Proust, overheard

The narrator is in a Paris restaurant with Robert Saint-Loup, late on a foggy night:

A remark made by one of the diners behind me made me turn my head for a second. Instead of the words, "Yes, I'll have the chicken wing and a little champagne, too, but not too dry," I thought I had heard, "I would prefer glycerine. Yes, hot, that's right." I was anxious to take a look at the ascetic who was inflicting such a diet upon himself, but I quickly turned back to Saint-Loup to avoid being recognized by the man with the strange appetite. It was simply a doctor I knew whose advice was being asked by another customer, who had taken advantage of the fog to pin him down in this café. Like stockbrokers, doctors use the first person singular.

Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, translated by Mark Treharne (New York: Penguin, 2002), 404

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Hallway sprawl, down and out

When I began teaching, students tended to stand in the hallway, close to the wall, in the few minutes before entering a newly-emptied classroom. At some point they began to move downward, sitting with legs crossed, still close to the wall. Then they began to move outward, sitting with legs extended toward the middle of the hallway. Now when I walk to class there's often only a small channel in the middle of the hallway for foot traffic, barely enough room for two people to walk past each other without one having to yield. Students are sitting, legs out, on both sides of the hallway, even right up next to the men's-room door.

Now everything is again moving downward: I notice more and more students lying on their backs while waiting to enter classrooms. Students who lie down keep themselves parallel to the walls — they thus claim less of the space that can be used for walking but more of the space that their peers might have used for sitting (or even standing). And just this past Friday I noticed a new variation — someone lying in the hallway on his side, reading a book, head propped up by an arm.

I don't understand hallway sprawl. It seems to be partly about living large and privatizing public space, partly about refusing to grow "up." Nobody knows you when you're down and out.

Have profs or students elsewhere noticed hallway sprawl?

The doctor's bag

I have dim Brooklyn-childhood memories of housecalls from the doctor, Dr. Freeman (first name Charles, perhaps). Dr. Freeman's overcoat would go over a chair (these visits, as I remember them, took place in cold weather), and his doctor's bag would sit on the bed.

I wish I'd looked inside — I've wondered on occasion what "the doctor's bag" held (aside from the otoscope, stethoscope, and prescription pad that seemed to come out during every visit). The Internets have given me some answers.

The Doctor's Bag  A grim-looking photograph of a smallish bag and its contents. "Every museum dealing with medicine needs a doctor's bag for completeness. Insisting on electricity would just make the search more difficult." (Why that sentence about electricity? Because the page is from The Bakken, "A Library and Museum of Electricity in Life.")

Photographs of doctors' bags and their contents  From the Oregon Health & Science University Digital Resources Library.

The Doctor’s Bag — What to put in it  Advice for British doctors on what to carry: "GPs working in remote parts of the Highlands of Scotland will obviously have very different requirements from those working in inner city Birmingham."

The Doctor's Bag  Dona Barnett writes about the contents of a bag owned by Joseph E. Osborne, a doctor/dentist in Rosman, North Carolina. The bag is now in Special Collections at the University of North Carolina's Ramsey Library. "Some of the contents are self-explanatory like the forceps. Intriguing as they are, occasionally hospitals even today have them in use. But the cyanide tablets? Why would a country doctor carry those alongside tongue depressors?"

My Black Bag  Joseph Friedman, MD, on carrying a traditional black bag: "I'm hoping that the bag outlives my career so I won't have to worry about choosing between an expensive leather bag and a cheap, efficient canvas one."

*

February 4, 2009: Here’s a photograph from Life.

Fonts in the "news"

From "America's Finest News Source":

The decision to set his résumé in default-font Times–New Roman "deeply, personally, and irrevocably" offended a prospective employer of Seth Hershey Monday.

Link » Résumé Font Offends Employer, from The Onion

Yo, Professor!

It's fun for me to follow the fortunes of my most-visited post, "How to e-mail a professor," when a semester begins. It received quite a few hits last Monday and Tuesday, and several hundred yesterday. There's been steady interest today too — 67 of the last 100 visits to my blog have been to that post.

Many of these visits are via links in on-line course materials. Other visits seem to be a matter of people having been told what to look for (e.g, a Google search for "orange crate e-mail"). Still others are from students (and some profs, and perhaps a few helicopter parents) starting from scratch (e.g, a Google search for "write email to a professor"). It makes me happy to know that students are thinking about how to engage in the unfamiliar task of writing to their professors. In so doing, they're helping to lift, in countless small ways, the general level of discourse in their academic worlds. Not so far in the future, student e-mails to profs from Hotmail and Yahoo accounts for drunkenbum and thighmaster might seem as quaint as raccoon coats.

A new page that links to "How to e-mail a professor" went online today, from Information Technology Services at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. "E-mail how-to's" summarizes most the points I make and adds a few cautions about confidentiality and spam.

Link » How to e-mail a professor, from Orange Crate Art

Link » E-mail how to's, from Inside ITS, UNC at Chapel Hill [Link no longer works.]

Record stores

The news that Tower Records has filed for bankruptcy has made me think back to my record-buying youth. (I still buy records, only now they're called CDs.)

My first record stores were in New Jersey — The Relic Rack in Hackensack and Sam Goody's at Garden State Plaza in Paramus. The Relic Rack, a long narrow store on Main Street, carried mostly oldies (which back in the 1970s meant 45s from the 1950s, and the Cruisin' reissue series) and a small selection of interesting then-current LPs. I still remember records that I bought there — a Columbia compilation called The Story of the Blues and Taj Mahal's The Natch'l Blues (I still have both). Sam Goody's, perhaps twenty times the size of The Relic Rack, was one of the great culture spots of my teenaged life. Nowadays, the name "Sam Goody's" denotes the sorriest sort of mall outlet — with black-light posters, lava lamps, and oh yeah, some CDs. But thirty years or so ago, Sam Goody's was a record-buying dream. The jazz and blues sections were enormous, with all sorts of offerings on small and foreign labels — ESP-Disk (I bought my Albert Ayler LPs there), French RCA (the Ellington Integrale series), and the various labels that put out music by the Art Ensemble of Chicago and other avant-garde jazz musicians. The Sam Goody's classical section had its own staff, who could offer recommendations — quite helpful when I bought Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring, my first classical recording. Mind you, I didn't know whether the recommendation (Georg Solti, Chicago Symphony) was a good one, but it was at least something to go on. The ideal Sam Goody's experience was the all-label sale, advertised via a coupon-ad in the New York Times. That sale could allow one to make a killing, as when I picked up the Art Tatum Solo Masterpieces (a 13-LP set) for $49. I can still tell which of my LPs are from Sam Goody's — the cashiers always sliced the plastic wrap in the bottom-right corner of the back cover and wrote in the purchase price.


[One such corner, from the Albert Ayler Trio's Spiritual Unity, ESP-Disk 1002 ($4.49). If you strain your eyes (or click for the larger version of the photo), you can see the mark of Zorro (i.e., the cashier's razorblade) across the price.]

I also spent a fair amount of time at J&R's jazz outlet, on Nassau Street in lower Manhattan. I'd drive in from New Jersey on a Saturday morning, when the financial district was deserted and parking spaces were to be had. I was always amazed to see so many people shopping for jazz on a Saturday morning. J&R had bins and bins of cut-outs, and I bought many an LP simply to satisfy curiosity — the prices were so reasonable that I could afford to experiment. Nowadays, I rarely buy a CD without having some idea of what I'm going to be hearing (the exceptions, matters of irresistible curiosity, include Nellie McKay, Wilco, and Bob Dylan's Love and Theft).

What I most miss about record stores is the joy of browsing. I miss the soft thunk of flipping through LPs in their bins. Used LPs, minus their plastic wrap, aren't the same, and CDs, which spell out their contents on their top edges and clatter like a drawerful of junk, lack all magic. I miss the chance to read liner notes while trying to make up my mind. And (save for the Jazz Record Mart in Chicago) I miss the feeling that a great record store always held — of containing, just like a library or museum, things I wanted to know more about.

While looking around online today, I learned that Sam Goody's filed for bankruptcy in January 2006. I hadn't noticed.

[Endnote: My wife Elaine tells me that the Solti/Chicago Rite of Spring was an excellent recommendation.]

Link » Relic Records, with background on the Relic Rack

Link » The World of Sam Goody, Part One, Part Two, Matthew Lasar's recollections of working at Sam Goody's flagship store in Manhattan, with a great story of shopping with Rahsaan Roland Kirk (from RALPH: The Review of Arts, Literature, Philosophy and the Humanities )

Misspelling

Noticed on both sides of a printed sign in a supermarket:

WET FLOORS
LOOSE DEBRI

Maybe the S came loose from DEBRIS and ended up on the FLOOR?

Tea

Drinking four or more cups of tea every day could be more beneficial than drinking water, scientists have said.

That's my kind of science.

Link » Four cups of tea a day "better than drinking water," from the Daily Mail

Pluto gets the boot

Nachos, anyone?

Link » Pluto gets the boot, from CNN.com

Proust: "This is the operator speaking"

The telephone was not so commonly used then as it is today. And yet habit is so quick to demystify the sacred forces with which we are in contact, that, because I was not connected immediately, my only reaction was to see it as all very time-consuming and inconvenient, and to be on the point of lodging a complaint: like everybody nowadays, I found it too slow for my liking, with its abrupt transformations, this admirable magic that needs only a few seconds to bring before us, unseen but present, the person to whom we wish to speak, and who, seated at his table, in the town he inhabits (in my grandmother's case, Paris), under another sky than our own, in weather that is not necessarily the same, amid circumstances and preoccupations that are unknown to us and which he is about to reveal, finds himself suddenly transported hundreds of miles (he and all the surroundings in which he remains immersed) to within reach of our hearing, at a particular moment dictated by our whim. And we are like the character in the fairy tale at whose wish an enchantress conjures up, in a supernatural light, his grandmother or his betrothed as they turn the pages of a book, shed tears, gather flowers, very close to the spectator and yet very far away, in the place where they really are. For this miracle to happen, all we need to do is approach our lips to the magic panel and address our call — often with too much delay, I agree — to the Vigilant Virgins whose voices we hear every day but whose faces we never get to know, and who are the guardian angels of the dizzy darkness whose portals they jealously guard; the All-Powerful Ones who conjure absent beings to our presence without our being permitted to see them; the Danaids of the unseen, who constantly empty and refill and transmit to one another the urns of sound; the ironic Furies, who, just as we are murmuring private words to a loved one in the hope we are not overheard, call out with brutal invasiveness, "This is the operator speaking"; the forever fractious servants of the Mysteries, the shadowy priestesses of the Invisible, so quick to take offense, the Young Ladies of the Telephone!

Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, translated by Mark Treharne (New York: Penguin, 2002), 127

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