ask
questions, here, in
the laboratory, and not Humlum, for example, is not because I was better—I have never said that.
I just wanted so bad'v to live.
At Crusty
House, in a 400-meter race, it was always possible to determine who could run better than everyone
else. And pretty often in soccer, you could say that one pass was better
than another. But it was actually less
common than you might imagine. And mainly in straightforward situations offering very few
openings.
In Biehl's classes
it was obvious when an answer was correct.
With Karin Ær ø things were a little less precise but, on the whole, there was never any serious doubt
as to who sang true enough to be in the choir.
One has to be left with the
impression that this thing about as sessing the merit of a person's singing or answers or
soccer was something straightforward,
something strictly regulated.
But in all of these instances an answer did
already exist. That you
had to score, or remember a particular date or sing true or run a distance under a certain time. There was a clearly defined quadrangle of knowledge—like a
chessboard, like a soccer field. So it was pretty easy to see what was correct and what was wrong, and when one
thing was better or worse than another. But if it became just a little bit more complicated, like
at the start of an attack, or in
midfield, then you could no longer be sure what the answer would be. Like with August's drawing. You would think, in that case, that it
would have to be almost impossible— after
all, it was his. How could an answer already exist as to how it should be?
When you assess something, you are forced to assume that a linear scale of values can be applied to it. Otherwise no
assessment is possible. Every person who
says of something that it is good or bad or a bit better than yesterday is
declaring that a points system exists; that
you can, in a reasonably clear and obvious fashion, set some sort of a number against an achievement.
But never at any time has a code of practice been laid
down for the awarding
of points. No offense intended to anyone. Never at any time in the history of the
world has anyone—for anything ever so slightly more complicated than the
straightforward play of a ball or a 400-meter race—been able to come up with a code of practice that could be learned and followed by several
different people, in such a way that they
would all arrive at the same mark. Never at any time have they been able to agree on a method for determining when
one drawing, one meal, one sentence, one insult, the picking of one lock, one blow, one patriotic song, one
Danish essay, one playground, one frog, or one interview is good or bad or
better or worse than another.
Never at any time. Nothing that comes anywhere near a code of practice.
But a code of practice is
essential. To ensure that things can be spoken of, fully and frankly. A code of practice is
something that
could be passed on, maybe not to a character like Jes Jessen,
or me, but at any
rate to someone like Katarina or a teacher.
But, in all the history of the
world, no code of practice has ever existed for the assessment of complex phenomena.
And certainly not
for what crops up in the laboratory.
And yet everyone talks in terms of what is good or bad. And now and again they can be pretty much
in agreement. For example, ev eryone was pretty much in agreement that with Oscar Humlum— the bit I have not been able to
talk about yet—it was no great loss. Nor, in fact, with Axel Fredhøj,
and definitely not Jes Jessen. Apart maybe from me and a handful of others—we were not in agree ment. The thing about Humlum,
that did not go down very well with me—and not just because he had saved me, that had happened long before. Since then, not a
day has gone by that I have not thought of him. It is more than twenty years ago now.
Often he is there,
between your dreaming and your waking; often he comes
to the laboratory and talks to me. For a long time
questions, here, in
the laboratory, and not Humlum, for example, is not because I was better—I have never said that.
I just wanted so bad'v to live.
At Crusty
House, in a 400-meter race, it was always possible to determine who could run better than everyone
else. And pretty often in soccer, you could say that one pass was better
than another. But it was actually less
common than you might imagine. And mainly in straightforward situations offering very few
openings.
In Biehl's classes
it was obvious when an answer was correct.
With Karin Ær ø things were a little less precise but, on the whole, there was never any serious doubt
as to who sang true enough to be in the choir.
One has to be left with the
impression that this thing about as sessing the merit of a person's singing or answers or
soccer was something straightforward,
something strictly regulated.
But in all of these instances an answer did
already exist. That you
had to score, or remember a particular date or sing true or run a distance under a certain time. There was a clearly defined quadrangle of knowledge—like a
chessboard, like a soccer field. So it was pretty easy to see what was correct and what was wrong, and when one
thing was better or worse than another. But if it became just a little bit more complicated, like
at the start of an attack, or in
midfield, then you could no longer be sure what the answer would be. Like with August's drawing. You would think, in that case, that it
would have to be almost impossible— after
all, it was his. How could an answer already exist as to how it should be?
When you assess something, you are forced to assume that a linear scale of values can be applied to it. Otherwise no
assessment is possible. Every person who
says of something that it is good or bad or a bit better than yesterday is
declaring that a points system exists; that
you can, in a reasonably clear and obvious fashion, set some sort of a number against an achievement.
But never at any time has a code of practice been laid
down for the awarding
of points. No offense intended to anyone. Never at any time in the history of the
world has anyone—for anything ever so slightly more complicated than the
straightforward play of a ball or a 400-meter race—been able to come up with a code of practice that could be learned and followed by several
different people, in such a way that they
would all arrive at the same mark. Never at any time have they been able to agree on a method for determining when
one drawing, one meal, one sentence, one insult, the picking of one lock, one blow, one patriotic song, one
Danish essay, one playground, one frog, or one interview is good or bad or
better or worse than another.
Never at any time. Nothing that comes anywhere near a code of practice.
But a code of practice is
essential. To ensure that things can be spoken of, fully and frankly. A code of practice is
something that
could be passed on, maybe not to a character like Jes Jessen,
or me, but at any
rate to someone like Katarina or a teacher.
But, in all the history of the
world, no code of practice has ever existed for the assessment of complex phenomena.
And certainly not
for what crops up in the laboratory.
And yet everyone talks in terms of what is good or bad. And now and again they can be pretty much
in agreement. For example, ev eryone was pretty much in agreement that with Oscar Humlum— the bit I have not been able to
talk about yet—it was no great loss. Nor, in fact, with Axel Fredhøj,
and definitely not Jes Jessen. Apart maybe from me and a handful of others—we were not in agree ment. The thing about Humlum,
that did not go down very well with me—and not just because he had saved me, that had happened long before. Since then, not a
day has gone by that I have not thought of him. It is more than twenty years ago now.
Often he is there,
between your dreaming and your waking; often he comes
to the laboratory and talks to me. For a long time
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