo before World War II and always insisting on defending the Serbians he met there who were kind to him. Unlike Djokovic, I have no personal investment in this matter.
Djokovic’s public persona is calculated to manipulate international opinion in favor of Serbian claims to the whole region of Kosovo and he has done a very good job at putting up a good, deceiving front. Serbian nationalists are having a field day with his dominance on the tennis courts. Unfortunately Kosovar Albanians have no internationally prominent public figure to give voice to their stories. Just as unfortunately, none of the many tennis writers who have spent a lot of pixels and ink writing about the Serbian players training difficulties has investigated Djokovic's political agenda and to what end he has used his power in Serbia. But his dominance won’t last forever, and even if it did, might does not make right. The majority of Kosovo is the rightful territory of Albanian Kosovars, even if they are Muslims. They survived ruthless Serbian oppression and persecution and they deserve to live and worship freely in their own land.
I have something worse to say than the trivial examples Wertheim uses to build up his straw man. Djokovic is not a big-hearted patriot, but a dangerous nationalist whose actions are governed by his family's narrow personal interests. Here is my evidence:
In the interview he gave the German magazine, Spiegel Online, on Ocober 7, 2011, Djokovic said he did not regret the inflammatory remarks he made about Kosovo in a Belgrade meeting which resulted in an attack on German, Bosnian, Croatian , and American embassies (the latter of which the Serbian crowd tried to set on fire). His claim is that "we are seeking justice but cannot get it." Justice, according to Djokovic, means not recognizing Kosovo as an independent country but forcing its predominantly Albanian and Muslim population to continue to accept Serbian rule because Djokovic's father is from there. Also because there are Orthdox Christian monasteries in the northern part, which according to Djokovic makes Kosova "the birthplace of Serbian culture” (http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/0,1518,790484-2,00.html).
First of all, although the majority of Albanian people, like the Bosnian people, converted to Islam under the five hundred year rule of the Ottoman Empire (unlike the Serbs and other Slavic nations which remained Orthodox Christian), the Albanian people together with the Greeks are the only two native people of the Balkans. The Slavic people did not immigrate into the Balkans until the seventh century A.D. When the Balkan nations declared their independence from the Ottoman Empire in the beginning of the twentieth century, Kosova was given to Serbia by the European power players because of Serbia’s ethnic and religious ties with Russia. Any claim that Kosovar Albanians are remnants of the Ottoman occupation (as even one of my better educated Russian friends thought before he decided to do his research on the matter) is revisionist history. All one has to do is read any impartial history book. Here's one: http://www.amazon.com/Palgrave-Concise-Historical-Atlas-Balkans/dp/031223970X/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top
Secondly, while Djokovic and the Spiegel reporter spend a lot of time commiserating over how "scared" twelve year old Djokovic was during the NATO bombing and the death of his tennis teacher's sister (who died when a wall crumbled at what must have been a relatively advanced age), they barely mention the reason for the NATO bombing. That reason has been chronicled in various international reports. Here is only one of many (with one of countless chilling pictures that prove it): http://projects.jou.ufl.edu/ktrammell/project2/ethnicity/balkans1.htm.
During the Serbian massacres in Kosovo, more than 1.5 million people were banished from their homes and forced to live in squalor like animals. I remember one (American) television report in particular about a woman who had lost her mental faculties after being forced to abandon her children and leave them in harm’s way. In another, a grown man could not speak and was embarrassed when he couldn’t stop from crying after recalling what he had witnessed in his village. Over 3, 000 people, men, women, and children, were killed in cold blood for being Albanian and Muslim. The Serbian government neither acknowledged nor stopped its active killings until the Serbian army was stopped by the NATO bombing of Belgrade (which did not target civilians although a few civilians became casualties). Djokovic was struggling to keep playing tennis. Albanian Kosovars were struggling to keep their families alilve. The Kosovo massacre was the culmination of years of ethnic and religious discrimination. This is why the Albanian Kosovars refuse to accept Serbian rule.
Even the bravest Serbian writers have not admitted to the atrocities committed by Serbs in Kosova and have focused instead on the atrocities committed by the Kosovo Liberation Army: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/06/opinion/06Kandic.html To date, Serbia has not apologized or acknowledged the ethnic cleansing of Albanian Kosovars.
It is true that some Kosovo Liberation Army units and generals tried to avenge the killings of Kosovar Albanians by killing innocent Serbian civilians. They should and have been brought to trial in Hague. It is also true that the Kosovo government has not acknowledged nor apologized for the atrocities committed on Serbian civilians by Kosovo Liberation Army forces. They should do both. However, Serbian war criminals overwhelmingly outnumber Albanian Kosovar criminals and the number of Albanian Kosovar victims is far, far greater than that of Serbian victims.
Djokovic is intentionally emphasizing only Serbian suffering while refusing to acknowledge Serbian crimes. Furthermore, he is using his super-star status to fan the flames of Serbian nationalism, the Serbian hatred of Kosovar Albanians and Serbia’s claims over a land that has historically been and is currently predominantly populated by Albanian Kosovars. And he’s doing it in the name of his religion, taking advantage of anti-Muslim sentiment in Europe. One chilling reminder of that sentiment came in July of this year in Norway, when the Christian fundamentalist Anders Breivik killed over seventy people related to the ruling party for being too tolerant of Muslims. In his five thousand page manifesto, Breivik specifically targeted Albanian Kosovars for being Muslim (http://m.theage.com.au/world/manifesto-reveals-killers-longheld-hatreds-20110725-1hw4j.html?page=1).
A patriot is someone who stands up for his or her country when it is wronged. A nationalist is someone who stands up for his or country when it wrongs others. One is noble, the other is vile.
Personally, although I am born and raised in Albania, I am not from Kosovo and , like most Albanians from Albania I know, I think of the two countries as separate people who have developed different cultures in the past one hundred years. I think that Northern Kosovo should be ceded to Serbia, not because Serbia has any historical or cultural claim to it, but because it is currently populated mostly by Serbs who as an ethnic minority may be discriminated against the same way Albanian Kosovars were discriminated against by the Serbian government. Moreover, my own father, Faik Shehi, was a political prisoner who was convicted for praising the regime of Tito, the Yugoslav communist leader. He spent some of his childhood in Kosovo before World War II and always insisting on defending the Serbians he met there who were kind to him. Unlike Djokovic, I have no personal investment in this matter.
Djokovic’s public persona is calculated to manipulate international opinion in favor of Serbian claims to the whole region of Kosovo and he has done a very good job at putting up a good, deceiving front. Serbian nationalists are having a field day with his dominance on the tennis courts. Unfortunately Kosovar Albanians have no internationally prominent public figure to give voice to their stories. Just as unfortunately, none of the many tennis writers who have spent a lot of pixels and ink writing about the Serbian players training difficulties has investigated Djokovic's political agenda and to what end he has used his power in Serbia. But his dominance won’t last forever, and even if it did, might does not make right. The majority of Kosovo is the rightful territory of Albanian Kosovars, even if they are Muslims. They survived ruthless Serbian oppression and persecution and they deserve to live and worship freely in their own land.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Rodelinda at the Met
About five years ago, as I was watching Agnes Jaoui's French film Look at Me, my ears encountered a charming baroque duet sung in the film by two amateur singers. At the time I thought it was two women, but after buying the soundtrack I realized one of the singers was a man, classified as a haute-tenor in French or counter-tenor in English. Intrigued by this strange and beautiful voice, I did some research and came upon the You Tube clip from the Glyndebourne Opera's production of Handel's Rodelinda. Thus began my love affair with baroque opera and the counter tenor voice, not only the great Herr Scholl's but also his predecessors' and relative contemporaries'--Alfred Deller's, James Bowman's and the wonderful Michael Chance's.
So this past Thanksgiving weekend we travelled to New York, and dutifully showed up at the Lincoln Center relatively sober and rested after a long and leisurely lunch with long-time-no-see friends, conserving our energy as best we could for the four plus hour production.
My first impulse upon walking back into the crisp mid-night air of the Lincoln Center plaza was to take a deep bow at the feet of the one and only Queen of Lombardy, Anna Caterina Antonacci. What I realized during the course of those four hours spent in the nose-bleed section of the Met--intently perking up my ears and observing through my binoculars-- is that Rodelinda is not, after all, only about Bertarido. He has all the gorgeous arias, and perhaps one of the most gorgeous ones of all time, Dove sei, amato bene?, but it's the Rodelinda and Bertarido duet of sweet love and bitter anguish that is this opera's heart, soul and raison d'etre. Without it, it's a gorgeous recital (well worth, on its own, a trip to New York and New York itself), but it is not Rodelinda.
It may be possible to appreciate the Renee Flemming and Andreas Scholl pairing if one has not known (even on dvd or You Tube as I have) the magic Scholl and Antonacci created at Glyndebourne. But if one has, nothing else--simply put--can compare. While in general I prefer a baroque or even naturalist production to gloomy abstractions, I am convinced now that none other than the elegantly sparse, silent-movie-era stage of Glyndebourne could serve as the backdrop for the anguished lovers brief reunion. Like a soft black velvet that allows a rare diamond to shine in all its brilliant glory, it faithfully aided all eyes and ears onto Scholl and Antonacci as they began approaching and singing to each other. By the time they were in each other's arms, they seemed to draw their very breath from each other and their voices and singing became one in the most natural, sublime, and breathtaking way. And what a voice! What a sight! What singing! Her rich and dark timbre the perfect setting for his delicate, brilliant voice; his strong arms the perfect rest for her exquisite beauty; the simplicity, the honesty, the generosity of their singing the perfect embodiment of Rodelinda and Bertarido's feelings and love for each other. Thankfully for those of us who were not fortunate enough to be there, it has been recorded and preserved for posterity. Hearing it and seeing it, I don't think it is possible not to feel their agony at being separated. Not for me, and I'm sure not for many. There may be many Rodelindas and Bertaridos, in the past, present and future, but for me it's ANTONACCI AND SCHOLL FOR EVER!
On the other hand, watching Flemming try to compensate for her inadequate baroque singing by drowning Scholl out and drawing attention to herself with her adolescent groping and writhing was downright painful. She had her only convincing moment of the evening when she sang Se'l mio duol non e si forte when she was perhaps sincerely despairing over how out of place she was in this opera.
As for Scholl, any trip to hear him sing live will always be worth it, even if he is being actively sabotaged by self-absorbed co-stars. It was a pleasant suprise to hear how well his voice carried all the way to the vertigo-inducing balcony seats where we were sitting. My husband, the teuerste, geliebteste Herr Dr. Herr, commented that whenever Scholl sang, the whole house seemed to become a little quieter. If so, it was as clear a mark of appreciation as the enthustiastic applause and bravos he received after each aria--especially after the endurance-testing Vivi tiranno which came exhaustingly near the end of the near four hour opera.
In a way, Scholl will always be the champion of the small guy. As imposing as he is physically, his voice will never outmuscle those of the other singers. His Vivi, tiranno is the vocal equivalent of a 5'7" king standing up to, as it were, the 6'4" villain who has usurped his throne. What he confidently relies on to establish his authority is simple goodness, decency, and his own undeniable merit. For this listener and many in the house on Saturday, it was enough.
And of course, Scholl by himself, in the absence of any distracting urges to compare his decibles with someone else's, is sublime. You are sure to have at least one moment when time stands still and you are transported to a place where everything looks, sounds, and feels different. At the Zankell Hall in 2009 that moment for me was Aure, deh, per pieta. On Saturday, it came early on with the longing aria Dove Sei Amato Bene? It is truly something that must be experienced to be understood.
As if that were enough, Harry Bicket's conducting and the period sound he got out of the Met orchestra was a baroque lover's heartiest delight.
But the real revelation of the evening--and, for me, the main reason to travel to New York, put up with it, and forgive or at least forbear Anna Catarina Antonacci's absence--was Iestyn Davies. Davies' singing is a marvel. His coloraturas tumble out as effortlessly as the river gurgles after a heavy rain fall and his voice is as supple, strong, and enchanting as new foliage at spring time. I can't wait for the Scholl & Davies CD, and I hope Mr. Davies finds his own Anna Caterina Antonacci in the near future.
So this past Thanksgiving weekend we travelled to New York, and dutifully showed up at the Lincoln Center relatively sober and rested after a long and leisurely lunch with long-time-no-see friends, conserving our energy as best we could for the four plus hour production.
My first impulse upon walking back into the crisp mid-night air of the Lincoln Center plaza was to take a deep bow at the feet of the one and only Queen of Lombardy, Anna Caterina Antonacci. What I realized during the course of those four hours spent in the nose-bleed section of the Met--intently perking up my ears and observing through my binoculars-- is that Rodelinda is not, after all, only about Bertarido. He has all the gorgeous arias, and perhaps one of the most gorgeous ones of all time, Dove sei, amato bene?, but it's the Rodelinda and Bertarido duet of sweet love and bitter anguish that is this opera's heart, soul and raison d'etre. Without it, it's a gorgeous recital (well worth, on its own, a trip to New York and New York itself), but it is not Rodelinda.
It may be possible to appreciate the Renee Flemming and Andreas Scholl pairing if one has not known (even on dvd or You Tube as I have) the magic Scholl and Antonacci created at Glyndebourne. But if one has, nothing else--simply put--can compare. While in general I prefer a baroque or even naturalist production to gloomy abstractions, I am convinced now that none other than the elegantly sparse, silent-movie-era stage of Glyndebourne could serve as the backdrop for the anguished lovers brief reunion. Like a soft black velvet that allows a rare diamond to shine in all its brilliant glory, it faithfully aided all eyes and ears onto Scholl and Antonacci as they began approaching and singing to each other. By the time they were in each other's arms, they seemed to draw their very breath from each other and their voices and singing became one in the most natural, sublime, and breathtaking way. And what a voice! What a sight! What singing! Her rich and dark timbre the perfect setting for his delicate, brilliant voice; his strong arms the perfect rest for her exquisite beauty; the simplicity, the honesty, the generosity of their singing the perfect embodiment of Rodelinda and Bertarido's feelings and love for each other. Thankfully for those of us who were not fortunate enough to be there, it has been recorded and preserved for posterity. Hearing it and seeing it, I don't think it is possible not to feel their agony at being separated. Not for me, and I'm sure not for many. There may be many Rodelindas and Bertaridos, in the past, present and future, but for me it's ANTONACCI AND SCHOLL FOR EVER!
On the other hand, watching Flemming try to compensate for her inadequate baroque singing by drowning Scholl out and drawing attention to herself with her adolescent groping and writhing was downright painful. She had her only convincing moment of the evening when she sang Se'l mio duol non e si forte when she was perhaps sincerely despairing over how out of place she was in this opera.
As for Scholl, any trip to hear him sing live will always be worth it, even if he is being actively sabotaged by self-absorbed co-stars. It was a pleasant suprise to hear how well his voice carried all the way to the vertigo-inducing balcony seats where we were sitting. My husband, the teuerste, geliebteste Herr Dr. Herr, commented that whenever Scholl sang, the whole house seemed to become a little quieter. If so, it was as clear a mark of appreciation as the enthustiastic applause and bravos he received after each aria--especially after the endurance-testing Vivi tiranno which came exhaustingly near the end of the near four hour opera.
In a way, Scholl will always be the champion of the small guy. As imposing as he is physically, his voice will never outmuscle those of the other singers. His Vivi, tiranno is the vocal equivalent of a 5'7" king standing up to, as it were, the 6'4" villain who has usurped his throne. What he confidently relies on to establish his authority is simple goodness, decency, and his own undeniable merit. For this listener and many in the house on Saturday, it was enough.
And of course, Scholl by himself, in the absence of any distracting urges to compare his decibles with someone else's, is sublime. You are sure to have at least one moment when time stands still and you are transported to a place where everything looks, sounds, and feels different. At the Zankell Hall in 2009 that moment for me was Aure, deh, per pieta. On Saturday, it came early on with the longing aria Dove Sei Amato Bene? It is truly something that must be experienced to be understood.
As if that were enough, Harry Bicket's conducting and the period sound he got out of the Met orchestra was a baroque lover's heartiest delight.
But the real revelation of the evening--and, for me, the main reason to travel to New York, put up with it, and forgive or at least forbear Anna Catarina Antonacci's absence--was Iestyn Davies. Davies' singing is a marvel. His coloraturas tumble out as effortlessly as the river gurgles after a heavy rain fall and his voice is as supple, strong, and enchanting as new foliage at spring time. I can't wait for the Scholl & Davies CD, and I hope Mr. Davies finds his own Anna Caterina Antonacci in the near future.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
A bad deal
Last week, bored mindless with long, tedious work, I started doing what I can't stand when my students are doing it: using my mobile phone to send short, typed messages.
Yes, it's known as texting, but I wanted to take a moment to think, at length if necessary, about what it really is: using a device originally at least meant to be spoken into to write, or rather type, pitifully short messages.
Spotting me resorting to the furtive ways of texters, my friend David started immitating a drugged-up squirrel frentically punching a tiny imaginary keyboard. And in a flash I saw myself looking like all other texters. Yes, it's not a pretty sight. But writing on a mobile phone to people is more than a problem of bad form.
I started thinking of why I got so addicted in the course of a week and what I was getting out of it.
At first it was a refreshing, brief respite from hyperconcentration, but it soon became a distracting compulsion and I found myself texting while getting ready for a nice dinner out with friends or relaxing out in the sunlight during the short lunch hour. And when I saw I had turned into a hazed out squirrel mindlessly zeroed in on a 2x5 black pad, I started asking myelf, what was I giving up for what?
For a brief relief from hyperconcentration and mind-numbing, patience-taxing repetition, I could have relaxed and let my mind wonder a little. I once had an Indian roommate who told me she had to save herself some time each day for dreaming. Now that I think about it, what a beautiful thought! How sweet, how refreshing how necessary to those moments when you let your thoughts take flight to wherever they want to go to, when you let yourself linger, remember, imagine and just feel freely without boundaries. When you take in your surroundings and let them wash over you. Life is at its sweetest when it unfolds slowly before you, like a flower tht takes her time to spread her petals in the morning sun... .
And I guesss those short, truncated, headless, limbless messages we compulsively send and seek to receive are like the bugs that swarm and suffocate it. What can one get out of a few letters in a blindingly lit, black framed screen? (They may be no shorter than a message in a bottle, but at least the bottle is so pretty, floating out there in the ocean.) You might find out your dinner companion is going to be a few minutes late because she's having trouble parking and that's nice to know, but that's work, organizing. That's not life. What can you get of your friend or loved on from a message in a phone? Can you see his eyes smiling? Can you see her burst of unembarrassed chuckle or even her eyes rolling? Do you see their gaze wandering off in the distance? Do you hear them rustling their receipt in a crunchy ball? Do you watch their hands roaming the air like an airplane that hasn't decided where to land? Can you feel their embrace? Are you with them? Are you really staying in touch?
Come to think of it, "texting" is really a swap, and a swap of life for work. On the way home, I got a message on my phone from my service provider kindly informing me that I had run a considerable bill of extra charges for "data exhange." The description was apt and accurate. Texters are hard at work exchanging data, information that may or may not mean anything. Talk about not taking a break.
So I guess, I'd rather use the few moments I can steal for myself to live--to not do but to be. And if I want to have a relationship with someone, I guess I'd better take the time to be with them--or at least take the time to send a proper message. Because keeping in touch through messages in a phone is like smelling duck droppings and thinking you've just tasted foie gras.
Yes, it's known as texting, but I wanted to take a moment to think, at length if necessary, about what it really is: using a device originally at least meant to be spoken into to write, or rather type, pitifully short messages.
Spotting me resorting to the furtive ways of texters, my friend David started immitating a drugged-up squirrel frentically punching a tiny imaginary keyboard. And in a flash I saw myself looking like all other texters. Yes, it's not a pretty sight. But writing on a mobile phone to people is more than a problem of bad form.
I started thinking of why I got so addicted in the course of a week and what I was getting out of it.
At first it was a refreshing, brief respite from hyperconcentration, but it soon became a distracting compulsion and I found myself texting while getting ready for a nice dinner out with friends or relaxing out in the sunlight during the short lunch hour. And when I saw I had turned into a hazed out squirrel mindlessly zeroed in on a 2x5 black pad, I started asking myelf, what was I giving up for what?
For a brief relief from hyperconcentration and mind-numbing, patience-taxing repetition, I could have relaxed and let my mind wonder a little. I once had an Indian roommate who told me she had to save herself some time each day for dreaming. Now that I think about it, what a beautiful thought! How sweet, how refreshing how necessary to those moments when you let your thoughts take flight to wherever they want to go to, when you let yourself linger, remember, imagine and just feel freely without boundaries. When you take in your surroundings and let them wash over you. Life is at its sweetest when it unfolds slowly before you, like a flower tht takes her time to spread her petals in the morning sun... .
And I guesss those short, truncated, headless, limbless messages we compulsively send and seek to receive are like the bugs that swarm and suffocate it. What can one get out of a few letters in a blindingly lit, black framed screen? (They may be no shorter than a message in a bottle, but at least the bottle is so pretty, floating out there in the ocean.) You might find out your dinner companion is going to be a few minutes late because she's having trouble parking and that's nice to know, but that's work, organizing. That's not life. What can you get of your friend or loved on from a message in a phone? Can you see his eyes smiling? Can you see her burst of unembarrassed chuckle or even her eyes rolling? Do you see their gaze wandering off in the distance? Do you hear them rustling their receipt in a crunchy ball? Do you watch their hands roaming the air like an airplane that hasn't decided where to land? Can you feel their embrace? Are you with them? Are you really staying in touch?
Come to think of it, "texting" is really a swap, and a swap of life for work. On the way home, I got a message on my phone from my service provider kindly informing me that I had run a considerable bill of extra charges for "data exhange." The description was apt and accurate. Texters are hard at work exchanging data, information that may or may not mean anything. Talk about not taking a break.
So I guess, I'd rather use the few moments I can steal for myself to live--to not do but to be. And if I want to have a relationship with someone, I guess I'd better take the time to be with them--or at least take the time to send a proper message. Because keeping in touch through messages in a phone is like smelling duck droppings and thinking you've just tasted foie gras.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
On love and hate
It seems at time that love can easily turn to hate, and I've often wondered--at different points in my life--how that can be so. Now I don't think that's really possible.
Though it is often used as a euphemism or mask for something else, love in its essence is compassion. To love someone means not to like them--vaguely or intensely--or even to desire them, but to care for them. And while desire--upon better acquaintance--can turn into repulsion, or appreciation into strong dislike, love itself cannot turn into a desire to see someone hurt or suffering. No, love does not turn into hate, but hate can kill love.
What I've come to believe is that love--though and perhaps because it is the noblest of our impulse-- is also the weakest one. It's strength is made manifest only by the test it endures. And hate is the strongest test, a test it can often not stand.
Hate is both the rejection of something we consider evil and--perhaps more--the desire for vengeance. We want to hurt what hurts us, and sometimes we want to hurt the person we had care about if that person is the one who has caused the harm. When the latter happens, two impulses conflict, love--the noble compassion for the other person for the other person's sake--and hate--the desire, not entirely unjustified for vengeance for a harm wrongly suffered.
I don't believe only unconditional love is true and good love. I think we all have the right to self-defense and if we are wronged, we are no longer compelled under any moral imperative to continue to care for the person who wronged us. But perhaps the highest form of love is the one that resists hate--not the kind that does not allow the victim to take cover and protect him or herself, but the kind that, while taking full stock of the situation, chooses not to retaliate.
Though it is often used as a euphemism or mask for something else, love in its essence is compassion. To love someone means not to like them--vaguely or intensely--or even to desire them, but to care for them. And while desire--upon better acquaintance--can turn into repulsion, or appreciation into strong dislike, love itself cannot turn into a desire to see someone hurt or suffering. No, love does not turn into hate, but hate can kill love.
What I've come to believe is that love--though and perhaps because it is the noblest of our impulse-- is also the weakest one. It's strength is made manifest only by the test it endures. And hate is the strongest test, a test it can often not stand.
Hate is both the rejection of something we consider evil and--perhaps more--the desire for vengeance. We want to hurt what hurts us, and sometimes we want to hurt the person we had care about if that person is the one who has caused the harm. When the latter happens, two impulses conflict, love--the noble compassion for the other person for the other person's sake--and hate--the desire, not entirely unjustified for vengeance for a harm wrongly suffered.
I don't believe only unconditional love is true and good love. I think we all have the right to self-defense and if we are wronged, we are no longer compelled under any moral imperative to continue to care for the person who wronged us. But perhaps the highest form of love is the one that resists hate--not the kind that does not allow the victim to take cover and protect him or herself, but the kind that, while taking full stock of the situation, chooses not to retaliate.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Life and tennis
The more I play tennis, the more I think it is a lot like--and good training for--life.
You need the help of other people. Sometimes only others can see what you're doing wrong and keep you from developing bad habits the keep you from maximizing the potential of your talent. At the same time, once you're on the court, you're on your own. Nobody can do your job for you. It's your call. It's up to you to block out all distractions, figure out what needs to be done, and find a way to do it.
Stress is counter-productive. The more you stress out, the more likely you are to screw everything up. No matter how high the stakes are--and especially when they are highest--you need to keep your cool and focus on what needs to be done.
Having a goal, i.e. winning a certain number of sets, games, points before your opponent does, gives it a structure without which it becomes a simple workout that is neither as much fun, nor pushes you to play as well. But focusing on the end goal and thinking about it alone is the best way to ruin your game and kill all the fun. Once the goal is set, every moment is--or should be-- just about you and that little yellow ball. Nothing else matters. Not anything that came before, not anything that will come next. It's just you, the white lines, the net, and the yellow ball. The world made simple.
No matter how badly you screw up, you got to brush it off and let it go. The past doesn't matter, even if it expired a second ago. What matters is the here and now. Every point is a new opportunity. You get at least 48 of them per match.
It's more cooperative than competitive. To play your best, you need your opponent to feed you the ball well. It's impossible to play good tennis with a bad opponent.
It's more fun to lose playing your best than to win playng like crap. The outcome is not only up to you. Much of it is out your control, especially when you play a good opponent--or one who is better than you. But when you keep your eye on the ball, put your body in the right position, wield your racket the way its meant to be used, time the shot just right, hit that sweet spot in your racket with a hefty thwack, and watch the ball go exactly where you meant it to--there's no feeling like it in the world. Even if your opponent gets to hit the final winner.
You need the help of other people. Sometimes only others can see what you're doing wrong and keep you from developing bad habits the keep you from maximizing the potential of your talent. At the same time, once you're on the court, you're on your own. Nobody can do your job for you. It's your call. It's up to you to block out all distractions, figure out what needs to be done, and find a way to do it.
Stress is counter-productive. The more you stress out, the more likely you are to screw everything up. No matter how high the stakes are--and especially when they are highest--you need to keep your cool and focus on what needs to be done.
Having a goal, i.e. winning a certain number of sets, games, points before your opponent does, gives it a structure without which it becomes a simple workout that is neither as much fun, nor pushes you to play as well. But focusing on the end goal and thinking about it alone is the best way to ruin your game and kill all the fun. Once the goal is set, every moment is--or should be-- just about you and that little yellow ball. Nothing else matters. Not anything that came before, not anything that will come next. It's just you, the white lines, the net, and the yellow ball. The world made simple.
No matter how badly you screw up, you got to brush it off and let it go. The past doesn't matter, even if it expired a second ago. What matters is the here and now. Every point is a new opportunity. You get at least 48 of them per match.
It's more cooperative than competitive. To play your best, you need your opponent to feed you the ball well. It's impossible to play good tennis with a bad opponent.
It's more fun to lose playing your best than to win playng like crap. The outcome is not only up to you. Much of it is out your control, especially when you play a good opponent--or one who is better than you. But when you keep your eye on the ball, put your body in the right position, wield your racket the way its meant to be used, time the shot just right, hit that sweet spot in your racket with a hefty thwack, and watch the ball go exactly where you meant it to--there's no feeling like it in the world. Even if your opponent gets to hit the final winner.
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