"The 'Trials' of Theoretical Curiosity"

Underwood International College

(Image from Yonsei University)

For those of you interested in such things, I should mention that I'll be offering a course on "curiosity" at Yonsei's Underwood International College next fall. Here's the official description of the course, which I think can be accurately categorized as "intellectual history":

The 'Trials' of Theoretical Curiosity: Free Inquiry and its Potential Limits

The course will deal with Part 3 of Hans Blumenberg's tome in intellectual history, The Legitimacy of the Modern Age. Originally in German but translated by Robert M. Wallace into English, Part 3 is titled "The 'Trial' of Theoretical Curiosity." Blumenberg's historical analysis traces the vicissitudes undergone by "curiosity" from Socrates to Feuerbach. The course will be intellectual history but with larger implications for views on the origin and character of Modernity and its emergence from the Medieval worldview. The fundamental lesson would concern the difficulty encountered by curiosity as a legitimate intellectual pursuit. Students would likely draw their own inferences as to current threats -- or even understandable limits -- to curiosity in our postmodern times, whether from the political correctness advocated by radical multiculturalism or from the fundamentalist resurgence predicated upon the revenge of God. Readings will include selections from Blumenberg as well as articles to be supplied at the beginning of the semester. An essay with thesis statement, citations, and bibliography, initially as a first full draft and then as a final draft, will be required.

As I explained to John Frankl, the UIC's Assistant Dean (or perhaps: Common Curriculum Program Chair):

Blumenberg's argument on the trial of theoretical curiosity would likely be of intrinsic interest for students. Moreover, I've been familiar with Blumenberg's works since 1984, and I've been doing a research project with Professor Warren T. Reich, editor of the Encyclopedia of Bioethics, who is working on a history of care and wants to include the etymologically related term "curiositas" in his work, so I've become something of an expert on this topic and will be working on it even more over the next few months.

Frankl asked only that I shorten the title, which I have: "The 'Trials' of Theoretical Curiosity."

Now, we just have to see if students are interested.

Zino Francescatti

Henri Rondel, Red-Headed Lady

(Image from Zino Francescatti Website)

Yesterday evening, I learned of Zino Francescatti.

Not the French violinist with the Italian name whose life spanned the twentieth century. About that fine fellow, I'm still relatively ignorant.

No, I mean the Seoul restaurant Zino Francescatti, a lovely place offering "the best delicacies of Italian cuisine with French culinary influence," or so says the website. It also offers a wine list of fine wines, and we enjoyed a nice Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon -- a 2003 Carmen Carménère, I think (but I'm not certain that I've got that information correct).

The meal was excellent, and I enjoyed the company of two other scholars, Hi-kyung Moon and Julie Choi. Hi-kyung was one of my colleagues during my Korea University days, but Ms. Choi, I was meeting for the first time -- though I blogged about an article of hers nearly one year ago.

This was a business meal, for the two of them are editing the Korea-based journal Feminist Studies in English Literature, and I'm helping again with my proofreading skills, so yesterday's meeting was for agreeing upon a sequence of times by which to finish proofing each article.

Despite its being a 'business' meal, the dinner was one to savor, and not only for the fine food but also for the decor. Upon the walls hang French and British paintings from the 17th through 19th centuries. The original of the image posted above also hangs upon one of the restaurant's walls, and at first, looking at it from across the room, we were wondering if it were a Pre-Raphaelite painting -- one of those red-haired beauties that Dante Gabriel Rossetti liked to portray -- but when we checked in a 'guidebook' to the restaurant's collection, we discovered that it was by the relatively obscure French painter Henri Rondel (1857-1919).

You can see more of the collection at the Zino Francescatti website, as well as at this flickr site.

Or just go to the restaurant, situated between the back gates to the Yonsei and Ewha campuses, and see the collection directly as you enjoy a fine meal with a glass of wine.

"What! Have we not heard of the glory..."

Kyung Hee University

Of the High Middle Ages

(Image from The Korea Times)

The big hand on the clock has just touched the hour mark, the little hand tells me that the hour is three, and the profound, outer darkness reminds me that this hour is late.

The great MEMESAK international conference has now been over for nine hours, although we participants -- having spent two days "fighting dragons and crossing swords" -- retired to the mead hall and, until only a couple of hours ago, jubilantly celebrated our victory over the forces of darkness that "from the moor under the misty slopes came."

What! Have ye not heard of the glory
Of we Medieval scholars, warriors of golden days --
How we wrought works of valor?

Sorry. I'm waxing Medieval. My excuse? This. I had the privilege of hearing passages from a new Beowulf translation, which opens with these lines:

What! Have we not heard of the glory
Of the Spear-Danes' kings in olden days --
How the princes performed deeds of valor?
Not a few times Scyld Scefing seized
The seats of banquet from many a tribe,
Mighty opponents, and terrified the earls.
Since the time when he was found a deserted infant,
He grew up in tender care, soared to the sky,
And prospered with unparalleled honor, till
All neighboring nations over the sea came
To obey and pay tribute to him: a good king he was!

These words flowed from the lips of Professor Sung-Il Lee, of Yonsei University, who has translated the entirety of that Old English epic. Over a cup of mead (or perhaps soju), I asked him how he had managed to outdo Seamus Heaney's translation:

So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by,
and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness.
We have heard of those princes' heroic campaigns.
There was Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes,
a wrecker of mead-benches, rampaging among foes.
This terror of the hall-troops had come far.
A foundling to start with, he would flourish later on
as his powers waxed and his worth was proved.
In the end each clan on the outlying coasts
beyond the whale-road had to yield to him
and begin to pay tribute. That was one good king.

So much for Mr. Heaney. In case you're wondering, the original Anglo-Saxon lines ran as follows:

Hwæt! Wé Gárdena in géardagum
þéodcyninga þrym gefrúnon·
hú ðá æþelingas ellen fremedon.
Oft Scyld Scéfing sceaþena þréatum
monegum maégþum meodosetla oftéah·
egsode Eorle syððan aérest wearð
féasceaft funden hé þæs frófre gebád·
wéox under wolcnum· weorðmyndum þáh
oð þæt him aéghwylc þára ymbsittendra
ofer hronráde hýran scolde,
gomban gyldan· þæt wæs gód cyning.

I've borrowed this original text from Benjamin Slade's great website Beowulf in Steorarume.

But you're still wondering how Professor Lee managed to render the Old English into excellent, modern lines of epic poetry that -- in my opinion -- far outdo Heaney's version. Over that cup of aforementioned sojumead, Lee explained that he had used the old dictionaries and critical texts of bygone scholars to ensure that he had clearly understood the original verse, and once he had done that for a few lines, he had "let the text possess" him and had proceeded to translate it. He had spent four-and-one-half months working from early morning till late at night without a break last fall and winter in this endeavor, and when he finished the last line at three in the morning in late February 2007, he opened for himself a bottle of soju, drank it all down, and literally "howled at the moon!"

That sounded a bit more like Grendel than Beowulf, but I toasted Professor Lee's admirable achievement, and he promised me a copy of the published text.

As for my own light-hearted presentation, which I had titled "Finding Myself Lost in Translation," people seemed to enjoy it, for they laughed a lot. I took that as a good sign, though they may simply have been laughing at me.

I should add -- last but not at all least -- that I finally met Mr. Gord Sellar, a man to whom I've been indebted ever since he came to my rescue online one fine day last year when an anonymous troll was plaguing these blog entries. Gord called the troll a "twit" and thereby helped rid Gypsy Scholar of an unwanted, gryndelig presence.

Gord can perhaps confirm whether the preposition "with" or "at" best describes how people were laughing during my presentation. Either way, thanks to Gord for his moral support during the conference and his immoral support during the postconference drinking...