14 December '07

It is sometimes held that in the language of the Inuit* there are more words for snow than in English. The number of Inuit words varies from seven to four-hundred depending on how many languages are counted, how flexible the categories are, et cetera. Related to this fact is a volunteer-fireman from the United States who noticed that people did not heed gas-cans once they were emptied of gas. The cans, it was understood, were ‘empty’, and thus no longer existed a fire danger. After witnessing numerous gas-can explosions (petrol vapour is, after all, violently more flammable than the liquid) the fireman—let’s call him Whorf—deduced that the cans were considered harmless because they were termed empty. That is, the word ‘empty’ was so influential to the gas-can owners that they simply could not conceive that it might be dangerous. This phenomenon got Mr. Whorf to thinking, and here we reunite with the Inuit. As the theory goes, because the Inuit have ‘n’ words for snow, they are able to recognise ‘n’ different types of snow. Thus, if we believe that in Inuit there are twice as many words for snow as there are in English, Mr. Whorf would have you believe that the Inuit can see twice as many types of snow than speakers of English. In this manner, whereas I can only recognise powder, sludge, ice, and flake, the Inuit can recognise snow that is crusted on the surface, drifting snow, still snow, remembered snow, forgotten snow, snow that falls in large wet flakes, snow that falls in small flakes, snow that falls slowly, snow that falls quickly, snow that has melted and refrozen, snow that has been marked by wolves, blowing snow, snow that has been packed down, snow in beards, melted snow, snow mixed with mud and so on. In this manner, language determines one’s view of the world. The word precedes the perception.

If there is a way I can justify reciting all of that, it lies in the fact that in the two weeks it has been snowing in New York, there has not been one day the same. The first day, for example, was Disney snow: flakes that you can catch in your hand or on your tongue, flakes that are so permanently frozen they are dry, flakes that land on other flakes forming impeccable, ubiquitous blankets. The next day the blankets shrank and melted, lining the gutters and causing perpetual torrents to chase the furrows in the middle of streets. Yesterday we had hail: small rocks of ice that bounced and ricocheted and rolled. Today there was wet snow: flakes that melted as soon as they came up against something solid, flakes interspersed with drops so that the whole street and the tops of cars, and flowers, and every surface that could bear the weight was covered in white slush. Minutes later that slush—which won’t freeze because it was too warm and won’t melt because it was too cold—was marked by footprints and stained with mud and coagulated in piles.

Now, if you and I spoke Inuit, I presume that whole paragraph would be redundant; it could be replaced by one sentence and a list of words. Perhaps I cannot justify.

It is a disconcerting experience trying to cope here when it is snows. All other residents in my neighbourhood, without breaking stride, simply change clothes, change shoes and roll on with whatever it is they were doing before it began to snow. I, on the other hand, am as inept as a child. I have the wrong clothes, the wrong shoes. I walk in the wrong places and look at the wrong things. It is considered unbecoming, so I gather, to treat snow as anything more than a dull inconvenience. Even the children here regard it with the same indifference as they would a broken appliance or a slump in the stock market. It is a phenomenon that exists outside of their control, that affects their lives by proxy. Perhaps if they could suture the snow at its source—the idea is not so absurd: the United Sates military is working on ways to induce fog and bad weather to disorient and demoralize the enemy. One method involves literally pouring chemicals into clouds—New Yorkers would. Until that time, they don trench coats, lower their heads, clasp at their chests, and carry on walking.

***

This week has largely consisted of long spells sitting in front of my computer starting and finishing essays, conceiving ideas, thinking, researching and then trying to compel them onto the screen them with blunt force. My approach is to spend as much time in possible with hands at the ready. Eight hours staring at a screen results in about two hours of actual work. Two hours of actual work produces about five pages of text. Five pages of text is about a sixth of two essays. I was, luckily, adept at the calculation. Thus, as of now, the essays are completed and my first semester at Columbia—presuming the essays are adequate—is over.

The week was preceded by a flitting trip to Washington DC. Four-and-a-half hours on the Greyhound getting there was followed by twenty-one hours in the city was followed by four-and-a-half hours returning (I shall talk of the Greyhound bus line in another transmission. There is much to talk about (the Greyhound bus line in the United States is the transport of the masses; people were frisked and scanned for weapons as they boarded; see the Onion’s parody at www.theonion.com/content/news/30_miserable_lives_lost_in). It was a fine experience to get off the island, to sit in mute awe at the industrial sprawl that extends from city to city, to cavort in the bars and walk around like a don in the hotel.

I am the owner of a video Ipod, a now outmoded device that can hold around twelve days of music. On the bus home from Washington, the right headphone coming from the Ipod ceased to produce sound and no meddling could remedy the situation. A quick test revealed that the Ipod itself was broken, rather than the headphones. The workings of my Ipod, like nearly every single other technological device, exists far outside the realm of my understanding. The internal mechanics of even the most primitive computer, for example, the calculator, are as opaque to me as that of the physics governing a black hole. I assumed, therefore, that my Ipod would either have to be discarded or salvaged by a professional. As the device is no longer current, paying a professional to assess it would not have been economical. I thus turned to the internet, which, as it transpires, is heavy with sites that aid the Ipod-owner to repair their own device. After ordering a part for a nominal investment and waiting two days for it to arrive, I followed the instructions on one of the websites and took the Ipod apart. I did not understand what I was doing, and my work was clumsy, but I fixed it. I fixed my Ipod. It was a revelation!

The reason I was so ecstatic is that, for half an hour at least, the gulf between the luddite and technology was bridged. For thirty minutes, the two were united. The feeling is, perhaps, akin to sparking fire without matches or accelerant. Or building a shelter without nails or tools. Or catching an animal, and cooking it, and eating it. The satisfaction was immense.

***

So, the first semester is now over. Next week I head to Paris and then Oslo to meet with family. New York is a fine, fine city and I have some very good friends here, but there's nothing quite like family: nothing quite like knowing you have the same ancestry, knowing you have stood on the same part of the earth, knowing you have shared memories, and above all the indelible, ineluctable bond that comes from having the same blood flooding your veins.

* Also known, derogatively, as Eskimo