So — is it true there’s no word in German for “fairness?” Der Speigel writes about the debate over English infecting the German language, following a recent study looking at German words being adopted all over the world. Letting languages evolve is better than trying to keep out foreign linguistic influences (a la the French), the study concludes.

But in one of those eyebrow-raising asides:

While some English words used in German are superfluous, such as the “Service Point” signs put up at major train stations around Germany, others are useful because they have no adequate German equivalent, such as ‘fairness’, said Peter.

Not even really going to speculate on what that means.

When passing through England for Bill and Karen’s wedding a few weeks ago, we saw posters for a festival of Sofia Gubaidulina’s work, put on by the BBC. We toyed briefly (very briefly) with the idea of coming back, but then realized it would naturally be broadcast and archived online. So this weekend we’ve been listening. Another in the “Internet used for good” category.

We brought our dinners into our living room, sat on the floor and listened to violinist Gideon Kramer premiere the first part of her Triptych Nadyeka. He’s as brilliant as she is; we saw him in Estonia at Kancheli’s 70th festival, a modernist with the dynamic range and physical imagination not only to interpret, but to inspire and challenge these composers.

The third element of the Triptych bordered in places on melo- instead of drama, but was interesting still, integrating harsh phrases of recorded techno music blaring over the orchestra. Alluding (in the context of a plague epidemic) to soulless abandonment to pleasure, or perhaps to the sterility of art’s response. Either way, I’m not sure it worked, I don’t think she has the control of that idiom that she does of the orchestra; as a fragment of music meant to have meaning I think it is necessarily weighed down by the tensions between the genres, by mutual contempt and incomprehension.

And then last night to the Konzerthaus here in Berlin to see a string quartet play Mendelssohn, Kurtag, Schnittke. The final piece, Schnittke’s Piano Quintet, was the star, weaving between dissonant textures, through a waltz of insane clowns, finishing with a quaint one-finger pastoral melody on the piano that resolved in a way the strings never did: an only half-ironic reminder that simplicity, maybe even innocence, can make a path through complexity and chaos without being wholly lost.

Spotted at the store, and of course taken home: Hobbit cookies. Or biscuits, it was unclear first exactly what they were. Bright orange wrapper, with “Hobbit” written in bold letters. And no, as far as we can tell that means nothing in German.

Verdict: Oh, so delicious, for second breakfast AND Elevensies! Oatmeal cookie goodness. Made in Poland, naturally.

And so at last, writers, journalists, reporters, call us what you will, we’re being replaced by computers just like everyone else. The Thomson financial media group is using software programs to automatically generate earnings stories, within .3 of a second of the release of a company’s earnings statement. No chance of a John Henry moment there; it takes my computer longer than that just to load the page, much less for me to read and digest the information.

Reuters, too, is apparently using automatically generated pieces. Bloomberg says they’re not, but the conditions they have in their offices, and their stylebook, make the distinction a bit academic.

And so here we are. There’s propagation of information, and there’s storytelling. Newspapers and other media outlets are supported by people for whom information is a necessity. For them, the computer can do the job. Style doesn’t matter. Style and storytelling is a luxury, for people with time, like organic vegetables or free-range chickens. We shouldn’t kid ourselves about that.

My first start-to-finish World Cup now just 10 hours and a fitful sleep past, and I am already melancholy, conscious of its absence. But its final moment’s mystery remains: Why did Zidane, one of the world’s best players, in what was probably the final international match of his life, at a critical moment, give way to bewildering rage and blatantly headbutt an Italian player.

The moment dominates all discussions of the game. What did the Italian say? A crack about ZZ’s mother? Sebas suggests: “At least Camus was a good writer, a better goalie and didn’t sell out to the French like you,” or compliments to the Algerian Pied-Noirs.

This Cup was memorable not just for the sport, but for the community: watching with Kenji and Till, discussing it endlessly with Anders and Anna, Grigo and Keena and Sebas online. I thought I knew something about the game, but was wrong; they knew the players and the rhythms, the history and the personalities and endlessly enriched these last few weeks for me. I will miss that.

Moments and images: Waiting in a Berlin tent for the very first game to start, realizing that the efficient Germans had neglected to find a projector that worked, and migrating en masse. Kicking a ball with Grigo and Anders all the way home from Mitte in the middle of the night, Anders passing it off the side of a moving tram. Watching Ronaldinho in Dortmund pass more gracefully than any human ought. German keeper Lehmann’s last penalty save: He stands up, cool and disbelieving, and walks away with a beautifuly mild gesture of shock and triumph. Zidane’s headbutt.

And of course being here throughout. Fireworks and flags, beer gardens full of people and screens everywhere, an obsession that has taken over and transformed the country. The black-red-and-gold is still hanging on some of the balconies here, but it’s already coming down on others. Seeing what happens next will be almost as interesting.

Some of my random Flickrpics here.