Corpsing: 02 (London)

To corpse

(from googling)

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verb THEATRICAL SLANG

spoil a piece of acting by forgetting one's lines or laughing uncontrollably.

"Peter just can't stop himself corpsing when he is on stage"

cause (an actor) to forget their lines and start laughing.

"one singer ad libbed and corpsed his colleagues on stage"

British English uses a slang term, corpsing, to specifically describe one of the most common ways of breaking character—when an actor loses their composure and laughs or giggles inappropriately during a scene. The British slang term is derived from an actor laughing when their character is supposed to be a corpse.

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We started doing classical Chinese in Year.2 on the undergraduate course at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies).

    One of the texts was 史記 / 史记 / shǐjì / "history record" / Records of the Grand Historian (by 司馬遷 / 司马迁 / Sima Qian), taught by our beloved Mr. George Weys.  Being a historical text, completed c.104–91 BC, the contents are sombre, a lot of which focus on fighting for power, which is not a light subject at all.

    German classmate Robbie and I got on well from the start, so we'd sit together.

    Something happened one day in class (I can't remember what now, but it was a very minor thing) which set me and Robbie off giggling.  For the rest of the lesson, Robbie and I would start giggling all over again after subsiding, usually with one of us recalling the trigger and starting to giggle, which would then set the other one off.  During subsequent lessons, one of us would, out of the corner of the eye, catch sight of the other's body shaking in suppressed giggles, and that would get that person giggling as well.

    It got so bad that we decided to sit on opposite sides of the classroom, but then we'd happen to make eye contact across the room, and the corpsing would start all over again.

    For those of you who might not have been infected with the corpsing bug before, let me tell you that once it starts wriggling in your system, it's very hard to control it -- at the time, and on subsequent occasions, time and time again.  Long after you've forgotten what had started it.

(London, 1978–9)

It's the people's disposition: 01 (Peru / China)

After my first trip to Peru in 1986, I was having a chat one day with an academic at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) about it.  She'd been brought up in Taiwan, a soft-spoken, gentle-mannered person who had married an academic at SOAS.

    I told her about how gentle and good-natured I'd found the Peruvians to be, in spite of their poverty, adding that it was evidence enough that poverty is not always the reason (nor should it be the justification) for people behaving badly.  This was said keeping in mind my hearing some people say, "With life being so hard for them [whoever it is one's talking about that's behaving badly], you can't expect them to go about being good-natured and patient."

    She said, "是人的素质 / shì rén de sùzhì / it's the people's disposition".

    She went on to give an account of her experience in Beijing doing her pastoral duty visiting the SOAS Year Abroad students.

    Having lived in London for a few years, where the practice at a restaurant is for the customer to stand just inside the door upon arrival, to wait to be allocated a table.  Which was what she did in Beijing when she went out for her first dinner.  She was ignored for a long time, then one of the waiters/waitresses noticed she was still hanging around by the door, and shouted at her, "What are you still standing there for?  Go and get a table and sit down!!"  Everyone looked up at the academic, who was so mortified and traumatised by this that she left immediately (in spite of having already waited for so long for a table).

    She never ate out again for the rest of her pastoral visit, buying food to eat in her hotel room instead.

(Peru, 1986; China, 1986)

disposition: (from googling) a person's inherent qualities of mind and character.

Problems behind translating: 01

 

Old friend Valerio kick started a conversation about trying to find a good English translation for Divine Comedy to give to a former colleague, and how difficult it is to translate something into another language.  

I agreed, saying: 

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What instantly comes to mind is Chinese poetry (or such things in any language, for that matter).  

I read something on this during my BA days at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) which used a couple of lines from a Chinese poem.

The most common metre in traditional Chinese poetry is 5 characters or 7.

Can’t remember now the exact text from the poem cited (about walking in a bamboo grove or something atmospheric like that), but the author said what is immediately understood/felt by the Chinese reader of the first couplet with its 5 characters per line will take lots more words to convey in English.  It’s because of the cultural context:  that’s the way the Chinese look at nature with certain phenomena instantly evoking certain responses, therefore no need to use too many words.

In prose, the translator doesn’t have to try to match the meter too much so the problem isn’t so bad.

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Professor Cold Feet (London / Japan)

(This blog is inspired by Valerio, professor of mathematics in New Orleans.  I'd commented on a photo of his, taken at his wife Natalie's exhibition, in which he was sporting a bow tie, saying he looked so smart.  His response was that the tie was crooked and the shirt probably had a few holes somewhere.)

As an undergraduate student, I used to go and do my prepping in the Japan Reading Room because it was quieter, and I could spread out my notes and have all the reference books to myself.  

One day, I found a chap in there — in sandals, sans socks, in spite of the fact that it was early spring.  He turned out to be a Leeds University Ph.D. student of Buddhist history who was down in London to use our library because we had the best Oriental collection.  

After seeing him a few more times, I plucked up courage to ask him if he didn’t feel cold, going about without socks.  His answer was, “Oh no, I even go sockless in winter!”  So I gave him the nickname of Cold Feet.

Fast forward six or seven years and I was back at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) as staff working on two Chinese computer research projects.  

One day, when the lift that bore me arrived on the third floor, the first sight that greeted me as the doors opened were two sandal-clad, sockless feet in front of the Japanese Department notice board.  I instinctively cried out, “Cold Feet!”  The body that went with the feet turned round immediately, and it was indeed the Leeds University Buddhist history student from those earlier days.  He recognised his moniker!

He told me that, after he graduated from Leeds, he got a job in a Japanese university.  A few years later, they offered him a professorship.  

His response was: he would accept it only on the condition that they allowed him to continue going around in sandals, minus socks.  He told them he was even prepared to wear a jacket and put on a tie for the above-table façade at meetings, but there was no way he was going to confine his feet in shoes and socks.  Not even for a professorship.

(London 1978/9 and 1986/7)