Many majors are put into classification schemes that limit the options of academic interest. There is often a dichotomy between the average humanities major and the average science major. Yes, clear distinctions tend to help with categorization, but defining majors by either being in the humanities or sciences is fallacious.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “humanity,” in reference to the academic field, to be “the branch of learning concerned with human culture.” But shouldn’t this definition apply to all majors, then? In chemistry and physics, aren’t we simply studying the effects of humanity and how to better our species and interact with other species? I think that the distinction between humanities and sciences is a bit misleading because it assumes the field of science does not deal with humanity, when in reality science and certain fields of study are all about humanity.

The deciding factor in the debate of whether or not to major in humanities is money. People are generally steered away from majoring in the nonsciences with the justification being that humanities majors do not make as much money as science majors do. But is money really the true matter at hand? I think that worrying about a future salary while still in college is stressful, not to mention extremely petty. Money talk simply fuels the capitalist society in which we live. Before prematurely taking money into account, I find it valuable to reexamine why one pursues an academic career.

Do we go to school to get a better salary or to gain insight as to how we fit into society? Although the former is true, the latter exemplifies the bottom line: Society has normalized higher education. In high school, it feels like the next logical step to reaching adulthood is to enroll in a college of some sort. If we are expected to attain higher education, then we should have the freedom and support to explore different academic fields and focus on whichever pertains to us most. And I also think that it is healthy to leave the postcollege worrying until postcollege, regardless of finances and jobs.

In comparison to a science major, the average humanities major is faced with high unemployment rates and lower average wages. Although this is definitely something to take into account, having motivation will play a stronger role in changing such statistics. Our generation is typically pressured to go into supposedly successful fields such as medicine, law and scientific research — perhaps this will change in five to 10 years, because there might be an abundance of doctors and lawyers vying for the same jobs. Be motivated, and have a passion for what you study and enjoy doing, for young passion and eagerness will help you in the future.

So do all humanities majors go on to become professors in their fields? Definitely not. But many undergraduates in the nonsciences tend to enjoy their field so much that they seek a doctorate in the subject. People have admitted to me their fear of an overpopulation of people with doctorates in the humanities and not enough demand for them. While graduate school is a viable option for students in the humanities, don’t feel limited to a postsecondary education. But if you do find yourself seeking to continue onto a graduate program, the investment can be justified if you have an immense passion for the subject. If you want to go to graduate school for the humanities, do so if the fiery passion is there.

Am I worried about my future? Yes, but who isn’t? Before worrying about post-college, worry about college. I am trying to make the most of my time here at UC Berkeley and enjoy the humanities path. By exploring my academic interests in interdisciplinary fields, I have had the opportunity to further my knowledge of how society functions, and that is something I find invaluable to all “humanities” majors.

We, as college students, have the privilege to explore and choose our futures. Don’t feel obligated to classify yourself in the humanities or sciences binary. Challenge normative and capitalist ideals of the future — your future.

Contact Matthew Kirschenbaum at mkirschenbaum@dailycal.org or follow him on Twitter: @mpkirschenbaum.

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The film is the narrative of creating the story of these people — the student, teacher and family — and of the disturbing intrusions made into each other’s lives (and houses) to do so. Claude Garcia, his wit unsatisfied, entices his teacher (himself frustrated by the limitedness of his class and aching for inspiration) with a story “to be continued” to take him on as a personal pupil. However, what is “to be continued” from the first installment of Garcia’s story ends up being much more engrossing and unexpected than what it was initially.

The story Garcia writes is of his own writing about a family — the family, specifically, of his classmate Rapha Artole. Coming from a less-than-ideal family life himself, Garcia is drawn to the impressive normality of Rapha and his loving parents, whom he sees pick up their son from school. He wants to know, “How is the house of a normal family?” Garcia’s aim in writing is to answer this question. However, as the story is more encouraged by the teacher, Germain — who wants to foster the boy’s talent — as well as Garcia’s own changing desire to stay in the house, he can no longer just enter “in the house” but be there many times to experience it and be near the subjects of his story. As Germain takes the boy and the story under his passionate wing, Garcia and Germain begin to take real risks for the story.

It is around the time that Garcia and Germain realize that Garcia’s presence in the house is contingent on more than just the story but his urge for Esther, Rapha’s mother, whose “singular scent of a middle class woman … caught (his) attention.” What began as a cynical young man objectively investigating his classmate’s family turns into something much more involved and much more complicated.

With this break from objectivity, the reality of the story becomes compromised. While Garcia begins to toy with different plot twists in his story, the film itself becomes decidedly less realistic. Suddenly, characters are absurdly placed in scenes and narrate it from within. Desires are exhibited as real in the plotline of the movie but turn out to be cinematic flourishes. Scenes flash from real to unreal, and the line between the two — both Garcia’s story and the story of the movie, as well as the reality and unreality of the movie scenes themselves — becomes hazy.

As the narrative continues, the fiction interludes becomes less strikingly implausible, as one begins to take in the movie as if in a lucid dream: noticing that there has been a skip in logic but accepting the change as the only way the story could have gone on. Garcia contemporaneously writes his story as he lives it — whether the living or the writing comes first is less clear in the film. This confusion ultimately leads to a grab-bag of endings for the story, all unclear as to their ultimate reality, save for one ending which Garcia intends for his story and which is shown on the screen.

In that penultimate scene, however, the audience can never really be sure whether that ending to the story ever really happened or whether the story simply continued on. Thus, the clash of intention, reality, desire and fiction rocks Garcia and Germain’s determination of the story and, ultimately, of their own lives. Just as they lose the determining grip on the ending of their story, so too does the audience lose a grip on the veracity of the story they’re being told. It is that doubt, that confusion, that adds on to the given benefits of brilliant acting, je-ne-sais-quoi French sexual fever and substantial dialogue that make “In the House” such a brilliant existential narrative experience.

Contact AJ Kantor at akantor@dailycal.org.

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We walked in without reservation, half-worried that there wouldn’t be a table for us, half-worried that there would be a table for us, which might have meant the restaurant wasn’t good enough to fill up on a Friday night. But we were a party of two, perfect to squeeze in a table at the end of the room. When the hostess at the front desk offered to take my friend’s coat, we began feeling the warmth of old-fashioned restaurant service. And it only got warmer.

Our waitress paid a great deal of attention to our table, coming by every 10 minutes to see if everything was all right. The frequency of her visits increased as she politely tried to push us through the entree (appetizer) so that the plats principaux (main dishes) could be served. It was partly our fault for taking time with the entree, but the portion was by no means appetizer-sized. The Pate de Campagne ($12) is a half-inch thick slab of pork pate (minced pork and fat), two slices of toasted baguette, a black truffle deviled egg and plentiful radish and curly endive salad. Although the pate was firmer and grainier than I expected, the deviled egg was pleasant because it didn’t have the pungent smell of truffle that I dislike, and the toast was crunchy with just the right fattiness. This entree by itself was enough as a meal — combined with water and conversation, it got us full.

A minute later, the serious course was before us.

Nicely grilled Loch Duart salmon, still moist inside, on braised leeks, olive oil mashed potatoes and black truffle butter. Three thick but tender slices of seared pork loin dressed in a sweet plum sauce and what appeared to me like potato knöpfle spätzle. While the saumon paillard ($25) seems to be a staple on Bistro Liaison’s dinner menu, the pork loin was a special of the day, and both exceeded my expectations and were taken home almost in their entirety for the sake of dessert.

You would need a heart of stone to refuse desserts at Bistro Liaison because instead of asking if you would like dessert, the waitress will stamp the dessert menu onto your table. It’s there. In your face. You can’t even take it away. Every night has a slightly different list, but it’s guaranteed to include a creme brulee, a molten chocolate cake, a seasonal sorbet and because you’re in a French bistro, an Ile Flottante. As the name suggests, the main part of the dessert is a meringue island floating on creme anglaise, topped with roasted sliced almonds and a lacy tuile cookie to complement the meringue’s fluffy texture. The Floating Island is rich and light at the same time, harmonious and comforting enough to justify its $8 price.

If I had to nitpick an otherwise enjoyable experience, I would say that the waiters were a little too pushy about us finishing our appetizer, and the tables were placed too close together. The latter situation is a common practice in Berkeley, and considering how the waiters kept our main courses warm until they served them, their patience is commendable. Everything was well-seasoned, the fish was not flaky and the pork was miraculously still a star even after I reheated it the next day.

Although Bistro Liaison may not be suitable for the everyday lunch rush due to both its price and its atmosphere, it’s the kind of place to consider when you want to pat yourself on the back or treat someone special for a warm evening.

Bistro Liaison is located at 1849 Shattuck Ave. in Berkeley.

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David Tennant taught me “allons-y.” More significantly, the Doctor taught me. Through his adventures, his companions and his constant running, the Doctor has actually taught me quite a lot. Just add that to the long list of reasons “Doctor Who” is one of my favorite shows. Other reasons include, but are certainly not limited to: aliens, awesome characters and some truly amazing British accents.

“Doctor Who” is about a several-centuries-old alien called the Doctor from the planet Gallifrey. He travels all of time and space in a blue police telephone box called the TARDIS, accompanied by all sorts of people, meeting all sorts of aliens. It sounds kind of ridiculous, and it certainly is. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Suffice to say, I’m a Whovian. While I am not a fan of the word (sounds too much like the Whos from Whoville), I do appreciate the idea behind it: that a collective group of people love one thing so much that they need a single, unifying term to adequately express their adoration. It’s a silly word, but the Doctor is silly, so I’d like to think the term is true to the show.

Which broaches the question: Why do I ardently follow and support “Doctor Who” when it all sounds so childish? The show has spanned generations and personalities, all in a small blue box, and that seems a bit magical to me. Also, it has somehow managed to teach me, even when I believed I was past the didactic kids’ shows.

I now know that every disastrous thing that happens is inevitably the cause of aliens. I know to poke everything with a stick, as that’s how most of the Doctor’s adventures start. And I know that everyone, no matter how repulsive of an alien he or she (or it) may be, deserves a second chance.

If the Doctor can forgive the repulsive Racnoss Queen, who was trying to destroy the world on Christmas Eve, then who am I to hold a grudge against someone taking a little bit too long in line at Peet’s? While the crime of indecisive coffee ordering may be heavy, I know that planning to destroy the human race ranks slightly above that, and, as such, I can bring myself to feel compassion for those who cannot choose between a warm or cold coffee.

All you need is love, friends are the real treasure and you can find beauty anywhere: just a few of the ridiculously clichéd messages that the Doctor and his companions manage to make interesting episode after episode. While all of these life lessons seem really obvious, sometimes it helps to be reminded.

Because as we grow up, we move away from those shows that taught us that sharing is caring and to respect our peers. We become engrossed in lives in which grades become our motivating factor and somehow forget to stop and smell the roses, or, in the case of Berkeley, the dozens of restaurants just waiting to be explored.

That’s just another one of the silly little lessons that isn’t quite that silly when you think about it. And if growing up means losing those cheesy messages and falling into a life of 9-to-5 stupor, then I see nothing wrong with not becoming a grown-up by society’s standards. Because grown-ups move through life quickly, driving past museums and parks, forgetting the world for their own self-centric versions of it.

Now, I wouldn’t say “grown-up” in this case is synonymous with “adult.” In fact, I would say I know a lot of adults who have never grown up. And that’s how I plan to enter my adulthood: maintaining every last bit of my ludicrous ideals and kidlike naivety about life. I want to continue to see the best in people and treat others the way I want to be treated — basically, live my life with the same ideas I had as a kid, only with my years of experience to back them up. Much like how the Doctor has lived hundreds of years but still manages to find joy in a remote-controlled plane.

While it’s a bit childish of me, I will continue to watch shows like “Doctor Who” and take them completely and utterly too seriously. I would rather see the world through a child’s eyes, with all of the wonder and amazement that entails.

So allons-y! Let’s go — to other planets, to the farthest reaches of the galaxy or just on an adventure. Because if there is only one thing that “Doctor Who” taught me, it’s that there’s an incredible amount to everything. You just have to go out there and find it for yourself.

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On Wednesday, my family welcomed a French foreign exchange student, and I, the only member of my family with a basic knowledge of French, took on the role of sole communicator. I’d gotten all A’s in French and therefore fancied myself something of a language expert, so I thought the French tour group would be fawning over my elegant rolled consonants and the nuanced way I distinguished between words like au-dessous and au-dessus.

In action, however, I sputtered, biffing conjugations and pronunciations. When the teens spoke, their words went way over my head like jets, heard but unseen. This was frustrating and disheartening, and I found myself simply choosing not to speak when in the presence of the 28 French teens in the exchange group. It felt like the first day of freshman year, replete with solitude and reticence.

I am a talker. My personality is made up of the witty things I say and the one-liners I recite on the spot, as if they’re already written down. Call me narcissistic, but for me, it’s all words, words, words. So being stripped of my communication abilities left me bereft of my power, my ultimate weapon.

Americans take for granted the ability to communicate. Unlike Europe, made up of countries with different languages and cultures, the United States is its own isolated bubble. We believe that America represents a microcosm of the world at large, making us not only closed off to the world but fearful of outsiders. Common language is the key to breaking this detachment, but taking a few years of Spanish or Italian in high school and college hardly suffices.

The day before the French tour group arrived, I had Berkeley Summer Orientation. Overwhelmed by the unknown faces, I went into “life of the party” mode, buzzing from one person to the next in a campaign to conquer the heart of every stranger by extroversion and loquaciousness alone. I apply the command-and-control strategy of war to making friends: Always make the first move, command the conversation, surprise assault leads to disaster, maintain control at all costs.

Applying warfare tactics to fraternizing doesn’t always lead to the desired result; people tend to feel like they’ve been hit with an atom bomb of friendship that is at once overwhelming and engulfing. This strategy also makes me highly unapproachable, especially considering that the person I’m trying to befriend is cast as the enemy combatant. If I’m not firmly steering the direction of the conversation, I could be caught off guard with uncomfortable questions or solicitations that crack my carefully crafted facade, which shields my timidity and uncertainty from view. I hide my weaknesses behind my ability to converse.

Such a stratagem worked well at orientation, where I found myself surrounded by people who were just as excited to get to know me and came fully equipped with their own ammunition. But in a group of French speakers with limited English skills, I was at a loss. Lacking my bag of tricks and charms, how could I connect without the luxury of coherent speech?

The gift of gab is not something to be taken lightly. This society preaches that extroversion is the key to success, that only the loudest voice in the crowd is heard, that conviviality equates confidence. CEOs and heads of state didn’t get to where they are through shyness, it tells us. Rarely do we celebrate the reticent and unforthcoming, but without these people, world progress would come to a standstill, overrun by megaphone-wielding extroverts vying for the final word.

At the next outing — a tour of San Francisco — I expected the day to run the same as the one before: me sitting speechlessly while the others gabbed endlessly about les cigarettes, la différence entre Marseille et Paris and les boîtes de nuit.

But then, something happened. People started coming to me, rather than I to the them, asking me questions and initiating conversations. They wanted to know the recipe for s’mores, the meaning behind the lyrics to “Rack City” and what exactly YOLO stands for. I found myself swimming in endless conversations — which I didn’t initiate — and savoring the freedom of not hiding behind my usual shield of boundless chatter. My defenses were down, and I liked the feeling.

At the end of the outing that day, I gained a dozen amis — friends — and also a greater sense of communication as a whole. Sorry Hamlet, but not everything is “words, words, words.” Sometimes communication has nothing to do with witty syntax and clever puns. By allowing myself to put down my arsenal of language weaponry, I truly experienced the pleasures of mutual conversation.

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