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November 2020 edition
Writer’s Blot
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Editors’ Letter Dear all, We are so excited to launch our first edition of ‘Writer’s Blot’, a magazine which encompasses everything literary. We wanted to share our passion for the subject with the rest of the North London community, and publish poetry, short stories, book reviews, literary analysis, essentially anything remotely English based. We hope that this eclectic array of disciplines and genres provides a glance into the world of books and conveys the power of literature. In future editions, we’re looking to collaborate with other schools, so please watch this space for more details. Thank you for reading our magazine. Alex Morgan and Schuyler Daffey Editors in chief
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Contents: ¨ ‘The Tiger Hunt’—page 4 ¨ Analysis of Estella from ‘Great Expectations’—page 8 ¨ ‘As They Knew We Would’—page 10 ¨ ‘Panic’—page 11 ¨ Untitled Sonnet—page 14 ¨ ‘Coronavirus—a Pandemic’—page 15 ¨ ‘Sun’—page 17 ¨ ‘Warm Still’—page 18 ¨ ‘Wide Sargasso Sea’ analysis—page 20 ¨ An exploration of morality in ‘Macbeth’—page 22 ¨ Religion in ‘Brideshead Revisited’—page 26 ¨ ‘Love Lost’—page 28 ¨ ‘A Year in the Life of Deception’—page 30 ¨ ‘A Sonnet: Hamlet abridged’—page 32 ¨ What we’ve been reading—page 33 ¨ Agony Aunt, Literary edition—page 34 ¨ Xoxo Grammar Girl—page 35
Many thanks to Kaitlyn Chan for her stunning cover image.
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‘The Tiger Hunt’ I woke up on the margin of the morning, that liminal space between the night before and the day to come. The morning was suffused in the rose light of the perfect, still and scented dawn. Today was the day. Stomach churning, eyes leaden, awash with nausea and yet… I’d never felt more alive. They say the day a boy kills his first tiger is the day he becomes a man. Full. Warm. Blood. Breath. Stretch. Paw. Fresh meat. “The buffalo! The buffalo!” one of the beaters came screeching in a frenzy into the clearing. One of the buffalos which had been laid as bait for the tiger had been killed! Tiger tracks had been discerned in the dirt and we were hot on their trail. Hot. The morning air hung pendulously, thick and heavy. Sweat trickled down my neck and my legs stuck to the saddle. This was to be a morning of firsts; my first-time riding solo on an elephant, my first tiger hunt, my first kill (hopefully). The Mahout, the elephant wrangler, fussed over my giant steed like a mother on their child’s first day of school. The relationship between a Mahout and an elephant is incredibly close – elephants live as long as we do and a Mahout may care for just one creature in their lifetime. My elephant had been carefully selected, according to an array of sacred and silly superstitions. The number of hairs in her tail was just right. The colour and position of her toenails was just so. The roughness of her skin was just perfect. “Chaliye!” called someone up ahead. The hunt began. Scent. Strange. Man. Sprint. The sun rose, turmeric yellow through vibrant purple hues like the mangosteen I had seen in the market. I was cast in the pomegranate crimson flecks dotted amongst the canopy of gold. Gifts of divine magic. Looking around the widespreading mango trees, I caught a glimpse of the game beginning to come, beautiful grey jungle fowl, their long colourful tails undulating to the rhythmical pulsations of their wings. Shades of elephant greys glimmered and blurred in the heat haze between golden grasses. Seemingly tired, heavy footsteps silently plodded, throwing up puffs of dry sand. Needles of white ivory contrasted against the greys as they huddled and grouped together, each
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determined step driven by their need for water. Finally, the Yamuna river. The clear smooth-running river – infested with crocodiles and tiny birds at the lower end of the food chain. It always amazed me how the watering hole is the hub of their community, yet all the animals risk their lives to drink surrounded by their predators. It is a fragile peace, but in this moment, all was harmony…for now. Game. Play. Chase. During the hot summer months, there's nothing quite like a nice refreshing and cooling dip in a pool, and it would seem that my elephant agreed. All of a sudden, Cinnamon, named due to her gorgeous light brown colour and her sweet but slightly spicy attitude, showered me and the Mahout with blasts of icy water with her trunk. “Daalacheenee!” He scolded her affectionately. They really were like an old married couple. I marvelled at her trunk; this incredible organ has the ability to gently pluck the smallest flower, pick up a coin or a blade of grass; yet is strong enough to rip branches off trees, lift huge logs and even elephant calves. I must say, even though I was absolutely drenched, I found it extremely refreshing under the blazing heat of the fiery sun. Now that it was already midday and the sun was above us, the sun’s rays were almost hugging me, scorching my skin. Sweat was dancing off me, mixed with the invigorating water droplets, cooling me down from the intense heat. Once we were dry again, we were on the move. Approaching. Fast. Hide. Here. Kill? Through the tall grass blades, I heard a low rumbling growl. Immediately, a heavy silence fell upon the grassland. Not even the birds were chirping. There, I saw it! The magnificent creature was the brightest orange streaked with jet black. I could tell it was an older tiger; it had a scar slicing through its eye, telling its tale of previous battles. Without warning, I saw a blur of tangerine and ebony flash through the grass blades that rippled as the beast darted faster than any horse could gallop. As soon as he left, he appeared again. With incredible strength, he picked up his fresh kill, a bison, like a cat picks up a mouse. You could tell that he was hungry by the way he heartily chomped down and consumed his prey. Tigers will not eat fully dead meat and they hunt for pleasure. Something tigers have in common with us humans, the desire to kill for sport.
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Content. Taste. Thrill. More? The tiger began to circle Cinnamon in the tall grass blades. That was the moment I really felt that I was on a hunt. My heart began beating out of my chest. Suddenly, the tiger growled and my heart skipped a beat. In the spur of the moment, I decided to take my shot. I had my 20-gauge shotgun and number 6 shots at the ready and I knew that it was now or never. The shotgun’s incessant firing had made hearing anything else, indeed even rational thought, impossible. The deafening crack of thunder filled the clearing as I pulled the trigger once… twice… dropping the tiger to the ground. Then I saw it. His face plainly depicting rage. As soon as I saw the fearlessness combined with the agonizing pain in his eyes, I instantly realised what I had done. My formidable adversary heaved his last breath, slumping with begrudging defeat. Ha. And then all was still. Upon seeing the tiger stretched out at full length, I understood the futility of hunting yet at the same time, it was a proud moment of mine. I felt the excitement tingle through my fingertips. I counted the luck marks on my first kill. Tiger bones are for good fortune along with tiger whiskers. Tiger teeth are for medicinal use and tiger claws represent strength. Mine was a mighty specimen. I grazed my hand against Cinnamon, revelling in my relationship with her. And then it hit me, how bizarre it was to be hunting and killing one animal, when another was my unwitting accomplice. The proximity of people and animals, wild creatures, all of us, we crave community and so do they. Panthers, jaguars, elephants, were drawn to the warm lights of the villages, like weary travellers craving rest. On one hand, cows are sacred. On the other, tigers are always viewed as a scourge. The tiger is danger, the tiger is death, but the hunt? The hunt is sport for both of us. This might be an evening of ‘lasts’. I would never hunt again. I look back on that day, through a narrow squint of shame and pride. I’ve taken my first and last baagh through my life. He reminds me of my youthful strength and vigour and how quickly all that can be taken away, stolen by two
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shots from a 20-gauge shotgun. As an old man now, I look at the skin on my wall and I feel‌ I feel.
--Alina Halstenberg
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‘Analysis of Estella from ‘Great Expectations’ Pip’s adoration for the cold-hearted beauty Estella is one of the principal themes presented in ‘Great Expectations’, and Pip’s main incentive for becoming a ‘gentleman’. Throughout the novel, Estella is omnipresent in Pip’s mind, and influences his decisions even when he is not with her. His expectations and desires all stem from his infatuation with Estella. Estella, meaning star or love, is ambiguous because it denotes several things. She is the ‘theme that so long filled [Pip’s] heart’, and his thoughts and actions are continuously orbiting around her, as if she is his star. However, stars not only illuminate beauty, but are also inwardly destructive and furious forces of energy. Externally, Estella is beauteous, but inwardly she is catastrophically and psychologically destructive. There is bitter irony that her name connotes love, as she is unable to feel love, or any emotion for that matter. Pip is habitually mistreated, and comfortable being abused by Estella. She brands him ‘a common labouring boy’, and her careless and condescending attitude towards him makes him feel inferior and ashamed of being ‘common’. This in turn heightens his feelings of powerlessness and embarrassment of his own domestic surroundings. Estella was raised from the age of three by Miss Havisham to torment men and ‘break their hearts’. It is by practising this deliberate cruelty that she wins Pip’s deepest love, demonstrating her cold, cynical and manipulative nature. Estella has two mothers: Molly, a murderer, and the vengeful Miss Havisham. Although these women differ greatly in terms of social status and personal history, they are equally ruthless. Estella is brought up in a ‘large and dismal house’, that has been set up as a shrine to Miss Havisham’s betrayal by Compeyson. The house is decaying and melancholy, and for the entirety of her childhood, Estella is isolated and shut off from the outside world. Growing up in this hostile environment and being robbed of the ability to love, has resulted in Estella developing a deep-rooted indifference towards other people’s feelings. Despite her cold behaviour and exposure to the damaging influence of Miss Havisham, Estella is still a somewhat sympathetic character, and underneath the rigid unemotional surface, does, in fact, possess the passion and emotional fury of her parents. The reader explores the inner turmoil that has arisen from her failure to identify her own feelings. She repeatedly warns Pip that she has
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‘no heart’, and displays a sort of loyalty towards him when she professes that she will toy with all men, but him. After a long and painful marriage to Bentley Drummle, Estella learns to rely on and trust her own inner feelings, rather than those instilled in her by Miss Havisham. In the final scene, she attests that: ‘Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching…I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.’ The presentation of Estella as a girl who takes pleasure in inflicting pain upon others is surprising to contemporary readers. In her youth, Estella was cruelly stifled by Miss Havisham, who influenced her negatively with persistent and malicious advice. Over time, however, we grow to sympathise with her character, regarding her as a victim of Miss Havisham, and pitying her emotional unavailability. Her damaging upbringing oppressed her natural instincts of self-discovery, and this oppression has been detrimental to her as a woman. Nonetheless, by the end of the novel, readers are left with tentative hope that Estella will grow to develop some semblance of emotion, and recover from the cruelty practised upon her as a child.
--Anya Vaghani
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‘As they knew we would’ It is the work of those who saw a brighter future even when shrouded in darkness. Those who dreamt of a better place, not just in their sleep. Those who freed us from the iron grip of our oppressors by keeping faith. Those who believed in life when death was at their fingertips. Those who knew they must keep fighting, even with no fight left in them. It is the work of these people that allowed me to roam free, That allowed my every thought to be of happiness My every day fresh with the taste of adventure. I must not let their work go to waste. For although today may seem bright Anything is brighter than total darkness. And I know there is a future out there Shining with the light of a thousand suns. We must follow in the footsteps of our ancestors, We must shape the future as they knew we would And pave the way to a world In which every step is taken willingly And every breath is blushed with new beginnings.
--Emma Gower
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‘Panic’ As I stepped off the train onto the platform, a wave of panic seized me. In my periphery, I could see this middle-aged, rugged-looking man who had gotten off the train after me, and positioned himself beside a news stand. He was wrong if he thought he was out of sight. This strange man had been following me ever since the first term of my second year at Glendale University. I had seen him countless times, simply lurking, always watching. What did he want from me? If he was planning on killing me, then surely he would have done so two terms ago. I clutched the handle of my brown leather-bound suitcase, mentally swatting away the fearful thought of being murdered. A few metres ahead of me stood a taxi stand with cars flocked around it. This was my means of getting home and also my chance to lose the man who had been tailing me in a not-so subtle manner. I approached the nearest taxi in which its driver sat watching something on his phone in a language that sounded like Russian. He looked up at me through the half-open window and asked, "Where to?". "72 Elm Street, please. It's just off the corner of that big shopping complex." I responded. I placed my suitcase in the trunk and made my way to the passenger side of the car. I stole a look behind me to see if my pursuer was still there, but he was nowhere to be seen. The inside of the car was neat and uncluttered, and I was overcome with an immediate sense of comfort as I leaned into the passenger-seat. In the background, the radio hummed, and raindrops slid down my window. The familiarity of my hometown comforted me; these innocent streets had shaped me. As we passed the West-side Shopping Complex I realised I was not so far from home. Just as we reached the corner of the road, I spotted a sign which read, ‘ROAD WORK AHEAD. DELAYS EXPECTED’. The driver seemed to notice it the moment I did, and told me it would probably take up to an hour to reach home.
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Mum would be awaiting me and my phone was about to die; I could not wait so long. I suddenly remembered a shortcut that led from this shopping complex to a lane beside my house. “I’ll be getting off here, thank you!” I turned to the driver, and took out some smooth notes from my wallet. I got out of the car and was hit by a flurry of crisp air. With my suitcase in hand, and my other hand dug into my coat pockets seeking warmth, I headed home. My mind wandered as I reminisced about my younger years in this town. Lost in the clouds, I did not notice the person approaching me. A voice called out my name and to my horror, it had come from that same man who had been following me these past few weeks. This unexpected confrontation brought a flood of nausea and fear over me. I felt unsteady. Thoughts, plans, and strategies whirled around my head as I deliberated what to do. My name was repeated, and I had no choice but to respond. I met his eyes hesitantly and braced myself for what was coming. The stranger stood a short distance away, slightly hunched over, empty-handed. Close-up, he did not look so frightening – he had kind eyes and I could tell he was older than he appeared to be upon first glance. My heart was in my mouth as he reached into his coat pocket. Unexpectedly, he retrieved a photo and inspected it with a hint of a smile. He looked up at me thoughtfully and cleared his throat to speak, “You probably don’t recognise me, but…” he paused. “I don’t know how to say this,”. He looked back down at the photo. I took a deep breath, which was a poor attempt at preparing myself for what he was about to say. “You are my son.” It can’t be. My father is dead. “I’m sorry sir, you must be mistaken.” My heart was beating violently against my ribs. The man gave a sad sigh and shook his head. He turned the photo he was holding so that I could see it.
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The picture showed a little boy in a flannel shirt, sat in the lap of an older man his father. My father. That was me in the picture so that meant… he wasn’t lying. How was this possible? He must have seen the glimpse of recognition in my eyes because he promptly smiled. “I know this is unexpected and I don’t mean to startle you or anything,”. My heart rate had not eased; it was still pounding in the confines of my chest. I felt a tide of blood rush to my head and suddenly the trees and buildings were spinning. I sensed a damp, solid surface against my face and hands and could hear a distorted voice in my ear telling me to breathe. I was a child again, balled in a foetal position at the feet of my father. A distant memory, but vivid. How had I forgotten his face? My senses gradually came back to me and I could see my father crouched beside me and my suitcase, leaning against the brick wall. We sat side by side below the awning, shielded from the soft drizzle. “I’m sorry,” his head was hung low. My mind was overflowing with questions, but not a single one of them seemed a fit place to start. The man – my father – sighed heavily, “I’ve missed you more than you know. I hope you understand that this was not my choice.”. I glanced at the figure beside me. There is always a choice. All my life I had wondered why I didn’t have a father and everyone else did. Why mine was taken away. All I knew was the distant shadow of a father. Now, this shadow wished to be illuminated. Fourteen years. I had survived fourteen years without him. What use would he be now? At the end of the day he was still a stranger. Taking one last look at him, I picked myself up, along with my leather-bound suitcase, and trundled down the road without a word.
--Prachi Saraf
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Untitled Sonnet This tender passion threatens to purloin My a-beating chest of its dearest breath Was this God’s purpose for the creation of life The delightful fluttering in my heart As my gaze pursues the curve of bosom Titian himself marvels at her beauty The fair maiden’s glowing locks tumble I could compare her to a fiery blaze All tumult and chaos but deny the Softest part of her glorious nature If she would ever allow me an ounce Of affection, I should know His meaning An iota of hope will destroy me But perhaps soon my wish will set me free
--Anonymous
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‘Coronavirus: a Pandemic’ Coronavirus: A pandemic, Like wildfire round the world. Cases flying every day, People dying every which way. Shops were closed, gyms were dark, Theatres were no more. Eventually our PM said That schools must shut their doors. It was March. Lockdown began. People were at a loss. Stuck at home, nowhere to go, The one household rule enforced. The weeks went by with cases rising, Hospitals full to burst. And yet somehow, through everything, Britain made the best of the worst. There was online school for students (And they could wake up at nine!) And those with younger children Strove to teach them all the time. Every Thursday evening, The neighbours at their porches Were clapping for the NHS To show they were supported. One walk a day, or exercise. We couldn’t see our friends. But never fear, ‘cause zoom is here With a mic and camera lens. Grandparents and family We weren’t allowed to meet. We stood behind their driveway wall To see them every week.
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Hats are out. Masks are in. Plastic, blue surgical mitts. Visors muffling everyone’s voice. Together we’ll stop this pandemic. Each week families all sat down To watch as Boris spoke: ‘Stay at home, hands face space’, Work if you can but if you can’t... don’t. Time went by. We watched Sir Tom Make history on his grass. He helped us remember the lights in our lives, And all the little things that last. Squirrels in trees, leaves on the wind, Ladybirds and butterflies. Reflections in rivers like slow moving glass, And rainbows that light up the sky. While it has been tough there are silver linings; There’s one in every cloud. Time with family will be treasured forever. We’ve learned to live in the now.
--Tammy Berman
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‘Sun’ I lay back high up in the sky and I looked down upon the earth below, I wanted to nurture all the things below me so that they could grow, I made the sand sparkle like tiny little jewels, While the little girl played in the whirlpools. I smiled hard and my cheeks were glowing, While all the time the waves were flowing. The girl was having a whale of a time, And I wanted it to always be daytime. I often like to play hide-and-seek, And from the clouds I had a peek. Such happiness and joy the world was giving her, And I was in the back to her just a blur. She rolled around like a puppy in the sand, And I was getting her rather tanned. I am the largest star, But to her I was somewhat bizarre! She splashed all day in the sea, And I was hotter than a hundred degrees. I didn’t mean to make her skin burn, What if she will never return? Then it all went dark and I fell to sleep, Behind the moon until morning creeps. I arose to find not the girl smiling, But the empty beach alone lying.
--Poppy Mann
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‘Warm still’ Now I am false and at fault - I who always have dreaded treachery and lies’ (line 2382) -Sir Gawain (Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ‘The Gawain Poet’) She’s joined by suppressed, internalised tears. My brain – she’s suffocating. Please don’t drown, I’m sorry. Head Dropping and neck Curling, mind blank and eyes Shaking – Shaking, quivering under weak eyelids. Furrowed eyebrows try to hide them In vain. Eyelids heavy, and heavier still. Dewy eyelashes finally give way, Salty sequences processing down my cheek Slowly, slowly Like aggrieved souls in mourning. I am broken and breaking. Oh, how I am jealous of melted candlewax: Though it drips Down, outside of the comfort of its glass embrace, it Settles, it solidifies. Because at present, I feel as if these tears will Never Settle. This regret will never solidify. I will never be at rest. But this is not a new feeling. For the resilient person of confidence they all claim to see me as As if I am a chivalrous knight, as if I have emerged from battles victorious– No! That is not me! I am not faultless
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Rather, they do not see that I truly long to be at fault less. The girl they claim to see – what’s she like? This girl they think I am – who is she? For I do not know her (Perhaps I knew her once, but no more). Because I have suffered and am suffering The greatest loss, my greatest fear. The biggest mistake But this time no apology can be accepted. This fault cannot be annulled. For I betrayed myself. And there’s a short pause for futile self-apologies before the Grey makes an entrance into my body; it ricochets around my bones, it torments my every organ. I have lost and am losing myself. Now, even surrounded by people who claim to still love me, I feel alone. The burden of receiving love is so complex for something so supposedly warm. I feel cold. But my sadness and regret – they keep me warm still.
--Fleur Lee
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An analysis of ‘Wide Sargasso Sea’ by Jean Rhys
How far is Antoinette’s story the result of colonial complexities?
Rhys’ presentation of the colonial complexities and troubles of colonisation are a key attribute to Antoinette’s story. Throughout the novel, imperialistic attitudes are particularly prevalent. Following the Emancipation Act in 1833, Antoinette grows up as a white Creole girl, positioned between both white and black communities. This results in marginalisation from both groups, and a fractured sense of personal identity. Although this is not necessarily the direct cause of her descent into madness, the ‘fragmentation of self’, clearly plays a role. In relation to The Husband, although he is presented as the oppressive force of patriarchy, his characterisation aligns both colonial and patriarchal ideas. When uttering the phrase ‘…and I can do nothing to help you’, he recasts himself as a saviour, declaring that he wishes to save Antoinette from her descent into madness, although is evidently unable to do so. From this, Rhys displays a correlation between the attitudes of both the Husband, and imperialists, as they also wish to ‘save’ the indigenous groups and countries they have colonised. Thus, the extent of the Husband’s colonial arrogance can be seen, as he too, as a reason for her madness. Antoinette’s story can largely be the result of colonial complexities, as the loss of her identity is closely intertwined with the colonial aggressions she faces from the Husband. She experiences discrimination from a young age, which she continues to experience even when moving to England, unlike the patriarchy which she only begins to face when marrying the Husband. How far is Antoinette’s story the fault of the troubles of the oppressive force of patriarchy? The main oppressive force of patriarchy that Antoinette experiences is that of the Husband, as he exercises power and dominance in their marriage. In one incident, when the two are discussing the letters of Daniel Cosway, Antoinette tries to defend her mother, but the Husband refuses to acknowledge the hardships that her mother, Annette, has had to face. Antoinette lashes out and throws a wine bottle at the Husband and, from his own perspective, “she
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cursed me comprehensively…and his red-eyed wild stranger who was my wife shouting obscenities at me…”. He insists that she is being irrational and interprets this irrationality as madness; particular women’s physical and verbal attacks could be defined as madness within a patriarchal society. As well as this, the Husband believes she does not act like a typical lady when it comes to her sexuality, as he feels he is not in control of her behaviour. He is utterly appalled by her actions. When having sexual relations with Sandy, he states that ‘disgust was rising in my sickness’, but then too gives himself the right to attend to his own sexual needs, as he commits adultery with Amelie, the housemaid. As a man, in a patriarchal institution, he is able to commit actions that he would shame a woman for, clearly displaying his manipulative behaviour within their marriage. His controlling and hypocritical nature further damages Antoinette. Although this patriarchal oppression that Antoinette experiences plays a large part in Antoinette’s story, it would not be complete without the coexistence of colonial complexities. Does Rhys suggest that, no matter where Antoinette was, due to some inherent part of her nature, she still would have suffered? Despite both colonial complexities and oppressive forces of patriarchy, it is possible to say that Antoinette may have suffered purely due to the congenital nature of mental illness and the intricacies of her character. For example, the use of dreams act as a medium to access her characterisation, particularly her subconscious but accurate reflections upon the events of her life. A dream which had occurred in Antoinette’s childhood, shown in the phrase ‘I dreamed that I was walking in the forest…someone who hates me was with me’, outlines a possible warning of danger, as well as her detachment from reality and youthful naivety. These qualities are what fuel her experiences of racial discrimination and oppressive patriarchal forces into her descent into madness. However, as it can be argued that Antoinette still would have suffered due to an inherent part of her nature, her suffering may not have been as extreme as it was due to her exterior life experiences.
--Lathikah Jeevagan
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An exploration of morality in ‘Macbeth’ Macbeth navigates us through the psychology of morality and implications of ambition. Reminiscent of the earlier dramatic tradition of mystery plays, Shakespeare presents the existential human struggle between vice and virtue. The physical dramatic features, of the witches, soliloquies, lighting et cetera are heightened by the Christian language of morality, and the extended paradox manifested through the play. The genre of tragedy aids the dramatization of the transgression of natural human behaviour; as does the integration of a distinct Gothic ambiance. These devices amalgamate to form a play with an implicit focus on humanity. The theme of equivocation is of paramount importance in Macbeth. Having written Macbeth for King James I, Shakespeare interpolates references to the Gunpowder plot of 1605 and the hanging of traitors- highlighting the inherent message of the play. The play’s concern with doublespeak may also refer to Henry Garnet, accused of treason for involvement in the Gunpowder plot, though he was later found to have committed perjury. On the pretext Macbeth was written for King James I, the continuous emphasis on the profanity of disingenuousness can mirror the distortion in morality needed to commit such an obscenity against one’s own King- G-d’s representative on earth. Indeed, through the use of sacrilegious imagery, for instance, “memorize another Golgotha” I, i,40, Shakespeare ironically evinces the pain of Jesus via the scene of bloodshed. The dramatic device of the witches is the central contextual impetus of the thought process pertaining to morality. Whilst they are integrated in the play as witchcraft was widely spoken of at the time—indeed—King James himself wrote a novel on the topic; Shakespeare dextrously manipulates their purpose. They notably repeat the line, “Fair is foul, and foul is fair”. Equivocal in its meaning, this implicit paradox expresses the convolution in our state of morality. Despite the fact their legitimacy within the play is widely debated- they would have been contextually plausible- Macbeth’s utterance of ‘foul and fair’ in the line “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.” corroborates the “weird sisters” as a mere manifestation of his conscience as opposed to extraneous supernatural apparitions. This ascertains Macbeth’s intrinsically ‘good’ character- he acknowledges the inhumanity of his thought process. In this sense, the concept of the medieval morality play is utilised to represent the irreconcilable forces of good and evil, inciting questioning in Macbeth’s consciousness as to the morality, or lack thereof, of his actions.
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The soliloquies also serve as an evocation of self-awareness and therefore morality. Confronted only by his conscience, these expressions of the innate psychology of ambition explore a concurrent ambivalence pertaining to the ‘deed’. Macbeth remarks that the “supernatural soliciting/ Cannot be ill, cannot be good.” This equivocation mid-soliloquy, compounded with the constant subjunctive “If”, indicative of a moral rationale and ambivalence in though process, is a patent demonstration of the harm ambition can do to a human. Macbeth’s irresolute stance on this is echoed in the sick-inducing rhythm of these lines. His allusion to the witches- “horrid image doth unfix my hair” enshrines the Gothic, and therefore a supernatural sense within his thought process. Interestingly, even within a soliloquy which humanises Macbeth in his comprehension of the basic sovereignties ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, Shakespeare still includes a euphemism: “make my seated heart knock at my ribs”. The fact Macbeth recognises his imperial aims are distinctively “Against the use of nature”, could be suggestive of his understanding of the necessity for humans to keep within the bounds of humanity as part of the ‘great chain of being’. His conscience becomes reinvigorated in the subsequent line “Present fears/ Are less than horrible imaginings.” where a sense of the Gothic is again conjured. It appears Macbeth is passively coming to terms with the inevitability of the plummeting of his conscience down the moral spectrum. The lines “My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, / Shakes so my single state of man that function...” epitomise Macbeth’s state of moral convolution; materialized in the irregular grammar. The sibilance of “single state of man” complements the effect of the syntactical inversions with the sinister feel they call forth. The last semblance of Macbeth’s humanity is salvaged for the end of the soliloquy where he is heard hoping chance would have him king- “without [his] stir.”. In Act 1, Scene 2, Shakespeare tactfully lays the foundation for the lexical theme of deceit, through the narrative interpolation of the egregious blasphemy of the Thane of Cawdor. Donned a “most disloyal traitor” by Ross, Shakespeare narratively and thematically paves the way for Macbeth’s treachery- he is to become Thane of Cawdor. Interestingly, Macbeth does not seem to emulate all the actions of his predecessor. In scene 4, we are informed of Cawdor’s professing “A deep repentance.” The narrative comment by Malcolm, “He died as one that had been studied in his death” highlights the dignity in abiding one’s conscience. This points towards the philosophical concept of death. Evidently, in this time, confession was a symbol of gentility, where not doing so would result in perpetual torment in the fires of hell. Later on, Macbeth declares he would “jump the life to come”. His apparent insouciance towards judgement
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and apparent nonchalance in his relationship towards G-d would have shocked many in the audience. A juxtaposition can be made between the Thane of Cawdor and Macbeth in how they are governed by their conscience. This presentation of the polarisation of human morality is another exploration of integrity by Shakespeare. The concept of light against dark is weaved throughout the play. In cognition of his ignobility, Macbeth says “Let not light see my black and deep desires”. Scene 6 opens with torches, indicating it occurs at night. The affiliation of darkness with furtivity is pre-emptive of something going awry. This reinforcement of the Gothic enables dramatic irony to be used as a literary device. Duncan comments, “The air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our senses”. This comment on the air is Shakespeare informing the audience that something will go wrong, heightening the tragedy. Similarly, Banquo’s lines “heaven’s breath” is suggestive of imminent death. Shakespeare’s economical manner of writing in Macbeth reconciles the unity of time to the genre, Aristotelian Greek tragedy. Because Macbeth has “no spur to prick the sides of [his] intent”, we are aware of his potential as a righteous man. Through having time, and thus the events that transpire, concertinaed, Shakespeare effectively heightens the pathos felt for Duncan, and the dubiety for Macbeth’s morality. There is a lexical focus on nature as benign. For instance, Lady Macbeth instructs Macbeth to “look like th’innocent flower”. This can be paralleled with the subsequent line, “be the serpent under’t”. Where the serpent epitomizes temptation in the biblical story of Adam and Eve, Shakespeare’s use of Christian iconography testifies to the rebellion Macbeth is having against G-d. This religious affiliation of deceit ties into the bigger order of things. On the premise the king was supposedly appointed by G-d, Christian language of morality reinforces both the moral and psychological transgressions committed by Macbeth. The juxtaposition of ‘benign’ and ‘malign’ elements of nature elicit thought as to the dichotomous character of Macbeth and the universal conflicts of human nature: desire versus conscience. Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy in scene 5 reaffirms the implicit goodness within Macbeth. Through the line, “I fear thy nature, it is too full o’th’milk of human kindness.”, she acknowledges human compassion as a key constituent of what makes us human. Contrarily, she reconciles ruthlessness as a component of ambition, determining that Macbeth is without the “illness that should attend to it.” The wickedness of her own psyche is therefore used as a parallel in this study of morality. The cesura here reflects the conflict in nature through the
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break of the verse and structural form. Dramatizing the perception of women as docile beings, she asks for riddance of pity, imploring “unsex me here”. Thus, her definition of womanhood contravenes the stereotype. Her awareness that the deed is unnatural is highlighted- she begs for “no compunctious visitings of nature”, substantiating conscience as a normal human trait. Shakespeare probes more deeply into the parameters of sex with the line, “would…. /Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums” as an expression of the cauterization of humanity. The incongruous parallel of giving and taking life make Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy flagrant in its violence and transgression of quintessential womanhood. The abhorrence of her soliloquy would have struck the audience, denoting the truncation of innocence. This is an important phenomenon in the exploration of human virtue, as it is principally our innocence that renders us human, and gives us our morality. To conclude, in Act 1 of Macbeth, he still retains basic virtue. Christian language of morality, the dramatic portrayal of the witches, pretext of morality plays, and soliloquies serve to examine the ambivalence of his conscience throughout. Only at the end of scene 7 does he pronounce himself “settled”. Even this decision, largely motivated by his “partner in greatness” invokes questioning as to his moral grounding. Shakespeare uses Banquo as an example of a decent human: he too listens to the witches’ prophecies but is able to resist the temptation. The nuance in our human character is capitalised by Shakespeare, to make for an applied study of morality.
--Karel Ohana
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Religion in ‘Brideshead Revisited’ Religion is a key theme in English author Evelyn Waugh’s 1945 novel ‘Brideshead Revisited’. The novel follows the life of a man over the course of approximately twenty years, as he is simultaneously enchanted and bewildered by the members of the wealthy Catholic Flyte family. Waugh reflects throughout the book on the role of religion in society, in the lives of individuals, and the importance it plays in interpersonal relationships. Through the eyes of the Anglican-agnostic protagonist, Charles Ryder, the reader comes to understand the intricacies of the other characters’ Catholicism, and as characters develop, so does the religious outlook had by not only the Flyte family members, but also by Charles himself. Charles is used by Waugh to contrast with the members of the Flyte family. Charles represents all that is seen as conventional at this place and point in time – British, Anglican, middle-class – and it is contrasted with the exotic romance of the Flyte family, who are of distinctly European heritage, Catholic, and extremely wealthy. The otherness of the Flytes is exemplified during the incident where Julia’s fiancé, Rex, prepares to convert to Catholicism and struggles with the cultural differences between the Catholic Church and the Church of England. Religion continues to play a large part in the relationships between characters, tearing apart both Charles and Sebastian, and Charles and Julia. The irrepressible religious beliefs of the two Flyte siblings prevents true closeness with Charles, who only finds religious security after the main events of the story, and resents the strength of their convictions. Another debate emerges between the characters during the course of the novel – whether one has to suffer in order to be close to God. During these discussions, Cordelia states that her brother Sebastian is very holy, and that “no one is ever holy without suffering”, and this bears a strange similarity to Charles’ opinion that Sebastian would be happier without his religion. However, the tone of these remarks is very different. Cordelia certainly means this as praise of her older brother, but Charles is overtly criticizing the faith of the family as detrimental. This incongruity demonstrates the fundamental differences between Charles and the Flytes, and the disagreements of this sort foreshadow the breakdown of relationships later on in the story.
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Within the Flyte family, the different lifestyles and religious opinions prevent true unity amongst all of the parents and siblings. They all, however, undergo their own religious transformations, largely strengthening their beliefs. The religious beliefs of Sebastian are initially rather shallow, as he remarks to Charles that he holds his religious beliefs because he thinks they are “nice ideas�. By the end of the novel, having lost everything to alcoholism, his religious understanding has become deeper and more profound. His father, Lord Marchmain, having lapsed in his religious beliefs for many years, returns to England and requests that a priest bless him in his dying moments. Perhaps the character who undergoes the greatest religious transformation is Charles himself, as he develops from an almost aggressive atheist who outright opposed the presence of a priest at Lord Marchmain’s deathbed, to paying his respects at the nearby church in the epilogue of the novel. Other than his interactions with the Flyte family, there is no explanation given for the change that occurs, so the reader assumes that his decades long conflicted relationship with the family has left a permanent mark on him in terms of religious ideology. Overall, the novel is a beautiful commentary on individual personhood, and the relationships formed between people throughout their lives. The religious commentary adds to the concepts of change and influence, while also serving as a vessel for Waugh to explore the social norms of the time he was writing in. The philosophical and religious discussions between characters add so much to the novel in terms of realism, character development, setting and theme, while the changes undergone by all significant characters drastically increase the poignance of the story.
--Lucia Dakin
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‘Love Lost’ Words would drift like smoke Buoyed up into the cold, crisp air And night would last forever The moon suspended would hang for eons Stars would shed their searing brightness and pause in their vast downward sweep, while we would hold on To the slightest brush of fingers, Pretend that we had eternity Realised in that dark sky. Now I wait and ponder uselessly weeping for the love we gave away that starry night. But to give love, I must first have felt it. This oddly giddy feeling? No. It was not that. Rather, it was a lightness, Rendering all clear thought unsubstantial, I can hardly recall it. It was so profound then, and seems now so trivial Or perhaps it is the other way around. Whatever it was, or could have been It is vanished now. I can no longer feel your phantom limbs around my neck Lingering… Even this has been taken from me. If before I was electrified, illuminated, Now I am a mere shadow, a whisper of something that once was, and now is not. It has fled me, and I regret my unsuspecting self letting it slip idly by Had I been deceived all along? Was it water in an ocean of desert?
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A wretched man blindly seeking false salvation. Maybe. It happens, I suppose‌
--Anonymous
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‘A Year in the Life of Deception’ March I tried an apricot for the first time today. It was a warm orange colour, almost like the sun. It was sweet, but with a slightly starchy undertone. I must remind myself to spit out the bitter stone encased in the syrupy flesh next time. Perhaps it was not quite ripe enough, but as the spring progresses, I know the trees will bear much fruit, blossoming with the purity that surrounds us. April The poetry of spring is in full bloom. An orchestra of pink and ivory roses have grown on the fresh grass, their scent dancing in the air, like the fairies in the stories I was told as a child. The birds’ music fill my ears. I have stepped into paradise. May I visited Mr Mokri’s shop today. There is something inexplicably remarkable about the tapestries strung on the walls, each hand-embroidered with images of the sky and fields and rivers. Not a single thread hangs loose. The line separating pictures and reality becomes blurred. If you stare at the images too long, you might begin to forget that you are not in the real world. June At dawn, when a drop of black ink fell and began to stain into the orange sky, I climbed onto the roof to watch the sunset. The sun has always fascinated me. It is the paperclip of the universe, bringing light and warmth in the summer. It is forever youthful, and never abandons us. I watched as it slowly sank downwards, with the moon rising to take its place. Even when we cannot see the sun, it never leaves. It gives its reflection to the moon. Some may call this deception, but I do not think this is the right word to describe the natural phenomena that allows us to dream. July The heat is intense. It begins to burn my skin. The sun is visible, standing proudly at the top of the sky. But I cannot look at it, because it might blind my eyes.
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August I went to the small forest near the lake, pacing along the scorched and tawny floor. There was a deer lying there, dead, encased in a pool of its own crimson blood. I prefer to shy away from slaughter rather than face it. So, I left the deer there to decay, until it is diminished to nothing but a skeleton attached to traces of flesh. September Hunting season has started early. I have been thinking about all the animal remnants that have touched the soles of my leather shoes. Just a few months ago, being outside offered be pure bliss, like taking a bite out of a perfectly ripe, sugary apricot. Now I prefer to stay inside. October The transition period between the hopeless autumn and the bleak winter has arrived, with icy winds forceful enough to unhinge my door. I thought the outside was not safe, but perhaps the inside is also perilous. It is not just because of the weather. Homes have been ransacked, some losing everything they have ever owned. Except for our faith. Nobody can every take away our faith, no matter how wicked and deceptive they are. February The foggy air had made the time from October to now nothing but a greenish blur. The sun is dying, and I see very little of her now. The fruit on the trees is starchy and sour. Almost a year ago I was deceived by the summer air, forgetting the reality of where I really was. The seasons are impermanent, the warmth and comfort are never there to stay. Yesterday I braved the outside and went to Mr Mokri’s shop to buy a tapestry. I thought that, perhaps, I could lie it down on the stone-cold gravel and pretend I was sitting in a field of luscious grass, surrounded by a clear lake and trees that bear luminous fruit. The shop was diminished into nothing but a pile of splintered wood, shattered glass and loose threads. And now I must sleep. But I cannot. I keep on tossing and turning between dreams and old linen and the fear of what might happen tomorrow.
--Alex Morgan
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A Sonnet: Hamlet abridged Being held is mortifying - the suffocation Of another’s hand on what is yours, What some would call flirtation Others see as an autopsy on a bloated corpse But, the tickling and teasing revealing A deeper joy is like the first trace Of the burning of spirits down your throat, flowing, Lighting your insides at an intoxicating pace Before it hits, and you feel sick And confused and scared and There is nothing else to do but throw out your politic, Revolt the unwelcome hand: To be held is a violation Of all you will learn before your cremation.
--Anonymous
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What we’ve been reading Circe, Madeline Miller
In this mesmerising work of fiction, Madeline Miller writes on the life of Circe, daughter of the sun god Helios. We follow this passionate, magical protagonist on her mental and physical adventures: in the luxury and safety of her birth home, Circe is rejected as an outsider for her differences; Aiaia – the place of her exile – becomes her new home, both desolate and thriving. Through the numerous experiences and encounters made on this island, goddess Circe forms immense discoveries about life as an immortal, relationships, and most crucially about herself. Circe is the kind of book that you are bound to be reluctant to put down, and look forward to picking back up; through her writing, Miller prominently but seamlessly weaves together themes of love, tragedy, responsibility, loneliness, and faithfulness to the self, complimented by the most beautifully emotive and vivid imagery – giving life to a powerful journey that you, too, feel you are a part of. -Fleur Lee
The Silence of the Girls, Pat Barker This is an incredibly moving and eye-opening novel detailing the untold story of the Trojan women captured by the Greeks in the Trojan War. It follows Briseis, a captured queen and young friend of Helen of Troy. I would highly recommend this to anyone interested in the Ancient World, and to my fellow feminists, who will be glad to finally hear the voices of the Trojan Women. --Emma Gower
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
I am currently reading ‘The Bell Jar’ by Sylvia Plath. The subject matter of the novel is very difficult, but Plath’s expressive prose makes the emotional struggle worth it. The story follows a university-age girl who experiences a mental breakdown while working for a fashion magazine in New York City. The book was first published in the 1960s, and consequently has a very digestible writing style, while simultaneously referring back to a different, foreign age in terms of society’s treatment of women and the mentally ill. I greatly recommend this book for anyone who wants to read more 20th century fiction or is interested in women in literature. I do feel, though, that I should warn any potential readers: I have had to take a couple breaks while reading this relatively short book due to the very difficult subject matter!
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--Lucia Dakin
DEAR AGGIE By Aggie Nyarnt
Dear Aggie, I’ve recently been asked out by a man of great wealth and importance and I understand that I should be over the moon. However, he’s been nothing but unkind. In fact, the very first time I met him, he called me “tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me!” You can imagine how I felt, although my friends and I did laugh at the haughty figure he made. And now he tells me that despite my social standing, his “feelings could not be repressed.” He made it clear that I was inferior to him and that it was a marriage that was likely to be mocked by fellow members of his social standing. Frankly, I felt strong dislike rather than any form of affection. Furthermore, I fear that he was the one who swayed his friend’s thoughts and caused him to break my sister’s heart. I am unsure of how to respond. Yours, Elizabeth Bennett Dear Elizabeth, It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. But you make him out to be rather unpleasant! A marriage with a man who has the characteristics you described is sure to be unhappy. Have you attempted to confront him over your suspicions? Although, whether he did or didn’t ruin your sister’s possibility of an engagement does not change his previous actions. If you are really so firmly fixed in your stance against this man, stick to your guns! From Aggie
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Xoxo, Grammar Girl Ahhh, the Oxford comma… It is none other than the single most contentious subject in the entirety of the English language, and the proven cause of 95% of divorces, death, and despair. Never fear, dear readers, for your grammatical angel is here. But rather than delivering salacious gossip, we are dishing out cold hard facts: the realities of grammar. Follow us for the latest details on S and B, that is, subordinate clauses and brackets. To clarify, this is not a guide on how to get into Oxbridge; alas, you misread this in your haste to get to the end of the magazine. Back to the issue at hand, the Oxford comma has divided families since its introduction in 1905. Yes, we have none other than one Horace Hart to blame for the increasingly partisan divides inherent within our society. Some Oxford comma historians* even theorise that Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s grievous misuse of the comma landed him in some hot water in the early 1900s. The Oxford comma is most widely used in North America, Australia, and the UK. Spotted: The Oxford comma slipping into the sentence above. Grammar Girl Tip: Form a list, add a comma before the last ‘and’, and you are destined for success. Thank you to Grammarlover28, for shedding further clarity on this highly pressing issue:
Farewell for now, North Londoners. Alas, you won’t be rid of me for long, as next edition I’ll be back, getting to the bottom of some particularly pernicious grammar. Xoxo, Grammar Girl *a considerable number of historians have devoted their lives to tracing the Oxford comma through its illustrious history
